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My jaw drops open. “I know you said fewer questions but…”
Cillian sighs. “Fine, just one.”
“Are you aBondvillain?”
He laughs. A deep, rumbling laugh fills the car and ignites something hot and fiery in my heart. A heartbreakingly beautiful grin splits his face, and for a moment, I forget that he’s a dangerous man, and I’m a stupid woman.
The tires crunch over the gravel, growing closer to the hill and come to a stop over on a smooth, stone circle. He leans his bulk over me, treating me to a sudden gust of oaky cologne and man, and pushes the door open. “Out.”
I step out onto the gravel, watch as he retrieves my life from the trunk, and fall in step with him as he heads to the door. I jump at the loud hiss coming from behind us.
“Relax,” he says with a trace of amusement on his lips. I turn around just in time to see the top of the Tesla disappear into the ground. “Underground parking.”
I shake my head, dazed. “I think I might be dreaming.”
We descend the steps and Cillian goes to work on the tablet next to the door. He taps away on the keyboard, scans his thumbprint, then his forefinger, then last but not least, his eye. When I let out a nervous laugh, he frowns.
“Sorry,” I mutter, still smiling, “it’s just getting more and more villain-y by the second.”
Inside is anticlimactic. A large, open space propped up with oak beams and filled with nothing more than a few cream sofas and fireplace. It looks like a cute country cottage, something that would always be sold out onAirBnB.But Cillian doesn’t even stop to wipe his feet, instead, he stalks to the back of the room, through a small corridor, to another door. This one is steel, with an intricate lock mechanism running down the length of it. Another keypad, another long-winded routine of tapping and scanning. But when the hydraulics hiss and reveal what’s on the other side, a gasp escapes my lips.
Cillian leans against the doorframe, studying me.
“Welcome to the Garden of Eden.”
When I take a step forward, the warm, tropical air hits me like I’ve just stepped off a plane on the first day of vacation. The kaleidoscope of colors, the bright sun streaming through the glass, and the soothing sound of rushing water overload my senses, slipping me into a dream-like state.
“I don’t understand,” is all I can manage.
“It’s a project I’ve been working on for almost five years now,” Cillian says, joining me on the cobbled pathway. “You see the glass?” I follow the sweeping motion of his hand and realize that it’s not just the roof that is made from glass, but the entire domed structure. “Along with state-of-the-art temperature and humidity regulators, it acts like a greenhouse. Essentially, the garden is a microclimate that allows me to grow the rarest and most exotic flowers from around the world, right here on American soil.” I spin around to face him in surprise. “My god, when I asked if you like gardening…” the rest of the sentence evaporates into thin air.
“Yes,” he says seriously, “As you can see, I like gardening. A lot. Come.”
I float in his wake, following him through the cobbled pathway, gawping at the trees, bushes, and flowers bursting from either side of the path. The sound of rushing water grows louder, and when it opens up to a large, central space I see the source.
“Whoa,” I murmur. Against the backdrop of domed glass, there’s a rocky cliff-face, shimmering water fighting its way down the cracks, before bursting into a gushing waterfall, which in turn, leads into a river that winds through the flowers and disappears out of sight.
“The water has the same mineral composition as the Amazon River,” he says, pointing to the orange clay that runs along the bank. “Which is why I can grow myrtles, laurels, Spanish cedar trees, and giant water lilies here.” He continues to a small footbridge that crosses the widest part of the river and holds out his hand to help me across. His grip is strong and warm and even in my shock, I feel a bolt of electricity when his palm slips into mine.
Wordless, I walk behind him, following the river downstream, until we come to another clearing. This one is lined with palm trees, and on the other side of it, there’s a long glass wall, running the length of the dome. “Living quarters,” he says, ducking under a low-hanging branch and reaching a door. He holds it open for me, and I’m immediately hit by the gust of cool air. Inside, the vibe is a Spanish villa: terra cotta walls, large, polished work surfaces, and high beams that cut across the curved ceiling. Different shades of white, cream, and grays soften the space in the form of over-stuffed sofas, artsy sculptures, and floating curtains billowing softly under the air conditioning.
Cillian comes to a stop in the kitchen area, resting his back against the oak breakfast bar and locking his eyes onto mine.
I stare at him for a few dazed moments. “I don’t know what to say.”
He purses his lips. “That’s a first.”
He pushes himself off and goes to the fridge. Pulls out two bottles of fancy-looking water. I study him as he fills up tumblers with ice and pours the water over them. “You’re relaxed here,” I say quietly.
He meets my gaze. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, you’ve spoken more in the last five minutes than you have for the entire time I’ve known you.”
His face hardens like he’s remembered to put up his wall again. Closing the gap between us, he hands me one of the waters. “I’ll show you your bedroom.”
A shiver runs up my spine.Bedroom.Among the surprise of the garden, I’d forgotten that I’d be staying here. With him. And that I’m…his.
I swallow, flustered, and trot after him, back the way we came in. We walk in silence along the riverbank, under Weeping Willows and another group of palm trees, where the river opens up into a large body of water. In the middle of it, there’s a circular wooden hut.
