Treasured Dreams (11 page)

‘So, Miss Calucci, what flavour is that?'

She rolled the smooth chocolate around her mouth and welcomed the burst of flavour. With her eyes closed, she described what she was tasting. ‘It's dark chocolate with praline and orange. No, wait—I think it's caramelised orange.'

She opened her eyes and Archer grinned. ‘You are correct, madam.'

He moved to the base of the bed and began to roll her maxi dress up her legs. ‘Your prize is that I'—he palmed his chest—‘your humble servant, shall undress you.'

Rosalina giggled as she lifted her hips so he could draw the dress up from beneath her bottom. She closed her eyes as he lifted it up over her head and his mouth found hers. Their kiss was deeper, their breathing deeper, and her want for him as deep as it could be. Archer's hand reached around behind her back, and in a flash her bra was off and his warm hand cupped her breast.

All her worries evaporated as she trailed her fingernails up his back. She wanted him.
Now
. She pushed at his shoulder and had every intention of rolling him onto his back and straddling him, but instead it became an awkward clumsy move that had them in a tangle of legs.

Archer blinked at her with a huge smirk on his face.

She playfully punched the mattress. ‘Bloody broken leg.'

Archer chuckled. ‘What were you trying to do?

‘Get on top.'

‘Sounds great to me.' He trailed his finger from her hipbone to her breast. ‘But tonight you'll have to lie back and let me do all the work.'

Despite herself, she liked the sound of that. ‘Okay.'

Archer rolled up onto one elbow and cupped her breast in his hand. ‘Now, where were we?' He ran his tongue around her nipple, and a thrilling tingle started at the very tip of her breast and ran all the way to the throbbing pulse between her legs. She ran her hands through his unruly curls, scratching her nails across his scalp. He sucked on her nipple, drawing it out until it snapped from his lips. A groan tumbled from her throat.

His hand roamed down her belly, over her mound and between her legs. She curled beneath him when his finger entered her hot zone. Her body clenched and released in time with his movements, taking her to the exquisite edge of release. The days, weeks, months of uncertainty evaporated in one explosive orgasm that had her clawing at the silk sheets.

‘Oh, Archer. That was incredible.'

‘Mmm.' The fire in his eyes glazed, proving he'd enjoyed her climax as much as she had.

He moved around to between her legs and helped her bend her plastered leg at the knee. Archer reached for her hips. ‘Is this okay, babe?'

‘It's perfect.' She reached up to touch his cheek and he sucked her finger into his mouth.

He entered her gently, gliding into her hot zone in one long, slow movement. It was exquisite. Perfect.

At first, it was slow, measured control, and Rosalina watched Archer's eyes dance behind his eyelids, lost in their own blissful world. She lifted her hips, and his thrusts grew deeper. Faster. As did his breathing.

She in turn felt herself go, riding another climax that had both her and Archer catching their breath.

Archer's eyes shot open. Their eyes met and then he shut them again, gripped her hips and thrust until he collapsed onto her chest with satisfied panting.

‘You're a cheap date, sweetheart.' His breath was hot on her ear.

‘Why?'

‘Just one chocolate. And we didn't even get to the wine.' He rolled to her side and circled her nipples, one then the other.

‘Mmm, I guess you're right.' She leant in for a quick kiss. ‘But the night is still young.'

Chapter Eleven

Nox found Zanobi's bedroom. He knew it was his room because on the wooden cupboard doors hung a light grey suit coat, buttoned up the middle, as if it had been just plucked from the cupboard. Nox could vividly recall Zanobi wearing it, as he had done at every Sunday night dinner that everyone had to attend. He'd despised the smugness plastered on Zanobi's face as he'd poured his discriminating gaze over the hundred or so boys sharing the meal with him.

The fact that the jacket was still there was a testament to the speed with which the building had been vacated. So much was left behind. Once again, Nox pondered the fact that the building hadn't been vandalised and the remaining pieces of furniture and clothing taken. With the amount of horrors that went on here, maybe nobody had wanted to come back.

The double bed was still made up with a blue and white checked duvet curved over the sides and up over the pillow. The powerful urge to lie flat on a real bed gripped him. He sat on the mattress and was surprised when it didn't creak. Without any regard for the decades of neglect disgracing the covers he flopped back, and a cloud of debris bounced into the air. Closing his eyes to ignore the dust cloud, he allowed the tension strangling the muscles up his back to gradually unravel.

Nox hadn't slept on anything comfortable since he'd raced out of Ophelia's place after nearly strangling her. Ophelia's chubby rose-coloured cheeks came back to him now. He missed her smile. He missed her motherly concern. He missed her cooking. He missed everything about his beautiful Ophelia. She was the only woman in his life who'd ever shown him compassion. Maybe, when all this was over, and he'd used his wealth to fix his teeth, buy some fancy clothes, and shown the world who he really was, he could return to her. Would she accept him back after what he did?

He cast the futile thinking aside, sat up and scanned the rest of the room. A stack of wood was piled in the fireplace, as if someone were about to light it. On the mantel stood a statue of Jesus. Nox strode to it, yanked it off the marble shelf and pegged it out the broken window. He watched it bounce off the jagged rocks below and disappear over the cliff.

‘Arghh!' His scream teetered between outrage and insanity.

He gripped onto the windowsill until his momentary lapse of self-control faded. After inhaling a couple of deep salt-laced breaths, he turned back to the room with fresh eyes. Nox walked calmly towards the grey jacket, plucked it off the hanger and tossed that out the window, too. It fluttered gracefully, caught in the breeze, and landed on a small patch of luscious green grass at the top of the cliff.

Nox huffed, turned back to the room and strode to the cupboard once again. The doors resisted opening before something gave, and they creaked towards him. The clothes inside had been sealed for thirty years and looked clean and ready to be worn. Nox slipped a shirt off a hanger and sniffed the fabric. It smelt stale and dusty, but other than that, it was a hundred times better than what he was wearing now. Nox stripped off the clothes Ophelia had given him and paused open-mouthed when he caught sight of himself in the grime-covered mirror inside the cupboard door.

He turned slowly, barely recognising the man in the reflection. His hair was long and his body was thin. He ran his fingers over protruding collarbones that he'd never seen before. His skin was sickly pale, and the spear wound to the left of his navel was a prominent bull's-eye. As he studied the raised scar, his thoughts hinged on the woman who'd shot him with the spear gun.

‘Rosalina.' Her name hissed off his lips. He would never forget what she'd done to him. Nox licked his lips at the prospect of squeezing the fiery cockiness from her eyes.

Pushing the door open farther so he couldn't see his reflection anymore, Nox selected a shirt and pair of slacks from the cupboard and put them on. Their fit was just about perfect.

He turned his attention to the fireplace next. The plan to live here would be impossible if he didn't activate one of the fireplaces. In search for something to ignite the fire, he rummaged through a bedside table and found an old leather-bound Bible. He hissed as he pegged it at the fireplace. It would come in handy once he found matches.

He turned his attention to the bed and made the decision he was going to sleep in it tonight. It pleased him that he could make that rational declaration without clouding his thoughts with who had slept in the bed before, or what slept in it now. Nox yanked the duvet from the bed, and in a swirl of dust and debris, tossed it onto the floor. He did the same with the sheets and pillows.

Without finding anything else of interest, he gathered all the bedding in his arms and made his way back downstairs and out the side exit. Tossing the bedding to the floor, he fought with a deadbolt for a considerable time before it finally snapped back and Nox pushed on the two double doors. Brisk ocean breezes licked at his face, and he welcomed the freshness.

The veranda was exactly as he'd remembered it. The white floor tiles stretched its length along the side of the building in a repeating diamond pattern. It had fared quite well, despite taking the full brunt of whatever the wild ocean weather could blast at it.

Nox gathered the linen into his arms and ignored the stale dust that powdered his tongue as he walked along the side of the building. He stepped down the four concrete steps and onto a very small patch of grass. The grass met with the cliff face, a brutal contrast of soft meets hard. If he didn't know any better, he'd say someone had mowed the grass just yesterday.

Looking over the top of the bedding, he stepped onto the rocks and sought out the path he hoped was still there. It was, but the trek was steeper than he remembered. The rocks were rough and sharp. One slip here and he could lose a kneecap. He took his time, because that was the one thing he had loads of.
Time
.

He made it to the rock pools without incident and tossed the bedding at the water's edge. A vivid flashback of bathing here came flooding back. Nox had very few memories of his childhood—most were unpleasant. This one, though, had him in the rock pool with five other boys. It was a warm summer day, and they were jumping into the water and splashing around without a care in the world. He could remember laughing, really, truly laughing. Nox searched his brain for another occasion in his life where he'd laughed that hard. Could it truly be that the last time he'd laughed was three decades ago in this very spot?

Nox shook his head at the question and promised himself that in the future, once he had his hands on his treasure and his teeth were fixed, that he'd laugh. He'd laugh so hard the whole world would hear.

Nox stripped naked, laid the professor's clothes out in the sun, separated the first sheet from the pile, stepped into the rock pool and pushed the fabric into the water. Mesmerised by how the sheet resisted the pressure, he dunked and lifted. Dunked and lifted. It was therapeutic.

He repeated the process with the remaining bedding, and then took a few moments to wash himself. With the sun on his skin and the cool, refreshing water cleansing his body, he felt as if years of persecution were being unloaded.

Once he was finished, he wrung out the bedding, redressed, and made two trips back up the cliff with the soggy linen.

With them now laid out in the sun, he secured them with a few large rocks so they wouldn't blow away in the breeze. In this weather, he hoped they'd be dry before nightfall. He wasn't so confident about the pillows, but it didn't matter. He'd had worse. Much worse.

The kitchen was his next stop down memory lane. It was situated at the far end of the building. The kitchen had timber panelling on the walls, white laminated bench tops and blue spotted tiles. Many of the tiles had fallen off and cracked in half as they'd hit the bench. Pots and pans hung from a wire rack over the island bench in the middle. Nox methodically checked the drawers, some of which broke apart as he tugged them out. He found matches in the third drawer down but after several attempts, in which every match crumbled to nothing, he threw the box into the cold fireplace.

He checked for power and gas, and as suspected, neither were working. It didn't matter; once he ignited the fireplace, he'd be living in luxury. Before the sun set, he went downstairs to fetch his bedding. Just the thought of sleeping in a real bed made him drowsy. He went out the front doors, and the wind blasted him as he stepped from the shelter of the bricks.

He gathered the dry linen into his arms and made his way to his new bedroom. As he flung the sheet so it billowed over the bed, he snapped his hand back. It was a memory that had him reflex like that. Sister Teresa, stiff, matronly, grinning Sister Teresa, loved rapping him over the knuckles for not making his bed properly. He had forgotten about her, but now, clenching his teeth as he tucked his sheets in, he repeated her name over and over.

‘Sister Teresa. Sister Teresa.' He permanently wrote her name onto his revenge list.

It was almost pitch black when he crawled beneath the covers. The wind howled angry whispers through the shattered glass, and cool, salt-scented air drifted across his face. The grumbling in his stomach joined the howling wind, and he tried to ignore the emptiness screaming in his belly. In the morning, he'd stock up on food with the money Nurse Isabella provided, and with his newfound lucky streak he decided he'd swing by the marina afterwards and maybe, just maybe he'd spy Rosalina or Archer.

It wasn't long before his heavy eyelids closed, and as he pictured the abundance of delicious food he would buy tomorrow, he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Twelve

Rosalina woke to Archer's face just centimetres from hers. He looked comfortable, like he'd been looking at her for a while, waiting for her to wake up. ‘How long have you been awake?' She rolled her eyes behind her eyelids.

He curled a slip of hair off her cheek. ‘A while.'

She squeezed the sleep from her eyes. ‘You okay?'

Archer had battled a recurring nightmare for more than two decades. But ever since they'd solved the mystery of the ancient pendant around his neck, and in turn finished the hunt for the treasure his father had started, the nightmares had ceased. As far as she was aware, anyway.

‘I couldn't be better. I was just enjoying watching you sleep.'