by Whitley Cox
“Because I like my privacy, and I respect when others do as well. Our security rivals the Pentagon. Everyone, if they wish, can check in under an alias. Every whim, fancy and proclivity is seen to. Men can bring their mistresses here and never worry about being found out. Women can bring their boy-toys and leave the fear of being discovered at the airport. We are discreet, private and full-service.”
“But all of that comes for a price,” I said, perhaps a bit too rashly. That comment about mistresses had ruffled my feathers something fierce, and I was suddenly looking at Tate McAllister with less fucky eyes and more screw-you eyes. I bet he had mistresses up the wazoo.
“Of course.” He shrugged. “Luxury, privacy, discretion, nothing worth having is free in this day and age.”
“So, what about your personal life? Wife? Ex-wife? Girlfriends? Children?” Based on what had transpired in the soundproof room not an hour ago, I sincerely hoped that my first and third questions were going to be a hard “NO.” I couldn’t imagine being “the other woman.”
He shook his head. “No. There’s been no time.” There was a sadness to his smile, but he quickly quelled it and flashed me another super sexy one with straight white teeth. That expression seemed to live on him. “That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the companionship of women. I just don’t have anyone special in my life. No wife. No ex-wife. No girlfriend. No children.” His head tilted to the side, and he suddenly reminded me of a curious puppy. “What about you?”
I shook my head. “What about me?”
“Husband? Ex-husband? Boyfriend? Children?”
What the hell? We weren’t here to interview me. This was not a back-and-forth thing. I was the one asking the questions, not him. But somehow I knew by the way he was looking at me, by the curve of his mouth, that he wasn’t going to take a head shake or “No” for an answer. That if I wanted more answers, I’d have to give him something.
I shook my head again. “No. I’ve never been married. No boyfriend.” That one still hurt. “I told you I’m coming off a bad breakup. And no children.” That one was like a punch to the gut.
He barely nodded as he stood up from behind the desk and sauntered his big gladiator frame around to the front, perching on the corner just a foot or so away from me. I had to look up to see his face and nearly swallowed my tongue when I did. The man was smoldering, green eyes with flecks of gold twinkling, full of mischief and dirty secrets. Oh, Mr. McAllister, I’m sure you have loads of dirty little secrets. That’s when I noticed a couple of blond hairs on the shoulder of his white dress shirt. I hadn’t noticed them before, but from where he was sitting now, the sun hit him just right and illuminated them like strands of gold.
A taste of panic rifled through my body. I wasn’t blonde, he wasn’t blond, and they were much too long to be his anyway. Maybe four or five inches long. A woman’s?
“Hmmm,” he finally said. His sounds of amusement affected me far more than he could ever realize. I loved the little rumbling noise he made at the back of this throat. It was primitive and wild. “So, anything else you’d like to ask me, on or off the record, Miss Ryan?”
I ran my tongue between the seam of my lips again before putting my pen between my teeth and lightly biting down in thought. “I don’t think so, at least not for now. Perhaps a quick tour?”
Tate extended his hand, and at first, I wasn’t sure why. Did he expect us to hold hands and wander around the resort? Another handshake? But he was offering to help me to my feet. I’m such an idiot. I extended my hand, and that surge of electricity from earlier rushed through my body, making me practically convulse on the spot. Did he feel it, too? He had to. It was a shock, an actual shock. Like when you rub your socked feet along a carpet, touch something metal and then shuffle over and touch someone else.
He helped me to my feet, and I quickly pulled my hand back, even though my body was screaming at me not to. But my brain overthrew the battle, and I released his hand only to find it at the small of my back, ushering me out the door not a second later.
“Just this way, Miss Ryan. I’ll show you the pools, the grounds, the restaurants. And if we have time . . . the grotto. And then we have ‘reservations’ ”—he chuckled as if having reservations at his own restaurant was funny—“at the Tiki Lounge this evening.”
“We do?” I asked, following him to the bronze-doored elevator.
“Well, yes. It’s not very often I invite a journalist here to experience the lap of luxury and document their stay, let alone interview me. So, I figured the least I could do was give you what you’re after, an all-access pass . . . to me.”
The elevator doors parted, and he motioned for me to join him inside. I stepped forward like a robot. The words all-access, to me, quick and dirty rolled around in my head until they no longer even sounded like words. They were more of a chant, a mantra, an . . . order.
Chapter Three
I watched the elevator doors glide shut, then all I felt was hot. Hot and bothered as this menacingly attractive man, who smelled so damn good I could hardly stand it, looked down at me with those searing eyes of his. I swallowed hard and refused to glance up at him. This was not going to happen. This could not happen. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place, but it had, and now I had to live with it. But I was going to make damn sure it didn’t happen again.
As if they were a piece by Monet I studied my feet as the elevator descended. But I could sense him watching me. He leaned back ever so slightly to glance behind. The pig. Was he really so obviously checking out my ass? Jesus. Yeah, it was so not happening again with us. No way. No how.
Suddenly he dropped to a crouch.
“What the heck are you doing?” I asked, taking a half step to the side.
“Just a second.” His voice smooth while amusement and triumph glittered in his eyes. Before I could blink, protest or step away, his hand wrapped around my ankle, and he lifted up my foot. I stumbled on my one leg and, without thinking twice, reached out and put my hand on his broad, warm shoulder. Strong, hard . . . oh, God, so hard, muscles flexed, able and true beneath my fingertips.
“What are you doing?”
He reached for something with his free hand, the one that wasn’t currently caressing my leg, and lifted something off the bottom of my shoe. He held it up a second later. “You had toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your heel.”
“Oh . . . ” Instant mortification flooded me. I’d been wandering around the resort with bathroom tissue on my shoe like some twenty-something drunk chick at a bar.
He set my foot back down on the floor then slowly, ever so slowly, way too slowly, let his fingers trail up my calf to the back of my knee and bottom of my thigh, beneath the hem of my dress before he finally let go, standing up to his full height. I tried not to shiver. My nipples were already so hard they could cut glass, and I was sure he noticed. The fabric of this dress was quite thin.
I hadn’t realized it, but I’d closed my eyes from his touch, the heat of his fingers, the softness of his palm as it grazed my searing skin. Tingles of need and longing zinged through me in every direction like poorly organized fireworks. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to set the entire hotel on fire. My lips parted just barely, while my chest rose and fell in quick and erratic succession. My breathing shallowed, and I fought the urge to squeeze my legs together and not let the low groan that was building at the back of my throat break free. I licked my lips and swallowed hard, waiting, hoping, envisioning him running that hand up even further and then plastering me against the wall of the elevator and taking me just like he had downstairs an hour ago.
I wasn’t sure how long I had my eyes closed, but when I finally opened them, Tate was standing beside me again, grass-green eyes ignited with lust, pupils dilated and nostrils flaring. The man was in full-on rut, and if I didn’t get out of the elevator soon, I was going to let him have me any way he wanted to.
Swallowing again, I let my gaze flick down to the tissue in his hand before driftin
g back up to his face. “Uh, thanks.”
He shook his head slightly, but his expression, his thoughts were completely tangible. “No problem at all, Miss Ryan.”
“Parker,” I said softly. “Please call me Parker.”
Another barely discernible head movement; this time, I was pretty sure it was a nod. “Parker.”
The elevator dinged and the doors parted. A wave of cool air from the lobby whooshed forward, sending a rush of goosebumps chasing across my skin. His hand fell to the small of my back again, and he escorted me out and to the front doors. The palms ahead of us swayed gently in the tropical breeze, inviting us out into the glorious Tahitian sunshine.
“We’ll start off with the recreation center, then the spas, the restaurants, the beach and finally the pool and grotto. Does that sound okay to you?”
I was waiting for him to remove his hand from my back, but he didn’t. Instead he shifted his placement and let his fingers graze the top of my hip as he careened us around a corner and off in the direction of a big outbuilding. I could feel the heat from his palm through the dress, and his fingers bunched just a touch, trying to hold on. I was hyperaware of his touch; it was consuming my every thought. It conveyed possession and control effortlessly, and it was making me incredibly hot.
“Sounds good to me,” I said with a swallow, unsure how to pull away and not entirely sure I wanted to.
As promised, we finished the impressive tour next to the biggest, most beautiful VIP pool, where loungers and cabanas were set up. Staff scurried around and saw to every imaginable whim of the demanding guests while soft music played over an expertly hidden sound system. A few people were still milling around, some in the water, others on the deck. Off in the shade of a big white cabana, a couple of gentlemen were getting massaged by two tiny Thai women. The men on the tables were rather large and quite hairy, and for some reason, as hard as I tried, I just couldn’t look away. I gawked as the little women poked and prodded them with their knees and elbows, getting in between the rolls and making the grown men whimper and wince in pain.
Tate caught me watching and chuckled. “They may be small, but they’re mighty. Have you ever had a Thai massage?”
I nodded. “Yeah, they’re intense.”
He laughed again. “That’s one way to describe them.” His hand fell back to my hip, and he turned me toward what looked to be a mound of round rocks purposely designed into a big hill and then covered with foliage and flowers. But when we wandered around it a little more, I saw that there was an opening and the pool continued on into the mound, making it more of a tunnel.
“And that’s the grotto,” he said finally, pointing inside. I couldn’t really see much as it was rather dark, but it appeared as though you waded through the small channel and then it widened and opened up inside. There may have also been some built-in underwater seating, but the shadows and lack of lighting inside made it difficult to determine. I’m sure in the coming days I’d make my way in there and find out for myself.
“And what’s so special about the grotto?” I asked, allowing him to lead me away and back in the direction of the main hotel building.
He lifted one shoulder. “What happens in the grotto stays in the grotto.”
“Who the heck are you, Hugh Hefner?”
He laughed. “No. I don’t need a little blue pill.”
My face was an inferno. No, he certainly didn’t, that I could attest to.
I’d gotten so used to his hand at my back or on my hip that when he moved it to open the door for me, a sudden emptiness flooded me and I and longed for him to put it back. His warmth, his touch, they had become comforting, and even though I’d just met the man, I felt safe standing next to him as he chatted animatedly about his eco-resort for the immensely wealthy.
I wasn’t quite sure what was happening or going to happen between Tate McAllister and I, but one thing I did know was that the man could kiss, the man could fuck, and even though he’d simply been showing me around the resort, I’d had a wonderful afternoon with him.
I followed him inside, but we didn’t stop. Instead we continued on through the lobby and to the left, through another series of doors, and then into what could only be described as Oceanian opulence to the Nth degree. The restaurant was breathtaking, all open concept beneath the French Polynesian-style domed thatch roof, so the evening breeze and lullaby of birds could cool off and entertain all the guests. Through the restaurant we walked, past tables of content diners with big fruity tropical drinks of deliciousness in front of them while the flame from a big grill in the center of the space flew up at random intervals, threatening to singe the rafters.
I let out the breath I’d been holding as Tate pulled a chair out for me on the patio. It would appear we had the best seat in the house. A perfect view of the sunset. “Wow, I can see why you live here. This is extraordinary.”
His eyes danced emerald fire as he smiled at me and took his own seat. “It is, isn’t it?”
I hadn’t even been given a chance to order a drink, or even my meal, but somehow within seconds of sitting down, a delicious and funky-looking cocktail was placed in front of me, complete with a little umbrella and a wedge of pineapple. Moments later, the most decadent-looking meal was rolled over, only to be finished tableside by the executive chef himself.
In no time at all, I was dabbing at the corner of my mouth with my cloth napkin. I sat back, staring at the empty plate in front of me. “Well, that was incredible. I can’t remember the last time I had anything that tasted so good.”
Tate’s ghost of a smile made my heart rate skyrocket. “I hope you don’t mind that I ordered for us. I just, well,” he lifted one shoulder, “wanted to impress you.”
I grinned back and brought my fancy shmancy drink to my mouth, letting the straw rest between my lips as I looked at him over the rim. “Well, I’m impressed. That was delicious. I’ve never had barracuda before. And that certainly won’t be the last time I try it, either.”
His sexy flash of a smile made me instinctively squeeze my thighs together and hope to God he didn’t notice my nipples pearl beneath my dress. He lifted his beer bottle in the air, expecting me to join him in a toast. I clinked the bottle with my cup.
“What are we toasting?” I giggled.
“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “But I’m sure by the end of your stay here, we’ll have a lot to celebrate.” He winked again, tipped his beer back and finished it off.
Still not used to the time change, and an early riser by nature, I found myself wide awake and staring at the ceiling by five in the morning. Not one to waste time or energy, I tossed on a bathing suit, wrapped a robe around my body, then headed off to the lap pool located just off the main lobby. I flashed my key card in front of the panel, and the light blinked green while the door clicked open.
Pentagon security indeed. I was half-expecting a retinal scan or, at the very least, a fingerprint.
It was quiet as I slowly padded my way inside. My flip-flops made a godawful racket as I wandered across the tile. I relished the idea of having the space to myself. Even though swimming laps was probably one of the most antisocial forms of exercising, I wasn’t interested in making small talk or having to dodge another guest.
But when I rounded the corner to the pool, my heart sank. I wasn’t alone. Someone else was using the pool. I stood at the edge for a moment and watched as the lithe body in a black Speedo, black swim cap and blue goggles did the front crawl like an Olympian. He glided through the water, muscles flexing and contracting with each rise of his powerful arms while the water shimmered on his back and arms under the dim pot lighting overhead. Then I noticed the tattoo. Black and tribal and taking up nearly the entire top half of his back, it was beautiful and oh so sexy. My breath caught before I could stop it; whoever he was, he was magnificent.
“Good morning.”
I shook my head and looked down. He was directly below me, hanging on the edge of the pool, removing the goggles and fla
shing me that same wickedly dirty grin as yesterday.
“Oh . . . ah, morning,” I said.
“This pool is closed until six,” he said smoothly, water dripping down his face and neck in provocative rivulets.
My mouth dropped open. “Oh. Okay. I-I can go. My key card worked. I didn’t see a sign on the door, but I can go.”
His wet lips curled into a wry smirk as he blinked a few droplets off his lashes. “Your key card worked because you are in the presidential villa, and whoever is in the presidential villa gets to do whatever they want. Time doesn’t apply to you. You can use whatever you want, whenever you want. And besides,” he turned to face the pool for a quick second, “there is more than enough pool to go around. I can share. It’s kind of nice to work out in peace, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “Yes. Peace.”
He didn’t wait for me to answer or decide. Instead, he just pulled his goggles back over his eyes then pushed off the wall, streamlining nearly three quarters of the pool before he needed to start moving his arms.
I chose to stay.
There were four lanes set up for laps. Plenty of room for the two of us to swim next to each other. I stripped off my robe and grabbed a towel from the rack before I set up camp on a bench. All the while my eyes never left Tate or that tattoo. I pulled my swim cap and goggles out of my bag, tucked my hair up, had one brief though of running my tongue over that gorgeous ink and then dove in.
It was wonderful to be in the water again. Xavier and I had been broken up for almost two weeks, and I sorely missed the pool in his condo building. I had a membership at the YMCA and would go back to the pool there once I returned home, but there was something so nice about a private pool. Nobody stared at you or clogged or dawdled in your lane. Come to think of it, I was probably going to miss Xavier’s pool more than I was going to miss Xavier.
I did my fifty laps and stopped at the end. Tate had kept to himself and swum two lanes over. I hadn’t heard a peep from him, but every so often I’d catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye when I came up for air—the man was a machine. Hauling my dripping butt out of the water and up the ladder, I pulled off my cap and goggles and then headed off to the sauna, desperately trying to avoid watching Tate’s firm ass twist and flex as he continued swimming. How many laps was he going to do?
