by Rebecca York
He took another sip of wine, his eyes locked on Maddy’s face. Her mouth was dry, but she didn’t reach for her glass because, for the moment, she had lost the ability to move.
“I got instantly hard. I thought I was going to embarrass myself right there and then, but she knew what she was doing. She was obviously experienced, and she got both of us out of our clothes—and me into her in record time.”
His eyes had taken on a faraway look. “I thought that first time was incredible. The second time she slowed things down a little—started showing me how to touch a woman and kiss her for maximum pleasure. The third time…” He shrugged. “That was when she gave me a lesson in oral sex.”
Maddy couldn’t help it. She felt dampness gather between her legs. She should be shocked, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine the teenage Bethany seducing fifteen-year-old Jack. He was a stunningly masculine man. The girl must have taken his untapped sensuality as a challenge. And a gift—that her parents had unwittingly given her. She could imagine the fevered scene—the sexual energy of the teenage couple. And then there was the element of secrets shared. Naughty secrets. The teenagers pulling something over on their parents.
As if his thinking was paralleling hers, he said, “Our folks never suspected. Not even when I snuck down the hall the next night and into her bed.” He laughed. “We had a few more mind-blowing visits back and forth that summer. Then she went away to college the next year and came home with a sophomore guy in tow. I was still in high school, and she wouldn’t give me the time of day. That was a real blow to my ego. Especially since I knew exactly what she and the guy were doing in her bedroom at night.”
With a jerky motion, Maddy picked up her glass and took a gulp.
“What about you?” Jack asked, his voice turning low and silky, his gaze probing her own secrets.
“What about what?”
“Your first time.”
Unwanted memories flooded her. Her first time. She’d been sixteen. A bad age for making sexual decisions. She’d been dating Ben Hemsley and afraid that he was going to lose interest in her. He was a rich kid whose parents were friends with the Winston family. And she was the daughter of the hired help.
But he’d taken up with her, and she liked hanging around with him. Liked pretending that she fit in with his fast-lane lifestyle. So when he’d started putting pressure on her to go all the way, she’d agreed to let him do it to her. They’d met in the boathouse at his father’s estate. And it had been a painful, thoroughly unromantic experience. Too fast. Too frightening. Too humiliating—at least for her. Ben had wallowed in the afterglow of his conquest. She’d felt cheap and used. And she’d vowed that no man would take advantage of her like that again. That degrading experience was one of the reasons why she was careful about her sexual partners, one of the reasons why she never let a man push her into anything she wasn’t ready for.
Until tonight. Until Jack.
Well, that wasn’t fair, she corrected herself. She might have needed a little push. But she’d certainly been ready.
She took another swallow of the wine, trying to blot out the long ago scene. It was something she seldom thought about. But Jack had brought it back.
And she couldn’t exactly blame him, she silently admitted. She was the one who’d pushed him into his own revelation. And he was simply turning the tables.
He was still waiting for her to say something. Her hand clenched around the stem of the glass as she answered his question. “I don’t think your mistress is willing to share that particular experience with you.”
He was watching her with an unnerving intensity, and she wished she were more adept at hiding her emotions.
Unable to cope with his probing gaze, she poured herself more wine and downed half the contents of the glass.
“Careful,” Jack said mildly. “You want to keep a clear head.”
“For what?”
“Studying the material I brought. Perhaps we should start with some visual aids.” He turned away from her, and she breathed out a little sigh, glad that he was giving her a moment of privacy.
Crossing to the table, he shuffled through the folders he’d brought and withdrew several glossy photographs which he handed to her.
They all showed the same man. Some were in color, some in black-and-white. Most had obviously been shot with a telephoto lens.
“Reynard, I take it,” Maddy said.
“Yes.”
She studied the crime lord. He was slim with neatly cut hair, lean cheeks and narrow lips. There was nothing remarkable about him—if you discounted the piercing eyes. They seemed to be staring at her, probing her deepest thought, though she was only looking at photographs.
He’d be a formidable opponent. She knew that much. Having his own island would make him arrogant—and ruthless.
Striving for detachment, she sorted through the pictures. Some had probably been taken twenty years ago and showed a man who looked like he was in his late twenties or early thirties. The more recent ones depicted someone in his early fifties—still vigorous and very sure of himself.
“Not many men can afford a private island with all the trimmings,” she said. “How did he manage it?”
“He inherited wealth. His father, Bruce Reynard, saw the potential of electrical appliances when the industry was in its infancy. He started manufacturing stuff like vacuum cleaners, toasters, electric irons, radios. Things that made life easier and more pleasant for people who could afford them.
“He exploited the new rush toward consumerism. Oliver’s vision of humanity was—is—darker. He saw the potential for corruption. Gambling. Drugs. Prostitution. His stock in trade is human frailty. And he made it pay off big—bigger than the happy little world of household conveniences.
“The FBI was after him—so he solved his problems by going offshore, where they can’t touch him.”
“But why would he go after Stan Winston’s daughter? I mean, how does he even know Stan?”
“He and Winston go way back. Their fathers were business rivals. And it seems that Winston cut him out of some lucrative manufacturing deals when he was looking for legitimate ways to launder his dirty money. It’s too bad Dawn got caught in the middle.”
Maddy nodded. As she set the photographs down, Jack unfolded a large sheet of paper which he spread out for their inspection. It was a full-color aerial view of Orchid Island—taken either from a low-flying plane or a spy satellite.
She’d used similar photos to study the security of various Winston facilities, but the detail never ceased to amaze her. Looking at the legend, she saw the island was seven miles long and two miles wide. She could see surf foaming along the white sand that gave way at intervals to rocky shoreline. Near the eastern end of the irregular rectangle, a cone-shaped mountain rose from a dense swath of greenery.
Development was at the western end, which had been cleared of its natural jungle covering and landscaped with lush tropical vegetation. Commanding a view of the widest beach was a sprawling building that looked like it took up several acres. Farther inland, scores of modest bungalows were lined along narrow roads.
Jack leaned over Maddy, his arm brushing hers, stirring a current of awareness through her as he began to point out the features of the island.
She slid him a sidewise glance. He looked cool and unruffled, while she was unable to control her reaction to him.
It took several seconds before she tuned back in to what he was saying as he pointed to a long, narrow building.
“This is the customs area. It’s manned by extra guards, and they’re likely to search our luggage. Reynard will have us taken into custody if he finds anything on his forbidden list.”
“Does that mean we can’t bring a transmitter? If we can’t call for help, what are our plans for getting off the island? Do we have to steal a boat?”
“I’ve weighed the risks and the advantages. I think we can get away with communications equipment if we hide it in your makeup kit.”<
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She swallowed. So she was the one who’d be caught red-handed if anything went wrong. All she said was, “Okay.”
“And of course, there’s no way we can send a long message. We’d be detected. It will have to be a spurt.”
“I’m not going to pretend I know what a spurt is,” she snapped.
“It’s a compressed transmission, sent in a quick burst of characters. That way, the enemy can’t get a fix on the radio’s location.”
She nodded. The enemy, she thought. Yes, Reynard was the enemy all right.
Jack was pointing toward a group of buildings set on paths that wound through landscaped grounds.
“Some of the guests stay in these villas. If things work out right, we’ll be assigned to one.”
“Better for a quick getaway?” she asked.
“That. And they’re an indication of status. Only the highest-ranking guests get them. By the way,” he went on, “I’ve picked names for us. I’m going to be Jack Craig. You’ll be Maddy Griffin. Get used to it.”
“I will.” She paused. “But isn’t he going to know they are false identities? Won’t he do background research on us—the same way we’re doing research on him. I mean, I can’t believe he’s not very careful about who comes to his private little country.”
“He’s very careful. But I’ve set it up so that we should check out. First, remember that Jack Craig would go to enormous lengths to hide his personal business from the world. But I’ve gotten some little tidbits salted into the databases he’s likely to use for background checks. And I’ve arranged for a couple of key informants to back up the Jack Craig alias.”
Maddy opened her mouth to ask for details when a knock sounded at the door.
Jack straightened and called out, “Come in.”
A waiter in black slacks and a starched white coat wheeled in a cart with covered dishes.
“Would you like me to serve the meal, ma’am?” the man asked her.
Before she could answer, Jack spoke up. “We can do it ourselves. Thank you very much.”
As soon as the man had left, he turned back to Maddy. “I’d like you to change for dinner.”
“I’m comfortable like this.”
“I want you to get comfortable with some of the other clothing you’ll be wearing on the island, outfits drug lord Jack Craig would have chosen to show off your charms.” Crossing to the closet, he opened the door and began sliding hangers along the pole as he inspected evening wear. Finally he pulled out a turquoise, sleeveless chiffon knee-length gown with a plunging draped back. Matching sling-back pumps and a pair of ivory panty hose were in a heavy plastic bag attached to the hanger.
“I’d like to see you in this.”
The tone of voice was the one he’d used earlier when he’d been ordering her to strip for him, and it set off a frisson along her nerve endings. Appalled at her reaction, she called up a touch of anger. Anger at his arrogance. And anger because she hated admitting he was right. Getting comfortable in this clothing was essential. So she snatched the gown away from him and headed for the bathroom down the hall.
“Lose the bra,” he called after her.
Biting back an angry retort, she slammed the bathroom door behind her. After pulling off her blouse and slacks, she hesitated for a moment. Then she unhooked her bra and laid it on top of the discarded clothing.
Slipping into the dress, she closed the zipper and adjusted the bodice. The color was perfect for her, but the fabric clung to her breasts, clearly showing the outline of her nipples. She thought about disobeying orders and putting the bra back on. But that was out of the question, she decided as she turned and looked over her shoulder in the mirror. The back plunged so low that the band would surely show.
At least the skirt had a fair amount of softly draped fabric so that it swirled around her legs rather than hugging them.
Quickly she pulled on the panty hose and the sling-backs. They added three inches to her height—putting her on a more equal footing with Mr. Cool. If she didn’t trip and fall on her face!
She rarely wore shoes this ridiculous. Practicing was definitely a good idea.
Turning again, she studied herself in the mirror. She hadn’t bothered to put on any makeup after her shower, and suddenly it seemed as if she wasn’t doing the dress justice. Determined to make an impression on the man awaiting her return, she yanked open a drawer and pulled out the makeup kit that she’d seen earlier.
It appeared the colors had been chosen for her. Quickly she brushed on two tones of eye shadow, then applied liner and mascara.
After smoothing on foundation and blusher, she started outlining her lips. When she’d filled in the outline with a lighter color, she stood back to inspect the effect. Like the high heels, the coating of war paint was far from her standard choice. But she’d attended enough formal affairs to know how to turn herself out to advantage. And she was pleased with the results. As a final touch, she undid the pin at the back of her neck and brushed out her hair so that it floated around her face.
“What took you so long?” Jack demanded when she sauntered back down the hall to the meeting room. Or as much of a saunter as she could manage with those heels.
“These things take time,” she murmured.
He looked up, and she had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes flash with green fire before he recovered himself.
“Will this do?” she asked in a silky voice.
“Yes,” he clipped out, uncovered one of the plates from the cart and slammed it onto the table. He managed to transfer the second one more gently.
In her absence he’d spread a white cloth, set out the napkins and cutlery, and poured water into long-stemmed glasses. She noted with a tinge of surprise that he’d gotten everything in the right places—a feat which her own father had never been able to manage. When Spike Guthrie had set a table, it had looked like the knives, spoons and forks had clattered down from the ceiling—either because he was protesting doing women’s work or he really didn’t know their proper placement. She’d never determined which.
So Jack Connors—or Jack Craig—was more civilized than he looked. Well, at least he knew the amenities of table service. She might have asked if he’d been a waiter at some time in his career. But she decided not to press her luck. So she simply pulled out her chair and sat down.
OLIVER REYNARD SWIRLED amber cognac in his glass, then took an appreciative sip. Leaning back in his favorite leather chair, he thumbed through the various lists that had been prepared by the heads of his departments. The executive chef. The head gardener. The recreation director. The ordnance officer.
He was having one of his magnifique parties in a few days, and no detail was too small to escape his notice.
The food, the assignment of the guest rooms, the number of uniformed guards and extra personnel in the public areas. The newly enhanced check-in procedures at the customs area.
He set down his glass on the marble-topped antique table, then picked up his gold pen and jotted a notation on one of the menus. “More tropical fruit at the opening reception.”
Then he flipped to the list of housing assignments to see how his maintenance staff was coming with the video and sound recording equipment. He wanted it in perfect working order in every guest room. With double backup systems. Better safe than sorry. If one of his guests was planning to stab him in the back, he wanted to know about it quickly so the threat could be neutralized.
It paid to be thorough. His father had forgotten that little fact. And the omission had gotten him killed.
Oliver was determined that nothing of the sort would happen to him. He was planning to live out a long and satisfying life on this private island domain that he’d purchased twenty years ago with money he’d set aside from his inheritance.
Thinking about his father made his features contort.
The old man had been a legitimate businessman. In the outside world, he had earned a reputation for respectability.
But at
home, and within his own company, he’d been a tyrant. Lording it over everyone under him. Making rules just for the fun of tripping people up.
Especially his only son.
But Oliver had turned the tables on his father very nicely. He’d dumped enough sugar into the fuel line of his private plane to make it crash off the Atlantic coast. Now he was the one in charge—making the rules. Making everyone who lived on Orchid Island or who came here as his guests conform to his policies.
His other goals were showing visitors from the mainland that they could have a better time here than anywhere else on earth, showing them how well he lived, and showing them that he was lord and master of this island.
He loved those aspects of the parties. The control. The aura of excitement. The undertone of sexuality that his male guests found so stimulating. Some of his most lucrative business deals had been made with men who were thinking with their cocks instead of their brains. He loved using sex to confuse the issues and manipulate powerful men.
And he loved inviting new people to his lair from time to time.
Like Jack Craig and a couple of others in the party. Craig was something of an anomaly, of course. He’d sent word through an acquaintance less than a week ago that he’d like to come down to the Island to discuss a very lucrative deal.
Oliver had given his okay to have Craig included. But he was still in the process of having the man investigated. And if he didn’t check out, Craig and his companion wouldn’t be coming home with the rest of the merrymakers.
