Paradise Bay: Resort 1 (Surrender Isle #1)

by Havana Scott

  “Crossing fingers, legs, and boobs.” The phone rang again. Twice in one day! Maybe things were changing around here. Maybe luck was coming. “Gem City Travel?”

  “Here goes nothing,” I whispered and hit SUBMIT.

  Chapter 2

  Slapping on my lucky UM baseball cap, I stared out at the sea. It was a fine day to be a pirate. The West Indies were legit intense this morning. Winds from the east, a warm breeze blowing across the water, and a brilliant sun illuminating my kingdom of Paradise Bay. We needed to make this meeting quick, so I could get back to my boat and untap a keg of rum.

  As a kid, it was always my dream to be a pirate when I grew up. But then, my dad sat me down one day and explained that pirates weren’t nice, and I shouldn’t aim to be like one. They raped, stole, set towns on fire. The minute the words left his mouth, I wanted to be a pirate more than ever. I wanted to be head pirate of all pirates. I wanted to be Tristan “Blackbeard” Giovanetti, the greatest treasure thief who ever lived.

  As for rape, I always had the good sense to realize the best sex was the kind bestowed upon you, earned after romantic machinations, sometimes a mojito or two. I’d never had any trouble securing women, though I swear that wasn’t why my boat out on the dock was named Booty Catcher. Booty, here, meant everything I’d ever wanted.

  As in, the tropical paradise all around me.

  There were definitely perks to being one-third owner of a small island in the French Indies ten square kilometers in size. You could say the female guests here always figured out who I was within moments. They could smell it on my clothes, see it in my eyes, feel it in my pockets when they reached for my…wallet. These vacationing goddesses—older, most of them, were like fine wine. Some were younger, but all were bored to tears. They had no real drama in their lives, so they fashioned it out of nothing. Trophy wives, rich single women looking for trouble.

  And they almost always found it in my cabin.

  Except for lately. When you experience this lifestyle long enough, eventually, you start yearning for the real girls back home. Miami women worked their asses off during the day and somehow still found the time and energy to shine like a diamond at night. Hardworking women never made their way out to Sorendi Isle, because…well, work.

  A hard slap on my shoulder interrupted my thoughts. I’d been sitting under our “meeting room” tiki hut for the last thirty minutes skimming through the culled-down list of entries. Two thousand were now a hundred, divided by three—me, Reece, and Simon. Out of the thirty I’d read so far, nothing grabbed me.

  “Ah, can’t have a meeting without the lucky hat, can we?” Reece Harden, my other third, slapped my back and plopped into his seat. “I have to get going soon. Cruise leaves in an hour. Hey, have you seen Bella? I’m dying for her mojitos, bro. Where did you find her anyway?” He adjusted his sunglasses and scanned the beach for our newest bartender.

  My buddy Gabe in Miami had recommended Bella after hearing about her boyfriend situation and having one of her signature drinks at a South Beach club, so when I flew home to see Mami last month, I snatched her up and brought her back with me right on the spot. Told her she needed to get away from that dickhead, that we could make a better life for her here. I’d never seen a woman so grateful. Yeah…that grateful.

  She blossomed like a hibiscus.

  That was how we did things here on Sorendi Isle—impulsive, but for good reason.

  But impulsive had also gotten us into trouble. Our resorts began at University of Miami School of Business as a class project, and here we were six years later living the dream. Because I thrived on turning visions into reality, the first PR firm we’d hired had the “out of the box” idea to market us as an island for cheaters. Yeah, you heard me. And because we were young and stupid and it sounded “cool,” we agreed. At first, it was profitable, then social media lashed back at us, and we suffered a slump of negativity. Now, we were taking things in a new direction.

  I was hoping to transform Sorendi Isle into a positive place, but I hadn’t found a unique angle yet. We needed an upscale crowd this time, guests looking for a new St. Tropez. It would take more investment, so we dug into our pockets and parents’ bank accounts (Simon and Reece, not me), and into outside investors (Tatianne Moreau, a woman with more money to spend than she knew what to do with), until we scraped up enough to revamp our two resorts and cruise line.

  Now it was time to earn back our investment.

  That’s where this essay contest came in—the guys didn’t know this, but I was hoping to find the right writer to brand us. If we wanted to be in business another year, our investors needed to see growth. Sorendi Isle was a Hollywood starlet on her way to becoming a household name, but we needed to hurry. And so, the online essay contest was born. Last month, it went viral, and suddenly our website’s hits had tripled in two months, but we still needed more bookings before the end of the year.

  Simon blurred by, skidding into an Adirondack chair. “Sorry I’m late. Francine was on fire this morning. I don’t know what got into her first, but I’m glad I got into her second.” Simon high-fived Reece. The two of them laughed and opened their laptops.

  Cretins.

  I sat there studying my buds. These guys and I had been through it all—college, post-graduate, parties, girlfriends, owning restaurants and clubs, until finally purchasing Sorendi Isle. As long as I could remember, we’d always been playboys, but lately, I’d withdrawn. Maybe because I felt more responsible for this island’s success than Simon and Reece did. If our business failed, they’d still have Mommy and Daddy to bail them out, whereas I was the only one with middle-class parents. So yes, I’d taken a more serious approach to making this business succeed.

  I’d also disconnected from them, because…how long were we going to do this? Live the bachelor life, bedding women of our dreams then sending them off to tan while we congratulated ourselves for being complete dicks? I couldn’t tell them how I’d been feeling lately, how I’d been craving the weekends home to Miami more and more.

  I gave our three resorts—Paradise Bay, Hideaway Cove, and Pleasure Cruise—another year. If we couldn’t get our profits up and pay off investors—then it’d be time to pack it up and call it a day.

  “Bonjour, Mr. Giovanetti, Mr. Harden, Mr. Coffe.” Dalia—brunette, compact, and well-endowed—sidled up to us, precariously balancing a tray of three tall drinks over ice. “Bella’s pomegranate mojitos for you this morning. I hope that’s okay.” Dalia had the whitest most perfect smile of any of our staff members. One of the drinks tumbled right out of her hands and onto Simon’s lap.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  “Mon dieu, I am so sorry!” Poor Dalia scrambled to clean it, blotting Simon’s crotch with a waist towel. That got a chuckle out of me.

  Too bad I was going to have to fire her.

  She was beautiful as hell, but in the two weeks since she’d been here, she’d tripped three times—four now—spilling our most expensive Zacapa Centenario rum all over the sand, and I just couldn’t afford her anymore.

  “Let me just get mine before it spills.” Reece swept his glass off her tray and flashed her a sympathetic smile.

  “I will bring you another one right away, Mr. Coffe. I am such a klutz. So sorry…”

  “Not to worry,” Simon said, plucking a slice of lime from his shorts and sucking on it.

  I swallowed down Bella’s ice cold elixir. Ahh, nectar of the Gods. “Dalia, Simon needed to cool off this morning anyway, so don’t worry about it.” I laughed. “Can I see you in thirty minutes?” And pack your bags.

  “Of course, Mr. Giovanetti.” Her smile hid a wave of nervousness. She’d be fine back in Barbados. Reece could give her a return ride when Pleasure Cruise headed that way.

  “Alright, gentlemen, can we get this meeting going? The ocean calls me today.”

  “The ocean calls you everyday,” Reece said. “I think she’s your new side chick. Soon, you’ll marry her, have water bab
ies, and we’ll be called Family Island.”

  “First of all, I can’t have a side chick if I don’t have a main chick,” I said.

  Simon faked a cough. “Hack-Tatianne.”

  “And seconnnnd…” I’d ignore that. Tatianne was not and never was—my main chick. She was my introduction into real estate, the widow of business mogul, René Moreau, from the South of France who came to Miami often. She might have been my former lover, but never my girlfriend.

  “There won’t be any Sorendi Isle if we don’t choose our winners—today—right now,” I said. Two topless beauties strolled the sand before us, smiling luminescent grins, with their golden breasts in full bloom. I greeted them with a raise of my drink. Dear God, I love my job.

  “Tristan…” Simon stared at the topless girls. “The contest already did its job. The winners are just a formality.”

  “I disagree.” I snapped my fingers, redirecting his focus toward me. “If we pick the right people, they can write reviews for us and continue to spread the word over social media and travel sites. If we do this long enough, choosing new winners every month, our new reputation will begin to grow roots.”

  “Where are we going to put them?” Reece shrugged. “We can’t give them our best villas when we’re reserving them for real guests. That’s the whole point of the promotion.”

  “The woodland cabins. They should be happy just to be here at all,” Simon said.

  The guys nodded in agreement, but—that was a mistake.

  We had to be strategic about this. If we gave them the inland cabins, they would sing the praises of the inland cabins. If we gave them the stilt villas out on the ocean, our prized possessions, they would promote those instead. That’s what we wanted. Problem was, there were only five, and one was reserved for Tatianne—whenever she wanted it, whenever she dropped by for a visit.

  The guys scrolled through their assigned entries. “Here’s one,” Simon said, “this woman’s been battling cancer for a year, knows she’s dying soon. I’m picking this one.”

  “Why?” Reece scoffed. “So she can die before she has the chance to tell the world about her experience? Bad strategy.”

  “Reece, not cool, man.” Simon shook his head. “Fine, here’s another one. A guy who wants to send his mother-in-law to a deserted island is begging us to choose her.”

  Reece shook his head. “Exactly what we don’t need for our image.”

  Simon bristled. “We’ll have married dudes all over the world disposing of their mothers-in-law here. We’ll rename it PITA Isle—Pain in the Ass.”

  “Guys, come on.” What did it mean that I didn’t share their sense of humor anymore? “Read a few more then we’ll each pick one. The winners will need time to secure their jobs and prepare for their stay, so I say we accommodate them for June, July, and August, since that’s our slowest season. All agree?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  “Alright.” Good, maybe I could get onto the water before sundown.

  We spent ten more minutes going through our entries. Simon was right. They all sounded pretty much the same, one sob story after another. I automatically nicked the boring or shitty grammar ones, because why would I want their testimonials when they couldn’t even spell?

  Another cancer patient I didn’t feel right choosing over another cancer patient, another dude who’d been through a sexless marriage, another woman who’d lost her job. Sigh. I clicked on one of the last entries in my stack and skimmed the letter: …coconut water…hibiscus petals…cabana boy… What the?

  I chuckled, my chest shaking. Making love to him? Ha! When I looked up, the guys were staring at me. Had it been that long since I laughed?

  “What?” Simon grunted.

  “This one’s pretty funny…”

  “Read it.”

  Clearing my throat, I read, “With his biceps and abs so hard and sinewy, it’d be like having sex with stone—ancient island stone.” I shook with laughter. Something about it, I don’t know. Just fucking funny.

  “It’s entertaining, but she hasn’t given a reason why she should be picked above everybody else,” Reece said. “Does funny mean she deserves it?”

  I balked. “Actually, we didn’t ask people to write about why they deserve to be here,” I reminded Reece. “We asked them to describe their dream experience.” And the writer did just that. Paris Jones was her name. Cute name to go with a snarky personality.

  “I still think we should pick people who could benefit from a dream island vacation.”

  “Who wouldn’t, Reece?” I shrugged at him. “Who wouldn’t benefit from time away?”

  Reece checked his watch. “I don’t know. It’s funny, but it’s like she’s making fun of what we do.”

  Yeah, I could see the sarcasm too, but there was something challenging about that. To me, she was the perfect candidate, because she didn’t really believe that dreams could come true. She didn’t believe that paradise could really exist except in dollar store romance novels. But it did. I was proof of it, and I wanted to prove it to Paris Jones from, uh…I checked the info…Dayton, Ohio too.

  I reread the whole essay. Her words flowed like honey. Even though she was being super cheeky, it wasn’t all cynicism. This woman was sad. Her last lines resonated with me. I am merely a writer of fiction, a teller of lies, and writing is all I’d do with my month anyway. Like she hadn’t reached her dreams yet.

  How many times had I found my dad trying to write late at night after we’d all gone to bed, and I’d snuck out, because if Papi couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t sleep. After a day of hard accounting at the office, he was still up, still working, still telling me he was going to get his story published one day. I was so proud of him—my dad, the future novelist.

  But he never published his book. He put three boys through college and made sure we were self-made men, but he never fulfilled his dream. I’d long felt guilty about that, that we’d swiped him of energy and maybe even the will.

  I didn’t know if this Paris woman was married, had kids, or what. I didn’t know if she would even be able to get away from her life if she won, but something told me she did deserve this vacation. I wanted her to know that she was pretty damned talented too. I wanted her to know that I’d laughed aloud on a morning when I felt disconnected and wanted to sail away. For a moment, she’d spoken to me when she invited me into her “dream.”

  What was Sorendi Isle if not a place to fulfill one’s dreams?

  Dreams were, after all, what we were selling. And yes, I would give my winner Tatianne’s cabin. She needed to see our best side, and Tatianne wasn’t due for a visit anytime soon anyway, so it would all work out.

  I emailed my choice to Reece and Simon and stood, slapping closed my laptop. Booty Catcher awaited me in the distance. “I made my choice. Sent it to you both. The ocean awaits, gentlemen. I’m off like a prom dress.”

  “Later, dude.”

  “See you, Tristan.”

  Dalia stood by the infinity pool, nervously wringing her hands. “Écoutez, amour,” I told her, avoiding the worried crook of her lips. “Go get your things and meet Reece at the cruise ship back to Barbados. Nothing personal. You’ve had a good run here. We just need to move on.” I kissed her cheek and took off down the walkway. “Au revoir, Dalia.”

  She sniffled behind me, but I couldn’t let it bother me. Sometimes, to get from Point A to Point B, you had to cut your losses. Always room for improvement. It wasn’t personal—it was business. Slipping my shades over my eyes and pulling down my baseball cap, I pushed forward in the brilliant sunshine, feeling good about today’s choices.

  A great day to be a pirate indeed.

  Chapter 3

  “Bonjour! Welcome to Sorendi Isle!”

  A group of incredibly gorgeous women in bikini tops and floral wrap skirts stood waving with beaming smiles the moment I stepped off the amphibious plane from Martinique. Had I taken the essay contest seriously two months ago,
I would’ve started working on my base tan to at least try to blend in. Instead, everyone would no doubt marvel at Princess Alabaster with her connect-the-dot freckles. Suddenly, I felt awkward in my yellow Target sundress.

  A sexy woman in her late twenties wearing white pants and halter top strolled up to me, hand outstretched stacked with beaded bracelets. She was like Queen Mother of all the welcoming girls, with a French accent, of course. Because pourquoi pas? “Miss Jones, I’m Natasha Loren, Manager of Affairs at Paradise Bay. We are delighted to have you here on Sorendi Isle. We do hope you enjoy our little slice of heaven.” Her smile was effortless and breezy, like the island I’d landed on.

  “Thank you. More like heaven on Earth! From the air, it was utterly amazing!” I hadn’t even gotten off the dock and into the car yet, and already, I spotted green parrots flying overhead in groups. A welcoming girl laced a stack of Bohemian beads around my neck, as gentle hot winds curled around my legs.

  “Oui, it really is one of the more beautiful islands on which I’ve had the pleasure of working. Come, your car is waiting to take you to your accommodations. I will show you where the main house is. There, you can dine any time of day or simply lounge in our open-air veranda.”

  “Sounds incredible.” In a million years, I never would’ve imagined myself here. Had someone told me three months ago that in June, I’d be vacationing in the French Indies, I would’ve laughed at them. Someone pinch me!

  Queen Mother Natasha ushered me into the backseat of the open Jeep then slid in beside me. “Were you excited when you found out you had won?” I noticed right away that our arms, almost touching, appeared to come from two different species of human. Hers were toned, thin, and naturally tanned, whereas none of my adjectives started with T.

  Stop.