“Once you’re out, you know I’ll take care of you, Lionel.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” he asks with a grin.
I blink in surprise that he would think that poorly of me before he starts chuckling.
“I’m just kidding, man.” He gets serious all of a sudden. “I’m happy for you, I really am. I’m not here trying to fuck that up for you.”
I relax only a little bit.
If you need a job or something, you know I—”
“I’m good,” he says with a relaxed smile. “In fact, I have a pretty good reason to stay right here in Michigan.”
“That so?” I say with a grin. “Is it what I think it is?”
“If by that you mean a very nice smile and curves in all the right places, then yes. She sends these letters that smell like vanilla. It’s enough to drive a man crazy.”
I immediately think of Vanessa. She doesn’t smell like vanilla, but an alluring mix of fresh linen and some exotic scent. Jasmine? But still…enough to drive a man crazy.
“Well, at least a box of cigars and the best whiskey money can buy. You deserve that much. It could have just as easily been me in here.”
“I made my choices in life. You? You worked hard to get where you are, Dylan…Sex-ton.” A smirk comes to Lionel’s face as he says my new last name aloud. “Gotta give you props for that last name alone.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “You’d be surprised what the right surname can do.”
“Nah, man,” he says, getting serious. “I always knew that you of all people would make it. So long as you didn’t end up someplace like this first.”
“Yeah,” I think, somberly thinking of how many times I came close to being in the same situation my old friend is in right now. Luck is a fickle bitch.
“What happened that day, stays between us, you got that? We made a promise. I intend to keep it,” he says.
I stare at him, reading the truth in his eyes. For some reason, I feel the exact opposite of relief.
Chapter Eighteen
Vanessa
“Okay, normally, I’d be pissed off at you dipping out on helping with the gender reveal party,” Simone says, “But I can’t hate you for taking advantage of this amazing opportunity.”
“You know I’m no good at party planning. My job is strictly documentation,” I say distractedly as I search through the pile of clothes on my bed. “Besides, Georges is coming by to help you and CoCo.”
Our friend CoCo—a.k.a. Cornelius—is just as fabulously gay as Georges is and almost as obsessive about parties.
“You can’t take that!” she exclaims, dropping the topic as she stares in horror at the t-shirt in my hand.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, looking down at the Reed College shirt I bought the last time I was in Oregon to replace the completely threadbare one I’d worn out.
“Dylan Sexton—Sexton, has invited you for a week-long getaway to paradise, and your ass is planing on lounging around in a t-shirt? No doubt matched with pajama bottoms, or yoga pants, or gym shorts or something else to kill the mood.”
“There is no mood,” I say, rolling my eyes. “It’s strictly professional.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” she says as she rips the shirt out of my hand. “But you sure as hell aren’t going to be doing it in this sad thing.”
She flicks it away and gives me a hard look. “What’s really going on here? I know you, Vanessa. You aren’t some slouch when it comes to style, at least in public. So what’s with dressing down all of a sudden?”
“Nothing,” I say, not even convincing myself. “This isn’t a date or some romantic thing. I’m going. I’m taking pictures. I’m interviewing him. I’m relaxing. Period.”
“Except…you forgot about the sex.”
“What?” I say, laughing, mostly to cover the thought that sex has been a constant on my mind since Dylan “propositioned” me.
So unprofessional.
“Don’t ‘what?’ me,” she sasses. “And don’t act like he didn’t invite you because you’re you—the hottest woman I know.”
This is why I love Simone Bennett.
“This trip is to help my career, Simone,” I say patiently. “Not to get me laid.”
She stares at me for a long moment, that look of complete skepticism on her face. “Okay fine, but while you’re working on your career, you’re still gonna look fly as hell, now move aside and let me pack for you.”
I let her pack.
I even let her dress me for the flight there. When all is said and done, I’m in a black jumpsuit with gold drop earrings, flawless makeup, and black sandals with gold embellishments. Very Venessa Paige, at her very best.
By the time the Town Car rolls up to my building, I feel confident once again. Part of it is that I trust my friend’s judgment when it comes to fashion. Part of it is the fact that I can technically absolve myself of any…forethought when it comes to my wardrobe while I’m on this island. If I happen to be wearing a certain red dress that highlights my dark skin tone and shows off my legs through a ruffle-edged slit while, say, having dinner with Dylan, then it’s totally Simone’s fault, not mine.
At least that’s what I can tell myself.
I’d die before Dylan ever found out that I let my friend pack for me.
And what’s up with that?
Nothing about this is Vanessa Paige. Back when I was keeping Dylan firmly at arm’s length, I didn’t care what I was wearing or what he knew about me or even what he thought of me. I dressed and acted in a way that made me feel both comfortable and confident. Stylish in public, Reed college t-shirt in private.
I watch the driver place my suitcase in the trunk, realizing that it’s probably too late to do anything about it now.
“Actually, do you mind waiting just a second?” I ask, once he closes the trunk and comes around to open the door for me.
“Of course, ma’am,” he says, as though he’s not even allowed to say otherwise.
“I’ll be quick,” I say, placing my camera bag in the back seat and shutting the door. “Keep a close eye on that!”
I dart back into my building and rush up the stairs. Once I’m back in my apartment, I rifle through all the casual clothes Simone banned.
I grab a random tote and stuff the Reed t-shirt into it. After throwing in a pair of pajama shorts, yoga pants, tennis shoes, and just about every other thing on her don’t-even-think-about-packing-this list, I rush back to the car, feeling slightly more empowered. Almost enough to handle having Dylan Sexton to myself for a full week.
Chapter Nineteen
Dylan
Vanessa is definitely enough to take my mind off my recent trip to Michigan. I still don’t feel entirely at ease after my interaction with Lionel, probably because of the guilt that’s bubbled back to the surface.
But I’d have to be a eunuch to let that overshadow the woman sitting across from me on the private jet carrying us to Isla Escapar.
Vanessa’s wearing this black one-piece thing that definitely works for her. And for me.
“Nervous?” I ask with a grin as she gulps down another long sip of champagne before takeoff.
Her wide eyes flit to me, growing even wider before quickly darting away. “I’ve just never been in a plane this small.”
I look around at the interior of the private jet, realizing that I’ve flown this way for so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to fly commercial. I suppose by those standards, it is a small cabin.
“Flying is the safest way to travel, especially like this.”
“I have flown before,” she says, twisting her lips into a tart smile. “I just…I’m not sure what to expect once we get there.”
She’s giving me a pointed look that pretty much asks the question: Is this about sex?
I let my own gaze answer the question truthfully before editing it with my words. “Expect to enjoy yourself. Expect to relax, eat five-star meals, drink expensive liquor. An
d…expect to learn more about me than anyone has before.”
She breathes in as she watches me. “You know, I’m not a photojournalist. I did take some writing classes in college, but my specialty lies in creating a story from behind the lens. Maybe you should hire someone else to tell the written version.”
I give her a wry smile. “Trust me, the story writes itself. Oliver Twist has nothing on yours truly.”
She wrinkles her brow slightly, no doubt at the heavy dose of cynicism with which I’ve spoken. It disappears as one of the attendants announces that we should prepare for takeoff.
* * *
“Welcome to Isla Escapar,” I announce as the car pulls up to the main building of the island resort.
There’s both a port for private boats to dock and a landing strip for smaller planes or private jets to land. There will eventually be a daily ferry from Puerto Rico, where the headquarters are based, which will bring guests to and from the island.
The architectural style has a Spanish influence with whitewashed buildings and red tile roofs. Once it’s fully operational there will be four restaurants for guests to choose from, beyond the in-room dining options: An upscale Latin restaurant, in keeping with the theme of the island; a Japanese restaurant specializing in sushi; a steakhouse; and a café near the main pool for people to grab simple meals while they lounge. A full gym and complete spa round out the escape for future guests.
The main hotel houses fifty luxury suites—there are no “basic” or “standard” rooms on Isla Escapar. In addition, there are twenty small “villas,” each with a private infinity pool and a view of the clear blue waters of the Caribbean Sea.
“My God, this place will probably cost a fortune to visit. I’m not sure I’m your target audience.”
“But you are my guest, so expect to be treated like the queen that you are.”
Vanessa turns to me with a smile, as though she thinks I’m being facetious. I make sure every part of me shows her I’m not.
The smile on her lips twists to the side with self-consciousness, and she stares ahead again. I love this, watching her squirm under my attention. The cool, sophisticated woman I met in that elevator at the Sexton Spring Fling is finally showing that she is capable of being wooed.
“Let me give you the quick tour. I’m sure you’d like to shower and rest a bit before dinner tonight.”
We had a delicious three-course meal on the plane ride in so neither of us is hungry yet. I lead her to one of the villas that’s been prepped for our arrival.
“Buenos dias, Mr. Sexton, Ms. Paige,” says the personal butler who’ll be catering to us while we’re here. When this place finally opens, each villa will come with its own dedicated butler.
“Buenos dias, Tomás,” I say as he opens the door for us.
I let Vanessa walk in first since this will be her villa for the week. Mine is the one conveniently located nextdoor. She sighs as she looks around at the large open area. The sliding glass doors leading out to the veranda and the infinity pool beyond are already open, allowing the white curtains to blow with the sea breeze. She heads right toward it, her sandals tapping against the bamboo flooring.
Each villa has an open living-slash-dining area right next to the floor-to-ceiling view outside. A state-of-the-art kitchen is included for good measure, though most guests will probably have little use for it, considering the five-star options that will soon be available. There are one-, two-, three-, and four-bedroom villas. The two Vanessa and I will be housed in are the one-bedroom versions with master bedrooms and bathrooms that would make most couples never want to end their honeymoons or anniversary celebrations, or any excuse to be romantic…or just plain naughty.
I grin as she comes back inside, looking completely impressed.
“I can’t believe we’re only four hours away from New York. I feel like I escaped to some oasis in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s exactly what we were going for. Make sure to include that in your Trip Advisor review.”
She laughs and idly walks over to the marble-topped bar, opening the glass doors below that have been stocked with bottles of every alcoholic beverage available from champagne to Jägermeister.
“Just so you know, those little bottles are a good fifteen to twenty dollars a pop,” I tease.
She laughs and gives me a roll of the eyes.
I stroll over, my hands in my pockets. “Explore all you want. Take all the pictures you want. Nothing is off-limits, though most things aren’t quite operational yet. Naturally, that excludes the gym and spa, which are yours to use as you wish. I want you to enjoy yourself, on me, of course.”
Her mouth twitches, and I realize the double entendre I’ve just made. I laugh, forcing one from her as well.
“Dinner will be at eight. I’ve got a bunch of presidential duties to attend to, so I’ll be missing in action until then. For now, the island is yours. Welcome to Paradise, Vanessa.”
Chapter Twenty
Vanessa
After my suitcase and belongings are delivered, I fall onto the bed, wanting to pinch myself. Even the sheets are like heaven, my fingertips sliding across them as smoothly as condensation along a bottle of champagne.
Over a week ago, I thought my career was on its way down. Now, I’m practically floating on air.
And what an opportunity!
Everyone has wanted the official Dylan Sexton story, from GQ magazine to HBO. He’s always been ambiguous about his past, giving tiny tidbits away without revealing the whole truth. I suspect the lack of information has a lot to do with the tenacity of his legal team.
As much of an attention whore as Dylan Sexton, president of Sexton Enterprises is, the real Dylan Sexton is relentless about maintaining the secrecy of his past.
A personal maid was sent to help me unpack, but I shied away from that bit of catering to every need. Heaven help me if I can’t unpack my own suitcase.
I smile when I open it, pleased to see the red dress is lying right there on top, masterfully packed as only a fashion expert like Simone could do it. There’s a note on a pink Post-it that reads: If you don’t wear this at least once, I’m officially disowning you as a friend!!!
I laugh and shake the dress out to hang it up. When I’m done with that, I turn to the tote bag of clothes I brought. I fully plan keeping silent about them because I’m almost certain she would disown me if she saw the threadbare tank top and shirt with a neckline so stretched out that it hangs off one shoulder, which I kind of like.
When I’m done unpacking and hanging everything up, I look at the time and note that there are several hours left until dinner. Plenty of time to explore this surprisingly large island with my camera…or maybe see what this spa is all about.
Decisions, decisions.
“Welcome to Paradise, Vanessa,” I say to myself with a laugh.
* * *
My curiosity about the island wins the battle over my desire to be pampered, and I head out with my camera and a professional brochure about this island resort. I’m excited to re-hone my skills at shooting nature, which is where I got my start with my dad back in Oregon. During our hikes through the nearby woods, I learned all about how to use the camera as we snapped photos of trees and flowers and the occasional bit of wildlife.
I’m still in my black one-piece and sandals from the plane since both are comfortable enough to walk around in. Plus, I wouldn’t have felt at all comfortable walking around this place, which pretty much screams “out of your pay grade,” in something too casual.
After getting about two hundred shots in the perfect late-afternoon light (I can’t wait to see a morning sunrise at this place), my legs have been worked enough to seriously think about a massage.
My experience with spas is limited, mostly mani-pedis with Simone. Thus, I have no idea what a “deep tissue” massage entails but figure it will help ease the mild soreness from so much walking.
Whoa boy, does it ever, and then some. When it’s over, I
feel like I’ve been tenderized, although in a not completely terrible way.
“Drink water to help finish flushing the waste and toxins out,” the masseuse says as I leave.
Back in my villa, I grab one of the water bottles from the minibar. I’m briefly amused at the bloated price it will cost a guest who will eventually be staying in this villa. After gulping down half the bottle, I decide a long, hot shower will help finish whatever flushing of toxins remains.
When I’m done, I do a full reversal on being good and throw on the Reed College t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms and take one of the mini bottles of Tito’s vodka and a bag of Kettle chips to bed with me to enjoy before my pre-dinner nap.
I’m not sure what time it is when I finally wake up, but it’s definitely with a start. I sit up, realizing I’ve heard something when it sounds again: the doorbell.
Doorbell?
I don’t have a doorbell to my apartment. It’s just an intercom to let people in through the front entrance.
Even though everything in the room is now in shadows, I slowly realize that I’m not home in my own bed—as if the sinfully luxurious bedspread I fell asleep on wasn’t enough of a clue.
The doorbell sounds again, and I look at the time on the clock by the bed. It’s already ten minutes past eight o’clock.
“Shit!” I hiss, scrambling off the bed.
Dylan probably sent someone to fetch me. I speed-walk through the villa and swing open the door, only to find the man himself standing there.
Damn, but he looks tasty.
His dark hair is styled, mostly combed back from his head. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt, top button undone as usual. It’s tucked into a pair of black pants and black slip-on loafers.
That’s when I remember I’m still in the very t-shirt my best friend forbade me from even packing. I’m sure somewhere Fate is laughing. The shirt is wrinkled, almost as much as the shorts, one leg of which has somehow hitched high enough to get caught in my ass crack. There’s no subtle way to pull it out, so I just yank it back in place, causing that smirk on his face to broaden.
Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance Page 9
