By Invitation Only

by Wilde, Lori; Etherington, Wendy; Burns, Jillian

  “Here you go, you two lovebirds,” Holly said and pushed Olivia and Nick forward into one of the contemporary Caribbean-style bungalows that probably rented for upward of fifteen hundred dollars a night. “I’ll see you at eight, Honey. Meet us where the limo left us off. I’ll have my assistant drop by with some clothes for you guys to change into.”

  With that, Holly was gone, shutting the door behind her and leaving Olivia and Nick standing alone in the luxury hut where a single king-size four-poster bed with eight-hundred-thread-count Italian linens was situated in the middle of the room. A sliding glass door opened out onto an oceanside terrace.

  “Dibs on the bed,” Nick claimed and bounced flat-footed off the floor like an exuberant kangaroo and landed with his butt on the thick mattress. He rocked back on the plush pillows, elbows out, fingers laced, palms supporting the back of his head.

  “Oh, no. No way. You got me into this. I’m getting the bed.”

  He looked mildly surprised. “Excuse me? I got you into this?”

  “You’re the one who said you were my fiancé.”

  “You could have set the record straight at anytime, but you didn’t.”

  “Only because you didn’t give me a chance. What was I supposed to do? Announce it in midair?”

  He shook his head, clicked his tongue. “I wouldn’t have taken you for one of those.”

  “One of what?” she snapped.

  “One of those people who blames others for their mistakes.”

  That gave her pause. Was she blaming him? Olivia’s cheeks burned. She was. “Look,” she said, and pointed at the sliding glass door leading to the terrace. “Is that a naked woman strolling on the beach?”

  “Where?” Nick vaulted off the bed, raced to the door for a peek.

  Immediately Olivia claimed the bed he’d vacated. Admittedly it was not her most graceful ascent, but she hopped up on the mattress. The white-and-turquoise duvet was still warm from his body heat. “Sucker!”

  “There’s no naked lady walking the beach?” He turned back to her, his mouth pulled down in a sad pout.

  “You are too easy, frat boy. Your rampant libido cost you a cushy sleeping arrangement,” she gloated. “If you’re nice, I’ll let you make a pallet on the floor with the duvet. Otherwise, you can sleep on the terrace and watch the imaginary naked ladies saunter past.”

  “Oh, yeah?” A wicked gleam flicked in his eyes.

  She notched up her chin defiantly. “Yeah.”

  “You forget I’m a rude frat boy,” he said, and did some sauntering of his own, strolling across the room toward her, the glint in his eyes darkening the closer he got to the bed.

  A ripple of apprehension rolled over Olivia. What had she done? She scooted up against the headboard, part of her wanting to flee the room, flee the island, flee the country. But the competitive part of her stayed rooted to the mattress, determined to hold the ground she’d conquered. And yet another part of her—the irritating part that was stupidly, physically attracted to the handsome troglodyte—wanted him to climb up on the bed with her.

  Crap! He was calling her bluff.

  He crawled up the bed, first one knee on the mattress, then the other, coming straight toward her, a lion on the hunt.

  Olivia dived, trying to roll off the bed, but Nick was quicker. He leaped, pinning her to the mattress.

  “Get off of me, you oaf.” She grunted, pushing against his chest with both hands, but she couldn’t budge him. He was much stronger than he looked, but oddly instead of feeling threatened, she felt strangely…protected. How could that be? Maybe it was the bone-deep humor in his gaze.

  “Who’s the sucker now?” he teased, his voice a sweet caress.

  She stopped struggling. Moving was only revving up the attraction. Contact with his sinewy biceps and muscular pecs sent hot wisps of steam smoking through her veins.

  “Well?” he drawled. “No smart-mouthed comeback?”

  None. Her mind was numb and she wasn’t a quipper in the best of circumstances. But this went beyond that. It was as if he’d kidnapped her brain and was holding it for ransom.

  His breath was warm on her face. He smelled good. Too good. Why was her pulse jumping? Why was her heart thudding? The man was a playboy. She knew that about him. He stood for everything she disliked—slipshod journalism; lack of fidelity; unbridled, exuberant goofiness.

  And yet here she was, practically lying underneath him, staring into eyes that she’d initially thought were brown, but upon closer examination proved to be an intoxicating blend of milk chocolate and gold, and she was wishing he would kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. Oh, yes, she was.

  Don’t forget, not for one minute, that he’s a libertine of the highest order.

  Then she felt his erection straining through his slacks, pressing into her upper thigh. She closed her eyes, licked her lips. The man wanted her.

  Big deal. He probably wants any available female from age twenty-one to sixty.

  All at once, the teasing drained from his face and he looked…well, like she felt.

  Ambushed.

  He was poised over her, hard as salami and she was staring into his eyes and the bed was soft beneath them and they were breathing in tandem, alone on an island, pretending to be engaged. It was a heady, intoxicating formula for sheer disaster.

  Thankfully a knock sounded on the door. They sprang apart. Nick shooting left, Olivia darting right, both flustered.

  Nick turned his back to her, ducked his head and slapped a palm against the nape of his neck. Olivia smoothed down her pin-striped business skirt, ran fingers through her mussed hair, cleared her throat and moved to open the door.

  A young woman with a shy smile stood in the hallway, her arms piled high with clothing. “From Miss Carmichael and Mr. Maynard,” she said, and deposited the clothes in Olivia’s arms.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The woman stood there expectantly. Oh, yes, she wanted a tip.

  “Greer,” Olivia called over her shoulder. “You got a couple of bucks?”

  He trotted over, peeling a twenty from his pocket. Was he was one of those show-offs who overtipped to prove how cool he was? More than likely he was priming a potential conquest. Nick handed the bill to the woman with a wink and a smile.

  As expected, the young woman melted, simpering, “Thank you, thank you.”

  Nick closed the door behind her.

  Olivia rolled her eyes and dumped the clothes on the bed, now rumpled from where they’d lain on it. “Was there ever a time in your life when women didn’t fall all over you?”

  “Nope,” he said easily and raked a hot gaze down her body.

  Heightened awareness blasted through her and she curled her fingers into fists. She shivered and hated herself for her reaction to him. She was not going to be like every other woman on the planet who seemed to think this man hung the moon and the stars. “You don’t feel the least bit remorseful about it, do you?”

  “Why should I feel remorseful because women like me?”

  “You take advantage of the attraction.”

  “No more than they take advantage of me.”

  She groaned. “Not all women like you.”

  “Meaning you don’t like me.”

  “Yes. I don’t like you.”

  He shrugged as if it didn’t matter one whit whether she did or not. “You gonna change?”

  She startled. “Change? Why should I change? I’m not suddenly going to lower my standards just because I’m forced to be in your company. I—”

  “I meant your clothes,” he interrupted. “That business suit looks pretty uncomfortable.”

  “Oh.” Embarrassment scorched her cheeks. “Well, yes, I am going to change.” She snatched up the first outfit she grabbed—a skirt and T-shirt on a hanger—and hustled into the adjoining bathroom.

  She locked the door closed behind her. The bathroom was just as lavish as the bedroom. White marble floor, gold fixtures, a massive spa tub with
heated jets. She pressed her forehead against the wall, felt the cool tile against her feverish skin. What was she doing here? How had she let this happen?

  Job.

  Oh, yes, her job. She’d lied about her identity in order to get an exclusive with Holly Carmichael. And she’d somehow wound up sharing a quaint bungalow with the last man on the earth she wanted to share a sexy island getaway with—her archrival.

  And yet, she couldn’t deny the spark between them. What was wrong with her that she secretly liked the man she outwardly despised?

  NICK PACED THE BEDROOM. Blowing out his breath, he jammed his fingers through his hair. Okay, okay, she’s just a woman like any other.

  But even as he thought it, he felt something completely different. Something he’d never quite felt before when it came to women.

  Fear.

  He was afraid of Olivia Carmichael and he couldn’t really say why.

  His mind wandered back to the stupid stunt he’d pulled, climbing up on the bed beside her, trying to rattle her. Instead, he’d been the one shaken to the core. She’d turned up her nose at his moves, contemptuous, not falling for his charmer shtick.

  Did he want her merely because she didn’t want him?

  He almost bolted. Almost left the room before she came back. Dust in the wind. But he stayed, clearly a glutton for punishment.

  Olivia came stalking from the bathroom, a look of grim determination on her face. He expected another battle over the bed, but one look at her and his mind went blank of all thoughts except one.

  Sex.

  Hot, sticky sex.

  Long, slow sex. Wet sex. Playful sex. Angry sex. Make-up sex. Any damn kind of sex with this woman.

  She wore a sleeveless red T-shirt that molded over her breasts as though it was spray-painted on and a white flared skirt so short he would have been able to see her panties if she bent over.

  His tongue plaited into a pretzel and he wheezed in a chuff of air, but she didn’t even notice. Her head was down, her gaze fixed on the purse she’d dropped on the floor beside the door when they’d come into the room. She barreled straight for it.

  A normal person would have taken the purposeful walk and concentrated his expression on her face as a clue and stepped the hell out of the way, but Nick’s brain had short-circuited the second she stepped from the bathroom. He just stood there, watching her come at him, his arms akimbo, his mouth stupidly hanging open as if he’d never seen a beautiful woman hell-bent on a mission before.

  She clocked him with her shoulder, slamming into his extended arm, spinning him halfway around like the north wind on a weather vane, knocking him off balance. He stumbled against the coffee table and reflexively reached out to grab hold of something to stay on his feet.

  What he ended up grabbing was Olivia. Her breast to be precise. It was completely accidental, but he knew she wouldn’t believe that. She gasped and swung her arm up, trying to shove him away from her.

  But it was too late. They were going down together.

  He fell onto his back on the jute rug covering the hardwood floor with Olivia on top of him, her breasts squashed against his chest. He stared up at her. She blinked down at him. His hands had a mind of their own as they slipped around her waist, pulled her closer. Even as he did it, he knew it was a face-slapping offense.

  “This is low, Greer, even for you.” She stuck with glowering instead of violence. She would have been within her rights to smack his cheek, but she didn’t. Why?

  “Hey, you were the one who ran into me.”

  “You should have moved. If you hadn’t stood there ogling me you could have moved.”

  “Honey.” He chuckled. “The way you look in that outfit no man could have moved.”

  Her cheeks colored. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “You’re the bulldozer and yet I’m the bad guy? No wonder you’re not in a relationship.”

  “Who says I’m not in a relationship?”

  “Are you?”

  “No,” she said hotly, then muttered a curse and pushed up, breaking the light grip he had on her waist and scrambling to her feet.

  “Who was he?” Nick asked, sitting up.

  “Who was who?” She dusted herself off as if she’d gotten dirty simply by touching him.

  “The guy who soured you on men.”

  “Not all men,” she said. “Just men like you.”

  “Men like me?”

  “Arrogant, egotistical.”

  “What was his name?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “So there was a guy.” Nick snapped his fingers. “I knew it. What did he do?”

  “Nothing you haven’t done to hundreds of women.”

  He felt her pain like a kick to the gut. Someone had hurt her, and his impulse was to hunt the guy down and kick his butt the same way he would if any guy hurt one of his sisters. But there was an added dimension to this feeling that was far from brotherly, and that disturbed him. “Now you’re just trying to hurt my feelings.”

  “He was an irascible rake just like you.”

  “Rake? Who are you? Jane Austen?”

  “It’s a perfectly good word and fits you to a tee—charming, handsome but bad to the bone. Cavalierly tossing women away like used tissues.”

  “You think I’m handsome?” Feeling ridiculously pleased, Nick ambled to his feet.

  Olivia snorted indelicately. “Get over yourself already. There’s more to being a man than possessing a pretty face and killer body.”

  “You think I have a killer body?”

  “For crying out loud!” She threw her hands into the air. “Ego, ego, ego.”

  “Yeah, like you don’t have an ego.”

  “Not like yours.”

  “You’ve got Pulitzer dreams, Honey. It takes a big ego to pull that off.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Hey, we’re undercover. Honey is the name you got stuck with, although…” He angled his head, studied her. “It fits. You’ve got that golden complexion, a bee stinger for a tongue and those sweet…” He dropped his gaze to her breasts.

  “Shut up.”

  He came across the room toward her. She was busy digging around in her purse and pointedly trying to ignore him.

  “I like this undercover thing,” he said.

  “You would.”

  “Getting down and dirty, unearthing dark secrets. I’ll be Deep Throat. You can be Woodward and Bernstein.”

  “Why am I two people?” She took a tablet computer and electrical cord from her purse and looked around for a place to plug it in.

  “It takes both of those reporters to make one of you.”

  A pleased smile flitted across her lips.

  “Ha!” He pointed at her sly mouth. “Gotcha. You do think you’re as good as Woodward and Bernstein put together.”

  Her smile disappeared. “Bite me.”

  “Oh-ho, you can dish it, but you can’t take it.”

  “Stop coming on to me. You broke my best friend’s heart.”

  “I didn’t break Mica’s heart. We only went on three dates. I never even slept with her.”

  That shut her up. Olivia eyes widened and she stared at him for a long moment and then finally echoed, “You never slept with her?”

  “You thought I did?”

  Olivia sniffed. “I assumed you sleep with everyone you date.”

  “And we both know what they say about people who ass-u-me.”

  “Is everything a joke with you?” She found the electrical socket and leaned over to plug in her computer.

  Nick inclined his head. His gaze glued to her every movement as he hoped for a glimpse of those delectable upper thighs hiding beneath the flirty skirt hem.

  “Mmm, not everything.”

  She straightened, spun around, caught him staring at her rump and immediately flattened her palm against the back of her skirt. “You are a rascal.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, grinning. “Rascally rake,
that’s me.”

  She glared. He was getting a lot of those from her. “Can you find somewhere else to be?”

  “You writing?”

  “Researching.”

  “What?”

  “Who.”

  “Huh?”

  Olivia plunked down at the rattan desk, powered on her tablet. “I’m researching a person. More precisely, this Honey person.”

  “On the internet?”

  “No, on my crystal ball.”

  “Ha! I knew it. You really are a witch.”

  “And you’re a jackass.”

  He winced. “That insult isn’t up to your caliber. I’ve got a knife sharpener on my key chain if your tongue’s getting dull. Wanna borrow it?”

  “Seriously, could you just go? I work better in silence.” Frowning, she pretended to focus on her computer screen, but he could tell from the rigid way she was holding her shoulders that she was very aware of him.

  “There are better ways of finding out who Honey is without cloistering yourself in a room when there’s a beautiful beach beckoning.”

  “Alliteration, the cheapest figure of speech. Why am I not surprised it’s your fallback position?”

  “Ah, there it is. You got your barb back.”

  “Are you always this annoying?”

  “Betcha I can find out more about Honey in five minutes than you can in a hour searching the web.”

  She jerked her head up, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “You’re on.”

  Ah, so competition was what revved Ms. Carmichael’s engines. He should have known. She was the overachieving, only child of an affluent family. It was pretty well a given. Yes, he’d looked her up on Google after she lit into him over Mica. She’d piqued his curiosity. He’d discovered she’d gone to the right schools, dated the right men, did exactly what Mommy and Daddy expected of her and did it better than most anyone else. No wonder she was so uptight, sitting there kneading her neck muscles.