Paradise Bay: Resort 1 (Surrender Isle #1)

by Havana Scott

  If I was going to spend an entire month obsessing over how Midwestern I looked compared to the natives, I would never enjoy my time here. “Actually, I was pretty shocked,” I said. “I had no idea I was going to win. I wrote the silliest thing in the crappiest of moods, and sarcasm has always been my middle name, so…yeah.”

  “Whatever you wrote, it worked,” Natasha laughed. “It caught the attention of our owners and all the staff. You have quite a gift of words.”

  “Oh. It was nothing. Seriously, I wrote it in like a minute.” I always had trouble accepting compliments. This, too, needed to change. “Thank you.”

  She tilted her head with a wary eye. “All artists think the work they do is easy. That anybody can do it. Great artists are usually humble. That’s how I know you’re good at it.” We sat in silence for a minute, which was perfect, because I needed time to take in the outrageous natural beauty all around.

  The narrow street on which we rode was paved, and the trees we were entering stretched overhead in a green canopy for thirty feet or more. I knew it was a rainforest—I’d downloaded their online map before leaving—an active, alive one at that. Chirping crickets, birds, and other animals created a beautiful symphony unlike anything I had ever heard in my suburban neighborhood of Kettering.

  Colors were out-of-control vivid. The only time I’d ever seen water as blue as the one I’d flown over was on travel blogs and Kmart ads for above-ground swimming pools, and I thought that was because of Photoshop amplifying the chlorine. Nope. Apparently, nature here was just that amazing. Our Jeep slowed, as we reached a sign ahead of us pointing in three different directions—Paradise Bay, Hideaway Cove, and Pleasure Cruise.

  “What’s the difference between the three?” I asked Natasha.

  She spoke above the Jeep’s engine. “Paradise Bay is on the west side facing the Caribbean. Think beach resort with villas, pools, white sandy beaches, crystal blue waters. You can easily access the rainforest there too. Hideaway Cove is on the east side, sheltered and unseen from the Atlantic, where the waters are calmer, like an atoll beach or lagoon. Between both there are waterfalls, forests, ruins…both resorts are available for your exploration. However, you will be staying on Paradise Bay this time.”

  “This time?”

  “Well, we are hoping you’ll return time and time again in the future, no?” Natasha smiled her easy breezy commercial smile.

  As if I could ever, ever come back to Sorendi Isle on my own dime. Splinters of resentment poked at my chest knowing I was not, and never would be, rich enough to come here on my own. How the other half made their billions, I would never know.

  “And Pleasure Cruise is a cruise ship, I take it?” I asked. The driver took a left toward Paradise Bay, and my heart began a slow tango as we neared our final destination. A three-hour flight to Miami, then another three-hour flight to Martinique, then a one-hour flight on a plane as sturdy as the Air Hog I’d bought my nephew last Christmas to Sorendi Isle, and I was ready to collapse.

  “Pleasure Cruise is our luxury super yacht which sails the West Indies for four weeks at a time, stopping at many fine island ports of call in the Caribbean, beginning with Barbados. It’s really quite lovely.”

  “I can only imagine.” Understatement there, sister. It only sounded like the most fantabulous cruise ship ever.

  Down a path lined with towering palm trees, we approached a long enclosure wall made out of what looked to be crushed shells, and a big iron gate opened up to let us in. I had no idea what to expect, but my mind and heart now raced, as I internalized what was happening—how I was about to spend a month writing my novel on a beautiful tropical island waiting to be discovered. A wave of emotion rose in my chest, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

  The salty air tickled my nose, as we came closer to the edge of the island.

  Natasha pointed across my view. “There you have the main house, anytime you need anything, let them know. Over there are the infinity pools, cabanas, bars. Just beyond is the marina, and now, Miss Jones, we’ll be taking you straight to your villa.”

  “Don’t I need to check in or anything?”

  Natasha chuckled and patted my arm. “No, darling. This is all-inclusive. Our goal is to ensure you arrive with no worries whatsoever. You are all set. You’ll be staying in Villa One, our most stunning accommodation on the sea.” The Jeep stopped, but I didn’t see any villa. Only more tree-covered paths, exotic hibiscus, frangipani, orchids—real ones—hanging from trees, and untamed beauty all around.

  How had I been living without this all this time?

  As our driver, Michel, unloaded my bags, Natasha led me down a sandy path flanked by small cabins every twenty feet or so. From the salty scents of ocean breeze, I knew we were nearing the beach. But how far down on the sands was my room? Next to the portable toilets? Surely, they wouldn’t give a guest who’d only paid $25 the nicest view in the place, would they?

  Natasha stopped walking. “This is as far as I’ll be taking you. We like for our guests to discover their quarters on their own. Michel will help you with your bags, and cherie, I do wish you a wonderful stay. There are maps and an info iPad inside your villa, but please call on me if you need anything. We shall not disturb you, as we know you are here to work on your book.” She leaned into me and kissed me on both cheeks.

  Whoa, nice French Indies people.

  “I have just one question, Natasha. Um…where exactly is my villa?” We were standing on the edge of the woods opening to the sand. Just beyond, I could see a fantastic curve of heavenly white crescent beach. Water so turquoise, it made turquoise look fake, and few beachcombers in sight.

  Was this all for me?

  “Right there, Miss Jones.” Natasha pointed toward the ocean. Way out into the ocean about fifty feet. I squinted to follow her gaze in the glaring brilliance. In the water—as in right in the water—was a cluster of five circular villas on stilts, little houses, each with an open wall facing the Caribbean Sea. Farthest apart in isolation was the last villa. Villa One?

  Suh-weet!

  “Holy shitsters,” I muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m literally staying in the water,” my voice came out faint. “As in, my floor will hover mere inches above the ocean. I can’t believe this.” I thought my knees would buckle, but Natasha’s giggle kept me rooted.

  “Yes, Miss Jones. That is why we call this Paradise Bay.”

  And then, she was gone.

  I was alone with a great blue expanse, soft winds, and crashing waves. All of it mostly to myself while other people, right at this very moment, toiled at jobs, offices, buildings, schools, and wars. Meanwhile, I had been gifted a corner of heaven all to myself. All because of some words I’d written. It was unfathomable.

  I stopped myself from crying, so Michel wouldn’t feel the need to console me.

  Michel ushered me to the wooden walkway, carrying my bags. “Apréz-vous, mademoiselle.” He gestured for me to go ahead of him. One step after another, I walked over the planks and listened to the sloshing of calm waves below me, a wall of emotion rising again in my chest. I felt like any moment now, it would spill over and I’d bawl from the gratitude.

  We came up on Villa One. It looked bigger, as we approached. Michel unlocked the door, then handed me my key and his business card. “Have a marvelous stay, mademoiselle. Do not hesitate to call on me if you need anything.” He dragged my bags inside the little house, did not wait for a tip, and headed off.

  All-inclusive.

  This was the moment I’d been waiting for, the destination of my journey thus far. Whatever circumstances had led me here, I didn’t know but I gladly accepted them. Padding into the villa, I took a slow look around. There were no words to describe my home for the next month, and words were supposedly my forté.

  A huge king-sized bed graced the middle of the room in white linens covered by a mosquito net. To one side was a wooden table and four chairs as a dining set. On t
he veranda facing the sea was a real live hammock between two posts, and a small kitchen graced the back side of the room. The shelves held a few island knickknacks, wooden carvings of statues, a rain stick, and what looked to be a set of maracas.

  Inside one of the empty drawers, I found a golden lipstick case the last guest must’ve left here. Oh. How dare they not clean this room properly? I would so be giving them a bad review on TripAdvisor. For shame, Paradise Bay. Tsk, tsk, tsk. I giggled, tossed the lipstick back in the drawer, and closed it shut.

  Setting my bags down on the bed, I moved to the open end of the villa and faced the wide, endless water. Caribbean Sea, 100; Paris, 0. This was, hands down, the most humble I’d ever felt in my life. I was at the end of the world. To think that explorers had traversed these waters on days just as brilliant, to think my own country never would’ve been founded had adventurers not taken the chance and stepped onto boats and crossed expanses such as these. I’d written about destinations such as these before, but never left the country.

  Vicarious living was my day job.

  So this was the world. Hello, Earth.

  In the weeks since I’d learned I was the winner, reality had not set in. Intellectually, I knew I’d be going on a trip. Cognitively, I knew I’d be taking a break from my life over the last two years, and Grace would be caring for Cujo while gone, but I never actually processed it. The enormity of my insignificance began hitting me now. The weight of all that had happened in my life, my luck, my blessings, my heartaches and failures all came crashing down on me.

  Slumping to the ground, I sat cross-legged and let the waves of exasperation that’d been threatening to spill from my chest boil over. The tears emerged, and I couldn’t stop crying for what seemed like forever. How had I been given this gift from the universe when Ben sat in a darkened room at our old house alone? When Grace worked just as hard as I did and even had the audacity to be happy for me? How had I earned this?

  I hadn’t. I’d gotten lucky, that was all. Fine, maybe I’d written a cute essay, but still. Now that I was here, I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. I would make my time on Sorendi Isle mean something if it killed me, and if it killed me, then I was in the perfect place to float my body out to sea in a Viking funeral. Eyes closed, I absorbed the warmth blowing in from the ocean and heard the low sound of a motor and water cutting to make way. A boat was nearby.

  Such a gorgeous melody—the combination of slow-moving boats, breezes, and waves crashing. A moment later, a male voice cut through to my half-awareness, jarring my eyes open. “Ahoy, there, miss. You must be Paris.” A voice like sea-weathered leather with a slight accent from I-don’t-know-where.

  My eyes sprung open.

  Palm trees, parrots, foliage, and oceans had been among the amazing sights so far, but the panorama just become exponentially more interesting. On the bow of a gleaming white thirty-foot boat stood a tall, powerfully built man in jeans and a white tank top, holding onto some ropes with biceps so tattooed and hot, I could fry eggs on them. Hello, thick arms. The man waved at me, and I fought the urge to look behind me at who he might be smiling at. With cropped brown hair, golden skin, and an amused gaze, he was a godlike specimen in his late twenties, maybe even the son of Poseidon, the way he just appeared out of the sea.

  And he was side-eyeing me. “You are Paris Jones, aren’t you?”

  “I, uh…” Speak, Paris, speak! “Most of the…uh…the time.”

  “Most of the time?” He slung a rope around a post on my dock to keep from drifting and tied it into a special kind of knot. I found myself wishing this man would jump onto my dock, carry me into the villa, and christen my bed with me. “Who are you the rest of the time you’re not Paris?”

  Okay, I had to speak. And sound witty, if at all possible. Words were all I had.

  I took a breath and began, “Well, let’s see. Some days, I’m Aphrodite standing on my half shell, you know, shy, naked, and cold, but breathtakingly beautiful. Other days, I’m the Little Mermaid singing about owning legs. I guess it depends on whether my clam bikini is in the wash or not.”

  The boat captain’s angular face broke a smile. “Exactly as I expected.” Expected? Who was this fine creature, what did he mean by “as I expected,” and most importantly, was he part of the resort package? “Hopefully, the bikini will stay in the wash for a while,” he chuckled then raised an eyebrow at me. “Which is not me being a flirt, by the way. I’m just saying, it’s normal to go topless here.”

  Well. I was so glad he was pointing out the fact that he was not flirting with me.

  Wait… “Topless?” I hugged myself in an attempt to look unaffected by the thought, though I knew I was giving off vibes of self-consciousness like an SOS signal.

  “Everyone does it. It’s no big deal. You’ll see.” Mystery boat man spoke like an American but sounded something else. Caribbean? Hungarian? “I’m Tristan, by the way. Giovanetti. Nice to meet you, Aphrodite.” Italian? He was making me hungry.

  “Oh, no, no…” I joshed. “See, this is my disguise. I’m just Paris right now. Clothed and safe.” And acting like a complete awkward nerd.

  “Hopefully that’ll change soon.” I caught the glint of the water’s reflection in his light-colored eyes, whatever shade they were, not that it mattered, because holy shit, he was unlike any guy I’d ever seen before, even Ben, who was quite attractive, and my thoughts were rambling, which spelled trouble for me. Huge, huge trouble, trouble, trouble…trouble…

  “Who are you, Tristan?” I shaded my eyes from the sun, stepping onto the dock slowly. “Just some random boat captain who sneaks up on people in the hopes of catching them naked?”

  He bit into his lip but still wouldn’t break a full-out smile. Damn, what a tough nut to crack. “I’m uh…just a random staff member.” Liar. He was probably a guest or a regular or a pirate disguised as a romance novel cover model.

  Hoisting up a box, something like a treasure chest, from the boat floor by his feet, he heaved it up and dropped it right on the dock. See? Pirate. “Here to bring you supplies for your kitchen and welcome you to the best seat in the house—the writer’s cabin.”

  Ah, so he was a cabana boy. He was Serge from my essay. Except with a bird of paradise inked onto his skin. Wait, did he say… “Writer’s cabin? Is that what this is called?”

  “It is now. And this is for the author herself.” He placed a smaller box on top of the pirate chest, crouched to pick it all up in his massive arms, then headed my way. Oh, God, he was coming closer. He was real. A real man with real biceps and a wide stance like a cowboy, and I had nothing to hold onto for faint-prevention. As he passed by on the planks, I was treated to a closer look at his face and short stubble and—there they were, luminescent green eyes. Jesus, take the wheel. Something masculine, mixed with sun and salt, wafted off his skin, reminding me of just how female I was. Gulp.

  So, I guess I’d grown somewhat of a reputation before my arrival, since everyone seemed to know I was “the writer,” “the winner of the essay.” Strange since no one celebrated my writing skills back home. Nobody except Ben who’d said I’d be a bestselling author one day. “You don’t have to haul that in. I can do it…”

  Tristan gave me an offended look before putting the trunk down on the kitchen counter. “You’re our guest, Miss Jones. I’m here to make sure you’re taken care of.” Why that made me gulp five hundred times in two seconds, I wasn’t sure. He jogged back my way, then stopped right in front of me. Tall, taller than me, six-two or three. Gorgey. Gorgey like the sun and moon and all heavenly matter got together and made Poseidon’s baby. He took my hand, which presently behaved like cooked spaghetti, and shook it. “See you around, Miss Jones. Enjoy your view.”

  Oh, I intended to. Like nobody’s business. Then came the smile of a bastard who knew he was hot, knew the effects he had on me, and was milking it for all it was worth. “Thank you so much,” I said. “Uh…Tristan…Giovanerdy.”

  That elicited anoth
er smile. “Giovanetti.” He jogged off again and jumped into the boat.

  I waited while Tristan, the delivery boy, unhooked his rope and drove off on the, uh…Booty Catcher? A bark-laugh escaped my throat. Ah, so I had a pirate and a playa’ on my hands. Well, not literally on my hands, though that would be lovely. With a boat name and physical endowments such as his, I could just imagine all the island ass he’d caught while working here.

  But it wouldn’t be me, unfortunately. No, no, no, I did not have the macking capacity to invite a man like him into my bed, and anyway, I was here for one reason and one reason only—to get a book written.

  In the villa, I opened the trunk up and found staples for the kitchen, as he’d said—bananas, drinks, coconut water for realz, tea, coffee, and lots of yummy, unique snacks, like rum cake. Rum cake! The smaller box was harder to open, but when I finally plucked the top off, there in the middle sat a perfect row of tiny colorful French macarons in pink, green, and white.

  No way!

  A Post-It note was stuck to the inside lid—

  Chapter 4

  Bella was up to her tricks again, serving us something she called the Pink Flamingo with a base of pistachio-infused gin and fresh raspberries. Nothing like a gorgeous, dark-skinned mixologist in a tank top that cradled tight breasts to brighten your day faster than an island sun. “There you go, gentlemen. Have a nice evening.”

  “Thanks, doll,” Simon said, sliding the drink toward him. “You saw her? How was she?” He was asking about Paris Jones, the contest winner occupying Tatianne’s villa.

  “Quite normal, surprisingly. A head, two legs, two boobs, feet—from what I could tell.” Actually, there was a lot more to her, but I was never one to inform anybody right away when I took a liking to a woman. And something about Miss Jones piqued my interest. It could’ve been her complexion. She was easily the whitest girl on the island. It looked good on her, and her body was toned, but there was more. I connected with her sense of humor, even though she felt uncomfortable as hell around me, which was why I left quickly.