Paradise Bay: Resort 1 (Surrender Isle #1)

by Havana Scott

  “Oh? He spoke of me? How sweet of him.”

  “He said you two were friends. That you…used to date.”

  Tatianne’s head tilted back in a cackle. “Oh, cherie, I wouldn’t call it ‘dating.’” The closer she sidled up to me, the better I could see her perfectly smooth, tanned skin, maybe even more perfect than Natasha’s. The only telltale sign of age was in her hands, where the skin was slightly thin and wrinkled. A beautiful woman, and I hated every inch of her.

  “Is there something you want?” I heard the bite in my voice. I was scared to death of her, though I couldn’t figure out why. Because of money? Experience? Or because she reduced Tristan to boy mush? She’d slept with him before, and I hated the insecure part of my brain that wondered if he ever compared me to her.

  “Paris, that’s no way to get along. Can’t we play nice?”

  I felt stupid for being so defensive. “Yes, of course. I don’t know where my manners are. I’m sorry. Do you want something to drink? There’s not much in the fridge, except for some wine.”

  “No, love, it’s only nine a.m. I’m bad, but not that bad.” She took a seat on the same padded square where Tristan and I had made love the first time, that night when we wrestled over my phone. A fleeting thought—had Tristan and Tatianne ever had sex in the same spot? Stop it, Paris. “Did he really have a meeting in Miami?” She clasped her hands together over her knee.

  “That’s what he said. We were together last night—talking,” I don’t know why I added that, “and then we fell asleep. Then, this morning, he was gone.”

  “Did he take his organizer? It’ll say what’s on his schedule for the day.” She got up and peered into Tristan’s cabin. I didn’t like the way she did that. As if to let me know she’d been here before, knew where to find his things, knew his routines. Not cool, lady.

  “I don’t usually look at his organizer, so…” Just the fact that Tatianne would do that made me wonder if I needed to keep Tristan on a short leash. Or maybe she was just that nosy.

  “Hmm, I don’t see it.” She ignored me.

  “I assume what he told me was true.” My belly was shaking with nerves talking to this woman. “Should I not?”

  “Cette meuf…” Tatianne shook her head with a sarcastic chuckle. “Paris, cherie, we need to talk. Tristan came to me this morning. He told me where he was going. Miami, yes, I saw his boarding pass. But you know why? Oh, wait, how silly of me, of course he wouldn’t tell you why.” She scoffed quietly.

  “What do you mean?” A spark ignited in the pit of my stomach.

  “You understand me, don’t you?” She waited for a light bulb to turn on inside my head, but I wasn’t catching on. “He’s just a man, love. Men have needs. And because they have needs, they have several women to…” She dropped her head and laughed. “Ce mec. He can’t help it. Don’t be cross with him.”

  What was she saying? That after he’d been with me last night, he’d gone to see some other woman this morning? In Miami, no less? Could that even be true?

  The blind urge to punch a wall fired through me, but since there were no walls, the urge to punch Tatianne was gaining favor. Tristan did warn me about her, though, and she did look suspiciously to me like a woman playing games.

  I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. “You’re lying. You’re just saying that to hurt me.”

  “Dear, it’s true. Look, don’t take it personally. Men like Tristan—like Reece and Simon—they aren’t one-woman men. Ces mecs, they’re successful and proud of their ability to spread their wealth, and other things, around.” She casually leaned back on the seat and checked her toenails for stray grains of sand, as if all this were perfectly normal, and I should get with the program. “They’re playboys, and when they get tired of one toy, they move onto another. If you’re going to be spending time with him, cherie, you may as well get used to it.”

  No.

  She had to be lying. Tristan said he was in love with me. She had to be making all this bull up just to piss me off, get me to go, because she didn’t like me. I couldn’t listen, no matter how believable it all sounded. Tristan loved me—he said it. I felt it last night. I had never been closer to anyone, not physically nor emotionally. Ever.

  “Even if that were true, why would you be telling me? Why not let me figure it out for myself?”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “He was right—you are a smart one.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Because you…” She gestured to me and my whole physical being. “Isn’t about sex or love. It’s about work.”

  “Work?” What the fuck was she talking about?

  “You know, Paris,” she stood up and walked to the railing, staring out at the sea. “I pity you. I feel the need to help you, woman to woman. Dear, Tristan feels he needs your promotional pieces—the articles, the book you’re writing—and he knows you do your best writing when you’re happy, calm, not worried about life, n’est-ce pas?”

  While I didn’t understand French, I was about to start speaking my own version of it and asking pardon for it all over the place too. “Yes, my life has been stressful the last couple of years. What about it?”

  “Well, you were together last night, yes? And now, you are writing. See? Tristan is your muse. He knows it. I love a man who knows his role.”

  “Are you saying he’s only pretending to love me, so I’ll keep working for him?”

  She laughed loudly. “Who said anything about love? I was talking about sex. He keeps you calm and satisfied, so he can use your talents.”

  That was the craziest thing I’d ever heard. “So, he’s using me.”

  Delicate fingers flung my comment aside. “You make it sound horrible, but business is business. He gives the illusion of tranquility in paradise, doesn’t he? He’s good at that, yes. And in return, you give him the written work he needs to boost his profit. And let me tell you, I don’t know what you are writing about this place, but it is working. Last I checked, they were fully booked through October, and he’s almost paid me off completely, le petît batard.”

  I glared at her. What awful things to say. Even more awful if they were true. “If he pays you back completely, wouldn’t that mean your time here is up?” I asked. Two could play this game. “That’s what you’re scared of.”

  She looked at me with surprise, eyes disappearing into a sunny smile. “Not necessarily. Tristan and I have an understanding.”

  “You have a past—that’s all. You’re afraid that soon, your time will be up, and you won’t be needed anymore. You’re afraid of him casting you aside for me. Once he’s paid you back in full, he’ll have no need for you. That’s what you’re scared of. That’s why you’re telling me these things, Tatianne, but it’s not going to work.”

  Her eyes made of sapphire flashed, and her lashes bowed. “Believe me or not, he’s using you, Paris. I only thought I would inform you, to see if you were strong enough for a relationship with a man like him. It may sound cruel, but at least I tell you the truth, not like these men. You’re right, soon he won’t need me anymore. But as soon as your book is written and published, he won’t need you anymore either. That’s how rich men work, darling. You’re better off going back to the States and finding a man who truly can’t live without you.”

  Like Ben. Like any man at my level. God, my soul felt like it was crumbling.

  I hated her words, but damn, could they be true? It wasn’t inconceivable. This had always been my fear of men with money, that they’d be able to buy themselves more than one woman. And hadn’t he tried to buy me that day? It was all too good to be true. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “I have no way of leaving,” I said, almost breaking into tears. “I used borrowed money to come.”

  “I will pay your ticket home. And whoever you borrowed from. I care for you, Paris. Woman to woman.”

  I wiped silent tears from my cheeks. “I have to finish the job I came to do, at the very least. It would be unprofessional otherw
ise,” I explained. Assuming she was right. Which I wasn’t convinced 100%. But I wouldn’t finish the book for him. I’d finish it for me, because I’d grown to love Sorendi Isle and wanted others to know its delights too.

  “Fair enough.” She let loose the chignon on her head, hair blowing behind her in the breeze. If she was right, then I owed her a heap of gratitude. She strolled to the edge of the yacht like some model out of a South of France travel article.

  I should’ve called him right then and there, but I didn’t want to let him on to what Tatianne was saying. I wanted to give all this time, let things simmer, let Tristan believe I was just here, happy, writing and thanking my lucky stars for pairing me up with such a bold, rich, and powerful man. What a lucky girl I was!

  Yeah, okay.

  After I’d forgotten and forgiven Ben for his past, every message, every text, every secret profile of Ben’s I’d ever found came crashing back into my mind. Was this all there was to relationships? Were all men liars? I didn’t want a liar, no matter how handsome, affluent, or completely wonderful he was.

  My heart was shattering.

  “I’ll be back later with your check.” Tatianne jumped off the boat. “Do with it whatever you need.”

  The moment Tatianne walked away, I entered the cabin and flumped onto the bed, praying for the strength not to cry. I was over crying. Had Tristan really lied to me again? If so, then he was just like Ben, making up bullshit then covering his tracks. I lied on the bed, at war with myself, wondering whether or not I should take Tatianne’s offer to vacate the island, blow this popsicle stand, and go home.

  When I saw it—

  Hanging on a hook on the wall space above his bed was his hat—his lucky UM baseball cap. The one he never went to a business meeting without.

  By the time evening rolled around, I’d finished another chapter of the travel book, and a text chimed in. Lo and behold, it was from Tristan. Flight was late getting in. I’ll be back tomorrow night. Whatever. I didn’t care anymore, I was so ramped up with negative energy that he could’ve flown to Buttfuk, Egypt, and I wouldn’t have cared.

  I kept on working without replying.

  The next morning, Michel appeared with groceries and a message. “Mr. Giovanetti asked me to take you anywhere you needed to go.”

  “Oh? So if I wanted to go to his house and search through all his belongings for signs of extracurricular relationships, would that be cool?”

  Michel stared at me stunned. “Within reason, mademoiselle.”

  I made good use of his driving services and visited the last sections of the island I’d never seen. Michel took me to Hideaway Bay, the resort owned by Simon. It was a gorgeous hidden resort completely sheltered by trees on all sides boasting a beautiful lagoon, waterfalls, and caverns to explore.

  At the main house, Natasha told me she’d share the photographer’s photo files with me, so I could match up my copy to the shots taken. It was a shame I’d be leaving tonight before seeing Tristan, since I’d grown to really like Natasha, Michel, and other employees I’d met while here.

  “Miss Jones…I can see you’re upset,” Michel said, tapping his cigarette box against his hand. He’d seen the dried tears on my face and probably my red-rimmed eyes as well. “I don’t know why Mr. Giovanetti took off so quickly, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Business is business.”

  “Not without his UM hat, it’s not,” I mumbled. He wore that stupid hat to every important business meeting. I guess this one just wasn’t about dealings.

  Michel smirked and left it at that. Not that it mattered. I wasn’t going to wait around like a kept woman while my billionaire boyfriend mysteriously slinked off to “do business,” and I was supposed to be okay with that.

  I was dropped off at Tristan’s boat again and ushered in, and I never felt more stupid in my life than walking onto a vessel named Booty Catcher while my so-called boyfriend was off doing just that. All I’d been to Tristan was a big catch, a challenge, and now that he’d “caught” me, he’d either eat me up or toss me back in the water. Either way, he wouldn’t be having an honest, healthy relationship with this fish.

  I was done.

  After downing the to-go container of ribs and fries Michel left for me with a glass of wine, I watched the sunset and thought about my last words for ending the book about Sorendi. Giving it everything I had, surrendering to the wine’s ability to purify my mind, thinking about the timeless beauty of an island that was gorgeous long before Tristan ever arrived on it to “claim” it, I wrote my love letter to Sorendi Isle.

  I wrote about her lush scenery, her pristine beaches, her calming blue oceans. I wrote about leaving my world behind and finding myself again on her shores. I wrote about the solitude and humbling experience of having the isle, ocean, and skies to myself, about no amount of money being worth her riches.

  Nothing compared to her.

  Nothing.

  And when I’d penned my last words, I even recognized that Tristan had played an important role in setting me free, even if he wasn’t here now. I was still a better person because I’d met him, though I now realized I could never be with a man like him.

  I was ready to go home. One phone call to Natasha and an hour later, I had my printed hardcopy of Surrender Isle: Real Treasure in the Caribbean in my hands, revised and edited, as well as my boarding pass ready to go.

  “Paris?” Natasha paused on the dock with a worried look. “You don’t need to go. Tristan…he’s like this. He has something to do, so he goes and does it. He’s impulsive, the way he’s always been. Please don’t take it personally.”

  “Thanks, Natasha, but I can’t be with him. The man I love should be upfront and honest about what he’s doing. This is the third time now that he keeps information from me.” Once when he led me to believe he was nobody special. Two when he was covering up Tatianne’s visit, and three when he left yesterday morning without a trace. I was supposed to be okay with that?

  I took the last page I’d typed, a private note to Tristan, and placed it on top as a cover letter. He could keep his book for free. I didn’t need payment, as long as he gave me credit as the author. It’d been a pleasure writing this book, a pleasure researching this island, and an unforgettable experience, even if there was no happily ever after.

  In pen, I added one line at the bottom to explain why I was declining compensation—

  Chapter 22

  All my life, I’d been around water. Oceans, seas, bays, coves, even swimming pools. All my life, I’d also been around trees, flowers, and color. Hell, my home state of Florida even meant flowerful in Spanish. I never had much reason to travel to Middle America, since all my business contacts were in Florida, the Caribbean, and Latin America. So, touching down in Dayton, Ohio was a unique experience for me, to say the least.

  I wouldn’t say it looked boring from the air, but—it looked boring from the air.

  I’m sure there were beautiful nooks and crannies once you got to know the place. It was surreal to think that Paris hailed from here. Right now, she was back on Sorendi, hopefully writing to her heart’s content. In the seven weeks I’d known her, I always imagined her as coming from someplace far away, blurry in my mind. But just touching down here, I already felt closer to her.

  All my life, I’d also been impulsive. Acted on my instincts, which were usually right, then I’d think about it later. Impulsivity and getting what I wanted when I wanted it was entirely responsible for my getting on this plane and coming out to see Ben Walker—the man she’d shared a home and years with. I’d easily found his phone number in Paris’s phone, called him under the guise of a business meeting in Ohio, and told him I was a friend of Paris’s. At first, he sounded wary, but when I told him I’d love to get together with him, he chanced it and gave me his address. Then, I gave him the truth. “Paris and I have been seeing each other. I’m from Sorendi Isle.”

  “Ah,” he’d muttered. “You’re the new guy.”

  “Yeah.” An
d hopefully, the last.

  Stopping at my hotel to shower and change into clean clothes, I double checked his address and headed out to catch my Uber ride. Paris’s old house with Ben would be in an area called Fairview. It was a twenty-minute ride, and when my car finally slowed down, I was staring at a little two-story box with a front porch and an old Accord parked in the driveway. I paid the driver and stepped out, waiting on the sidewalk for a moment.

  So, this was where she lived.

  My chest burned, as I imagined her and Ben happily married at first, then slowly sinking into a rut, then hard times befalling them. Then Paris, unable to cope any longer, moving out, leaving Ben in his cave of depression. That must’ve been terrible for both of them.

  I sauntered up the steps and paused at the door in need of paint, listening for signs of life. Nothing. I knocked then tried peering through the window into the house, but the shades were drawn. I knocked again. A police siren wailed from somewhere nearby. I must’ve stood there five minutes. Maybe I should’ve asked the Uber driver to wait.

  Finally, the sound of feet came sliding to the door. There was a pause, as someone checked through the peephole. “Who is it?” a man asked.

  “Tristan Giovanetti,” I replied.

  The door unlocked. There he stood. Over six feet, naturally athletic build, giving off the impression of once being a baseball player but now mostly watching the game on TV. He was handsome, too, and it was easy to see why Paris or any woman would be attracted to him. Though he had the short beard of a man who hadn’t shaved in a week or two, his fresh baby face poked clear underneath.

  “You Ben?” I asked.

  He nodded, then left the door open for me.

  The inside was starkly empty, as though couches and side tables had been lifted from the floor and taken away, leaving unimportant things behind—fake potted plant in the corner, table by the window with three dying plants on them. On the counter was a collection of empty beer bottles I seriously doubt had been there since Paris occupied this space. In the corner, a half-deflated Mylar balloon saying Get Well Soon floated near the floor.