Marbella Neat Page 16

  Throwing her pen down on the desk, she stood, deciding she would get one of those very mediocre coffees from the machine in the kitchen. She didn’t strictly need a coffee—just a momentary change of scenery. Maybe she should go somewhere to lunch today, get out of the office for an hour.

  Walking around the corner into the kitchen, she stopped short as the person she least wanted to see was in there, talking to some guy from finance. At least they weren’t alone.

  Shania walked over to the coffee machine and shoved a cup under the nozzle. It made screeching noises before dark, gluggy liquid poured into the cup, followed by milky stuff. Maybe this was a bad idea, she conceded. This was a bad substitute for a real coffee, like fast-food apple pies that had one measly bit of apple in them and mostly apple-flavoured glugg. It kind of tasted like how you recalled the real thing tasting, but not quite. Eternally disappointing.

  There were tiny plastic spoons for stirring. This stuff didn’t really have a smell. There was no real coffee aroma with it and it tasted awful. With a sigh, she chucked it in the bin.

  Turning, she saw Felix standing at the high table, leaning his elbows on it. The finance guy had gone. Awkward.

  He stared at her, then went to open his mouth, but she cut him off.

  “I have zero interest in what you’re about to say right now.”

  He refused to relent as he stepped much to close. “Really? Even if I were to tell you that you were so very nice and tight, like a snug velvet glove.”

  Without thinking, she grabbed his nipple and twisted it hard, making him yelp.

  “So rough. Has no one dealt with your violent streak, Miss Tyler? It is really inappropriate in a setting like this.”

  She itched to hit him and he slapped her hands away, which only made her angrier. Her reactions were out of her control and they were basically wrestling until he pulled her back and shoved her up against the wall in the small doorway leading to the emergency stairs. His lips were on hers, firmly demanding entry. How the fuck had they ended up here again?

  Biting down, she tasted blood and he pulled back, his eyes flashing. Breathing deeply, he seemed to compose himself. It didn’t go unnoticed to her that he was rock hard, his cock tenting in his nice, probably Italian, suit pants. Embarrassingly, her nether region was utterly soaked as well.

  “It seems we’ve taken our relationship to a new level,” he said through strained breaths.

  “Fuck you.”

  Anger flashed through his eyes. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Grabbing her by the neck, he pulled her through the door into the stairway. She had not intended this, but she didn’t fight terribly hard as he pressed her to the wall again, her front this time. His body pressed to hers, every part of him firm, particularly the part pressing into her backside.

  Hands roughly kneaded her breasts, his ragged breath in her ear. Again, she couldn’t quite bring herself to stop this. She should, but she couldn’t. Firm fingers had snuck inside her skirt and was now kneading her clit, the assault of sensation making her breath hitch.

  “So utterly wet and welcoming. And no underwear. Were you expecting me?” She hadn’t wanted the panty lines that morning. This had not been what she’d expected, having assumed their blip in the boardroom had been a one off. God, had she subconsciously been expecting this, had she?

  “Screw you,” she said.

  “Yes, let’s.”

  He was now drawing up her skirt. The cool air of the concrete bunker they were basically in teased her heated skin. Every noise they made echoed off the walls.

  His hand on her hips, he pushed into her from behind, the length of him filling her. All of her felt as if she was melting, wax forming around him. The pleasure of it was just about unbearable.

  Her cheek and breasts rubbed against the smooth, cold concrete as he lifted her hips up, contrasting with the heat between their bodies. Again, he really was stronger than she gave him credit for and unfortunately, she found that quite erotic. Every thought escaped out of her head as the assault of pleasure washed everything away. Her world had shrunk down to the urgent sensations and the hard cock inside her. Damn it, why could he do this to her?

  She could feel his cock pulsing inside her, straining to get deeper. Arching her back that bit more, she took him deeper and was sweetly rewarded for it, the pressure on her g-spot growing unbearable.

  Say what you will about him, he was very good at this.

  Hands guided her along his length until she couldn’t take anymore, her core pulsing violently around him, exquisite pleasure surging through every part of her.

  “So very sweet,” he said condescendingly, thrusting forcefully into her until his release built. His throbbing orgasm made her come again, leaving her shattered and spent. Every bit of tension and emotion had been exorcised and there was nothing left. She couldn’t even muster hate for him; instead, wanted to sink into a puddle on the ground, and probably would have if his arm wasn’t holding her up.

  Damn it, they’d done it again. This had to stop—could not go on. Whatever psycho-bullshit this all was, it ended here.

  Chapter 45

  Megan was waiting outside her driveway for Jesus to arrive. He’d texted and told her he would be there shortly. It had taken a whole hour to pick her clothes that morning as she was worried that his family might be more conservative than those who lived in Marbella and she couldn’t decide what the right outfit was. It was hard to dress unlike herself—well, it was an art to dress as herself, but also in a more conservative manner. Needless to say, a lot of thought had gone into the skirt and top she wore.

  With every car she could hear coming up the hill, she wondered if it was his, until a car came around the corner—the sporty, burgundy Alfa Romeo she’d seen before. The top was down and Jesus looked a little less unapproachable than usual. Gone was the black vest and he was instead wearing a white shirt. It actually made him look even more exotic. The thin, white cotton covered his muscles, while at the same time showing every nuance of them. The day was about contradictory fashion.

  “Hi,” she said as she got in the car. She smiled. There was something quite surreal about this. On some level, he must be interested or he wouldn’t have invited her. This, more than anything, made her nervous. It was more nerve-wracking talking to him now that he saw more in her than just some business dealing.

  “How are you today?” he asked.

  “Well. Excited about going for a drive—seeing where you come from.” Was that too forward? Should she be holding back a bit, be vague and mysterious, aloof? The aloof girl always had guys clamouring after them, didn’t they? Some of the European girls were like that, but then she didn’t know what kind of girl he was into. She almost wished she could ask so she could model herself after that.

  Giving her a slight nod, he took off, and so did the butterflies in her stomach. Ricky snuck into her mind—unwelcome and unbidden. Should she be feeling a bit terrible that she was over getting dumped by him in a week and now getting weak-kneed about someone else? Maybe the thing with Ricky hadn’t been real at all, considering she got over him in a flash.

  Or maybe it was that she had met someone more real. She hated admitting it, but Jesus left Ricky in the dust. That was the long and the short of it. Jesus made her devastatingly nervous. Ricky had never done that.

  They drove inland and the landscape changed quickly. The shine and sparkle of Marbella gave way quickly to earthy and humble Spanishness, where things changed slowly and there was never any particular rush. Farms, orchards, vineyards and old, old buildings, and dark green hills in the background. Tradition, family, steadiness. Nothing changed here and everything was solid—just like Jesus.

  “Have you always lived in the south of Spain?” she asked.

  “I spent some time in Florence,” he said. “Studying art.”

  This surprised her. “I didn’t know you did art.”

  “I studied sculpture. But I also love money, and right now, money wins.”


  An image of him in a rustic art studio formed in her mind. She had not perceived this in him. “You must show me some of your sculptures.”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know where they are now.”

  “I’m sure your mother will have a piece or two stashed away.”

  He looked over at her and she felt his gaze on her, making her feel heated. “My family is very conservative,” he said, but she wasn’t surprised. “They will treat you like an honoured guest.” There was something contradictory in his statement, but she wasn’t entirely sure what. Conservative in what way? The ‘you’re not Spanish, so you will always be a guest, but don’t expect more’ way? The ‘you’re not Spanish enough for our son’ way? She didn’t feel she had the right to ask. They were, after all, not an item or anything. What she did get was that he’d invited her on this excursion to check her out. A lot depended on this trip—she just didn’t exactly know how.

  They drove along the straight motorway for a while, then turned off to a much windier road that climbed some of the hills. The landscape seemed to be a little more wild. Finally, they turned off a gravel road that led along the side of a hill, until they reached a farm. The main house was white with the traditional terracotta. It was impossible to tell how old it was. The rest of the buildings were stone—again, impossible to tell how old.

  An older couple appeared, including a woman, which she assumed was Jesus’ mother, and a man with white hair and deeply tanned skin. Then another older woman, and also a younger man, who had to be Jesus’ brother.

  “Mama,” Jesus said as the woman rushed forward to greet him. As expected, she fawned over him. They all said their greetings until he introduced her as a friend. She knew enough Spanish to understand that.

  “I am Marta,” the mother said with a heavy accent. “This is my ‘ushand, Guiseppe.”

  “Hi,” Megan said, dealing with a ridiculous urge to bow, or something. “Megan.”

  Jesus’ mother looked her up and down and tsked. She said something in Spanish to the others, wondering why English girls starved themselves. Megan felt a wave of disapproval—not personal, but of her lifestyle and entire value system.

  What followed was a series of exchanges in rapid Spanish, but too quick for Megan to keep up with. No one looked at her, so she assumed it wasn’t about her. Then they broke up and everyone started walking in different directions.

  “Come, I will show you the farm,” Jesus said.

  Megan was glad she’d worn wedges because there were no walkways anywhere. They walked around the corner and out the back, where the house looked over olive trees as far as the eye could see—round, green trees in uniform rows. “It’s large.”

  “Yes,” Jesus said.

  “You have a brother.”

  “Matías. He helps run the farm. I have a sister too, but she is married now. Lives not far away. She will come later.”

  This was where he’d grown up, running along these trees, being wild. She could imagine him here, a younger version of him. Had he been cocky? she wondered. Growing up here, he would have assumed he lived on the top of the world.

  “You didn’t want to stay and help your father with the farm?”

  “No, the life here was small and there were more exciting places to live than this little farm. Nothing changes here but wrinkles.”

  He had sought the excitement of Marbella. Her family had sought Marbella too, but for different reasons. “I was a bit asthmatic when I was young and we used to spend winters here because of that. I grew out of it, but we just stayed on. I couldn’t really imagine living anywhere else.” That wasn’t strictly true, because she’d spent a great deal of time in London and for a while, she’d seriously considered moving there permanently. When it came down to it, the professional opportunities on the coast were grossly limited. “Saying that, it’s changing so much now, it’s less and less recognisable as the place it was.”

  Having grown up here, she felt like a local, even if the Spanish would seriously disagree. But for all of them, Marbella was changing, becoming larger, and in some ways losing the magic it had, the place she remembered from her childhood. “It is inevitable, I suppose. Still makes you sad, though.”

  “Here, nothing changes,” he said. “Except now we have a machine to shake the trees. My father is getting old.”

  Megan smiled. “It must be nice coming back here.”

  They walked along the olive trees, the sun beating down. It was warmer here in the hills than it was by the coast.

  Could she live in a place like this, she wondered, where nothing changed? Actually, she could, with the right person. The realisation came with an exhale, as if a tension was revealing itself. The truth was that she wanted to settle down, to something unchanging and constant, and to something true and authentic. Maybe that was why it had been so easy to let Ricky go, because he wasn’t this.

  Chapter 46

  Jesus wasn’t entirely sure why he had invited Megan on this visit. Maybe he’d just wanted to see how she’d react. There was no denying that she had grown up rich and privileged, and maybe he wanted to see how spoilt she was because of it. His parents’ farm had only the most basic amenities. They lived old-school in every way. They didn’t even have the internet.

  Surprisingly, she seemed more comfortable than he’d anticipated. She wandered along next to him, running her fingers over the olive leaves that hung down. The olives were nowhere near ready. He would come when they were—take some time off. No matter what he did, or what he achieved, not being here for the olive harvest was tantamount to family betrayal. There was only so far family ties would stretch. The harvest was still seen as the family’s first priority, even if the money he earned from the clubs far, far outweighed what the farm’s harvest made. That wasn’t the point.

  “How old are these trees?” she asked, her hair swaying slightly in the warm breeze flowing over the hills. It was warm today and they should settle in the shade as midday approached.

  “Most were established in the thirties. Some are older, but disease affected the farm in the early thirties. It was a difficult time for the family.” One they would never forget.

  Jesus supposed he would have to tell his children those stories… when he had any.

  Maybe he did partially know why he’d brought Megan. It wasn’t the whole truth, but the superficial reason for why he’d invited her. His mother had set her eyes on a single woman in the village, Valeria, which she felt would be a good match for him. The problem was that he wasn’t remotely interested in Valeria, or any other girl who’d grown up in the village. They were decent girls, but their lives were small and they preferred it that way. The girls he was attracted to were more worldly, at times even downright slutty, which his mother would vehemently disapprove of.

  Perhaps bringing Megan was to tell his mother that he would pick the women in his life, including the one he settled down with. And it was never going to be Valeria, or any of her ilk. Those girls hadn’t kept him in the village and they wouldn’t now.

  Megan knew the world, had seen every part of it, but what intrigued him was why she’d want to come on a trip to an olive farm. “So what are your plans now? Will you return to modelling?” he asked. The commitment she’d made to the club was finished, so that wasn’t keeping her here. He had respected her decision to fulfil her commitment when she had every reason to turn tail and skip out.

  The girl shrugged her thin shoulders. “I don’t know. I finished a lot of my contracts, so I’m fairly free just at the moment. I need to make a decision about whether to return or not.”

  “You are very good at it.”

  “Lots of people are very good at it. Good money, lots of travel—lots of work, too. Early morning, jetlag, hours of getting your hair fritzed. But it doesn’t create something, you know?”

  “It creates good pictures.”

  “It creates other people’s visions.”

  “And you want your own?”

  “I’ve al
ways been interested in fashion. Sounds funny being in the fashion industry, but there are those that make and those that represent. In essence, I’m nothing more than a mannequin.”

  “You want to design?”

  “Not like a proper house, but maybe something small—bags, or jewellery. Maybe something about Marbella. I grew up here and I love the colours and brightness.”

  “Marbella is a unique thing. It doesn’t belong to its surroundings. It is artificial.”

  “Perhaps, but it doesn’t mean it has no value.”

  Jesus wasn’t sure he’d ever looked at it that way. Marbella and its strange evolution had been something he’d used and taken advantage of. There had always been something he’d hated about it, the appropriation of their land by foreigners, this thing that shifted, changed and evolved as they stood by and watched. Jesus had decided to get his slice, profiting wildly from it, but there had always been something about it that had made him uneasy.

  Megan, the foreigner that she was, saw herself as a local, but she was local to the small and rarefied colony that was Marbella. Some bitterly muttered and swore against people like her—these foreigners who didn’t see themselves as such—but Jesus had never done that. He’d had a good time in Marbella. It had been a prosperous time and he’d indulged himself with people as jaded on the inside as Marbella was shiny on the outside.

  This girl, however, wasn’t jaded. She had the same lifestyle, the same job and the same influences, but none of the insidious nastiness seemed to touch her. And that meant something. What did it mean to be incorruptible in an environment that corroded most?

  That wasn’t to say she was the smartest girl around. People walked all over her and she didn’t always have the means to fend them off. She was still talking about design that represented Marbella. “You couldn’t get more Marbella, could you? Obviously not the established, but certainly on the aspirational side.” She was talking about tourists; the ones who came here and wanted to be a part of this place for a while.