I step into the bathroom and find a huge egg-shaped freestanding spa tub and a shower that could probably fit ten people inside. The walls, floors, and counters are all various shades of onyx, gray, and white marble.
Walking past the bed, I step up to the large window that makes up the entire west wall. It’s too dark to see much of anything, but I can almost make out the water down below.
Sitting on the end of the bed, I lie backward onto the mattress and am swallowed up by the comfy down blanket. I’ve been raised in homes with wealth. When I was little, before my father began his descent, and then when my mom married Stefano, I grew up in expensive homes. Have been given all of the luxuries life has to offer. I attended one of the best private schools in Italy—my university tuition costs more than most make in ten years. But lying here in this bed, thinking about the plane I was brought here on, and glancing around at the furniture and décor and clothes that surround me, I realize I’ve never experienced this level of wealth.
None of this makes any sense. I’ve visited my father every summer for the past eleven years, and every time, his situation was worse. I expected to be taken to him in coach on a shitty plane and then driven in by cab to whatever apartment he’s living in now.
Knowing there’s no way I’ll be able to fall asleep right away, I decide to go for a walk. I should probably tell Phoenix, but then he’ll just tell me no or insist on tagging along. Plus, he’s probably already getting it on with that woman from the front desk.
After changing into a pair of shorts and a flowy top, I grab my phone and room key and put them in my back pocket. I take the wooden path down a little ways until I come to a bridge that forks. Under the bridge is flowing water and what appears to be different kinds of fish. I go left and it leads me to a courtyard that’s filled with beautiful outdoor daybeds with plush mattresses and pillows. I walk a little farther and find several mocha-colored wicker sectionals in the shape of half-moons. I imagine during the day people come out here and lounge out, reading a good book or even taking a peaceful afternoon nap.
I’m about to sit on one of the sectionals when I notice the exquisite stone fountain in the center of the courtyard. “Bernini’s Rape of Proserpina,” I say out loud.
“You know your art,” a masculine voice says.
I turn to find a gorgeous man standing in front of me. He’s dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a white button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing a hint of tattoos. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but his hair appears to be a dark shade of brown. At one point it looks like it was gelled neatly, but now it’s messy as if he’s been running his fingers through it. He’s sporting a pair of brown leather Sperry boat shoes. He’s the perfect mix of casual meets elegance.
“It’s a rather controversial piece,” I tell him. It would be hard to major in art and not know about a piece like this. One of my favorite classes I’ve taken was Classical mythology.
“Some say controversial, some say exquisite.” He shrugs, taking a step forward.
“If you can call rape exquisite.”
Stepping closer, the gentleman flashes me a brief wicked grin, and I’m able to get a better look at him. His hair is in fact the color of creamy hot chocolate on a cold day. His eyes are a beautiful shade of hazel, but they’re hard. Unforgiving. One side of his mouth is quirked up into a smirk I imagine has women falling at his feet. Hell, it almost has me falling. Almost.
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“That’s the only way,” I argue.
The gentleman raises his hand to his face and strokes his stubbled chin. “The scene screams of passion, frenzy, a mixture of tenderness and harshness. It’s the climax of the moment. They’re teetering between hate and love.” Hmm…so he believes that version of the story.
“She’s trying to get away. She’s pushing at his face, begging him to let her go.”
“Or maybe she’s just scared.”
“Exactly,” I say, now confused. Wasn’t he just disagreeing with me?
“Scared of wanting him,” he clarifies. “Scared of what she might feel. She wants to hate him, but she still wants him. What’s that saying?” He tilts his head to the side slightly and smirks. The simple gesture makes him appear even more handsome. “There’s a thin line between love and hate.”
“How cliché.” I roll my eyes, annoyed that he’s trying to turn a serious work of art into an erotic sexual experience. “There’s nothing passionate about this piece. It’s about a god kidnapping a woman and forcing her to be his wife.”
The gentleman barks out a harsh laugh. “If she didn’t want to remain with him, she wouldn’t have eaten those seeds.” He steps another few feet toward me, until he’s so close I can smell his cologne. It’s fresh and masculine with a hint of danger. My heartbeat becomes erratic, suddenly remembering I’m on this island and standing here with a man I don’t know in the dark of the night.
“Have you ever been in love?” he asks without giving me a chance to respond to his last statement.
His question throws me off for a second, but then I nod, thinking of Alex. We haven’t exchanged the words, but I believe I’m falling in love with him.
“And this person you’ve loved, have you ever been mad at him? Hated him?”
My eyes lock with his, and I imagine I give him a look of confusion because he doesn’t wait for my answer but instead continues to speak.
“Hate and love are shared passions. They pull you in and take over your body, your heart, your mind. They are both powerful emotions. It’s why some say the best kind of sex is hate sex and the next is make-up sex.” He smirks darkly, and my stomach knots. “The first is two people who’ve built up anger festering inside of them, which turns into passion and arousal. The second is two people who are still mad at each other but are trying to forgive one another. The anger still runs through their veins, but the love and forgiveness is slowly seeping in.”
He nods toward the statue. “That is the perfect depiction of hate and love mixing.”
I hear what he’s saying, but I can’t imagine having sex with someone I hate and enjoying it. That’s why it’s called making love. You’re supposed to be with the person you love.
“Have you ever been in love?” I ask, turning his question around on him.
“No,” he states matter-of-factly. “But I’ve had plenty of hate sex.”
I turn my eyes back to the statue, but I can’t see what he’s saying. The man is forcing her into his clutch, while she’s pushing him away. I just can’t imagine at any point she would enjoy being with him.
“If you’ve never been in love then how do you know how it feels? How can you compare love to hate?”
“I’ve witnessed it firsthand. Read about it. You don’t have to be in love to recognize what it looks like. To understand it.”
He makes a valid point, but I still don’t agree with his analysis. “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.” I shrug noncommittedly. “It’s late, and I have an early morning, so I better get back to my room.”
“I never got your name,” the gentleman says.