by Ella James
He shakes his head, as if he’s lost. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly soft. “It’s my home.”
“Only if I decide to give it to you. So far, I haven’t thought of a single reason why I should.”
“What if I told you the money is gone unless you do?”
I snort. “Are you a magician?”
His eyes harden. “The money is gone, Red. It’s been gone since this morning. I had it removed.”
“W-what do you mean?” My voice is squeaky.
“Your check for that car you bought won’t bounce. But everything else is gone.”
I start to tremble, shoulders first, then chest. “Are you fucking kidding me? Is this a fucking joke?” I fumble for my phone and he steps closer. “Go ahead and check,” he says. “You’ll see.”
I can barely get to the bank’s web site, my hands are shaking so badly. When I see the balance, I nearly vomit: $245.13.
“I don’t understand! Why did you do this?”
“I needed to get you here.”
“I would have probably come if you’d asked like a normal person!”
He shakes his head. “I needed a guarantee.”
I grind my jaw together as hard as I can and put my head in my hands. I haven’t felt this screwed—this utterly and totally fucked—since mom was diagnosed.
I feel his hand touch my shoulder, and I slap him off. “I can’t believe this shit. I can’t believe—”
He holds up a check, and I shut my mouth.
My name is in the “to” space. The dollar amount is $60,000.
Suddenly, my lungs work again. It takes me a moment to find my voice, and when I do, it’s raspy and weak. “How can I trust you? If you can deposit and remove money from my account one time…” I shake my head. “How did you even do that?”
“It wasn’t easy. It’s not something just anyone can do. I doubt I could do it again, for what that’s worth.”
“It’s worth nothing.”
I take a step back, and his fingers close around my arm as his black eyes find mine. “I’m sorry I did things this way. I really am. I’d like nothing more than to hand this check to you—and I will. As soon as you agree to sign the island over to me. Come with me, Red. Just for a night. Give me a chance to talk you into this. You can see where your grandmother lived.”
I look at the blue and white sailboat behind him. It’s got two glossy cedar benches in the middle, two motors on the back, and a steering wheel podium near the front. I shake my head. I’m not going anywhere with him.
“God, this is so my luck. Some asshole poses as my grandmother, and now you want to steal her island from me. You’re like…the big bad wolf.”
He blanches for just a second before he turns his face into something more neutral. “Get into the boat, Red. I promise you’ll be glad you did.”
Wolfe
Surprises.
Fucking hell, I’m rocked by her surprises. For starters: the little redhead makes my dick hard. The righteous outrage. I’m glad I pissed her off. How fucking sexy is that mouth when she’s using it to slap me around?
As she stands there with her hands on her hips, glaring at me like she’s sure she knows how big and bad I am, I’m shifting to try and hide my erection.
I can’t keep my eyes from returning to her breasts. They stretch her long-sleeved gray t-shirt. I run my gaze down to her curvy hips and wonder what she’d do if I grabbed her ass right now.
I can’t believe my reaction to her. The way my dick salutes her. The way my balls draw up like she’s tickling them with her tongue.
It’s not because she’s classically beautiful. She’s got an unusual look: long, straight, red hair; red lips; porcelain skin with a smattering of freckles on her nose. Her blue eyes are big and wide. If I had to paint her as an animal, I’d make her a fox. Sleek. Striking.
I roll my gaze down her lithe body, lingering on her hips, encased in jeans. I wonder what her cunt would taste like.
Strawberries, I bet.
I imagine thrusting two fingers into her slick, pink flesh; working my pinkie into her tight asshole.
I’d love to see those legs sag open for me.
I want to hear her moan and pant, feel her writhe under me.
“This is a really terrible thing to do to someone,” she says, hands on her hips. “You’re using my financial troubles to manipulate me.”
I arch a brow. “I’m offering you an easy chance to drive off tomorrow with a check for sixty thousand dollars and an opportunity to net much more for your grandmother’s trust.”
“Really? Because it looks to me like you gave me thirty thousand dollars, then snatched it away in order to control me. I’d rather be poor and homeless than manipulated by an ass like you.”
Christ, she’s sexy.
I struggle to suppress a smile.
“I’d like you to come and see the island,” I try.
“So I can decide if I want to give it to you?” She snorts. “I can tell you right now, my answer is ‘no.’”
“Reconsider.”
She bites down on her lower lip, and my dick pulses. I wonder if she’s red between her legs.
“Why should I get into a boat with you, wolf?”
I hate how she keeps calling me that—my real last name—so I’m terse when I say, “Do it because I asked.”
A little laugh, soft as the wind. “Are you sure you were my grandmother’s employee? Something about you feels really…lawyer to me. Lawyer or…hmmm.” She strokes her chin. “Maybe banker.”
I force myself to breathe. “You’ve got it all wrong, Rojo.”
I step down into the boat to give her the illusion of space. If she turns to leave, I’ll go after her, but she doesn’t need to know that.
I watch her look from me to the parking lot, so obviously considering her choice. I’m still hard, so I lean on the dock and try to find something about her I don’t like.
Freckles.
Never have liked them.
She has freckles.
Except on her, they emphasize just how fucking smooth and soft and unblemished the rest of her skin is. I wonder if she has freckles on her breasts.
I grit my teeth again, and when I look back at her face, I get this feeling like she might be checking me out, too.
Another surprise: The scrutiny makes me squirm.
Squirming makes me angry. I’m not who I used to be, and most days I think it’s for the best. But this is pathetic.
I reach out and grab her around the knees, throw her over my shoulder, and set her down inside the boat. I snatch her bags from the dock and say, “Come on, Rojo.”
Her lips twitch. “Are you really calling me Rojo?”
I shrug. “It fits.”
I hedge my bets and turn away from her to finish breaking down the sail. I’m watching, though. She doesn’t run—not yet, anyway. By the time the sail is secured, I’m sweating, so I unbutton the top of my shirt and lean against the side of the boat.
“Come see the place, Rojo. I have some poems for you, and pictures.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances at the dock. “How long did you work for Gertrude?” she asks pointedly.
I can tell from her intense stare that my answer is important, so I don’t say ‘four years.’ It sounds insubstantial, which it’s not.
“We met in Madrid, at an art exhibit. Have you ever heard of ‘W?’”
I know she has. I’ve done my homework.
“He’s one of my favorites,” she confirms.
“I met Trudie at one of his first café shows.”
Her face transforms—a look of wonder; maybe even envy—and I’m irrationally pleased she appreciates my work.
“We both liked nature, and being by ourselves. I moved here to help her keep the island up.”
She bites her lip again, inspecting me from beneath her eyelashes. “Tell me something about my mother. Anything you know. And you will know something if you really k
new Gertrude.”
“Her middle name was Anna, and she liked butterflies and worked as a professor.”
She juts her chin up. “Where did she work?”
“University of Alabama at Birmingham.”
Again, with her teeth on that tasty little lip. My dick, which had been settling down, is all the way up again, and I want to groan.
“Okay, so you really worked for my grandmother. That doesn’t mean you’re not a manipulative asshole. I’m afraid I have no interest in helping you. I’d rather take my money-grubbing self and starve.” She grabs her bags and starts to climb out of the boat, and I’m on her; my hand on her elbow, fingers closing around her smooth skin.
“C’mon, Rojo. Just come see it with me. All I’m asking for is one night. How about this? If you come with me, I’ll pay you ten thousand. Either way. I promise.” I put my heart and soul into the word, because what’s left of them is anchored to that goddamn island. I can’t exist anywhere else. For so many reasons. I jerk my gaze around the docks, suddenly terrified someone will recognize me and I’ll lose my chance with her.
Her mouth puckers. “I want to see a photo ID or I won’t even consider your ridiculous request.”
Fuck!
I rake a hand back through my hair. “I don’t have it on me.”
“Really. ’Cause that’s not strange or anything…”
I straighten my shoulders. “I don’t often leave the island.”
“Also strange,” she says. “Why is that?”
“I’m uncomfortable around people.” It’s the closest I can get to the truth, which reads more like I hate everyone.
That’ll win her, James.
As if she hears my thoughts, she says, “What’s your name?”
“Race.” It’s my college nickname.
“Race what?” She’s frowning at me like she thinks I’m stupid.
“Race Hollister.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Do you have a problem with it?”
“Only that I can’t believe you. What the hell would make me go anywhere with you, let alone a deserted island where you could chop me into little pieces and feed me to your pet turtles?”
“Turtles aren’t meant to be pets. Most animals aren’t.”
“Even posing as a humanitarian, I still don’t trust you.”
I take a step away from her, suddenly drained. “I’m not going to keep begging, Rojo. If you don’t need ten thousand dollars, walk away. If you do, get in.”
Red
My stomach twists when I think of the money he’s offering. Ten thousand dollars is enough to tide me over until I find work. Sixty is enough to take a year or two off. Enough to travel almost anywhere I want.
“You must really want this island badly.”
He rubs his forehead, reminding me of a tired child. “I do.”
Even now, standing close enough so I can see the sweat on his brow and throat, he’s beautiful. A handsome villain.
I sigh. “I can’t believe I’m desperate enough to consider this.”
“I’m sorry I called you a money-grubber.”
I meet his eyes and am surprised to find they’re softer now. Probably an act.
I look down at my bag and purse, then around, at the other boats, then out at the sea, which is choppy from the humid breeze. I drag my phone out of my pocket.
“Let me see if I’ve got service. The e-mail you sent had the longitude and latitude of the island. I’ll copy that and send it to a friend. Just in case you turn out to be a lunatic. Promise me you won’t turn out to be a lunatic?”
He nods, looking surprisingly serious. “Scouts’ honor.”
“Shit. That’s not enough. Just e-mailing my friend is definitely not enough to convince me to go with you. I need something more. I need…I don’t know. A reference. Or maybe I don’t…” I have a Taser in the bottom of my purse. I could always use that.
No—I’ve got a much better idea!
He turns away from me and moves over to the motors, and I point my phone at him. With trembling fingers, I pull my camera up and set it on video mode. When he turns back toward me, I get a side shot of his face and send it, along with a note and the island’s coordinates, to Katie.
He’s leaning back over the motors, pulling on the top of one of them so it rises slightly out of the water, when I notice the bulge in his pants.
Chapter Three
Red
This is a surprise.
Does he find me attractive? This man? I’m not ugly, but I’m no beauty—and I know that. And yet, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a hard-on for my brilliant personality.
All we’ve done so far is argue.
Maybe he gets off on arguing.
He looks up from what he’s doing and, again, I think he looks tired. Much wearier and more sympathetic than a jerk like him has a right to look.
I wonder how close he was to Gertrude.
I wonder why he doesn’t want to leave the island.
I’m a fool for caring.
He turns back around toward me, and a quick glance-over reveals he’s tucked his boner away. Or lost it. For a moment I’m dizzied by how good he looks in those slacks; how much broader his shoulders are than his hips.
Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s what he is. And an asshole.
“So, you ready?” The corner of his lip tugs up, as if he’s trying to smile and failing.
“Hmm.” I make him sweat it, because he deserves that much. Then, after I tuck my hair behind my ears and sit down on one of the benches, I say, “I guess so.”
A brilliant grin spreads over his face, confirming what I’d figured: He’s got a beautiful smile. It lightens his eyes, almost literally. They don’t look quite so dark.
“Thanks for this. Either way I’ll drop you back here tomorrow with a check.”
“You fucking better.”
I spend the next few minutes pretending to be absorbed with something on my phone. I have the wherewithal to be sure the GPS tracking service is turned on, in the event he does turn out to be insane. But I don’t get that vibe.
A few minutes later, his big hand is pushing the boat away from the dock. He’s stepping over to the steering podium, and I’m shamelessly watching the way his shirt melds against the hard lines of his back.
I hunch my shoulders against the wind and watch him as he steers the boat, first idling through the cove, then pushing a joystick up a few inches and increasing our speed until the boat’s nose rises out of the water, then the rest of it. The boat bounces as it flies across the sea.
I wonder if the money will be worth this ordeal. I hope I learn something from what I see of Gertrude’s home. I wish Gertrude was here.
This day has turned out to be so fucking weird.
I let my mind wander as the wind whips my hair out behind me.
I’m curious to know whether Gertrude liked the color blue, like Mom did; whether she was a fan of sunflower patterns and brightly colored kitchenware. Mom was the queen of neon orange and pink coffee mugs, of funky watermelon plates in summer. Did she get her style from her stoic poet mother? How far off base was I, when I would dream of meeting the great Gertrude O’Malley?
Maybe Gertrude was more like me. My favorite colors are green and pink, my favorite season fall. I’m a writer. Not a poet, but still a writer.
I gather my hair into one of my hands and wonder why I didn’t bring a rubber band. I guess I thought Gertrude’s boat would have an inside. I pictured it big. I pictured her on it.
Sigh.
Another glance up at Race’s back and ass, and I’m distracted by the bulge I imagine is still straining against his pants.
I’m practically twitching with nervous energy—nervous, sexually appreciative, emotionally irritated energy—so I decide instead of just watching him from my seat, I’ll join him at the pedestal that houses the steering system.
I hold onto the side of the boat as I move, feeling grateful I
wore sneakers. Beyond the boat’s nose, the horizon line bounces. Clouds bear down on the water, matching my mood.
I clutch the edge of the podium, and he looks over at me. He’s not wearing sunglasses, so his eyes are squinted slightly against the glare of the water.
I lean closer to him, and I swear I think I can feel him checking me out. Not simply looking at me; looking at me.
I lean back a little, trying to ignore the way my body calls to his, and raise my voice so he can hear me over the wind and choppy sea. “Why did she want you to have the island?”
He shakes his head, turning toward me, so his torso is an inch from my shoulder, and his lips are almost brushing my cheek. I lose my breath again, in a way I haven’t since high school—and earlier today. “Probably because I live there,” he says.
We hit a bump, and my shoulder bumps into his chest, sending a starburst of sensation through me. I look into his face, wondering why it strikes me as familiar.
“Are you a recluse?”
His eyes flicker over to mine, then back out to the sea. His looks first annoyed, then amused. “Is this a quiz?”
“I think I have a right to quiz you.”
One dark eyebrow arches. “Terrible thing, loaning you money to buy a car. That’s basically what I did, you realize. That and offer to pay you ten thousand dollars for a night on an island.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You took advantage of me.”
“I wish you would stop saying that, Rojo.”
“Quit calling me that,” I say. “It sounds like a man’s name, and the part that sticks out in my mind the most is ‘ho.’”
He smirks, and in that low voice of his, he says, “Are you a ho?”
I pinch my lips together to avoid a smile; his tone is clearly teasing. “No. I’m not.”
A reluctant little half smile slips over his mouth, and my poor neglected vagina responds. I bite my lip to distract myself from the party in my jeans.
I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling a little weird about myself. This is hardly a normal response to finding out about the death of one’s grandmother. Then again, Gertrude was a total stranger. Her death is, for me, mainly just a disappointment. The end of some remote possibility that probably wasn’t ever possible at all.
