by Whitley Cox
A short while later I woke up from a doze. The cool night breeze wafted in through the gauze drapes and across my body. I ached in all the right places, while a fresh chafe on my inner thighs reminded me of his beard and the wonders it had wielded. Stretching like a satisfied cat who’d just downed a quart of warm milk and then slept the day away, rather than the hour or so I’d been out, I looked to my right. Tate was next to me—he’d decided to stay over. I fought the urge to fist pump and instead just smiled and took in his beauty. I rolled over and watched him sleep. A little creepy, I know, but I couldn’t help it. It was the first time I’d ever slept next to him, and I just felt as though I was finally peeling away the layers of Tate McAllister; this was yet another side of him. In the dim light of the bedroom, with nothing but the last hints of twilight filtering in through sheer drapes, I had trouble making out his expression, even being only inches apart.
He took my breath away. The angles of his face, so chiseled and manly; his skin, tanned and perhaps slightly weathered from being out in the sun all the time; and faint lines around his eyes, mouth and on his forehead, barely discernible unless you were inspecting him up close and personal like I was. But those lines just made him more refined, added to the allure and maturity. He was no spring chicken, and I liked that.
Long dark lashes lay flat against his high cheekbones, while his sculpted chest rose and fell in deep and even breaths. He had been designed by the gods, and when they were in an incredibly good mood, it would seem; even the freckles on his strong forearms were sexy.
He looked peaceful. Probably more peaceful than I had ever seen him. So far, I’d seen the playful Tate, the seductive Tate, the businessman Tate, the angry Tate and the jealous Tate. But this was an entirely new look. It was as if he walked around all day every day with tension in his jaw, a constant worry or problem sitting like a boulder of stress on his broad shoulders, and only in sleep was he able to let go of it all and just be and find some peace.
My chest grew tight as I continued to take him in, wishing this wasn’t just a quick and dirty fling anymore and that I could live here, with Tate—forever. I wanted to feel this content, this happy, this at peace every day, and I knew that with Tate I could, I would. But we’d only known each other for a week. I certainly couldn’t go making such proclamations and asking to stay. That’s what crazy women did. And besides, I was sure he had women constantly asking to live here with him. He probably had a full spiel prepared for letting them down easy.
No.
I would not be one of those women. I would not beg. This was ten days of fun. Ten days of strangers humping like bunnies, and that was it. So then why did I feel like when I stepped onto that tarmac in a few days, my heart was going to break more than it ever had before?
He must have felt me staring at him. I almost always knew when someone was watching me. Long camel lashes fluttered open, followed by an enormous grin spreading on those sensuous and talented lips of his.
“Hello, beautiful.”
I swallowed down the lump of emotion in my throat and flashed him the biggest smile I could muster. “Hi.”
“What time is it?”
I lifted myself up just an inch or so and peered at the clock on his nightstand. “Just past eleven, why?”
“Oh, shit!” His eyes opened wide, and he bolted up to a sitting position.
“Stay the night?” I asked, waves of melancholy swamping me like a tsunami, replacing all those feelings of peace and tranquility and dreams of living here with Tate, happily ever after with little ruddy-haired children half-naked, tanned and happy running around.
“I can’t,” he said, swiveling his legs over the side to pull on his boxers. I couldn’t tell if there was remorse in his voice or not. “Sorry, babe.” He went on the hunt for his clothes, finding his shirt on one of the sconces and his shorts hanging down the back of my vanity. I’d been just as wild for him, too, tearing off his clothes and tossing them away like confetti.
“C-can I come stay the night with you, then?” I regretted immediately that I’d asked such a thing. I sounded like a desperate, needy, whiny woman. Three things I had promised I would NEVER be.
Tate just shook his head. Had he heard me, or was he ignoring my question on purpose? “Pool tomorrow, then I have one final surprise for you, and I must say, I think this one is going to be the best.”
I gave him a half-hearted smile as I sat there in the bed, watching him dress, willing him to shuck the clothes and climb back into bed with me. I had one last full day on Moorea, then I’d be leaving. I wanted to spend as much time with him as I could, including the time we were asleep.
He pulled his shirt on over his head before he bent down to kiss me. “I’m so proud of you, Parker. That had to feel good. Telling off your ex and hearing him get hauled away by security. We can watch the camera footage of it tomorrow if you want.”
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood as I nodded, a lump the size of a pineapple forming in my gut while tears stung the back of my eyes. Even though I knew we had one more day, for some reason this, here and now, felt like “goodbye.” I wanted him to stay. I wanted to grab him by the hem of his shirt and pull him on top of me. Show him what he would be missing when I left. I wanted to communicate, somehow, even just half of what was going on in my mind, my body, my heart. I wanted him to know what he meant to me and how in just ten short days he’d changed my whole world.
He kissed me again, but this time it was no more than a peck. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams.” And with a final tweak to my nipple, he was out the door, leaving me heartbroken and horny and alone.
Chapter Eleven
The next day was my last full day on Moorea. I was set to head home in the late morning the following day, so Tate said he had something extra special planned. We were going to take a ride in a helicopter and fly over all the surrounding islands. He would point out the other resorts he owned, and we would touch down near the small set of bungalows on stilts in which he owned shares on Bora Bora and have lunch.
I was used to living the life of Riley when I was with Xavier. The man lived a lavish and opulent lifestyle, throwing money around like it was no big deal and letting everyone within a ten-mile radius know he was loaded. But there was something so much more down-to-earth and refreshing about Tate. Sure, he had more money than I or anyone I knew could shake a stick at, but he didn’t act like he did. He was humble and sweet, and even though I knew we only had one last day together, I couldn’t control or quell the feelings that stirred inside. I was falling for the billionaire, falling hard, and if I wasn’t careful, I was going to crash and burn. And unlike the Phoenix, I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to rise from the ashes.
“And that’s Huahine down there,” he said, pointing across me and down at a small island loaded with hills and vegetation. “I own a bed and breakfast and a small set of eight bungalows down there.”
I had thought that we were going to use a pilot and Tate would sit in the back with me and play tour guide, but oh, no. In addition to being a top-notch fishing guide, a dive instructor, a hotel owner, a French Polynesian real estate mogul, fluent in multiple languages and a sex god, he was also, of course, a helicopter pilot. We sat in the front seat with sunglasses and the headgear on, and over the course of an hour, he careened us over sparkling blue water, white sand and lush, hilly islands.
My face hurt as I looked out the window, high above the world with such an amazing man at the helm. I hadn’t smiled like this in ages, and it was all because of Tate. He’d brought me back from a dark place, saved me and shown me what it was like to have fun and not take life too seriously. And now I was getting ready to head back to reality, where life was serious and demanding and . . . boring.
Lunch on Bora Bora had been spectacular: fresh fish with Tahitian vanilla sauce and the most incredible poe, which is a decadent dessert made from banana and pumpkin starch, mixed with other fresh fruits like papaya, mango and pineapple,
all cooked in banana leaves inside a Tahitian oven. We borrowed masks and snorkels and floated around the bay just off the restaurant where we’d dined. And as one last surprise, or gift, Tate let me “fly” the helicopter. I was terribly nervous, but this trip was about living and adventure, so when he asked me if I wanted to try steering, I’d swallowed my fear and gripped the cyclic stick and boldly traversed us around the sky. It was invigorating, it was life-changing, it was absolutely terrifying, and I loved every minute of it.
By the time we got back to the hotel, I was plumb exhausted. We were having a quick drink with Justin and Kendra at their private villa, watching the girls splash in the pool, when Tate’s phone vibrated on the table and one of his managers ran up behind us out of breath and with a look of sheer panic on his face.
Tate snatched his phone, checked the message and stood up just as Quincy approached. Tate and his manager shared a quick look, and then Quincy nodded. Justin, noticing the building tension, stood up too.
“Is it what we feared?” he asked.
Tate nodded.
What the hell? What had they feared? Dread settled in my belly like a lead balloon. It had to be something involving Xavier, I just knew it.
Tate turned to face me. “Xavier has gone to the press in retaliation for being kicked out of here yesterday. Somehow, we’re not entirely sure how yet, he figured out who I am and has gone to the tabloids bashing the hotel. Spreading rumors and lies about me, my employees and you. A huge front page spread is on the magazine slated to go out to newsstands tomorrow. It’s already online.” He handed me his phone where quotes like “Tate McAllister, billionaire philanthropist or petty dictator?” and “Parker Ryan, the billionaire’s arm candy . . . for a price” graced the cover.
Bile burned the back of my throat. He was calling me a prostitute. Fucking Bubbles, when I got back to New York I was going to kill him myself.
“Want me to get James on it back home?” Justin asked, grabbing his phone out of his back pocket. “He’s got a guy, a couple guys who can go talk to him.”
Tate shook his head. “Not yet.”
I pushed myself to my feet. “Do we even know if Xavier is back in the states yet?”
Tate shook his head. “He’s not. Quincy just told me that he’s booked at a four-star hotel on the other side of the island.”
“Should we go?” Justin asked, bouncing on his heels with excitement, but then he caught his wife’s eye, and the two exchanged a quick look.
“You’re on vacation, my Dark Knight,” she said blandly. “Leave the crime-fighting to the men on duty.”
He nodded solemnly, then immediately started to backpedal. “I mean, should we send one of your big security guards to go and speak to him.” The disappointment in his eyes was plain as day.
Tate was still studying his phone and whispering with Quincy, not really paying attention to what Justin was saying and behaving as if I no longer existed. Did I exist anymore? I was the reason his cover was blown. The anonymity, the privacy he’d worked hard to keep for all these years was gone in seconds, and all because of me.
He looked up at me, his eyes fierce. “We have to go.”
“Where?”
“We’re going to talk to Xavier.”
“We?”
He nodded.
“You need help?” Justin asked. Kendra made a noise in her throat from where she sat. “I mean, I can drive if you guys need someone in the getaway car or something.”
Tate shook his head and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Nah, man, I think we’re good here. We’ll take Mako, my biggest security guard. Should be enough.” He bit the inside of his lip for moment in thought before turning to Quincy. “Want to go and grab Michael as well? Won’t hurt to have my attorney there too.”
Quincy nodded. “He’s already in his office printing up the cease and desist papers.”
Tate nodded. “I only hire the best.”
Quincy made a face. “We’re also working on figuring out who revealed your identity, sir. As well as how Mr. Rollins obtained photos of you and Miss Ryan. We won’t let them get away with it.” Quincy was making a face similar to the one Alejandro had made a few days ago when he’d talked about “getting rid of” subpar employees, or ones who didn’t toe the line.
Tate’s face softened. “I’m sure it was a mistake. Or he may have just figured it out on his own. As for the photos, who knows?”
But Quincy’s eyes were hard. He was taking this violation personally. Wow! Such loyalty.
Tate’s hand fell to the small of my back. “Ready to go?”
I swallowed and nodded. Not at all, but it had to be done. Fucking Bubbles needed to be dealt with.
Moments later we were climbing into the Jeep, with an enormous Polynesian man behind the wheel whose biceps were the same size as my waist and whose neck was as thick as his thighs. Michael, a scrawny little white guy with Coke-bottle glasses, sat in the front seat while Tate and I sat in the back.
I was shaking. Freezing, despite the warm evening breeze that coasted across my skin as we raced down the road to the other side of the island. Fear and anger comingled inside of me into an icy froth that settled heavy in the pit of my stomach and slowly seeped out like a toxic wound into the rest of my body. I’d forgotten a cardigan, so I just wrapped my arms around myself and rocked back and forth. Tate glanced down at me and then, without even batting an eye, removed his T-shirt and pulled it over my head.
“It’ll be okay,” he said, pulling me close and rubbing my shoulder, planting a kiss on the top of my head.
I continued to shake. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Mako slowed down the Jeep as the lights of a resort up ahead came into view. He rolled up to the security gate and spoke with the man at the front. The gate swung open seconds later, and we pulled through. He parked, and when we clambered out, we were greeted by a friendly-looking man in a crisp white dress shirt and tan pants, wringing his hands. He had the name of the resort emblazoned on the top corner of his shirt, The Moorean Sunrise Resort and Bungalows.
Tate stepped forward and shook his hand. “Thanks for doing this, Arturo. I really appreciate it.”
The gray-haired man with soft brown eyes nodded. “I’m so sorry, Mr. McAllister, if I’d had any idea who he was, I would have turned him away.”
Tate shook his head. “I keep telling you to call me Tate. You’re old enough to be my father. I should be calling you Mr. Mendez.”
Arturo blushed.
Tate went on. “No need to apologize. You didn’t know. No harm, no foul. But if you could show us to Mr. Rollins’ room, we can take it from here.”
Arturo nodded and motioned for us to follow him, with Tate behind him, me behind Tate, followed by Michael and then finally Mako. I looked behind me—jeepers, the guy had to be at least seven feet tall, three hundred pounds. And I was guessing most of that weight was pure muscle. Yeah, if Michael’s papers didn’t do the trick, Mako’s size and half-tattooed face certainly would.
We came up to a small bungalow right on the beach. Xavier could step out and be in the surf in a matter of seconds. It was no presidential suite at The Windward Hibiscus, but it wasn’t too shabby, either.
Tate stepped forward and went to knock, but I stopped him, pulled his shirt over my head and handed it back to him. He tugged it on and gave me a brief smile of thanks before lifting his fist and knocking.
Seconds later, the door opened. A woman wearing nothing but a peach thong and matching bra was standing there with a dubious expression on her face. “You’re not room service,” she said stupidly in her little breathy baby-doll voice.
“Lani, babe, is that room service? I’m starving.” Xavier came around the corner towel-drying his hair, wearing nothing but a confused look on his dumb face. He lifted his head up, and his eyes went buggy as he took us all in. The towel dropped from his head, and he immediately draped it around his waist. “What the fuck is the meaning of
this?” he asked, indignation in his voice. But a quaver of unease was there as well. Mako stepped out of the shadows and loomed behind me. All the blood drained from Xavier’s face.
Lani’s eyes drifted back and forth between Xavier and Tate. “Babe, what’s going on?”
Arturo pushed past Tate and looked at Lani. Now it was time for her face to pale.
“M-Mr. Mendez, wh-what are you doing here?”
Arturo lifted an eyebrow. “That’s my line, Lani.”
The woman started to scramble around the room collecting her things. She tossed on a pair of khaki pants and then pulled a hotel logo-emblazoned navy polo shirt over her head. “P-please, sir,” she stammered, tears welling up in her dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Arturo gripped her by the elbow and led her past us down the path. “Let’s go have a chat, Lani. I’m sure we can sort something out. After all, you didn’t see anything, right, now did you? Not a soul knocked on the door; nobody by the name of Xavier was staying at this hotel, right? You’ve been working in the dining room on a double-shift all night, right?”
Her breath caught in her throat as she shuffled along with him. “N-no, sir. Nobody. Nothing. Whatever you say.”
Xavier’s eyes were still wide as dinner plates as he watched his little paramour stumble down the path with her boss. When they disappeared around the corner, his gaze whipped back to Tate, but instead of the fear that should have been there, he sneered smugly and turned to face me. “So you saw my little post in America’s Scoop, did you? Here I thought you were slumming it, Parker, but in fact you’re an even bigger gold-digger than I thought. What, my millions not enough for you anymore? You too good for me?”
“I’d say she is,” Tate snapped back. “Especially since you don’t have a fucking million to your name anymore.”
