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Stripped
Nicola Marsh


She wasn’t into bad boysUntil she met him…Getting naked with reclusive billionaire Hart Rochester isn’t part of Daisy Adler’s PR campaign. She’s on the stunning Whitsunday Islands to save his reputation, but after clashing with the infuriating, sexy CEO a fling is the perfect way to burn off energy after-hours… As they strip each other bare their desire only rages hotter—but can a man with such a tortured soul ever be the partner she needs beyond the bedroom?







She wasn’t into bad boys

Until she met him...

Getting naked with reclusive billionaire Hart Rochester isn’t part of Daisy Adler’s PR campaign. She’s on the stunning Whitsunday Islands to save his reputation, but after clashing with the infuriating, sexy CEO, a fling is the perfect way to burn off energy after-hours... As they strip each other bare, their desire only rages hotter—but can a man with such a tortured soul ever be the partner she needs beyond the bedroom?


NICOLA MARSH is a USA TODAY bestselling and multi-award-winning author who loves nothing better than losing herself in a story. A physiotherapist in a previous life, she now divides her time between raising two dashing heroes, whipping up delish meals, cheering on her footy team and writing—her dream job. And she chats on social media. A lot. Come say hi! Instagram, Twitter, Facebook—she’s there! Also find her at nicolamarsh.com (http://nicolamarsh.com).


If you liked Stripped, why not try

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Also by Nicola Marsh

Hot Sydney Nights

Sweet Thing

Wild Thing

Play Thing

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Stripped

Nicola Marsh






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08682-0

STRIPPED

© 2019 Nicola Marsh

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my friend Tina,

who’s always up for a trip to Chaddie

and never complains when I drag her through Mecca

or Sephora.

Love our lunches!


Contents

Cover (#u9fca03cb-d7c3-51e4-9df3-5e55197030c2)

Back Cover Text (#u47ddd781-3701-5919-9945-ca89bcac2c2f)

About the Author (#u415d6110-2e04-5f23-a06b-89aca8c2ad7d)

Booklist (#u4fc53bf7-901e-5944-9037-12011fb8014e)

Title Page (#u55163b3d-74cf-5608-943e-8ccb74a76c53)

Copyright (#ufd202539-94a4-54fc-ba6a-d314db3779fb)

Dedication (#ud08d3e43-2133-5c79-a9a4-ed66e042d81c)

CHAPTER ONE (#ue713bd30-5567-53dc-8964-f8d611e07cc8)

CHAPTER TWO (#u0fca1f68-a3b7-59aa-9835-26795a40ba95)

CHAPTER THREE (#uc9607037-d494-510d-9223-76f5475d563b)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u2f5c49f3-7cae-5070-a1d2-fee4430c89ce)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u6570d0ab-ee7e-5337-bcc7-4b3ed8d04d62)

CHAPTER SIX (#u4fbe0f51-9f62-54d6-b9e0-efa67b114f00)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#u7fb72c6d-eba3-5ee3-b991-574768f83eee)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u20777631-807f-5804-a7e4-ab1be2ad9967)

Hart


I’M NURSING MY third bourbon when Kevin barges into my office without knocking.

‘Thought I’d find you here,’ he says, helping himself to a double shot and joining me in the leather armchairs around the coffee table.

‘Not a great deduction on your part, considering I’ve been sitting here every night for the past two weeks.’

‘You’re a sarcastic bastard.’ He raises his glass to me before tipping it back and draining half in one gulp. ‘Your grandfather was the same. The great Ralfe Rochester took shit from nobody.’

My throat tightens, like it does every time anyone mentions Pa. It has been three long weeks since the funeral here on Gem Island, his favourite island in the Whitsundays, four since he died—without me beside him. Pa wasn’t just sarcastic; he was a stubborn old bastard too.

He should’ve called me; should’ve told me about the ongoing heart-valve problems. But he didn’t and he dropped dead before I could tell him half of what I should’ve. Like how much he changed my life. Like how much I owed him. Like how much I loved him despite doing my best to prove otherwise since he found me.

He died not knowing how I felt about him and that’s something I’ll have to live with every single day.

‘He’d be proud of what you’re doing here.’ Kevin gestures around the monstrous office, with an entire glass wall overlooking the resort and the ocean beyond. ‘This hotel has always been his favourite.’

I know. It’s the only reason I’m stuck on this godforsaken island and not back in Buenos Aires or Brooklyn or Bangladesh, working behind the scenes to set up infrastructure for foster kids. Those kids need me like I’d once needed Pa. He found me at sixteen, took me in, nurtured me. He gave me everything. And what did I do in return?

Pretended I didn’t need him. Acted like an ungrateful prick every time he reached out. Did a lame-ass job with the role he assigned me in the company.

Abandoned him.

I should’ve been here when he died, held his hand and given him whatever comfort I could. Instead, he died alone, his heart giving out just like the docs said it would. Yeah, Pa was stubborn to a fault. Guess I know where I get it from.

‘I intend to get this place noticed.’ I swirl the bourbon, staring at it until my eyes blur. It’s easier than looking up and meeting Pa’s right-hand man’s eyes and seeing pity. It’s a wasted emotion and I don’t stomach it, never have. That’s one of the things Pa first said to me, how he admired my resilience, how I didn’t wallow in self-pity.

I didn’t tell him that feeling sorry for myself had been belted out of me in the first foster family I’d grown up in. Attacks I’d deliberately provoked to prove my defiance meant more than their disdain. Fuck ’em all had been my motto growing up. Still is.

‘Do you want me at the meeting with the new PR firm in the morning?’

I shake my head. As much as I appreciate Kevin’s input I need to start doing things for myself. I need to get this business back on track. The extent of Pa’s failing health has revealed itself in the company’s bottom line and it isn’t pretty. I can do this for him, even if being tied to a desk for the foreseeable future is the last thing I want. Maybe if I’d been a better grandson I would’ve known how dire things were and stepped up earlier.

I’ve been so goddamn angry at myself for it. It’s been a rough four weeks dealing with my grief and discovering the extent of the company’s problems and I haven’t hidden my irritation well. I’ve snapped at staff, been abrupt to the point of rudeness with the board and almost sacked a decade-long employee for daring to question me.

I’m not proud of my behaviour, so when Kevin tactfully suggested I take a daily dose of happy pills—translated to snap the fuck out of it—I knew what I had to do. Shelve my guilt at being a poor excuse for a grandson. Make up for it by focussing on restoring the hotel chain to its former glory. Then appoint a great manager and hit the road like I always do.

‘I’d rather meet the PR rep on my own, then when her boss arrives maybe the four of us can get together later tomorrow?’

‘Fine by me.’ Kevin tosses back the rest of his drink. ‘Anything else you need?’

‘Kev, you’re my PA, not my butler.’ I point at the door. ‘The night is young. Go mingle.’

‘I could say the same about you.’ He hesitates, a wry grin creasing his face. ‘Maybe that’s why you’re so grumpy. When’s the last time you got laid?’

Too long ago to count, not that I’m interested. I’ve got too much to focus on. Like ensuring I pay back all Pa gave me, even if he won’t know it. But I’ll know, deep down in that place no one has ever touched, and for now that will have to be enough.

Besides, I don’t date. I seek pleasure on occasion but most women shy away from me. They take one look at my permanent glower and either run or think they can redeem me. I’m not amenable to the latter.

‘Hey.’ Kevin snaps his fingers in my face. ‘If it takes you this long to figure out how long since you’ve done the deed, it’s been too long.’

‘Done the deed? What are you, thirteen?’

‘Fifty this year and proud of it.’ He wiggles the third finger on his left hand. ‘And this gold band says I can get laid whenever and however many times I want.’

‘It also says your wife carries your balls in her handbag.’

Kevin guffaws and I find myself laughing along with him. I rarely laugh. The occasional chuckle, maybe. But the cities I live in, surrounded by the poor and vulnerable, don’t make me feel like smiling much, let alone laughing.

Pa understood my need to help kids like me. He recognised my restlessness after I’d completed my economics degree and worked alongside him in the hotel business for two years. He’d been grooming me and I’d done my damnedest to make him proud. But it hadn’t been enough and he was man enough to let me go. Sure, I’d accepted a token position. Hotel Quality Control. Basically, an invented position akin to a mystery shopper where I’d travelled the world, checking into the company’s hotels, and reporting back on everything from cleanliness of the linen to room service.

Pa swore my feedback mattered, that he instigated measures to improve hotel failings. I think I could’ve written my monthly reports in Mandarin and he wouldn’t have noticed, that’s how much faith he had in me.

I owe him. Big time.

‘On that note, I better go find my balls.’ Kevin stands and stretches his arms overhead. ‘Let me know how the meeting in the morning goes.’

‘Shall do.’ I salute, glad that I have a guy like Kevin to lead me through the maze.

Being Pa’s assistant for thirty years ensures he knows everything there is to know. He’s invaluable to me. More like a mate, even though he’s old enough to be my dad.

Considering the mammoth task of getting this resort back on track, I’m glad he’s giving me a hand.

I need all the help I can get.




CHAPTER TWO (#u20777631-807f-5804-a7e4-ab1be2ad9967)

Daisy


‘I’LL HAVE THE most colourful cocktail on the menu, please.’

I point at the chalkboard behind the bar like a pro, when in fact I get tipsy after one glass of wine.

The cute barman who bears a passing resemblance to a young Mel Gibson flashes me a grin, like he knows exactly how much of a phoney I am, before turning away to grab a multitude of bottles.

If all that alcohol is going into my cocktail, I’m in trouble. I don’t care. This is my first night on Gem Island, one of the jewels in the Whitsundays, and I’m about to do a kickass PR job for the most enigmatic man on the planet.

I’ve done my research. He’s an introvert who prefers travelling the world doing a menial job in Ralfe Rochester’s hotel empire to following in his illustrious grandfather’s footsteps. He has a limited social media presence. There’s nothing to suggest he’ll be a capable replacement for one of Australia’s famous hoteliers who died recently, leaving Hart his sole heir.

According to my research, the Rochester business empire is floundering, which is where I come in. If I can make the Rochester hotels attractive to clientele, it’ll be a massive coup professionally and one step closer to my goal: starting my own PR firm.

‘Here you go.’ The barman places a giant martini glass in front of me, filled with a pale purple liquid that has a sprig of lavender floating in it. ‘Go easy. It’s strong.’

‘Thanks, what is it?’ I feign nonchalance as I pick up the glass, swirling it like an expert.

‘It’s a Gorgeous Gem, one of my award winners.’

I look suitably impressed and he continues. ‘Vodka, white rum, coconut, house-made lavender syrup, lychee juice, lemon juice and a secret ingredient I can’t reveal.’ He leans across the bar, close enough that I realise he smells as delicious as his cocktail. ‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’

He winks and I hide how flustered I am by taking a big sip. Bad move. Catastrophic. Because I choke and cough and splutter, demonstrating I’m lousy with alcohol and a hopeless flirt.

He chuckles. ‘Let me know when you want another.’

Try never, I refrain from saying, taking a more cautious sip this time. It’s amazing: fruity and sweet, with a powerful kick. I take a bigger sip, enjoying the buzz. Who knows, I might even order another? Alf, my boss, isn’t arriving until tomorrow, so tonight I can relax.

I never do this back home in Brisbane. Not for the last twelve months, since my engagement to Casper imploded. Our engagement lasted three months, doubling the time I’d dated him. Turns out the perfect guy on paper isn’t so perfect to live with.

Thoughts of Casper make me skol the rest of my cocktail. It burns my throat but man, I feel good. Better than good. Freaking invincible. Filled with false bravado, I order another.

‘Thanks.’ I flash him my best dazzling smile when he places it in front of me and he returns it with the slightest shake of his head, as if he knows what a lightweight I am when it comes to drinking.

As for the flirting part, he’s already moved on to two girls barely out of their teens, leaving me feeling ancient at twenty-seven.

I raise the glass in his direction in a silent cheer. Your loss, buddy boy, I think, downing half the glass before I realise how fast the alcohol has affected my brain if I’m contemplating flirting with a stranger. I don’t do that. I’m wildly out of practice. I’ve been on one date since Casper and that was a disaster, my one and only foray into a dating app. The guy turned out to be fifteen years older than his profile pic, and had lost all his hair along with his sense of humour. He’d been dour and sleazy, a terrible combination. I’m better off sticking to my career.

‘Cheers to that,’ I mutter, downing the rest of my cocktail and signing the tab.

When I stand, I sway a little. A short walk along the beach to clear my head might be in order. I have grand plans for my first night on Gem Island: room service, any movie featuring Ryan Gosling, and a bath. I’m living it up.

I follow the path from the bar towards the beach. Tea-light candles placed on palm fronds light the way and add a nice touch. This place is gorgeous. Romantic. Pity I’m flying solo and intend on staying that way for the foreseeable future.

I stumble at the end of the path and fall headlong onto the sand. It cushions my fall and I can’t help but giggle. A giggle that turns into a full-blown laugh as I imagine how I look: on hands and knees, imitating my best cat yoga posture. Thankfully my ankle length maxi dress hides the bits I’d like to keep hidden but it’s not a good look.

A pair of feet appears in my line of vision. Designer shoes. Dark tan. Scuffed, like they’ve been worn for ever and are the owner’s favourite.

‘Need a hand?’

The voice is deep, edgy, invoking an instant sense of annoyance. Like my putting a dent in the sand has somehow pissed him off. But at least he’s stuck out his hand because with my head spinning from those lethal cocktails I seriously doubt my ability to stand on my own.

‘Thanks.’ I take the hand on offer and allow him to pull me to my feet.

My first impressions in the flickering firelight cast by tall torches: black hair long enough to be unconventional, dark eyes that could be indigo or brown, sardonic twist to his lips. Nice lips. Hot lips. Crap, I sound like an idiot even in my own head. Drunk and dumb. Not a good combination.

He looks vaguely familiar but I can’t place him. He drops my hand quickly, like he’ll catch girl cooties if he hangs on too long.

‘That last step is a killer.’ He sounds disapproving as he points to a gap between the pavers and the sand.

‘Yeah.’ Way to go with the scintillating response. So I say something even more mortifying. ‘I think it’s the killer cocktails at this resort that are more dangerous than any step.’

‘You’re drunk?’ His eyebrow rises, making him rather rakish. I don’t like bad boys as a rule but I’m willing to make an exception in his case. Crap, definitely the vodka, rum and whatever other alcohol I consumed in that cocktail earlier making me see things that aren’t there. Rakish? Where did I even pull that from?

‘Not drunk, just happy.’ I grin to prove it but he doesn’t smile back. In fact, he stares at my mouth with an intensity that leaves me a tad uncomfortable.

‘You shouldn’t be walking out here alone if you’re feeling under the weather.’

Damn, now he sounds like Casper, lecturing me on what to do or not to do. Though Casper extended his alpha asshole-ness to telling me what to wear, what to cook, what to say in front of his stockbroker cronies. I’ve had enough of guys telling me what to do to last a lifetime.

So I snap back, ‘I’m fine,’ which only serves to raise his other eyebrow.

I wince. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long...year.’

It might have been my decision to end my engagement but I was still hurt. Disillusioned. Exhausted. Throwing myself into work seemed like the only solution at the time but after jumping through proverbial hoops for Alf for twelve months I’m still no closer to a promotion. Considering he’s an old family friend who did my dad a favour in hiring me in the first place, it’s awkward.

‘I know the feeling.’ He drags a hand through his hair, mussing it further, and now he’s staring at the ocean, like he wants to swim out and never come back.

I rarely do things on impulse. I’m the good daughter, the good employee, the good girl. Everyone can rely on good old Daisy Adler.

But with this brooding stranger on a balmy beach, I take a risk.

‘Want to take a walk?’ Now it’s his turn to stare at my outstretched hand. ‘I’m Daisy, by the way.’

His brow furrows as he glares at me with disapproval. ‘Hart.’

Oh, no. Hell no. This is Hart Rochester? It’s an uncommon name so I can’t imagine him being anyone other than the guy I have to work with. I have screwed up so badly. His first impression of me is a drunk who can’t stand up after a cocktail or two.

And I can’t hide my identity. It’s only going to make it harder when we meet in the morning. So I aim for levity.

‘I’m your new PR person.’ I force a laugh that sounds inane. ‘I’m really not drunk. I’m a lightweight with alcohol because I rarely drink and those cocktails are strong.’

‘I don’t think anything.’

His stare is intense and unwavering, and I’m increasingly uncomfortable: it’s like being looked at under a microscope, like he can see every one of my flaws.

To make matters worse, I realise my hand is still outstretched. Mentally cursing my inebriated bravado I start to lower it and am startled when he takes hold of it, his grip firm, decisive.

‘If you still want to take that walk, there’s an alcove at the end of the beach where you get a great view of some of the surrounding islands. It might give you a feel for the place before we start working together,’ he says, tugging my hand so I fall into step alongside him. ‘And just so you know, this hand-holding means nothing. I just prefer my PR person to be ready to hit the ground running tomorrow in the office and not hit the ground literally, again, tonight.’

I chuckle at his dry response but he doesn’t join in. This is so weird. In any other circumstances this could be misconstrued as romantic but he’s dour and I’m flustered and we’re like two robots trudging through the sand.

It’s crazy. I’m here to work. Though perhaps for one night I can just live in the moment without second-guessing every damn thing I do. Perfection comes at a high price and I’ve been paying it my entire life.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ he says, squeezing my hand lightly. It sends an unexpected tingle up my arm, a mild, pleasant shock.

‘Just mulling over ways to showcase the parts of the resort we’ve passed.’

Great, now I sound like a kiss-ass, but I need to do something to focus on the professional when the pressure of his hand holding mine is making me feel things I shouldn’t.

I’m hot all over and it has nothing to do with the temperate tropical night.

Once again, we fall silent and after a few minutes we reach the end of the beach, step around an outcrop and he points at the sea with his free hand.

‘Can you see the lights from the other islands?’

‘I can see a glow.’ I’ve been wearing my contacts all day and my eyes are gritty and tired; I have no hope of seeing individual specks of light.

‘I love this spot.’

‘You come here often?’

The corners of his mouth curve upwards. ‘Are you trying a pick-up line on me?’

I laugh. ‘No.’

‘Pity.’ His gaze drops to my mouth again and I can’t resist flicking my tongue out to moisten my lip. Not in any practiced move to attract, but a simple reflex action to a guy like him staring at me like he wants to taste my lip gloss.

After what feels like an eternity he drags his gaze back to mine. ‘We should head back.’

‘Yeah, we should.’

But neither of us move, trapped in some weird alternate universe where two strangers meet on a beach one night, know they can’t flirt because of an upcoming professional work arrangement, but can’t seem to tear themselves apart.

The wind gusts, blowing strands of hair into my face, and before I can tuck them behind my ear he does it for me. A strangely intimate gesture that makes me hold my breath. Then again, we’re still holding hands so he’s just being helpful. It’s all rather bizarre.

His fingertips graze my earlobe and I gasp as a bolt of unexpected longing shoots through me. They drift lower, along my neck, my jaw, tracing the curve of my cheek. It’s like he’s trying to commit me to memory, which is ludicrous. I’m far from memorable.

His fingertips are roughened, calloused almost. They prickle my skin, setting nerve endings alight. My breathing becomes laboured, shorter, as he steps closer and I can smell him. Not aftershave exactly but a clean, crisp citrus blended with something subtler. Body wash? Shaving cream? Whatever it is, I want to devour it. Him. Whatever.

This is so wrong. I need to step away. Now. I swear my brain computes the instruction but my feet don’t co-operate. So I try a few deep breaths. Wrong move. Catastrophic, as that citrus blend fills my lungs, sending messages to the rest of me, messages like ‘you need to taste him now’.

I will him to move away, to be the sane one for both of us. Instead, he edges closer and I’m gone. Falling headlong into a monumentally stupid decision I know I’ll regret but I’m powerless to stop.

I step even closer.

Filled with a daring I rarely possess, I eyeball him. I can’t read his expression. The angle of the moon has cast his face in shadows. But he hasn’t moved, his hand still cupping my cheek, and I know I have to do this before I chalk it up to yet another regret in my life.

Standing on tiptoes, I press my lips to his. Gently. Tentatively. Testing him. Me. I have no freaking clue.

He angles his head and I can’t hold back. The alcohol has loosened my usual constraints and I’m a woman possessed.

I plaster myself against him and start to kiss him in earnest. Our mouths open and the first touch of his tongue on mine makes me moan. He takes control, deepening the kiss to the point where I can’t breathe. I don’t care. I want more.

His hands caress my back in a long, slow sweep, like he’s exploring every bump of my vertebrae, before he squeezes my ass. It makes me a little crazy. I hook a leg around his waist, eager to get closer. My head’s spinning a little, whether from the alcohol or his expert kisses I have no idea.

His hand slides from my ass along my thigh. My maxi dress has hiked up and when he grazes the skin behind my knee I tremble. It makes me pause. What the hell am I doing, making out with Hart Rochester on a beach, flinging myself at him like I’m more than ready to lie down on the sand and spread my legs?

It’s a sobering thought, screwing up a campaign I need to go well, and I’m not sure if he senses my reluctance or I pull away first but suddenly we’re apart and I’m smoothing my dress down, heat making my cheeks burn.

‘That was unacceptable on so many levels.’ My voice is husky and I clear it. ‘I’m sorry for being unprofessional.’

I expect him to say the same. Instead, he says, ‘Let’s head back.’

There’s no inflection in his tone, no hint of annoyance or anger. Like the last few minutes never happened.

Regret, quickly tempered with mortification, makes me turn away before he can see how his curt dismissal adds to my embarrassment. Crazy, because it’s not his fault: I flung myself at him. But with him behaving like that make-out session never happened I’m thrust back into a familiar role of taking whatever is dished out. I don’t like it.

So I break into a jog, desperate to get away and nurse my humiliation in peace.

He calls out, ‘Hey, Daisy, wait up,’ but I don’t stop. I keep going.

I’m done looking back.




CHAPTER THREE (#u20777631-807f-5804-a7e4-ab1be2ad9967)

Hart


I SHOULD GO after Daisy. Smooth things over, placate her, give her a spiel about how the kiss meant nothing, to forget it.

Instead, I stand here with a dumbass grin on my face.

I know why I deliberately provoked her into that kiss. I’ve done it my entire life, since my dad dumped me in the foster system: push people to the edge so they can hate me first.

With Daisy, it backfired, big time.

I’d had a hard-on since I first saw her sprawled on the sand, her ass in the air. It’s why I accepted her invitation for a walk even after she revealed her identity and I knew we’d be working together.

For me, our transient working relationship is perfect, because even if I do fuck her like I want to—the insistent throb in my dick won’t let up—it won’t mean anything. Just the way I like it.

So I needled her, accepting her invitation for a walk when I knew she’d hate me for it because I should know better considering our impending working relationship. I expected her to bristle, to push me away, to be appalled. The part where she reacted by flinging herself at me? Not in the plan.

Fuck, she was a turn-on. A confident woman not afraid to go after what she wants, even if that happens to be me, the guy working alongside her for the next few weeks.

I should go after her and try to salvage the wreckage of this unexpected night before we meet in the morning. Put her at ease. But then I remember the way she devoured me, the way she felt me up, and my damn face feels like it’s going to crack with my smug grin.

I’m rock hard, my balls throbbing. If all my blood hadn’t drained south I’d use half a brain cell and go after her, if only with the intention to invite her back to my room to finish what we started.

I watch her fleeing up the beach until she reaches the resort gates and enters. Only then do I follow at a sedate pace.

My grin fades the closer I get to the resort, the weight of what I’m facing in the upcoming weeks making my feet drag.

I’m nobody’s saviour, least of all Pa’s. But this hotel business is his legacy and, for reasons I can only blame on declining health, profit margins for his pride and joy have plummeted.

I need to change all that.

It’s the least I can do before I fuck off again.

Several couples stroll past, so wrapped up in each other they don’t notice me. A family, husband and wife, with twin boys about seven, are laughing by the water’s edge, kicking at the incoming waves, sending sea spray high into the air, drenching each other.

It’s late, the kids should be in bed, but as I watch the family having fun with a complete disregard for so-called society norms on child-raising, an ache starts in my chest and spreads outwards.

The complete innocence of the boys disarms me; their complete trust in their parents. I had that once. An expectation that the adults responsible for me would be dependable; an illusion ripped away the first time I got whacked across the side of the head for taking the last piece of bread, age three.

And the next time, when my dad took a belt to my butt for accidentally knocking over his beer bottle, I was four.

And the next, when a social worker didn’t believe me when I told her I was locked in a cupboard at night so I wouldn’t sneak off, I was six and in my first foster home.

I learned after that. Adults would never look after me. They would never hug me or care for me or love me.

So I did my best to make them hate me.

It ensured I didn’t get close to anyone. Knowing my shoddy behaviour would have the desired result was the one thing I could control in a crumbling world I despised.

I never trusted anyone and despite how hard Pa tried, I couldn’t let him into that hidden part of me, the part of me that wondered would he, too, eventually cast me aside.

One of the boys lets out a squeal and it pierces my reminiscing. I blink, surprised by the dampness in my eyes.

Shit, I’m turning into a sissy. Tears are wasted. The only good thing my father taught me before he dumped me at Social Services was to ‘harden the fuck up’. Apparently a snivelling five-year-old had never been in his plans after my mum shot through shortly after my birth. I’m surprised the mean prick kept me around that long.

With a shake of my head, I turn my back on the happy family and head for the resort. I have a shitload of work to do and the sooner I get started, the sooner I can leave this place and its unwelcome, maudlin memories behind.




CHAPTER FOUR (#u20777631-807f-5804-a7e4-ab1be2ad9967)

Daisy


MY HEAD HURTS. I shouldn’t have drunk those cocktails last night. I shouldn’t have done a lot of things, starting with downing those Gorgeous Gems like cordial and ending with snogging Hart Rochester on the beach.

I have a presentation to nail shortly and the painkillers I took with OJ half an hour ago haven’t kicked in. Facing Hart after I practically mounted him will be hard enough without the drummer boy in my head practising his cymbal crashes.

I’ve done my research. I’m prepared. But unless I can pretend that kiss never happened, I’m in deep doo-doo.

I never should’ve run away. He called out to me too and I didn’t stop. I acted like some crazy hormonal teen when I should’ve been mature and blasé, as he was.

Adults kiss all the time. We were attracted, we gave into it, shit happens. But by running away like some mortified ingénue, I made more of it rather than dismissing it as a casual sexual impulse.

Maybe I can joke about it when I see him shortly. Something witty and fabulous that will clear the air and ensure he takes me seriously when I present my plans to him.

Only one problem: I can’t think of one goddamn thing to say beyond, ‘I’m an idiot for flinging myself at you but you’re a great kisser.’

Nope, not going to happen. I would’ve been nervous before this meeting regardless because I’m always like this before a presentation. Edgy and tense despite knowing I’ve considered every contingency.

My plans to promote this resort on Gem Island are foolproof. Starting with getting the new CEO, a renowned recluse, on board with a major social media ad campaign. It won’t be easy convincing him. If anything, the disparaging media surrounding the hotel giant’s fall from grace makes my job harder.

Ralfe Rochester’s failing health fails his shareholders.

The prodigal grandson returns to manage the teetering family business.

Has the Rochester empire lost its Hart?

I’m up for the challenge, but Hart’s minimal experience in this business and his lack of an online social profile means I’m in for a fight.

Hart needs me but what he doesn’t know is that I need him just as badly. I need a final gold star on my CV before I consider going out on my own. I want to be the woman who puts Rochester Hotels and Gem Island back on the tourism map.

Starting now.

Tucking my portfolio and laptop tighter under my arm, I shut the door to my villa and follow the frangipani-lined stone path to the main building. Reception staff smile in greeting as I traverse the polished stone tiles. Lush palms in terracotta pots are placed alongside cream and cobalt cushioned cane sofas. Floral arrangements featuring local tropical flowers—the Queensland Black Orchid, the Powderpuff Lilly-Pilly and the Giant Palm Lily—throw splashes of colour, adding to the overall sense of understated elegance.

It won’t take much to make this place noticeable amid the plethora of Whitsunday resorts. The owner may be another story. While Kevin gave me a rundown of the basics over the phone I garnered more information from what he didn’t say than what he did.

Hart will be a challenge. His email responses to mine have been terse. I expect my clients to be more forthcoming, especially when we’ll be working together.

I’m about to knock on a glass door leading to the office area when the concierge nearby waves me through.

‘He’s waiting for you.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, with a quick glance at my watch. I’m ten minutes early so I hope Hart values punctuality. With nerves making my knees wobble at our first confrontation since the awkwardness of last night, I need all the brownie points I can get.

The door to the sole office is open so I knock and push it when I hear a short, sharp, ‘Come in.’

Taking a steadying breath, I fix a smile on my face and enter the office.

To discover Hart Rochester glaring at me with ill-concealed disapprobation.

His disapproval washes over me and the blood drains from my face. I can’t move. My feet are soldered to the floor as embarrassment swamps me.

So much for witty banter to dismiss what happened last night.

A deep frown slashes his brow as he waves me in. ‘Come in, Daisy, and let’s get started.’

For a warped second I flashback to last night and think of the many ways we can get started. Before giving myself a mental slap upside the head.

I need to nail this job. Not this client.

I had my whole intro spiel worked out as I crossed the lobby on my way to his office. Something along the lines of, ‘That was bizarre what happened last night, me running off like that after a kiss that meant nothing. So let’s get down to work.’

But if he exuded powerful sexual vibes last night, I’m totally disarmed by seeing him again. He’s wearing a crisp pale blue shirt, with the top two buttons undone and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt is tight, like his impressive torso doesn’t like being confined, and I can’t help but remember how hard those muscles felt last night.

His hair is tousled and it’s lighter than I thought: a lovely sorrel brown with caramel streaks from the sun rather than a hairdresser’s foil.

And those vivid indigo eyes...damn, even if they radiate condemnation, they’re striking.

I settle for a lame, ‘I’m looking forward to working with you.’

One of his eyebrows rises, imperious and condescending, like he seriously doubts my work ethic after last night.

I don’t blame him as I cross the office and place my paraphernalia on the desk. He’s silent, meaning I’ll have to broach the awkwardness of last night.

I try to come up with something droll and light-hearted when he says, ‘Last night was an anomaly. You need to forget it. I have.’

Right. Got the message loud and clear. Asshole.

Totally unfair, because that’s exactly what I want him to do, but his curt dismissal irks more than it should.

When he continues to stare at me, for a horrifying second I wonder if I spoke out loud. But he gestures at the seat opposite and I try not to collapse into it in relief.

‘I’ve taken a look at the preliminaries you emailed and I have some questions.’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’ I clasp my hands in my lap, doing my best to appear cool and professional, while all I can think is, You are the hottest guy I’ve ever kissed.

‘The PR campaign for the resort is clear-cut but I need clarification on your ideas for making the brand more marketable.’ He jabs a finger at my portfolio. ‘You mentioned a more elaborate presentation? Do you want to run through it before I work through my questions?’

‘Yes.’ I sound like an idiot, answering with a monosyllabic affirmative, so I busy myself flipping open my laptop and trying to ignore his impenetrable stare.

He’s making me uncomfortable, staring at me like he can’t work me out. Join the club. How can he dismiss that kiss last night like it meant nothing?

Technically, it did, a random brief hook-up between two adults on a moonlit beach that probably happens every night of the week on an island like this; an unfortunate blip in our upcoming working relationship, a moment of cocktail-driven madness. So what was his excuse?

‘You’re overthinking this.’

My fingers stall on the keyboard as I’m bringing up my presentation. He’s undermined me with his casual observation.

‘Aren’t you the least bit uncomfortable?’

I throw it out there, expecting him to shut me down. Then again, he’s the one who’s brought it up again and I’d rather confront the invisible tap-dancing elephant in the room than have to work in this tension-fraught environment for the foreseeable future.

‘Maybe.’ He shrugs, drawing his business shirt taut across his broad shoulders. ‘But it happened. We can’t change it. So what’s the point of overanalysing it? We’re adults. We acted on impulse. Why worry?’

I’m not worried, other than by an insistent hankering to do more than kiss him, and I can’t help but look at his lips and remember how they felt moving against mine.

‘Don’t do that,’ he says, his voice barely above a low growl.

‘Do what?’

I muster my best innocent act when in fact I’m slightly peeved. He wants to dismiss the kiss, fine. But there’s something in his tone that makes me feel belittled when it was pretty damn fantastic.

‘Stare at me like you want a repeat.’

He’s saying all the right things but I glimpse hunger in his eyes, a desire that matches my own. Crap, we’re in trouble. For despite our protestations there’s a powerful undercurrent between us. I can feel it, an insistent throb where I want him most.

I wriggle in my seat. It doesn’t ease. Yep, trouble. So I settle for funny to ease the tension between us. I hold up my palm and mimic writing on it. ‘Got it. Memo to Daisy. No more kissing hot guys on the beach.’

His eyes blaze with lust and I clench my thighs together, swamped with a ferocious heat like I’ve stepped too close to a smouldering volcano. After a long pause, he drawls, ‘Nice to know you think I’m hot.’

That’s the problem with being a smart-ass. Sometimes my mouth runs ahead of my brain. I should’ve omitted the part about him being hot.

‘What I think is you need me to make you look good so let’s start.’

‘I need you to make this resort look good.’ He leans forward, rests his forearms on the desk, smug and insufferable. ‘I’m doing just fine without your help.’

Heat creeps into my cheeks, scorching and utterly embarrassing. I should’ve turned tail and run the moment I entered this office. But I need to ensure this job is the best work I’ve ever done and if that means battling wits with this inscrutable man, I’ll do it.

Maybe I’m playing this all wrong? If I acknowledge what happened in a fun way, perhaps we can move on to work?

‘Look, we really need to move past this. I acted on impulse last night, something I never do, and it was a kiss, nothing major.’ His eyes widen, as if he can’t believe I’m being so blunt. ‘As for the debate regarding your hotness, I’m not in the habit of kissing random guys I just meet. I ended my engagement a year ago and haven’t dated much, so considering the way we went at it last night I guess my libido classifies you as hot even if I don’t want to acknowledge it myself.’

That’s another thing that happens when I’m floundering. Verbal diarrhoea. It’s too late to take it all back and he’s gaping at me in open-mouthed shock.

I bite my bottom lip and start typing, bringing up my presentation. ‘Now we’ve got all that uncomfortableness out of the way, let’s get to work.’

I could kiss him—again—when he nods. But he doesn’t stop staring during my entire spiel and I’ve never been more grateful for my obsession with preparation, because if I didn’t have slides I wouldn’t have been able to speak.

I blather about social media campaigns and photo shoots and upgrading websites. I manage to sound halfway intelligent but the intensity of his stare is unnerving.

When I give my final spiel about a newsletter blitz to tourism boards around the world, I’m ready to snap my laptop shut and bolt.

‘Your work is excellent.’ He steeples his fingers and rests them on the desk in front of him, channelling a guy double his age. ‘But you can forget about doing most of what you just said.’

I struggle to hide my shock. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I won’t do it.’

With those four little words, I realise I’m in for the fight of my life.




CHAPTER FIVE (#u20777631-807f-5804-a7e4-ab1be2ad9967)

Hart


THE POCKET ROCKET is gaping at me in a most unladylike manner. Her hazel eyes glitter, the gold and green flecks glowing like cut glass when she’s angry. I saw it earlier, when I dismissed that kiss as nothing. A crock of shit considering the memory kept me up all night.

When she walked into my office full of bright-eyed optimism I was stunned by the irrational urge to bend her over my desk. I don’t give in to impulse as a rule so the fact her boldness bamboozled me last night into making out on the beach had already put me on edge this morning. But I’d chalked it up to a brief encounter that meant little, until Daisy strutted in here and I remembered exactly how good she tasted...

I hid my reaction well. I’m a master of the poker face. No one can get a read on me. Only Pa has ever seen the real me—to a point.

How he had the patience to coax my angry, recalcitrant sixteen-year-old self into a new life I’ll never know. After discovering my existence, a wiser man would’ve thrown money at the problem. But Pa insisted I live with him: sent me to the best school for the final two years of my studies, funded my university degree, gave me everything.

But all that didn’t make much of an impression: it was his unswerving faith in me, despite not really knowing me, that made me eventually trust him. I wish I’d realised it sooner and that I’d had the guts to tell him.

‘What do you mean you won’t do it?’ She bristles like an indignant echidna, making her even cuter. Her honey-blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a loose topknot, to add extra height I assume. She’s five foot two max, with the kind of curves that beg for a man’s touch. I obliged for an all too brief time last night and now we’re working together I can’t touch her despite the urge to do just that.

It makes me extra tetchy. ‘Unless you’re hard of hearing, I mean exactly that. I won’t do social media. It’s not my thing, posting nonsensical, egotistical garbage for all the world to see in the hope of making people “like my brand”.’

I make those annoying inverted comma signs with my fingers that I hate. ‘And I’m not doing photo shoots to promote the resort. Focus on the scenery, the ocean, the island, the resort’s many drawcards, that’s it.’

I jab a finger in her direction. ‘And no way in hell will you get me doing live podcasts or videoconferencing on the beach.’

If she was bristling after my initial refusal she’s practically livid now. A vibrant pink stains her cheeks, making her eyes glow even more, and her hands are clenched so tightly I can see her knuckles pop where she’s resting them on the desk.

When she forces a sickly-sweet smile, I know I’m not going to like what she says next. ‘That’s a pity, considering you were more than willing to do other stuff on the beach last night.’

Wham. She’s hit me in a weak spot: my foolish attraction to her. It’s wrong, fantasising about this woman, especially when she’s working under me.

Fuck, bad analogy, and my dick hardens.

I have to admit, she’s gutsy. A lesser woman would back down and defer to me because of my wealth and status. I’m the CEO of fifteen five-star hotels around the country and the media have been all over the story of Pa’s passing and my return home to fill his proverbial shoes. It’s why I hired this PR firm—because reports haven’t been favourable.

The media dug into Pa’s health decline and the accompanying effect on the hotels, making wrongful assumptions and generally painting him as an incompetent old fool who wouldn’t move into the twenty-first century. Bookings at all the hotels plummeted as a result, as if morons think the hotels will close their doors unexpectedly at any minute. Gem Island has taken the worst hit and considering it was always Pa’s favourite, it jolted me into doing something proactive.

Enter Daisy Adler, with her too-tight black power suit better suited to a city glass tower, her immaculate make-up, her towering stilettos and those expressive eyes that sucked me into a vortex I have no intention of going near again.

She’s smart. Her ideas are original and clear-cut. I need her to make the Rochester brand look good. So I’ll have to say the C word, something I hate.

‘I’m willing to compromise.’

The last word sticks in my throat. I don’t do well working alongside other people. With my foster-kid charities around the world I have full autonomy. I work better that way. Not many people know about my involvement in establishing outreach centres in high-risk cities and I prefer to keep it that way. The last thing I need is my face bandied around as part of the Rochester empire and scaring off kids who might see me as a rich prick flinging his cash around rather than a guy who was once like them willing to give them a break.

I don’t need accolades or publicity for what I do for those kids. I don’t expect anything in return.

I help them because it’s a way to pay my dues.

‘You’re willing to compromise? Lucky me.’ She claps her hands, her sarcasm making me want to laugh out loud.

I’ve never met a woman like her. Isn’t she at all intimidated?

‘I could fire you. You know that, right?’

She doesn’t blink. ‘You can but you won’t, because you need me to make you look good.’

Her snooty gaze sweeps me from my head to my torso. ‘And it’s going to be a tough enough job without you vetoing everything.’

I bark out a laugh. I can’t help it. She’s feisty and mouthy and bold, unlike any woman I’ve ever met.

The girls I knew growing up in the foster system were defiant, but I always saw through to the underlying fear. It was like looking in a mirror. Later, when I began to move in Pa’s social circles, the women were deferent yet calculating, impressed by wealth more than anything else.

Daisy is...unique. She’s not scared of me, she’s not embarrassed, and she’s not backing down.

‘I’m glad you find me amusing.’ Her anger has faded, replaced by something more alarming: daring.

I see it in the brash way she meets my gaze, unflinching and questioning. And her mouth has relaxed, the corners curled up like she’s about to smile.

‘I find you many things, but amusing is low on the list.’

Those beguiling flecks in her eyes glow again but with heat this time, not anger. ‘Do tell.’

I can’t do this. I shouldn’t do this. But I’ve never backed down from anything in my life and I’m not about to start now, no matter that I should.

‘You’re confident. Overly so.’

She remains silent, one eyebrow arched in provocation, and I continue.

‘I also find you surprisingly impertinent for someone who’s technically an employee of mine for the foreseeable future.’

The other eyebrow arches. ‘There’s a difference between being impertinent and articulate. I’m the latter, in case you were wondering.’

‘There you go, being insolent again.’

She rolls her eyes and I stifle another chuckle.

‘And at the risk of going over old ground when we said we wouldn’t, you’re also incredibly attractive.’

‘Hey.’ She waggles her finger at me. ‘You chastised me for looking at your mouth earlier so you can’t say stuff like that.’

‘You asked me to give you a list. I’m doing that.’ I shrug. ‘What’s the big deal?’

She doesn’t buy my guileless smile. Smart girl.

‘I’ll email you what I’ve just presented.’ She closes her laptop, slips it into her portfolio and stands. ‘I recommend you take another look and we reconvene this afternoon.’

I should let her get away with her abrupt reversion to professionalism but where’s the fun in that? Not much amuses me these days and I haven’t laughed in forever. Daisy Adler, with her swiftly changing faces—audacious to prim, teasing to business-like—has managed to get me doing both over the last thirty minutes.

‘Maybe we should make it dusk and take another walk along the beach?’

Those sensational glossed lips compress into a thin line. ‘I’ll see you back here at two.’

With that, she tucks her portfolio under her arm and stalks towards the door, back ramrod straight. Her ass is divine and I remember palming it last night. How it filled my hands. Soft yet firm. Pliable.

As if sensing my thoughts she stops at the door to glance over her shoulder, shooting me a disapproving glare.

I can’t help but grin as she slams the door on her way out.




CHAPTER SIX (#u20777631-807f-5804-a7e4-ab1be2ad9967)

Daisy


I CAN’T BELIEVE IT.

Hart caved.

Well, technically he’s only agreed to doing a few shots around the resort but it’s a start. I’ll have him agreeing to the rest before he can say ‘I’m a contradictory jerk’. Because he is. The way he stared down his nose at me one minute, then flirted with me the next... I could’ve slapped him.

Instead, I had to play nice. Especially when he said he had the power to fire me. That gave me a fright. But I took a risk. Rather than back down as he would have expected, I goaded him further and it worked. I’d pitched to guys like him in the past: they respected courage so I showed no fear.

Unfortunately, it semi-backfired when he found my boldness a bit of a turn-on, if the way he looked at me was any indication. He switched from moody to intrigued, like he couldn’t figure me out.

Confronting the guy I kissed was bad enough. My quick mental argument between my logical side and my inner vixen when I entered his office went something like this:

Why the hell does Hart Rochester have to be the hottie you kissed? What’s so special about him that he makes you want to shuck your panties? What the hell were you thinking?

Well, I wasn’t. He’s a seriously good kisser and he’s hot and I’m in a man drought so I couldn’t help myself despite having to work with him. Damn, he looks fine. Better than I remembered in the semi-darkness last night. I wonder how unprofessional it would be to lie on his desk and ask him to take me now?

Thankfully I managed to appear calm and coherent during my presentation. But I was ultra aware of him throughout, staring at me with those enigmatic eyes that shield his every thought. Only when he lightened up did I see a glimpse of how he could be if he let go: funny, interested, alive.

The latter had me spooked because when I’d first entered his office and we’d got past the awkwardness of our kiss, I’d seen a man sitting behind a desk who appeared like a robot. Like he was going through the motions. Like he didn’t want to be here.

I’m good at my job but no amount of positive PR will make an ounce of difference if he looks like that in the rebranding material I have planned. Which is why I’m here to ensure he lightens the hell up.

‘How about this for a few casual shots?’ I hand him one of the outfits I asked him to bring down to the cabanas circling the pool.

He stares at the red polo and navy shorts like I’ve given him a chicken suit to wear. I expect him to baulk. Instead, he shrugs and glances around. ‘Where should I change?’

I refrain from rolling my eyes, just. He’s deliberately making this as hard as humanly possible and my patience is wearing thin, considering we’ve been at this for an hour.

I tap my bottom lip, pretending to think. ‘I don’t know, Einstein, maybe in one of the cabanas?’

‘But the material is flimsy, you’ll see everything.’ He ducks his head to murmur in my ear. ‘Or is that your intention, perv?’

I bite back a laugh. ‘Trust me, Sweet-Cheeks, if I wanted to see everything it wouldn’t be out here.’

‘Then where would it be?’

He hasn’t moved, deliberately staying close enough to taunt me, so I respond in kind. ‘Somewhere private, because I don’t like an audience for what I have in mind.’

He makes an odd strangling sound and backs away. Go me.

I deliberately avert my gaze when he enters the nearest cabana. But I’m only human, and insanely attracted to this smart-mouthed guy, so I risk a peek.

Bad move. While I can’t see anything per se, I see enough. The angling of the sun ensures light pours through the cabana’s canvas, casting his shadow against the opposite wall. He has his back to me and I see him slip off his shirt and pants, leaving him silhouetted like a goddamn Adonis. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long, lean legs.

My mouth goes dry as he half turns and I see the rest: an obvious bulge in his jocks. Nice to know I’m not the only one turned on. I continue staring as he steps into the shorts, hikes them up and pulls the polo over his head. I’m hot, flushed from head to foot. Damn island heat. My excuse and I’m sticking to it.

Thankfully the photographer is busy changing lenses and doesn’t notice my flustered state as I reach for a water bottle from the cooler nearby and roll it across my forehead.

‘Heat getting to you?’

I jump and almost upend the bottle. He’s snuck up behind me, the ratfink. His tone is silky smooth, as if he knows I’ve been perving on him.

I turn and glare at him, annoyed by his smug grin and knowing eyes, and I realise something. If he’d changed in the cabana on the other side of us, the sun wouldn’t have cast him in shadow. Which could only mean one thing.

He wanted me to watch.

Two can play this game and I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll be better at it than him.

‘Yeah, it’s incredibly hot here.’ This time I roll the bottle across my upper chest, where the condensation transfers onto my skin.

He’s riveted, staring at my chest like he wants to lick off the water droplets. The thought alone is enough to make my hand shake. I changed into a sundress after our meeting. It’s not particularly low-cut but what skin that is exposed is now moist and he can’t stop staring at it.

‘You’re...’ He drags his gaze off my chest and meets my eyes. His pupils are dilated amid all that gorgeous blue. I’m definitely winning this battle.

‘What?’

I eyeball him, daring him to articulate what’s going on here. Disappointingly, he mutters something unintelligible and turns away, missing my victorious fist pump.

‘I can see your reflection,’ he says, sounding amused rather than annoyed, as I belatedly realise we’re standing near the trendy glass-enclosed poolside bar.

‘Good. Then you’ll know how absolutely pumped I am that this photo shoot is going so well.’

He turns back to me. His pupils have returned to normal and he looks way too controlled. I’ll fix that. I’m not done with payback for that little cabana stunt yet.

‘Where do you want me next?’

I flash him an innocent smile. ‘If you’re after the PG version, I’d like you to strike a casual pose over by the bar.’

He swallows. ‘And if I want the R version?’

I lean closer and his sharp intake of breath indicates he isn’t as controlled as he appears. ‘You’ll have to be a lot nicer to me.’

I will him to say he does want it, that, despite our logical agreement to forget that kiss, he isn’t averse to doing it again and a whole lot more.

I brace for him to fob me off and put an end to our verbal sparring.

‘I thought we agreed not to do this,’ he says, sounding gruff.

‘We’re just flirting. It’s healthy.’

‘The thing is, if you push me too far, it won’t stop there.’

I resist doing a fist pump again. ‘Promises, promises.’

He swipes a hand over his face, like he wants to eradicate my presence altogether. ‘This is a dumb idea.’

‘There are dumber.’ I hold up my hand and start ticking off a list by lowering my fingers. ‘Leg warmers. Crimped hair. Scrunchies. Acid-wash jeans—’

‘As much as I like hearing that you’re an eighties aficionado, can you be serious for one damn second?’

Okay, maybe I’ve pushed him too far because now he looks plain tortured. ‘I don’t like mixing business with pleasure.’

I shrug. ‘Me either. But we’re both adults. I’m pretty sure we can separate what happens out here from what could happen in there.’

I point over his shoulder towards the luxurious villas scattered among the lush tropical gardens. ‘Or do you prefer it on the beach only?’

‘Fuck,’ he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, ensuring I’ll have to smooth it before the next batch of photos is taken.

He’s conflicted. I see it in the shadows scudding across his eyes like storm clouds, in the wry twist of his mouth. He wants me but doesn’t want to relinquish control.

So I take pity on him. ‘The photographer’s ready to start shooting again, so why don’t you head to the bar?’

He locks eyes with me and I glimpse something that gives me hope: indecision. ‘This isn’t over.’

‘I’m counting on it.’ I wave him away with a dazzling smile. I hope it hides how damn uncertain I am about this too.




CHAPTER SEVEN (#u20777631-807f-5804-a7e4-ab1be2ad9967)

Hart


IT’S BEEN TOO long since I got laid. I need to remedy that pronto if all I can think about is taking my PR rep up against the nearest wall.

She’s driving me insane.

I know it’s wrong. It will muddy our working relationship. Then again, she won’t be on the island for long. Four weeks max. Why can’t we indulge this thing between us, and walk away unscathed at the end?

Because I’m a realist and know that the clean break-up after casual sex is a myth. A fucking fairytale.

I’ve never been involved with a woman, even physically, for longer than a week. It doesn’t make me a man-whore. It makes me smart. Women I screw know the score. We’re in it for a short time not a long time. Pure physical release. Fun.

Yet I have a feeling that even if I spell it out for Daisy she’s the kind of girl to get under a guy’s skin. I like the way she doesn’t back down, the way she fires back quips, the way she fills out a dress. Yeah, I’m a shallow, narcissistic prick but I can’t stop thinking about her and I have a feeling I’ll be a mess until I slake my thirst for her.

Kevin bollocked me after the shoot because I hadn’t looked over the next quarter’s projections and bookings are still falling. I wish I could shoulder the blame. I’d happily announce to the hotelier world I’m a nomadic hippy destined to run Pa’s empire into the ground. I’d do anything to stop the muckraking press from besmirching Pa any more than they already have. And that means I’ll take the Rochester hotels back to the top. I’ll show them.

One thing not many people know about me: I never give up. I may not want this role thrust upon me but I’ll be damned if I screw it up and let Pa down—more than I already have over the years. I have a plan: regain consumer confidence in the Rochester brand, install quality management hierarchy, then leave.

I can’t be tied to a desk. It’ll kill me. I’ve tried it before, after Pa invested in me. Back then I worked alongside him for two years after earning my degree, putting on a game face, as if running hotels was what I was born to do.

Pa saw straight through me. He invented a meaningless job for me, ensuring I could travel as much as I wanted but still be semi-attached to the company. I mucked that up, focussing more on the foster kids outreach stuff than my bogus hotel job. It makes me feel even guiltier that I let him down, that the one job he entrusted me with I didn’t do properly. I felt like a fraud; still do.

I’ll never understand how the gruff tycoon welcomed me into his life and gave me what I craved most: a family. He’s been my emotional touchstone for so long—my only one—that since he passed away I’m dead inside.

Until Daisy.

She’s the first person to make me feel anything other than repressed and shut off, even if it is only lust. I’d be a fool not to capitalise on it. She’s joining me shortly, on the pretext of scouting more locations for her bloody photo shoots to make the hotel brand more likeable in some media blitz. She’s insistent I need to be seen as part of the new brand to instil confidence in consumers and restore faith.

What a crock of shit. She’s wasting her time. I have one of those faces that tends to scare off everyone. But I need this campaign to work if I want to escape the desk and return to what I like doing best: helping kids like me. Wary, resentful, terrified kids abandoned to foster systems around the world. They need me even if they don’t know it, like I needed someone way back when.

Pa was my saviour, but at sixteen I’d already seen too much and endured too much, way more than any child should. Some people say I have a god complex. I don’t. I’m not narcissistic enough to think I can control everything around me, but when it comes to those kids I’ll do my damnedest to make sure they have a better life than I did for the first sixteen years of mine.

I hear humming and something akin to lightness makes the tension in my chest ease. Daisy definitely has a thing for the eighties because as she nears the caves she breaks into a Rolling Stones classic, off-tune yet endearing.

I smile. It feels foreign because I don’t do it a lot. Yeah, a sizzling sexual encounter with this bold, quirky woman is just what I need to take the edge off and get me refocussed on the job at hand.

She pauses at the entrance, shielding her eyes to peer into the gloom.

‘Over here.’ I wave, knowing the exact moment she sees me, because her face lights up. It shouldn’t. I’m no good for her. Not in the way a girl like her expects. But I wouldn’t have asked her to meet me here if I didn’t have more than work on my mind and I’m done lying to myself.

I want Daisy.

‘You’re not going to leave me here at high tide, hoping I’ll wash out to sea?’ She steps into the cave and lowers her hand, her head swivelling as she turns a full three-sixty. ‘Wow, this is spectacular.’

‘I thought you might like it. For the shoot,’ I add, hating how clipped I sound, like I’d rather be doing anything other than this. I’m not a people person, never have been, and it irks that I’m so fucking horny for this woman I sound gruffer than usual. ‘In another few hours when the sun sets the light in here is fantastic.’

‘It’s like something out of a fairytale.’ She stops spinning and her eyes are wide and bright. Fuck. I’m not the knight in shining armour someone like her deserves. I should get the fuck out of here now. But my cock has other ideas. ‘How did you find this place?’

‘It was my go-to place when Pa first brought me to the island.’

Why the hell did I blurt out something so honest? Some of the light in her gaze fades at my terse response and I hope she’ll gloss over it.

‘When was that?’

No such luck. ‘He discovered I existed when I was sixteen, so around my seventeenth birthday.’

She wants to ask more. I can see the blatant curiosity all over her face. But she surprises me. ‘This would’ve been a perfect hideaway for a teen.’

I nod, characteristically uncomfortable discussing anything regarding my past. ‘I’d bring a book, some snacks, and hang out. I liked the peace.’

After growing up in foster homes where yelling was often the main method of communication, I thought I’d discovered paradise in this cave. I haven’t been back here for a decade and now I regret asking her to meet me here. It means too much and I’m overwhelmed. My throat tightens and there’s a constricted band around my head, squeezing until it aches.

‘What’s wrong?’

Damn, so much for my famed poker face. ‘Let’s go scout a few more locations.’

If she registers my sudden panic she doesn’t show it. But she does something far more frightening. She crosses the distance between us to stand in front of me, close enough I can smell the resort’s signature exotic fruity body wash, a heady blend of strawberries, lime and coconut. I want to gobble her up.

‘At the risk of sounding crazy, I’m all about the ambience of places. How a house feels, whether it’s good or bad, that kind of thing. And this cave feels incredible, so I’d like to hang out for a bit.’

‘You’re right, you’re crazy.’

I don’t want to stay. Not with her standing too close and staring at me like she can see all the way down to my soul.

‘So I’ve been told.’

I hear a hint of vulnerability in her voice and it slays me. I don’t want to ask. I shouldn’t. But I find my stupid damn mouth not working in sync with my head.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Not really,’ she says, but her expression says different, like she’s swallowed a lemon.

‘Guy troubles?’

Belatedly, I remember what she blurted when we were both uncomfortable during our first meeting in my office, something about ending an engagement and not dating much since. I’m an idiot for asking something so personal when all I want to do is escape this place right now.

‘Something like that.’ She sighs and it makes me want to cuddle her. ‘I was engaged to a jerk. Typical good-on-paper guy who’s very different once you have to live with him.’

‘Good on paper?’

She gives a wry chuckle devoid of amusement. ‘The type of guy every woman would love to be with. Financially stable, owns his own house, charming, confident, good-looking.’

‘Like me, you mean?’

‘You’re far from charming.’ She looks at me, but she’s not really seeing me. She’s caught up in memories of some dickhead who hurt her.




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