Arthur.
I stood, seeing Arthur’s face illuminated as he took another drag. His yacht was in near darkness, barely a light in sight. But I saw the moment he caught me in his peripheral vision. His head cocked to the side, and his blue eyes ran down the length of my dress. It was purple and cut in a deep V to my belly button, the sides of my breasts peeking through the gauzy fabric. It flowed to my feet. My long dark hair was held back off my neck with a few well-placed grips.
I swallowed down my nerves as he drank me in. His hand remained in his pocket, his posture the epitome of calm. I tried to mirror his frame, but inside, my heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.
The people on this yacht were the furthest thing from Arthur they could possibly be. Arthur may have been richer than sin, but he was brought up in the East End of London. He didn’t attend the best schools, or holiday in exotic countries like we all had. He was down-and-dirty Bethnal Green, with the trademark thick cockney accent to match. He had his rivals’ blood underneath his fingernails, and fragments of their bones locked away in the cage that was his dark heart.
Yet here I was, following my feet as they left my yacht and took the few short steps to where he stood. Arthur was still smoking, still keeping one hand in his pocket. But he watched me approach like a lion watches a gazelle, the reflection of me flickering on the black-rimmed glasses he always wore. My chest felt as though it was being pressed down upon by a demon as I climbed the steps to the back of his yacht. The rich wooden floor creaked as I straightened and faced the man who had possessed my every thought lately. My dress blew in the warm Spanish breeze, the slits on the skirt exposing my bare legs.
Arthur flicked his cigarette overboard, then turned and walked through the glass doors to the living quarters. I ran my hand over my chest to be sure my heart hadn’t leapt free of my ribcage. Every part of me screamed at me to leave, to stop this foolishness. Yet something inside me, something raw and savage and sadistic, forced me to stay. I saw Arthur move to the bar, the only light in the room sneaking in from the bars and restaurants outside.
I glanced over at my yacht. Saw people dancing. Heard them laughing and drinking and having a good time. I should have turned around and left this boat. I should have gone back to Freya and Arabella and had a good time, looking forward to Hugo returning tomorrow and to living my steady, blessed life.
I rubbed my arms, not to stave off the cold but to send blood to my brain, to wake myself up and avoid the temptation trying to lure me in. Because wanting someone like Arthur Adley was only acceptable in my fantasies. Not in real life. And never in my social circle.
I closed my eyes, deciding it was time to go. To leave this pathetic obsession with him in the past. It was a stupid secondary-school crush on the bad boy from across town. I took a long deep breath and opened my eyes, set on doing the right thing. But when my vision focused, all my good intentions seeped out of me. Arthur stood in my line of sight, dead centre of the living room, his forbidden deep blue gaze fixed on me. He had a drink in his hand, a cigarette balancing on his bottom lip, and with his defined muscles clearly visible under his shirt, I knew I was staying. He had me in his snare, and I threw all logic away with the Spanish wind and was willingly drawn in.
With trembling hands, I forced myself to tune out the sounds from my yacht and walked through the darkness, over the threshold to Arthur. Turning, I shut the doors behind me, sealing us inside and blocking out the real world. All noise from outside was expelled by the expensive soundproof doors. I was in a vacuum. A vacuum filled with temptation and sin and the forbidden object of my obsession.
Arthur took a drag of his cigarette and pulled it from his mouth, the smoke clouding around us. Apart from when I was smoking them myself, I usually disliked the smell of cigarettes. But not when it came from Arthur. Never then. From him, it smelled like heaven itself.
“You shouldn’t be here, princess,” Arthur said, his deep voice wrapping around me as tightly as the serpent from the Garden of Eden. He stepped closer to me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end merely at his wickedly addictive presence. My mind tried to warn me to leave, showing me highlights of the night in the alley. Of Arthur cutting down men twice his age in cold blood. Of him ordering my attacker to castrate himself, no expression on his perfect face, no remorse in his corrupt soul.