by Ella James
I reach out and grab her around the knees, throw her over my shoulder, and set her down inside the boat. I snatch her bags from the dock and say, “Come on, Rojo.”
Her lips twitch. “Are you really calling me Rojo?”
I shrug. “It fits.”
I hedge my bets and turn away from her to finish breaking down the sail. I’m watching, though. She doesn’t run—not yet, anyway. By the time the sail is secured, I’m sweating, so I unbutton the top of my shirt and lean against the side of the boat.
“Come see the place, Rojo. I have some poems for you, and pictures.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances at the dock. “How long did you work for Gertrude?” she asks pointedly.
I can tell from her intense stare that my answer is important, so I don’t say ‘four years.’ It sounds insubstantial, which it’s not.
“We met in Madrid, at an art exhibit. Have you ever heard of ‘W?’”
I know she has. I’ve done my homework.
“He’s one of my favorites,” she confirms.
“I met Trudie at one of his first café shows.”
Her face transforms—a look of wonder; maybe even envy—and I’m irrationally pleased she appreciates my work.
“We both liked nature, and being by ourselves. I moved here to help her keep the island up.”
She bites her lip again, inspecting me from beneath her eyelashes. “Tell me something about my mother. Anything you know. And you will know something if you really knew Gertrude.”
“Her middle name was Anna, and she liked butterflies and worked as a professor.”
She juts her chin up. “Where did she work?”
“University of Alabama at Birmingham.”
Again, with her teeth on that tasty little lip. My dick, which had been settling down, is all the way up again, and I want to groan.
“Okay, so you really worked for my grandmother. That doesn’t mean you’re not a manipulative asshole. I’m afraid I have no interest in helping you. I’d rather take my money-grubbing self and starve.” She grabs her bags and starts to climb out of the boat, and I’m on her; my hand on her elbow, fingers closing around her smooth skin.
“C’mon, Rojo. Just come see it with me. All I’m asking for is one night. How about this? If you come with me, I’ll pay you ten thousand. Either way. I promise.” I put my heart and soul into the word, because what’s left of them is anchored to that goddamn island. I can’t exist anywhere else. For so many reasons. I jerk my gaze around the docks, suddenly terrified someone will recognize me and I’ll lose my chance with her.
Her mouth puckers. “I want to see a photo ID or I won’t even consider your ridiculous request.”
Fuck!
I rake a hand back through my hair. “I don’t have it on me.”
“Really. ’Cause that’s not strange or anything…”
I straighten my shoulders. “I don’t often leave the island.”
“Also strange,” she says. “Why is that?”
“I’m uncomfortable around people.” It’s the closest I can get to the truth, which reads more like I hate everyone.
That’ll win her, James.
As if she hears my thoughts, she says, “What’s your name?”
“Race.” It’s my college nickname.
“Race what?” She’s frowning at me like she thinks I’m stupid.
“Race Hollister.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Do you have a problem with it?”
“Only that I can’t believe you. What the hell would make me go anywhere with you, let alone a deserted island where you could chop me into little pieces and feed me to your pet turtles?”
“Turtles aren’t meant to be pets. Most animals aren’t.”
“Even posing as a humanitarian, I still don’t trust you.”
I take a step away from her, suddenly drained. “I’m not going to keep begging, Rojo. If you don’t need ten thousand dollars, walk away. If you do, get in.”
*
RED
My stomach twists when I think of the money he’s offering. Ten thousand dollars is enough to tide me over until I find work. Sixty is enough to take a year or two off. Enough to travel almost anywhere I want.
“You must really want this island badly.”
He rubs his forehead, reminding me of a tired child. “I do.”
Even now, standing close enough so I can see the sweat on his brow and throat, he’s beautiful. A handsome villain.
I sigh. “I can’t believe I’m desperate enough to consider this.”
“I’m sorry I called you a money-grubber.”
I meet his eyes and am surprised to find they’re softer now. Probably an act.
I look down at my bag and purse, then around, at the other boats, then out at the sea, which is choppy from the humid breeze. I drag my phone out of my pocket.
“Let me see if I’ve got service. The e-mail you sent had the longitude and latitude of the island. I’ll copy that and send it to a friend. Just in case you turn out to be a lunatic. Promise me you won’t turn out to be a lunatic?”
He nods, looking surprisingly serious. “Scouts’ honor.”
“Shit. That’s not enough. Just e-mailing my friend is definitely not enough to convince me to go with you. I need something more. I need…I don’t know. A reference. Or maybe I don’t…” I have a Taser in the bottom of my purse. I could always use that.
No—I’ve got a much better idea!
He turns away from me and moves over to the motors, and I point my phone at him. With trembling fingers, I pull my camera up and set it on video mode. When he turns back toward me, I get a side shot of his face and send it, along with a note and the island’s coordinates, to Katie.
He’s leaning back over the motors, pulling on the top of one of them so it rises slightly out of the water, when I notice the bulge in his pants.
Chapter Three
RED
This is a surprise.
Does he find me attractive? This man? I’m not ugly, but I’m no beauty—and I know that. And yet, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a hard-on for my brilliant personality.
All we’ve done so far is argue.
Maybe he gets off on arguing.
He looks up from what he’s doing and, again, I think he looks tired. Much wearier and more sympathetic than a jerk like him has a right to look.
I wonder how close he was to Gertrude.
I wonder why he doesn’t want to leave the island.
I’m a fool for caring.
He turns back around toward me, and a quick glance-over reveals he’s tucked his boner away. Or lost it. For a moment I’m dizzied by how good he looks in those slacks; how much broader his shoulders are than his hips.
Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s what he is. And an asshole.
“So, you ready?” The corner of his lip tugs up, as if he’s trying to smile and failing.
“Hmm.” I make him sweat it, because he deserves that much. Then, after I tuck my hair behind my ears and sit down on one of the benches, I say, “I guess so.”
A brilliant grin spreads over his face, confirming what I’d figured: He’s got a beautiful smile. It lightens his eyes, almost literally. They don’t look quite so dark.
“Thanks for this. Either way I’ll drop you back here tomorrow with a check.”
“You fucking better.”
I spend the next few minutes pretending to be absorbed with something on my phone. I have the wherewithal to be sure the GPS tracking service is turned on, in the event he does turn out to be insane. But I don’t get that vibe.
A few minutes later, his big hand is pushing the boat away from the dock. He’s stepping over to the steering podium, and I’m shamelessly watching the way his shirt melds against the hard lines of his back.
I hunch my shoulders against the wind and watch him as he steers the boat, first idling through the cove, then pushing a joystick up
a few inches and increasing our speed until the boat’s nose rises out of the water, then the rest of it. The boat bounces as it flies across the sea.
I wonder if the money will be worth this ordeal. I hope I learn something from what I see of Gertrude’s home. I wish Gertrude was here.
This day has turned out to be so fucking weird.
I let my mind wander as the wind whips my hair out behind me.
I’m curious to know whether Gertrude liked the color blue, like Mom did; whether she was a fan of sunflower patterns and brightly colored kitchenware. Mom was the queen of neon orange and pink coffee mugs, of funky watermelon plates in summer. Did she get her style from her stoic poet mother? How far off base was I, when I would dream of meeting the great Gertrude O’Malley?
Maybe Gertrude was more like me. My favorite colors are green and pink, my favorite season fall. I’m a writer. Not a poet, but still a writer.
I gather my hair into one of my hands and wonder why I didn’t bring a rubber band. I guess I thought Gertrude’s boat would have an inside. I pictured it big. I pictured her on it.
Sigh.
Another glance up at Race’s back and ass, and I’m distracted by the bulge I imagine is still straining against his pants.
I’m practically twitching with nervous energy—nervous, sexually appreciative, emotionally irritated energy—so I decide instead of just watching him from my seat, I’ll join him at the pedestal that houses the steering system.
I hold onto the side of the boat as I move, feeling grateful I wore sneakers. Beyond the boat’s nose, the horizon line bounces. Clouds bear down on the water, matching my mood.
I clutch the edge of the podium, and he looks over at me. He’s not wearing sunglasses, so his eyes are squinted slightly against the glare of the water.
I lean closer to him, and I swear I think I can feel him checking me out. Not simply looking at me; looking at me.
I lean back a little, trying to ignore the way my body calls to his, and raise my voice so he can hear me over the wind and choppy sea. “Why did she want you to have the island?”
He shakes his head, turning toward me, so his torso is an inch from my shoulder, and his lips are almost brushing my cheek. I lose my breath again, in a way I haven’t since high school—and earlier today. “Probably because I live there,” he says.
We hit a bump, and my shoulder bumps into his chest, sending a starburst of sensation through me. I look into his face, wondering why it strikes me as familiar.
“Are you a recluse?”
His eyes flicker over to mine, then back out to the sea. His looks first annoyed, then amused. “Is this a quiz?”
“I think I have a right to quiz you.”
One dark eyebrow arches. “Terrible thing, loaning you money to buy a car. That’s basically what I did, you realize. That and offer to pay you ten thousand dollars for a night on an island.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You took advantage of me.”
“I wish you would stop saying that, Rojo.”
“Quit calling me that,” I say. “It sounds like a man’s name, and the part that sticks out in my mind the most is ‘ho.’”
He smirks, and in that low voice of his, he says, “Are you a ho?”
I pinch my lips together to avoid a smile; his tone is clearly teasing. “No. I’m not.”
A reluctant little half smile slips over his mouth, and my poor neglected vagina responds. I bite my lip to distract myself from the party in my jeans.
I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling a little weird about myself. This is hardly a normal response to finding out about the death of one’s grandmother. Then again, Gertrude was a total stranger. Her death is, for me, mainly just a disappointment. The end of some remote possibility that probably wasn’t ever possible at all.
I push my bangs over the top of my head, where they tend to stay, whipped back in the wind. Race’s lips twitch again, and I glare. “What?”
Why the hell am I feeling so warm and fuzzy? I’m like a high school freshman creaming my panties over the senior quarterback. I shouldn’t be so damn attracted to him—so I am. Of course I am. This is the way things go for me.
And then he tilts his head my way, gives me a full smile, and says, “You wanna steer?”
Total swoon land. Which is sad. So very, very pitiful.
I take a long, slow breath. “Are you being condescending?”
He shakes his head. Angles his body toward mine. In a low, scratchy voice that may just be the wind and my imagination, he murmurs, “Truth? I want to put my hands on you.”
Heat sings through me. “Did you really just say that?”
He grins, and I say, “You should keep your hands to yourself. I don’t need or want them.”
LIAR!
“If this is some kind of ploy,” I continue, looking into his eyes, “it won’t work. I’m not even attracted to you.”
If at all possible, his grin widens, making him look wolfish. His eyes flit down the front of me, and before I can prepare myself, he reaches out and flicks my nipple gently. “Not attracted?”
Pleasure shoots in a direct line down to my pussy—so fierce I go all limp and almost lose my footing. I clamp an arm over my chest and laugh, because seriously, I cannot believe this asshole did that. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Believe it, baby.” Again, that smug smirk. “I don’t think you minded. In fact,” he says slowly, leaning so close his lips brush me near my ear, “I think you liked it.”
Before I can deny this, his arms are going around my waist, moving me in front of him, turning me toward the boat’s nose. I wait, lightheaded, for him to press my ass against his huge erection, and am dizzily disappointed when he simply places my hands on the wheel and wraps his hands around them.
He moves my sweaty fingers to a position that looks like nine and three. “Hold it here,” he purrs into my ear. He holds up one finger and disappears, moving toward the back of the boat.
I look into a little rear view mirror and see him pushing a button on the side of one of the motors. A few seconds later, their overpowering roar quiets a few notches. I look over my shoulder; the wind whips my hair across my face.
“What did you do?” I ask as he returns to stand beside me.
“Shifted the motors to a different setting. Kind of like shifting down a gear.”
Now the loudest thing in my ears is the whipping wind. He stands so close to me we’re practically hip to hip, and then he wraps an arm around my back.
“Are you cold?” he asks. “You’re shivering a little.”
Omigod, I’m not shivering. I’m trembling. With lust.
I swallow. Shake my head. I try to step away from him, I swear I do, but my legs are frozen. He’s got me entranced.
“Quit acting like you care if I’m cold.”
I tighten my hands around the wheel, and for a second I swear I can feel his hardness against my butt. The sensation is gone as quickly as I notice it, but I’m so fired up now I can barely remember my own name, feeling sweaty and shaky and flushed.
His hand comes down beside mine on the wheel, tugging it slightly to the right. “Hold it there for a few minutes,” he says. The boat veers a foot or two in the direction of the setting sun, and the current ripples around us.
For the next few minutes, the only sound is the purr of the motors, the splash of water under us, and the wind. The sailboat never quite goes fast enough to completely level off, so the nose of the boat, where we’re standing, rides slightly higher than the back.
Ocean spray dampens my cheeks. It feels good, because I’m over-hot. His arm is still around my back. I wonder why I don’t ask him to move it. We pass a barge, flat and slow-moving, hauling big, rusted-looking pipes. Overhead, the sky darkens, threatening to spill.
We pass a group of three tiny, tree-covered islands on our left, and I hold my breath, wondering if one of them is Gertrude’s. Race doesn’t move, though, so I shift my eyes a
head, where I see a dark fuzz on the horizon line. Another half mile or so, and I can see it clearly: a long island, covered with tall pines and mossy oaks.
“Beautiful,” I murmur.
“Perhaps it could be yours,” he says with a funny little half-smile. “I can see if it’s for sale.”
“No thanks.” I shrug his hand off, still hot and shaky, but working to remember who this is. “If I need one, I’ll take yours.”
We sail over the ocean’s surface, rushing the gray sky that seems to hang lower over the water. Race’s arm brushes mine, and I can feel us lose a little momentum.
He tilts the wheel to the left, we move around the curve of the island, and I see it: the widest island so far, covered with so many trees, it looks like someone took a swatch of luscious southern forest and plunked it down in the middle of the ocean. I frown at all the trees beyond the rocky shore: pines, oaks, cypresses.
Birds sail in the sky above it.
Rocks pepper the sandy shore.
Waves crash into it, dying in a spray of white.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
And then he rocks against my ass. I feel the hardness of his cock. I hang onto the wheel as my knees tremble.
*
WOLFE
I press my dick against her.
Reckless.
Instinctive.
Necessary.
I can almost scent her wet cunt. I’ve been with enough women to recognize the glazed eyes, unsteady feet, flushed cheeks, hard nipples. She wants me. She may not like me, but she fucking wants me just like I want her. She confirms this with a wiggle of her ass against my swollen, aching cock. My balls fist up.
I grit my teeth to avoid moaning. I wrap one arm over her shoulder, folding her against my chest because my cock needs to feel that round ass.
We near the shore; I flip a switch to pull the motors up.
As the wind dies down I hear her panting.
“Oh my God, you’re such a fucking asshole.”
I rock against her and groan my words: “Bad first impression, baby.”
