by Nicola Marsh
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
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
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 man
y 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.
