Mad Love (21 page)

Clayton gives me a sheepish smile as he shrugs his shoulders.

“That might be pushing it.”

“So we’re back to me telling you everything you
want
to hear.”

“No. If I wanted to hear the proper and forced thing I wouldn’t be here. I’d be back at my villa with my friends, listening to Jane talk about absolutely fucking nothing.”

My bitchy smile is instantaneous. Clayton looks amused.

“Don’t care for Jane, do you?”

“I haven’t even thought about her.”
Self-obsessed snob that she is
, my mind mutters silently.

“I know a lot of variations of Jane. Most of the women in my social circle are like her. She is actually tame in comparison to them.”

Jane’s tame? Just what kind of people does he allow in his social circle? If they’re all like her, all he’s ever known, what’s he doing with me?

“Am I just a novelty?” I finally ask.

I hate that I allowed myself to blurt that question out to him, but as I live and breathe, I know myself. At one point or another it would have found its way out of me. In my defense, it is an honest concern. I wanted to know if I was just a new toy for him. Something different they can all tell stories about when they get back home. His smile quickly disappears and I see that this particular Sophie Walker response may really annoy the shit out of him. I bet he already regrets telling me to be completely honest and straightforward with him.

“For a smart woman, you asked a piss poor choice of a question.”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s completely fair.”

He’s more than irritated now.

“You’re really asking for it, aren’t you?” He shakes his head at me, his voice almost scolding as he drops his towel. And I can’t help it. My mouth drops open.

Good God Almighty. Clayton Sinclair is a sight to behold.

I take a step back and get some oxygen into my lungs. He raises a brow, aware of how much he unnerves me, the bastard.

I find courage in the white towel that’s wrapped around my body and squeeze the hell out of it as I say, “Just what do you think I’m asking for? A minute ago you said you wanted my honesty. Now you don’t? You’re going to have to make up your mind.”

He pauses for a minute, walks slowly to me, and stops when he’s a breath away. He uses his sex appeal like a gladiator uses his sword.

“This is going to be fun.”

He leans down and grabs his swim trunks, slips them on, and smiles at me. I’m sure he can hear my heart beat a mile a minute. I hate that he can throw me off so easily.

“What is?” Shit. Why did I even ask?

“All of it. Especially taming you.” He brushes my cheek when he says that last part and I feel the goose bumps move over my body.

“Jane is tame.” I remind him.

“Yes. But you’re not nor will you ever be Jane. Or her version of tame.”

I’m happy that he knows this. But I feel compelled to explain a few things to him.

“Here’s the thing, I’ve never been a submissive person. I don’t take orders very well. And I hate being told what to do. In fact, I have an aversion to it. My mom and dad can vouch for that. I’m trying to understand why the exact opposite is the case when it comes to you. I’ve been dancing to the beat of your drum from the minute I’ve met you and it’s totally out of character for me.”

“I’m not your mother and father. You like it when I tell you what to do because it’s new and exciting and because you’re attracted to me. And because you like the idea of a man taking control.” The words are said so
enticingly, his smile so sexy, so impossibly arrogant, that I almost believe him.

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Sophie.” He puts his thumb on my lips “I look forward to proving you wrong. It’s who I am. You’ll understand one day.”

I don’t think so, but I choose to keep my mouth shut.

His fingertips find my lips. My mouth opens automatically and he leans down, and kisses me.

“It’s the world I come from, baby. We get what we want and we don’t take no for an answer.”

12

“What are we doing?” I ask him when I finish brushing my hair.

“I’ve prepared us some breakfast, which is very cold by now, but it will have to do.”

“You cook?” I say, shocked. I catch a glimpse of him rolling his eyes in the mirror before he leads me out of the bathroom and through the living area onto the deck.

“You can’t expect me to answer that.”

Well, excuse me, but hell … I really am surprised that he cooks! I assume he has a full staff of people back home, who wait on him hand and foot. I wonder if he has a butler who dresses him, like in Downton Abbey?

Probably. Jeez. What a life.

A moment later, I forget everything because I see that Clayton’s set the most elegant table—seriously, it’s something Martha Stewart would put together. He covered the table with large palm leaves and bright red tropical flowers. Two white plates sit opposite each other, with a red flower in the center of each dish, and the appropriate forks and knives are where they belong, along with two, tall, bubbly, mimosas. In the center is a delicious-looking omelet, along with fried potatoes, tomatoes, and bacon. As if that’s not enough, there are also two coconut bowls filled with fresh-cut fruit. It’s almost too pretty to eat.

And so completely different from what I had expected from him. Immediately, I think of Don Miguel Ruiz again:
Never make assumptions
. I silently cringe. Obviously, I need to read the book again.

“Thank you for doing all of this.” I don’t even try to keep the awe out of my voice. “This spread looks like Collin Callender meets Martha Stewart.”

“I only know Martha.” He says this quietly, like he’s embarrassed to admit it.

“You
know
Martha, huh? Is she, like, on speed dial?” I ask teasingly.

“Actually, she’s a good friend of my mother’s.”

Oh.

Right.

Of course she is.

“I’ve surprised you again.”

I shrug nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal. I mean, let’s face it, I do live in the celebrity capital of the world. I wonder if I should tell him that Ben Affleck supposedly lives nine streets away from my parents. Nah, maybe not.

“I’m from LA, Clayton. I see celebrities all the time.” Not true, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“That’s right. How could I forget?” He sees right through me.

A moment later, he sits down opposite me and puts a generous portion on my plate and says, “Eat.”

I take a taste. Even though it is cold, it’s really good.

“This is delicious, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, baby,” Clayton says.

Baby
. He is pretty damn sweet. And hot—I actually think he’s getting more good looking the better I get to know him. I instinctively take his hand and kiss it softly.

“You’re amazing. Thank you for this. Actually, for everything. From start to finish this is the most romantic experience of my life.”

He seems startled by my compliment and I can tell from the faint blush, not so comfortable with it.

“Get used to it,” he says.

Is he serious?? I take the serving spoon and dish some omelet and sides on his plate and realize I’m
starving
. I really didn’t eat much last night because we left after the appetizers.

Clayton lifts his mimosa.

“Bon appetit.”

We clink glasses then start to eat. I notice how proper he is. His manners were probably drilled into him at some posh boarding school. There’s something to be said for English etiquette.

I picture him as a child, dressed in a little boarding-school jacket, solemnly studying a book in the corner. He was probably a quick learner and a perfect student. Just the mental image brings a smile to my face. It also raises a ton of questions.

“Are you an only child?”

There’s a smile on his face as he finishes a bite of food. He picks up his aviator sunglasses from the table and slips them on as he watches me. My God. Does he realize he could have been a model? I bet the girls fought over him all the time.

“I have two younger brothers.”

Whoa. Really? I’m surprised. Clayton totally gives off an only child vibe. He seems like a loner.

I wonder if his brothers look like him. If they do, the women back home must have been beside themselves wanting to hang out with the Sinclair men.

“How old are they?” I move the eggs around on my plate as I wait for him to answer. I figure I’m going to have to
pull
everything out of him. He’s not going to offer any information for free.

“William is twenty-five and Michael is twenty-nine, turning thirty next month.”

“Are you guys close?”

“Yes.”

“Do you work together?”

From his chuckle, I gather he finds my comment vastly amusing.

“Definitely not. William is working at my uncle’s law firm. And Michael is off saving the world. Or at least trying to.”

“I like him already.”

“Do you?” Clayton asks softly, eyes narrowing. I try hard not to roll my eyes.

“I like anyone who tries to make the planet a better place. Unfortunately, not that many people are willing to dedicate their lives to it. I think it’s noble.”

Clayton is silent. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, especially now that he has the sunglasses on. So I’m surprised a minute later when he opens up about his brother.

“Michael is quite the do-gooder. He infuriates my parents no end, but continues doing what he loves. He’s in Costa Rica right now, trying to save the bottlenose dolphins.” He takes a sip of his mimosa. “Before that, he was in the Congo, and prior to that, Vanuatu.”

“Why does that make your parents angry? They should be so proud of him.” Even my own grumpy, hard-to-please dad would be happy if I was off saving animals instead of wanting to be an artist.

“As a Sinclair, you have two choices. Attorney or family business. And by attorney, I mean become one in order to assist the family business.”

“The family business is shipping.”

“Yes.”

“So you work for your father?”

Clayton’s bark of laughter tells me that’s a giant “no.”

“My father didn’t give me any money when I got out of school. He thought I should work for it. So I started my own shipping company with money I made myself investing in hedge funds, I thought I’d give him some healthy competition. Michael and William have had it much easier than I did.”

“I’m sure you don’t mind reminding them of that, as only an older brother would.” I can’t resist.

“Of course.” He smiles widely. “Every time I have the opportunity.”

“And your dad?”

“Relentless, aren’t you?” He shakes his head. “Now, I’m actually my father’s biggest competitor.”

“That must make for an interesting Christmas dinner.”

He cocks a brow. “You have no idea.”

“So why didn’t you just work with him?”

“Because my father is from the old guard, the kind who believes in a conservative way of doing things. I’m of the new age, you might say, much
more fearless about taking risks. And what I call fearless, my father would call reckless.”

“How did your father take it?”

“He didn’t speak to me for two years. My grandfather, his father, forced a reconciliation by feigning a life-threatening illness.” A soft smile appears on his face when he mentions his grandfather, and it’s wonderful to see. There is genuine affection there.

But let’s be real.

This is a little strange. Why would he want to compete with his father? He’s his father, not his enemy, for God’s sake. This is not normal.

Mental note to self, Clayton Sinclair has some serious daddy issues.

“Your grandfather sounds like my kind of guy.”

“The finest of gentlemen.”

It’s hard not to hear the hero worship in his tone.

“So he’s still alive?” I ask carefully.

“Yes. And as tyrannical as ever. But softer in his old age.” The smile is still on his face. It’s the longest I’ve seen it there.

“And obviously loved.”

“Without a doubt.”

I study his face again, reveling in the softness and love that is there for his grandfather. If he could love that way, it would be a dream come true—but I can’t allow myself to entertain that dangerous idea for one second. I’d just be setting myself up for heartbreak.

I quickly fire more questions, intentionally trying to distract myself from dwelling on emotional thoughts that could lead to sudden Sophie depression, or SSD, as I call it.

“I assume this is a century-old family business?”

“Yes. Both my father and I are in oil, deep water drilling, and maritime transportation,” Clayton interrupts. “I’m contemplating investing in rigs and tankers, but I haven’t decided if I want to take on the challenge just now.”

No wonder money is no object to him—he’s not only made what I can only fathom is an obscene amount of money on his own, but he comes from serious blue-blood, old-school, ancient-lineage, family money too.

Sinclair.

Or is it
St. Clair?

As in the St. Clair family hypothesized to be of the Merovingian bloodline?

I can feel Clayton watching my reaction and it takes all my willpower to pretend that this is the type of conversation I’m used to having all the time. I go on.

“So are you more successful than your dad?”

“As I said, I am not afraid to take risks and my father is. He refuses to gamble, whereas I have achieved the success I have from listening to my gut, which he believes is foolish.”

“Well, he must be proud of you, even though you’re the competition.”

“Secretly, perhaps,” he says quietly. “But he’ll take that to his grave.”

“Oh.”

We’re both quiet for a moment. I know Clayton is thinking of his father and I hope I didn’t somehow ruin the day for us by bringing up a sore subject. I give him a big smile and pour us both some coffee.

“Do you and your brothers see each other often?”

He picks up a mango slice and takes a bite.

“We made a pact that we would never let more than a month go by without seeing one another.”

“I like that.”

“It works out pretty nicely. It’s just enough time apart for us to want to get together, and briefly enough that we don’t kill each other.”