by Helen Hardt
“Would never happen. The mangos you get in a grocery store are a poor comparison to ones still warm from soaking up the sun. Try it.”
I brought the glass to my lips, tilted it back, tasted the drink, and moaned. “Oh, my God. That is sooo good.”
Luka’s heavy lids dropped, hooding his eyes, but not enough to disguise his reaction to my X-rated sound effects.
“Told you.”
The husky dip to his already gruff baritone twisted my nipples into tight points. Something melted low in my belly, puddling into instant want.
Not good, warned Master Po.
Damn, I hated when the old Chinese dude with spooky white eyes was right.
Backpedal! Backpedal!
“So…I understand a Doctor Rodriquez has been the go-between for you, Care For All, and the Seymour Agency. Did he fill you in on the campaign details? Let you know what I’ll need while I’m here?”
What I needed had nothing to do with advertising or philanthropy…
“Yeah, Doc gave me the basics.” His mouth twisted and his icy disdain washed away any sexual undertone. “I’ll make sure you get what you need.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted anything from Luka if it was delivered with loathing reluctance. His furrowed brows and scowl left no doubt he’d been strongarmed into his role as spokesperson.
People were beginning to wander into Ginger’s Palace, filling seats at the bar and a few of the outdoor tables. They waved or nodded to Luka but didn’t interrupt. Aware of the small-town scrutiny, I dropped the conversation and enjoyed the mango bellini until Ginger scurried out with two large baskets in hand.
Luka ordered another round of drinks, and we munched through the meal in a not unpleasant silence.
Okay, so maybe Isla Tortuga Verde had a few redeeming qualities. The fish tacos with papaya salsa were the best I’d ever had. The jeweled sunset gilded the ocean gold and bronze, with nary a skyscraper to block the view. And while moody Dr. Stanic was off limits, that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy my time with him.
Even Master Po couldn’t argue with that logic.
6
Luka
Fuck. This fucking Care For All campaign thing was not fucking working.
At least, not for me.
I stood, back against my closed office door, and grabbed my cock through the soft fabric of my shorts. As a physician, I knew the dangers of a prolonged erection, and I’d had a boner worthy of a Viagra overdose since Britt arrived five days ago.
How could I not?
She was shadowing me, day and night. A not unobtrusive presence in the corner of the treatment room as I dispensed medical treatment to the islanders. Her laugh ringing out through the clinic as she chatted with Martina or interviewed patients. The scent of her spicy body lotion and floral shampoo, twin olfactory memories that stayed with me after she returned to her bungalow for the night. The silky brush of her skin against my hair-roughened arm when we sat side by side to go through the daily accumulation of photographs and footage after the clinic closed.
“Who is this?” she would ask, taking notes while I fantasized about slipping my fingers under her skirt and working my way up her thigh to the sweet juncture between.
“Petra Jones. Diabetes. She lost a leg because she wasn’t getting the treatment and medication she needed,” I would answer distractedly.
“And these three men?” She would frown, bending closer to peer at the trio of Creole fishermen from Belle Isle.
“Peter, Paul, and Matthew Darbonne. Brothers. They have a rare genetic disorder that can cause heart damage if not managed properly.” I would take advantage of her posture to sneak a look down her shirt as her lush breasts jiggled in their pink lace cups.
I’d never wanted to be anything other than a doctor, but I’d trade duties with Britt’s bra and panties any day.
Any. Day.
“Doctor Man. What you be doing in der?” Martina pounded on my door. “It be lunchtime. I make da fish stew with da red snapper Royal Phillips dropped off to thank you for da house call to his granny yesterday.”
“I’ll be right out, Mar-tin-a.” I spit out each syllable of her name. Somehow, the damned witch knew I had it bad for Britt.
“You wait too long, der be none for you.” Her footsteps faded back to the kitchen.
I got the impression she wasn’t talking about fish stew.
Pumping my fist around my cock to ease the discomfort, I vowed to keep my distance. Britt was nothing more than a temporary temptation. She’d be gone, back to civilization with its coffee chains and nail salons and health clubs and manscaped bachelors, while I remained on Isla Tortuga Verde.
Fuck. I hated the conflict Britt was stirring up inside me.
I whipped the door open and stomped down the hall.
Martina and Britt looked up as I dropped into the third chair, both wearing the same amused expression.
“Is he always this cranky?” Britt faked a stage whisper.
“Oh, Doctor Man never be dis cantankerous.” Martina ladled spicy fish stew into my empty bowl. “Everybody loves him. So nice and kind. Most da time.”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” I hunched over my stew and spooned up a bite.
“This is delicious, Martina. You said it was a gift from a patient?” Britt tore a chunk of bread from the loaf in the middle of the table and dipped it in her bowl.
“No, not da gift. It da payment. Many island people money-poor. Happy-rich. Love-rich. Family-rich. No cash.” Martina ripped the loaf in half and shoved it at me. “Maybe Doctor Man hangry. Eat more.”
“I’m not hangry.”
Britt’s smile fell away and her eyes went flat, like the green oxidized patina on brass, as she dropped all pretense of tolerating my bad mood. “Spit it out, Luka. You’re turning into a pain in the ass. I can’t use any of the images where you’re grimacing like you’re trying to pass a three-pound kidney stone. I have a job to do, and it’s getting to the point where I can’t stand being around you.”
I looked at Martina, expecting a smartass comment, but she just lifted her brows and shook her head as if to say, “You on your own, Doctor Man.”
“Sorry.” I forced the apology through gritted teeth. This wasn’t Britt’s fault, and I shouldn’t be taking out my frustration on her.
Well, she was the cause of some of my frustration, but not the portion feeding the dark part of my soul.
“I didn’t want to be a part of all this.” I waved a hand over my head. “I walked away from a six-figure career at one of the country’s leading hospitals because I couldn’t tolerate the bureaucracy. People were dying because of red tape. Waiting for approval from their insurance company. Turned away because the hospital didn’t accept their insurance. Misdiagnosed because doctors didn’t spend enough time to thoroughly evaluate them—they had quotas and documentation requirements that took precedence over patient care.” I shoved my chair back, my chest heaving.
“Is that what you think this is? ‘Bureaucracy?’” Following my tirade, Britt’s voice sounded especially soft, reasonable.
“Isn’t it?” I shoved an angry hand through my hair, then crossed my arms is if holding back more vitriol. “Care For All needs to refill their coffers so their organization remains prosperous. And yes, I know our clinic can’t operate unless CFA remains viable, but at what cost?”
Martina, gaze bouncing from me to Britt, remained uncharacteristically silent.
“You sold out.” Britt’s eyes darkened from moss green to viridian. “That’s what you’re telling yourself.”
Bingo! Give that girl a Kewpie doll.
My heart felt the size and texture of a shriveled bean. Dried out, ugly runnels marring the surface. No room for anything but rot.
“I can’t deal with this right now.” I stood, leaving the fish stew unfinished. “Martina, please reschedule Ana Mendoza’s pregnancy check. Call now before she leaves to catch the ferry. I’ll be at Shark Rock if you need me.”
/>
“Okay, Doctor Man.” Martina left the table to use the phone in my office.
“What is Shark Rock?” Britt had also risen.
I stared at her, indecision twisting my innards. Her dark red hair was twisted up into a messy knot, and she wore a casual black halter-top sundress. The only thing indecent about the dress were my dirty thoughts about pulling it off so I could suck and fondle her beautiful breasts.
Her hand went to her neck, fingers slowly drawing my attention to the valley between her plump mounds as she held my gaze.
“You’ll need a bathing suit and water shoes or sneakers. And sunscreen. Otherwise, you’ll burn. Meet me at the dock when you’re ready.”
“I know, Doctor Man.” Her coy whisper, the flush rising up her neck to her cheeks, and the pebbled nipples poking through the fabric of her dress made me burn.
I was going to fuck Britt Connolly. Right then, I didn’t care if it was the worst or best decision of my life.
My hands shook as I changed into orange board shorts, the drawcord tangling as I fumbled to tie it. I dragged on a T-shirt I’d picked up at some Caribbean surf shop, stared at my reflection in the small mirror above my dresser, and wondered what the hell Britt saw that made her want me.
I was a cynical, thirty-five-year-old doctor who’d given up the big money payoff after investing fifteen years to earn his credentials. I lived on a tiny island, hours from a decent-sized city, with the most rudimentary basics for a civilized existence. I didn’t own a home, didn’t have a 401K, and the only wheels I owned were on a $1,500 mountain bike.
It had to be my movie-star good looks, washboard abs, and witty banter.
“Just go with it,” I told my reflection, sliding my Oakleys into place.
I could easily have made the half-mile swim to Shark Rock, but Britt didn’t have the stamina I’d built up over two years of regularly swimming long distances in open water. Instead, I borrowed a wooden fishing boat from Fred and loaded it up with towels, bottled water, a first aid kit, snacks, and a handful of condoms from the stash I hadn’t touched since moving to Isla Tortuga Verde.
“Ready!” Britt trotted down the wooden dock, her backpack over one shoulder, a navy baseball cap shading her face.
“I’m off the clock,” I reminded her.
“I know. I brought my gear in case there was an opportunity to capture some of this gorgeous scenery.” She gave me an impish grin. “I promise not to capture so much as a snapshot of your big toe.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise, Britt.” Seeing her backpack triggered some of my negative feelings about agreeing to serve as CFA’s spokesman. It also reminded me Britt was here for a short assignment. In less than ten days, she’d be headed back to Denver.
I knew what Martina would say about that. “Get in da boat and quit wasting da time.”
“Let’s go.” I scrambled into the boat, waiting for the rocking to settle, and held out a hand to Britt.
She slid her fingers across my palm and stepped off the dock. I didn’t want to let go, but I needed two hands to row the small boat.
The physical exertion helped to improve my mood. The sun, hot and oddly reassuring as it beat down, played hide-and-seek between mile-high banks of fluffy white clouds. A salty breeze dried the sweat beading on my face and dripping down my back. Seagulls cawed as they swooped and dived overhead. The water was a gentle slap against the side of the boat as I found my rhythm over the oars.
This was what had been missing—fresh air and the endless expanse of sea and sky. I spent a good part of every day outdoors, but Britt’s project had me on lockdown. Calling a time-out was proving to be a smart move.
“That tiny inlet there”—I pointed to a small sandy cove at the base of a steep incline—“is Nursery Harbor. Green turtles, the island’s namesake, lay their eggs there between July and September. It’s a popular species to harvest for turtle soup.”
“Gross.” Britt scrunched her lips and she stuck out her tongue.
“How is it any more gross than eating hamburger or bacon?”
“I don’t know, but it is.” She stared at the inlet as we went past. “I had a turtle when I was young. One of those little green and yellow ones you keep in an aquarium. I can’t imagine turning Timmy into soup.”
Yeah, Britt was a city girl, through and through.
“Is that Shark Rock?” She pointed to a rocky outcropping that jutted out of the aquamarine water.
“Yes. There’s a nice beach on the other side of those palm trees.”
“Why is it called Shark Rock?” She gripped the sides of the boat.
“Truth?” I chuckled, knowing she’d be amused by the story. “It’s actually Sharp Rock. When tourists began visiting Isla Tortuga Verde, they thought the islanders were saying ‘Shark Rock.’ That scared them away. The locals liked having a place of their own to escape to, so the name stuck.”
“What are the chances we’ll run into other people?” she asked casually.
“On a Wednesday afternoon? Even islanders have workdays, Britt. I can almost guarantee we won’t be interrupted.”
Our eyes met.
“Good.” She rubbed her collarbone.
When the water was shallow enough to see bottom, I levered myself over the edge of the boat and pulled it up onto the shore. I wound the nylon rope around a limestone ledge, securing the craft.
“Hand me your backpack. I’ll come back for the rest.” I waded through the water, up the hardpacked sand, and carefully settled her pack in the shade.
She waited inside the boat to hand me the other supplies. “Need me to carry anything?” She propped herself on the edge of the boat, ready to jump.
“Nah, I got it.”
The water was only knee deep, but she splashed enough to soak her oversized cotton tee. It clung to her breasts and the flat contours of her belly, causing my heart to race. She beat me to the beach and shucked off her shirt, dancing in a circle to face me, where I still stood in the water.
“You’re sure no one else will come along?” She held both hands to the front closure of her bikini top.
“Reasonably.”
“Good enough.” She unfastened the clasp and whirled the hot-pink top over her head while I feasted on the glorious sight of her breasts—round, heavy, tipped in rosy nipples.
I didn’t know if I was going to fuck Britt Connolly…or if she was going to fuck me.
7
Britt
I didn’t know what possessed me to go topless in front of Luka. I talked a good game when it came to casual sex, but Master Po was like, “Hey, Britt, why are you packing condoms when the odds of you letting a guy you met over Mai-Tais all up in your vajayjay are less than zero?”
Wishful thinking, I guess. Nick and I had been dating for four months and still hadn’t done the dirty. In hindsight, that was a good thing. Can you imagine knowing what your brother-in-law’s come-face looked like? You know, that face men make when they shoot their wad—eyes squeezed shut, the space between their brows all puckered, mouth twisted in a grimace like someone just shoved a monster dong up their butt.
My ego took a hit when Nick “just happened” to fall in love with my sister. I packed the condoms to feel sexy. To pretend that someone, somewhere—maybe on a tiny island in the middle of the Caribbean Sea—would find me sexy.
I never, ever expected it to happen.
But Luka was looking at me like he wanted a season pass to my lady parts.
He shoved his sunglasses atop his head, and we locked eyes. I swear I could feel the weight of his stare, solemn and earnest, as if there was some unspoken agreement yet to be made. His mouth was a flat line, his nostrils flared, his jaw tight.
I dropped my chin to peek at him through my lashes and arched my back, thrusting my boobs up and out. He didn’t even blink. Just held my gaze and walked toward me.
“Are you going to lose the bottoms, too?” He slid the tip of his middle finger under the elastic at my hip and teased it
slowly back and forth.
“Not yet.”
I’d forgotten how good the wanting felt. So breathless with desire you got a little dizzy. Tiny injections of lust into your bloodstream that traveled through your body until every nerve ending was sensitized, especially that royal cluster that sat on the throne in your clitoris. I wanted Luka, but I wanted to want him more. I wanted to be so turned on that my clit throbbed, so close to a climax that all he had to do was blow on it.
Luka pulled the elastic away from my skin and smiled a bit savagely when it snapped back with a brief sting.
“Ow.” I backed away, grinning to reassure him I was okay with a little hanky-spanky.
He adjusted his package and sucked in a deep breath.
“Drop that stuff by my backpack so we can go for a swim.” I’d never been skinny-dipping. My skin went ultra-sensitive, anticipating the sensation of sinking into the warm, buoyant water. Or was it the fact that every second ticking by brought me closer to getting my hands and mouth on the luscious doctor?
Luka plucked the bikini top from my hand and added it to his bundle. As I waited, I looked out across the ocean, the horizon a dividing line between the sapphire sea and cerulean sky. Closer to shore, the water was a crystalline turquoise—so smooth and flat, it was like looking through colored glass.
“Are you a decent swimmer?” Luka stood next to me in his orange board shorts.
“I don’t need floaties, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I waited for a crass joke about my built-in flotation devices, but none came. I’d seen Luka smile with patients and tease Martina, but there was an underlying intensity that seemed as much a part of him as his black hair and dark eyes.
There would be no casual sex with Luka. He didn’t do casual.
The realization was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.
My desire deepened, shifted, slipped through my skin and sank into my bones. It became more than a physical craving. I needed to connect with Luka on an emotional level or the sex would just be…sex.
