That wasn’t a no, but I’m still not going to wear any. I know what he likes.
Half an hour later, we drive into the hills. It’s a stunning day, the sun beating down like summer has arrived early. Alex has changed into a lightweight shirt, a casual blazer, and faded designer jeans. Some of the new clothes that arrived two days ago.He spends money freely, but it’s a drop in the ocean against his bank balance.
“You have a lot of money,”I said, when he showed me what was in his accounts.
“Wehave a lot of money,”he corrected.“Buy a car. Whatever clothes you want. Get a yacht.”
“I don’t want a yacht. I just want you.”
“You only like me because I’m free.”He gave me that cheeky grin that comes out more and more.
“Señor Reyes,”I replied,“the one thing you arenotis free.”
I took him to our bed and proved it.
The memory makes me smile as Alex drives us into the courtyard of the house, pulling up near the weathered fountain. It’s all more beautiful in reality, and the sun helps, reflecting off the walls. A man waits for us, middle aged with a kindly face, dressed in a casual suit with a folder against his arm. He makes no attempt to approach the car, but waits until we’re ready. Spain is more relaxed than New York.
Alex gets out, but I haven’t moved. I’m gazing at the house through the window, picturing us living here. I haven’t even seen inside, but I already know it’s the one I want. Itcallsto me.
My door opens, Alex standing there, expectant. “All right?”
“Very all right.”
The seats of his Audi R8 are low, and my dress is short. I climb out slowly, making no attempt at modesty, and his eyes flick down.
When I’m out of the car, he pulls me roughlyagainst his chest, his hand at my back, fingers spread over the top of my ass. “Minx,” he murmurs, voice husky. “How am I supposed to concentrate now?”
I love that I can distract him so easily.
“That man is waiting.”
“And he can wait a moment longer.” Alex kisses me, taking his time, hands cupping my face as his tongue plays with mine. I’m blushing and flushed by the time he’s finished, and cling to his hand as we walk up to the real estate agent.
“Señor, señorita.” He smiles. “Donde hay amor, hay vida.”
I’ve been studying my Spanish, but I’m still at the level of asking where the train station is. I look at Alex for a translation.
“Where there is love, there is life,” he murmurs, sliding his arm around my waist and pulling me close. My blush intensifies, but I smile back at the man.
“My name is Javier.” The real estate agent gives me a slight bow. “May I show you around?”
He’s charming, a bit of a rogue, and his eyes twinkle. “Please do.”
The house is just as beautiful inside, and I walk around it thoughtfully. The rooms are empty, unfurnished, a blank canvas, and I prefer it like that. It lets me make plans for what I would change, and what each room needs.
Javier keeps to English for my benefit, but says little, not trying to push the property, just commenting on the area.
“The valley is cooler than the coast,” he says as we step onto the terrace. “Days like this it’s hot, but the air moves here in the evenings. People come to this area to sleep.”
He shows us the outbuildings, and the stables are grand. “These were built later. Not part of the original cortijo. More substantial than you usually see with these houses.”
Alex is looking thoughtful. I wonder if he likes it too, but his face is impassive. Even now he’s watching me as much as the building.
At the courtyard, Javier gestures at the walls. “It’s all older than it looks. It used to be a working farm, probably nineteenth-century. It’s been restored a few times, but the bones are original.”
The kitchen is enormous, rustic with a large oak table the previous occupants left, and a large range set into a stone alcove. Javier sees the direction of my gaze. “Enough to feed a large family, sí?”
The idea holds appeal. “It is.”
