Chapter 12: The Saltwater Truce
The robe, a slithery thing of ivory silk, lay in a puddle on a sun-warmed chaise lounge. The morning air was cooler than Gracie had anticipated, raising goosebumps along her arms and thighs as she stood poised at the pool’s edge. The water, a perfect, artificial turquoise, stared back, still and inviting.
She dove.
The heated water enveloped her, a shock that was both breach and relief. She surfaced, gasping, and began to swim. Not a leisurely glide, but a punishing crawl, arms cutting the water with sharp, efficient strokes. Left, right, breathe. The rhythm was a mantra. Left, right, breathe. It drowned out the echo of his voice on the phone, the cold calculation of leverage and squeeze.
She reached the far end, flipped under the surface with a kick that sent bubbles storming upwards, and pushed off the wall. Lap after lap. Her muscles began to burn, a clean, honest fatigue that pushed the psychic clutter aside. The world narrowed to the blur of the bottom tiles, the metronome of her own breathing, the chlorine sting in her nose. She was good at this. It was simple. You moved, you propelled yourself forward. There were no hidden clauses, no soft numbers.
She lost count of the laps. Time became the slow arc of the sun climbing higher, baking the marble deck. Her mind finally emptied, blissfully blank.
A shadow fell across her line of sight under the water. She surfaced at the wall, pushing wet hair from her face, blinking water from her lashes.
He was there.
Kneeling on the hot marble at the pool’s edge, leaning over the water. He’d shed his tie and jacket, but still wore the crisp white dress shirt, now unbuttoned at the collar and cuffs, rolled messily to his elbows. His trousers were probably Italian wool, ruining itself on the damp stone. He’d been watching her.
They stared at each other. Water streamed from Gracie’s hair. His expression was unreadable, a mix of assessment and something else, something raw she couldn’t quite name.
He extended a hand, palm up, over the water. Not a command. An offering.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The words were quiet, stripped of their usual broadcast bravado. “Come here.”
She didn’t move. Treaded water, her breaths still coming in deep pulls. “Is the empire secured?”
“For now.” He didn’t retract his hand. “The call ran long. You were right. It was rude.”
“It was more than rude.” Her voice sounded small, amplified by the water. “It was a precedent.”
A flicker of impatience crossed his face, immediately checked. He hated being schooled, especially on terms. He knew she knew. “Gracie. Please.”
She swam the few strokes to the wall. Instead of taking his hand, she placed her own on the hot ledge, hoisting herself up to sit on the pool’s edge, her legs still dangling in the water. The sun hit her skin, a stark contrast to the pool’s warmth. She was acutely aware of her simple black one-piece, purchased for practicality, not the opulent resort-wear that probably filled the other cabanas. Water pooled around her on the stone.
He shifted, sitting back on his heels, his hand finally dropping. He looked at her—really looked—taking in the heaving of her chest, the determined set of her jaw, the water droplets clinging to her shoulders like diamonds.
“You swim like you’re trying to drown a demon,” he observed.
“Just a minor nuisance.”
He almost smiled. Reached out and tugged a strand of her wet hair. “You’re pissed. Still. I can see it in your eyes. They get this… cold blue. Like glacier ice.”
“You kept me waiting for forty-five minutes on the morning after our wedding. The ‘honeymoon’ you just had to protect.”
“I know.” He said it simply. “And I said I’m sorry. Which I almost never do. Ask anyone.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. The open shirt gave a glimpse of his chest. “The Osaka thing… it’s a ten-figure deal. It’s a building. A monument. It has my name on it in letters six feet tall. When those guys try to slide something past me at the finish line, it’s not just money. It’s respect. And in my world, if you lose respect, you’re finished.”
“I understand respect,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I also understand promises. You promised me pancakes. You promised me a day. You promised I was the interruption.” She shook her head, a droplet flying. “But you disappeared into the call. I was just… furniture in the room.”
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes tracing the line of her collarbone. The hum of a distant groundskeeping mower filled the air. “You weren’t furniture,” he said finally, his voice low. “You were a weapon.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I saw you,” he said, a strange, proud light entering his eyes. “Sitting there in that big leather chair, looking out the window with my pen in your hand, twisting it. You were bored. And pissed. And you looked so… untouchable. It reminded me what I was in a hurry to get back to. What they were keeping me from. I closed the deal twelve minutes faster than I would have without you in that chair.”
Gracie stared at him. His apology was twisted up in a victory lap. It was infuriating. And yet, it was so incontrovertibly him. She couldn’t decide whether to laugh or shove him into the pool.
“So I’m a motivational tool?”
“You’re my wife.” He said it as if it explained everything. “And my wife shouldn’t have to swim her aggression out alone.” He stood up abruptly, towering over her. He began unbuttoning his shirt. “Scoot over.”
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He shrugged the shirt off, letting it fall onto the dry chaise. His torso was pale in the strong sunlight, powerfully built. He didn’t bother with his trousers or shoes. He simply stepped to the edge and, with a casual disregard for the thousand-dollar suit, jumped feet-first into the pool beside her.
The splash soaked her. She shrieked as the wave hit her. He surfaced, shaking his head like a dog, his hair plastered to his forehead.
“You’re insane!” she laughed, despite herself. “Your clothes!”
“They’ll clean them. Or they’ll burn them and buy new ones.” He waded closer, the water lapping at his chest. “Now. You swam your laps. My turn.” He reached for her waist under the water, his hands slick and warm. “This is the negotiation.”
“I’m not negotiating.”
“Yes, you are.” He pulled her gently off the ledge. She slid into the water, into the space between his arms. Her body aligned with his, their legs tangling. “Your terms are: my undivided attention. My terms are: you forgive me for being a monumental asshole who cares too much about six-foot letters in Osaka.” He brushed his nose against hers. “Do we have a deal?”
She looked into his eyes, so close she could see the faint specks of amber in the blue. The frustration was still there, a low ember. But the warmth of him, the absurdity of a billionaire in soaked wool trousers, the raw, unvarnished need in his face… it was banking the fire.
“The terms are soft,” she murmured, playing along. “Vague. ‘Undivided attention’ needs parameters. What’s the duration? What are the deliverables?”
He grinned, that dazzling, predatory grin. “Duration: the rest of the day. Deliverables…” One hand slid up her rib cage, his thumb brushing the side of her breast through the sleek black material. “Pancakes. Champagne. Maybe a walk on the beach where I don’t take any calls. And later, I re-examine the previous night’s merger agreement. Very, very thoroughly.”
His touch was electric, cutting through the last of her resistance. She leaned her forehead against his. “You have to actually mean it. No phones. No ‘ten-minute’ calls that turn into an hour.”
“Scout’s honor.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “You have my word. And my word, in business, is notoriously good. Ask anyone.”
She did laugh then, a full, relieved sound that echoed off the water. “Okay,” she whispered against his lips. “Deal.”
He kissed her, deep and slow, there in the middle of the sun-drenched pool. The taste of chlorine and him. His wet hands cradled her face. When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, he rested his cheek against her wet hair.
“For the record,” he said, his voice a vibration in his chest she could feel through her own, “you look unbelievable in that bathing suit. It’s simple. It’s serious. It shows off this…” His hands slid down to her hips, holding her firmly under the water. “This incredible curve. The other women here, with their labels and their little strings, they look like they’re trying to be something. You look like you are something. It’s a knockout.”
The compliment, so specific and so unabashedly focused on what she’d always considered her flaws, sent a thrill through her that had nothing to do with the water temperature. He saw her. In his own distorted, narcissistic, utterly genuine way, he truly saw her.
“Let’s get out,” she said. “Your trousers must weigh a ton.”
“They do.” He swam with her to the steps, his hand never leaving the small of her back. They emerged, dripping, onto the deck. He looked down at his ruined shoes, water pouring from the cuffs of his trousers. “A total loss. Worth it.”
He wrapped a large, fluffy towel around her, rubbing her arms briskly before securing one around his own waist. They left a trail of wet footprints back towards their private wing, the sun already baking the evidence away.
In their suite, he was true to his word. He stripped off the ruined clothes, tossed them in a corner, and made a single call on the house phone. “Bring breakfast for two to the terrace. Pancakes. Berries. Champagne. And a pot of black coffee. Now.”
He didn’t touch his cell.
They ate on the shaded terrace overlooking the ocean, wrapped in soft robes. He fed her a strawberry, his fingers brushing her lips. He told her a story about the developer from Milwaukee that was actually funny. He asked about her final semester at NYU, listening as she talked about her corporate law thesis, his eyes focused on her face.
The phone, silent on the table between them, felt less like a threat and more like a relic from a previous life.
Later, as promised, they walked along the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge, the Atlantic hissing over their bare feet. He held her hand, his grip firm. He didn’t mention Osaka once.
As the sun began to dip, painting the sky in violent streaks of orange and purple, he stopped walking. He turned her to face him, the wind whipping her hair across her cheeks.
“Today was good,” he stated, as if finalizing a board meeting summary.
“It was,” she agreed.
“I’m not a natural at this,” he said, the admission seeming pulled from him. “The sharing of the time. The… quiet. But for you, I want to be.”
It was the closest to vulnerability he might ever get. She stood on her toes and kissed him, salt on both their lips from the sea spray. “Then just be,” she said.
That night, he re-examined the merger agreement with a devout, painstaking attention to detail, making good on his final deliverable until Gracie, breathless and boneless, conceded that his terms had, in fact, been more than satisfactory.
Just before she fell asleep, curled into his side, his private phone buzzed once on his nightstand. A single, insistent pulse of light in the dark.
He didn’t reach for it. He pulled her closer, his breath evening out into sleep, letting the call go to a voicemail he wouldn’t check until morning.