Temptation Island

by Rachel Woods

  “It’s almost eight,” he said. “I thought you might want to get back.”

  Frustrated by his apathy, which I suspected he was using as a defense mechanism against his feelings for me, I said, “I don’t want to go back to the hotel. I want to …”

  “You want to what, Quinn?” he asked, a slight spark in his gaze, the first sign of life I’d seen so far, but I wasn’t sure what emotions fueled it.

  “I want to know what’s wrong,” I said. “You haven’t spoken to me since we left the bar. Are you upset about something? Did I do something, or—”

  “Tell me about the waterfall fantasy,” Icarus said with a solemn finality.

  Confused by his request, I stared at him. “What?”

  “Tell me about the waterfall fantasy you had with Sam, Nick, and Henri.” His whiskey-colored gaze was blank as he stared at me, almost apathetic, but then I realized he wasn’t really looking at me. He was focused on something just to the right of me. My heart plummeted into my gut. Why did he seem as though he couldn’t stand the sight of me? Or, was I imagining the barely disguised disgust in his gaze?

  Perplexed, I shook my head. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Sam said—”

  “Sam said I acted like a scared little virgin,” I reminded him. “I don’t agree with that assessment. I wasn’t afraid, I just didn’t want to have an orgy with three guys. The hotel created that ridiculous fantasy for me, but there was no way I was going to go through with it.”

  “Why not?” Icarus asked, a dangerous edge in his voice. “Didn’t you come to the Heliconia to be screwed into oblivion by as many guys as possible?”

  His speculation of my reasons for visiting the Heliconia was demeaning and made me angry, but mostly, his scathing judgment hurt.

  “It may be difficult,” I started, “but I’ll try to explain why I came to the Heliconia.”

  “I think it’s obvious why you came to the Heliconia,” he said, though there was no sarcasm in his tone.

  “No, it’s not obvious,” I said, tears in my voice. “I know what people think about women who come to the Heliconia. That we’re lonely, horny women who can’t get a man so we have to pay to have dirty sex all day and all night with as many different men, and maybe even women, as possible.”

  “And that’s not why you came to the Heliconia?” Icarus said, a healthy dose of skepticism in his voice.

  “I came to the Heliconia to get my mojo back,” I blurted out, unable to stop the tears from flowing.

  “To get your mojo back?” His doubt turned to bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

  Letting out a long, weary, sad exhale, I swiped at my cheeks, letting my gaze wander to a wall of sea grape trees lined in a row at the rear of the yard.

  “Six months ago, around November of last year, I started having really terrible nightmares, which was strange, because I’ve never really suffered from bad dreams … “ Hesitant, I exhaled, reluctant to open up to Icarus. I was afraid to be honest and vulnerable about an issue I previously hadn’t believed was a valid issue but more of a nuisance, something to be tolerated until I could get my mind right and get over it.

  Now, in this moment, realization dawned, and I knew the anxiety I’d been suffering could not be ignored, or wished away. My anxiety had to be examined, and most importantly, it had to be understood—my sanity and emotional well-being demanded an understanding of what had caused the anxiety.”

  “What were the dreams about?”

  “Usually, um, I’m standing in a courtroom, giving my closing argument, and it’s going great,” I said. “I know I’m winning over the jury, which is one of my specialties. I know how to pick a jury that will give me the verdict I want. I know this jury is going to render a verdict on behalf of my client, but …”

  “But what?”

  “But … I don’t know,” I said, not sure why I was so disconcerted and flustered all of a sudden. “I mean, the worst part of the dream happens when I turn around to go back to the defense table and I see a woman at the back of the courtroom …”

  “Do you know the woman?”

  “I think so,” I hedged and then admitted, “Yeah, I do know her, which is why it’s very disturbing when she shoots me.”

  “So, you started having anxiety dreams about being killed by someone you know?”

  “She doesn’t kill me,” I said. “She never kills me, even though she shoots me in the heart. I don’t die, and I know this because the dream will change to me in a hospital bed reading a newspaper and the headline says something like ‘Lawyer Survives Shot to the Heart.’”

  “And you don’t know why you started having the dreams?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said, though I wasn’t convinced that was true. “I’ve tried to figure it out, but all I know is that the dreams started because of the anxiety, and the anxiety robbed me of my ability to make sound, strategic decisions for my clients, and not being able to do that led to me losing three cases.”

  “So, the dreams started before you lost the three cases?” Icarus asked.

  Nodding, I said, “In November.”

  “What was going on in your life in November?” he asked. “Were you under a lot of stress?”

  “Actually, it’s funny, because November was pretty great for me,” I said, remembering. “I won a huge case. My career was on the rise. I was close to making partner.”

  “But winning a huge case is a good thing,” Icarus said. “Why would you start having anxiety dreams after winning a case?”

  A good question, one I didn’t know the answer to, but I should have. “The anxiety dreams don’t matter. What matters is …”

  “What matters is?” Icarus prompted.

  “What matters is my career,” I said. “I worked so hard for so long to get to a point where I was respected as a competent litigator, and it wasn’t easy considering my background.”

  “Your background?”

  “I come from a family of lawyers,” I said. “My grandfather started a firm fifty years ago, and it’s highly respected and veneered and extremely lucrative. When I went to law school, everyone thought it would be so easy for me because I could step out of law school and into my grandfather’s firm.”

  Icarus remained quiet, listening, and when I glanced at him, in the dusk around us, I couldn’t discern his expression.

  “I had to prove that I was a damn good attorney, and I was doing that. I had done that,” I said. “And then that damn anxiety comes along and ruins my life, and why? I don’t understand it, but maybe I don’t have to. What I have to do is get over it.”

  “And you thought coming to the Heliconia would help you get over the anxiety?”

  “Truthfully, deep down, I don’t think I really thought coming to the Heliconia would do any good,” I admitted. “But, I was desperate. I was grasping at straws. I was looking for any way I could to be who I used to be, the shrewd, intelligent litigator. That’s who I am. That’s what the stupid anxiety stole from me and I want my old self back.”

  “Are you sure you want your old self back?”

  Confused, I wiped my damp cheeks. “What do you mean?”

  “You said the anxiety dreams started in November when you won your case,” Icarus said. “Back then, you were a brilliant, successful lawyer, right? So, maybe the anxiety dreams didn’t stop you from being brilliant and successful. Maybe the dreams are a sign of something else.”

  “Something else like what?”

  “Fantasy is not going to cure your anxiety,” Icarus said, a gentleness in his gruff baritone. “I think you need to figure out why you started having anxiety after you won that big case.”

  DAY SEVENTEEN

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Following a light breakfast, I took a long shower, dried off, and dropped the towel on the floor. Naked, I walked into the bedroom and stretched out across the bed, thinking about my confession to Icarus last night. Over and over, I analyzed what I’d told him, my reasons for com
ing to St. Mateo. I’d spent an equal amount of time pondering his suggestion to me—figure out why you starting having anxiety after you won that big case.

  Mallette v. Du Vert Pharmaceuticals had been my biggest case, to date, and centered around a plaintiff named Clayton Mallette, who accused the pharmaceutical giant of performing illegal experiments on his deceased spouse. Bessie Mallette had passed away during a drug trial sponsored by Du Vert. Her death had been a tragedy, yes, but not negligence. Certainly, as Mallette claimed, her death had not been the result of Du Vert's “intentional construction of monstrous beings.”

  On the witness stand, Mallette was dodgy and, at times, incoherent. Against my shrewd, methodical cross-examination, he appeared psychotic and out of touch with reality as he tried to convince the jury that Du Vert was manufacturing "zombies," which they planned to "unleash on the world" in an attempt to "control the population." Faced with my blitzkrieg of logic and rational evidence to the contrary of Mallette’s outlandish claims, the shifty-eyed widower was seen as a sad, grief-stricken man unable to cope with his wife’s death. The jury felt sorry for him, but they didn't believe him and found Du Vert not negligent or liable in the death of Bessie Mallette.

  I was celebrated and congratulated for the big win, for my outstanding success, on behalf of an important, influential client. Except, thinking back, I didn't feel very victorious, for some reason. After so many months, I realized—

  “Where’s the cell phone, bitch?”

  The deep, derisive voice sent several mind-jolting sensations through me, one hotter than fire, the other colder than ice, and both rendering me paralyzed and speechless. Panic and horror raced through my veins as I sat up, staring at the man who stood at the foot of the bed, sneering at me.

  Sam Collins.

  “What are you doing in here?” I could barely whisper as I drew my legs toward my chest, desperate to cover myself, mortified and terrified by the idea that he’d been watching me. “How did you get in my room?”

  “The maid let me in,” he said, smug. “She’s a friend of mine. I told her I’d left something in your room so she opened the door for me.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” I told him, grabbing one of the large pillow shams to cover my body.

  “Oh, you don’t want me to see you naked?” His laugh was scornful. “Bitch, I already seen everything.”

  Humiliated, and disgusted by his flippant vulgarity, I held the sham in front of me and said, “Get out of here! I’m calling security, and I’m having both you and whoever let you into my room fired!”

  “Relax, okay,” he said. “All I want is the phone.”

  “What phone?” Naked and exposed, I was frozen, afraid to move.

  “The phone Icarus has with those messages from me,” he said. “The messages where I’m threatening Henri.”

  “Why do you want the phone?” I asked, wondering if I could jump out of bed and run out of the door, and yet knowing that he would most likely catch me, slam me to the ground, and do God only knew what to me. “So you can erase all those threatening messages you sent to Henri?”

  “That phone belongs to me,” he said. “And I want it back. Now, if you give it to me, then I won’t call the cops and tell them that Icarus stole it.”

  “Icarus didn’t steal your phone,” I said, wishing I had my phone so I could enable the recording app. “He found it at Stazia’s house. You must have accidentally left it there when the two of you met to plot how you would steal the blackmail money from Henri and then kill him.”

  “Bitch, you crazy.” He sneered, walking to the dresser across from the bed and opening the top drawer. “I told you, I didn’t kill Henri. You think if I killed Henri I’d still be on this island? And I didn’t leave my phone at Stazia’s. That bitch stole it and then gave it to Icarus.”

  My heart nearly imploded. “Why would Stazia give Icarus your phone?”

  “Why you think?” Sam asked, a sly taunt in his tone. “It wasn’t me and Stazia plotting to kill Henri. It was Stazia and Icarus.”

  “That’s not true.” I shook my head as he rooted through the drawer he’d opened, slinging my bras over his shoulder. “What the hell are you looking for? That phone is not in any of those drawers!”

  Laughing softly, he nodded and opened more drawers, flinging my clothes left and right, searching for the burner phone he seemed to believe was hidden in my suite. “Did you know they used to be together? Icarus and Stazia? They were friends with benefits. A lot of benefits.”

  Disturbed, I looked away.

  “Figured Icarus hadn’t told you about his former fuck buddy. Although, I’m not sure they really ever stopped hooking up. Stazia probably told Icarus about Henri’s idea to blackmail one of you dirty rich skanks,” he said, taking a moment to glower at me. His look of disgust was almost tangible, like a slap. Despite his employment, I sensed he had only resentment, scorn, and maybe hatred for the women whose fantasies he made come true.

  “I think Icarus went to steal the blackmail money from Henri,” he said, sending several pairs of my underwear sailing toward me to land on the bed. For a moment, I thought he might be distracted enough to give me an opportunity to escape, but when I glanced at him, I saw that he was staring back at me though the mirror, keeping an eye on me. “Then Henri caught him, and they argued, fought, and Icarus stabbed Henri. Then, Stazia steals my phone and sees the messages I sent Henri—”

  “The messages where you threatened to kill Henri,” I reminded him.

  “Wasn’t really gonna kill Henri,” Sam sulked. “I was just trying to let him know not to fuck with me. Trying to scare him.”

  “Why would you need to scare Henri?” I asked, trying to focus on getting more info from him. “I thought the two of you were close.”

  “Yeah, well, money is interesting,” Sam said. “It can make a person forget who their real friends are.”

  “Is that why you killed Henri?” I probed, feeling slightly like my old self, slyly coaxing a witness into impeaching themselves. “Because he was going to take all the blackmail money? He wasn’t going to give you your cut of the cash like he’d promised?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Sam said. “I’ll tell you this, though. Stazia’s ass is mine when I find that bitch. Bad enough the bitch steals my phone, but then, she reads my messages and sees the threats I sent Henri, which I wasn’t gonna follow through on. But, she tries to use the messages to her advantage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bitch tries to blackmail me,” Sam said, shaking his head, astonished. “She tells me if I don’t give her the money Henri blackmailed out of you, she’s going to show the cops the threatening messages I sent Henri. Bitch lost her mind. First of all, I ain’t got the blackmail money. I don’t know where it is. Henri must have hid it before he got his sneaky, shady ass killed. I tell that bitch Stazia I’m looking for the damn money myself. She calls me a liar, says Henri told me to go pick up the money from the drop location, so I must have it. But, that ain’t true. Matter of fact, some bullshit is happening because Henri told me that he was gonna have Stazia pick up the money from the drop location.”

  “So, Henri lied to both of you?” I stared at him, my heart pounding.

  “Sonofabitch.”

  My head spinning, I asked, “So, who did Henri really tell to pick up the money from the drop location?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Sam growled, advancing toward the bed. “Can’t worry about that. I need my phone. If Icarus gives my phone to the cops, it’s gonna look like I could have killed Henri, but I ain’t gonna let that happen.”

  “I don’t have the burner phone,” I told him. “Now get the hell out of here!”

  Heart slamming, I stared at him as he came closer to the bed, a strange look on his face, a mix of disgust and desire.

  “What I don’t understand is, why did you come to this hotel?” Sam shook his head.

  “What?” I asked, confused by his disjoined incongruity.

&nb
sp; “You’re a damn good-looking bitch,” he said. “I can’t believe that you ain’t never had nobody screw you right.”

  As Sam came closer to the bed, my heart nearly exploded, and I tried to scoot back as far as I could, but there was nowhere for me to go. I was pressed against the tufted headboard with only a pillow sham to protect me from what I suspected would be Sam’s attempt to assault me.

  The only potential weapons at my disposal were just out of reach. On the night table to my right, there was a silver clock and a conch shell paperweight. On the table to the left of the bed was a lamp. The bedroom accessories were heavy enough to stun and disarm so I could get away, but I was lying in the middle of the king-sized bed. If I tried to go left or right, Sam would most likely get there before me.

  “Can’t believe you gotta pay somebody to bang you,” Sam said, still sneering and smug.

  “Go to hell!”

  “Bitch!” he grunted, and before I could react, Sam was on the bed and then leaping toward me, grabbing me, trying to pin me down. Screaming, I kicked my leg out, but he slammed a fist against my ankle. Undeterred, and despite the pain, I kicked again, connected with his shoulder, and then flipped over, scrambling toward the bed table, determined to grab the conch shell paperweight, and—

  Abruptly, my body flipped violently, and I saw the tray ceiling and then Sam’s hulking form over me, his hand swinging toward my face, crashing against my cheek. Lights popped and pinged behind my eyes as the pain, localized at first, quickly spread, throbbing toward my eye, across my nose, and down my jaw. Dazed, I was barely able to lift my arms to fight him.

  Pinning my hands over my head, he thrust a knee between my thighs, forcing them open, the rough denim of his jeans scratching my skin.

  “No, don’t! Stop it!” I screamed through gritted teeth, and when he removed his hand from my left wrist, I slapped and scratched at his face, but he bobbed and weaved his head, avoiding my blows as he started to unzip his pants. “Get away from me!”