The Bad Boys of Eden

by Avery Aster

Chapter Six

  What had just happened to him, to them?

  Oscar sucked in oxygen like a man going under for the last time, conscious of Emma's body still pulsating around his length and the unsteady sound of their breathing. The heady scent of slick sweat and sex and the floral fragrance of her hair made him light-headed as his erection finally diminished. He rolled to the side and took her with him, still connected, as his hand stroked her bare bottom, as he held her tight.

  She muttered into his chest, "That was insane."

  "Hush, baby." He rubbed the flat of his hand over her bottom in what he hoped to hell was a soothing motion. Insane was right. Too right.

  He'd been too rough with her. A fucking animal. And he'd never had an orgasm like that in his whole life. Jesus, had he hurt her? He rubbed his cheek in her fabulous hair, just loving the smell and the spicy scent of her sex. She was trembling so he held her tighter.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, hoping to hell he didn't sound as scared as he felt.

  Her head bobbed twice against his chest in a move that he took to mean yes.

  His legs were tangled with hers and he was still inside her.

  And he could have stayed like that for the rest of his natural life.

  Then the enormity of what he, they'd, done hit him too hard.

  Fuck.

  He hadn't used protection.

  And that was a first for him.

  "We didn't use a condom. I'm clean," he admitted.

  He eased back to look down into her face.

  A beautiful and flushed face, her emerald eyes unfocussed with the misty aftermath of hot sex.

  "I'm protected and clean, too. It's been a long time for me."

  His gaze dropped to her lips.

  Her mouth looked swollen, the full bottom lip appeared bruised.

  He blinked.

  And was that a love bite on her neck?

  Seriously?

  What the hell was he, sixteen?

  A wave of shame washed over him as his Emma simply stared up into his face, those green eyes all dreamy. She was so adorable that his heart kicked in his chest. Oscar knew he was a big man. He took great care to ensure he treated women with care, with respect, when he made love. He always took it nice and easy and slow. But the sex they'd just had hadn't been easy. It hadn't been slow. Anything but. It had been primitive, primal even and just about as basic as it could get. The need to dominate her simply could not be denied. He couldn't understand it. When had he ever needed to master a woman? Especially a woman like Emma? What the hell had he been thinking?

  Now Oscar admitted that he'd wanted to have her come apart in his arms, to drive her as crazy as she'd driven him for three long years. So what was this? A revenge fuck? What did that make him? It made him a twisted bastard.

  Emma thrust the slippery tumble of chestnut hair over her shoulder, giving him a bird's eye view of her gorgeous breasts. His eyes went wide. Christ, he'd given her a love bite on her tits, too? For fuck's sake, what was the matter with him? Something hot and hard burned too bright in his gut and to his utter amazement his spent shaft jerked involuntarily inside her.

  For the first time in his adult life, Oscar Zamani blushed to the roots of his hair.

  "My goodness," she purred as her lips curved. The sight as much of a turn-on as those tight nipples playing peek-a-boo at him through her hair. "Can I just say that I am very impressed at your stamina, Mr. Zamani. Very impressed."

  He couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped from his throat, the surge of relief that he hadn't hurt her relieving some of the stress in his neck, but none of the fire burning too bright in his belly. How could he have forgotten how spirited and smart she was? But he also saw something dark lurking deep in those emerald eyes. Something desperately sad, something fragile, that hadn't been there before. But he let it go. Now was not the time for sharing secrets. Now was the time to explore what they'd found again. Together.

  "Come here." He pulled her closer, loving the way her arms wound around him, the way a long leg hooked over his hip. He stroked the smooth skin of her shoulders, her bare bottom, grinning as her eyelids dipped. "Why don't we share a shower and then hit the bed again for round two?"

  She rolled her shoulders under his hand and let out a purr like a contented kitten. A purr that had him twitch inside her again.

  "Why don't we?" He rolled onto his back and took her with him until she was spread-eagled on top of him. Then she rose above him, hands lifting the shiny curtain of her hair back as she began to move. "Later," she said, and took him on the ride of his life.

  * * *

  Six hours later, Emma lay sprawled on her belly, and peeled open her eyes.

  At some point she’d lost her hair tie and now hair curtained her face.

  She shoved the heavy weight back and surveyed a scene of utter devastation.

  Pillows and sheets were strewn over the floor.

  Her limbs were so heavy it felt as if she was sinking into the mattress.

  She turned to lie on her back and took stock of her surroundings.

  Memories crowded into her mind. Her hand rose to her mouth, to press fingertips into puffy lips. She was in a strange bed in a strange room. A huge ceiling fan made of mahogany idly stirred the air. The sun was high in the sky. A light snore to her right had her head spin round.

  Her eyes went wide.

  Oscar lay sound asleep on his front, his arm stretched out towards her, as if reaching to touch her even in slumber. She couldn’t stop looking at his face, at the changes. There were faint laughter lines around his eyes, his mouth. Obscenely thick black eyelashes fanned above carved cheekbones. He had the nose, straight and true, of a warrior. His jaw was strong, well-defined and that full mouth was made for sin. And it had done plenty of sinning on her. The memory of how he’d tasted her... there... had that well-used ache tingle deliciously between her legs. His back was tanned, the skin clear, pulled taut over strong muscles. His waist was narrow and dipped low before the rise of the smooth curve of his butt. His incredibly tight butt. Her eyes went wide. A butt that had the imprint of her fingernails dug deep.

  Shocked at her own wanton behaviour, Emma took stock of her own aches. The soft flesh of her inner thighs had been rubbed red by his beard as he’d... Heat scorched her cheeks. Her nipples tingled. And when she spotted a love bite on her breast her face went nuclear.

  Omigod.

  They’d gone at each other like rabid animals.

  What on earth had she been thinking?

  What on earth had she done?

  Emma knew the frantic need to escape was wrong, childish even, but all she wanted at that moment was to be alone. To gather herself together. To think. To work out what to do next.

  Like a thief in the night, she slid out of his bed, grabbed her clothes, and tip-toed out of the bedroom. The sitting room was immaculate and she remembered that Oscar liked order in his life, in his environment. She dressed quickly. Thought about leaving a note, then thought again.

  Without looking back, Emma raced down the beach and up the path to the castle as if the devil himself was at her heels.

  Chapter Seven

  Oscar Zamani Spencer had been born more than rich.

  He’d been born one of the privileged few.

  In his choice of careers, both of them, he’d been surrounded by people who wanted to be the best. In Eden, he’d had a blast developing an exciting new menu and teaching new skills to a first-class team.

  Eden had also given him plenty of down-time to edit his cookbook. But more importantly, to think.

  Usually when Oscar had down-time he preferred to enjoy solitary pursuits; listening to music, reading, things that permitted his creativity to relax.

  He was anything but relaxed now.

  No one knew where she was, who she was.

  Emma Ludlow was not, apparently, a guest of Eden.

  The Master was off island and no one knew when he was due to return.

  Now Oscar
strolled along the sand and wondered if he’d dreamed the whole fucking thing. Maybe the events of this morning had just been a figment of his overwrought imagination? His fingers fiddled with the hair tie on his wrist. The hair tie he’d found in his bed. She’d been no dream. She’d been real alright. He hadn’t dreamed the way she laughed, that mysteriously smoky sound that had flowed like molten honey over his heated skin. He hadn’t dreamed that he’d been burying his face in the glistening dark copper of her hair either, or the way it glowed in the sunlight that flooded his bed.

  God, she’d been so soft, so giving, as she’d whispered desperate promises in his ear as he’d filled her over and over. Promises that even now had tiny aches rushing over his flesh. He needed her to whisper those words, look at him, touch him, like that again and again.

  So where the hell had she gone?

  And how had she left the island since, according to Connie, no flights or boats had arrived or departed for two days.

  So like the good soldier he was, Oscar considered the facts.

  She was divorced.

  He found the reality of that fact hard to grasp.

  In his mind he’d imagined the beautiful Emma swanning around Washington, D.C. Hosting high-powered cocktail parties, intimate dinners, for her Senator husband. Pressing the flesh, working all the angles.

  Living the fucking dream... just as her mother had planned.

  If he lived to be a hundred, Oscar would never forget the way Catherine Ludlow had told him her daughter had married and was on her honeymoon. He'd never forget the triumphant malice in her polite voice, the sneer on her thin mouth, or how her grey eyes filled to the brim with a loathing she reserved purely for him.

  Bottom line - in spite of his background - he wasn't good enough for Emma.

  And all because his maternal grandmother had been African.

  Bigots.

  Oscar knew the world was full of them. But Emma's mother was in a league all of her own. A woman who faithfully attended church every Sunday, who quoted carefully selected passages from the Good Book, who talked about tolerance, diversity and inclusion. But at the rotten heart of her was a racist determined to do everything in her power to ensure no man of colour would marry her daughter.

  Oscar didn't like the darkness in his heart, in his soul. He wasn't a man who lived in the past, or a man who let it affect him in the present. He'd moved on and made something of his life, of himself.

  Heart pumping now with more than adrenaline, he shoved Catherine Ludlow from his mind and turned to stare out over the empty vastness of the ocean. He let the lace of the foam cool his feet and soothe the hurt in his heart. He'd loved Emma Ludlow. Totally. And because he'd done the right thing, fulfilled an obligation, a duty, he'd lost her.

  Now he frowned as another thought slid into his brain.

  Why hadn’t Nico, or more importantly Alexander, told him Emma’s marriage was in trouble?

  Then he winced, remembering how he’d refused to discuss Emma when the subject had been brought up by his friends, how he’d refused to even hear her name, refused to deal with his feelings.

  Oscar thrust frustrated hands through his hair, used her hair tie to hold his hair back.

  How could he have been so bloody stupid?

  Fuck it.

  Deal with it, he ordered himself.

  He spun around to jog over the sugar white sand to his cottage.

  He hit the power shower, set it on cold, then forced himself to concentrate on his plans for what was left of the day.

  For the next two evenings he was on duty in the kitchens, working with an excellent staff. And preparing whatever Eden's pampered guests desired.

  He couldn't wait to begin.

  She tried to sleep.

  Even closed the blinds, placed a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

  After all, she’d just had six hours of hot monkey sex, orgasmed four... or was it five times. She should have been exhausted. But her whole body burned... all of it... inside and out.

  Abruptly Emma sat up, switched on the light, took a sip of water.

  The bitter sweet memories of how she and Oscar had come together, how he'd kissed her, touched her, the need in his deep voice and how he'd made her feel, weakened her now. And she fought like a tiger to beat those feelings back, to recover that sense of serenity she’d found on Eden.

  She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around her waist as she rocked back and forth desperately trying to keep gnawing desire at bay. But those feelings just would not be contained.

  A whimper escaped from her throat.

  How could she forget how good he felt under her hands, as he slid inside her, filling her in a way that had hurt so good. He’d tasted, all of him, so good. And she admitted she wanted more, much more. God, the way she’d rubbed her slick body against his, without restraint, made her whimper again.

  Stop it! Her mind shouted loud and clear as the fire deep in her belly flared to life.

  Stop it!

  She simply would not, could not, let this happen to her again. For three years she’d outsmarted, ruthlessly ignored, any desire, any need, for a man.

  Not now... now that need was set ablaze inside her too quickly, wrenching, writhing, in such a way that she couldn’t get a grip on her emotions, her feelings.

  She couldn’t get it to stop.

  With a despairing moan, Emma rolled to lay under the comforter, curled into the foetal position and desperately tried to lose herself in sleep, to calm her frantic thoughts.

  After all she'd been through, she’d only just found herself again.

  The problem was that she didn’t trust her heart.

  And she certainly didn’t trust Oscar.

  He’d walked away from her once.

  And his leaving had been the catalyst for the disaster that followed.

  Why had she let herself have sex with him... again?

  Had she learned nothing?

  Memories, unrelenting memories, spun into her mind with a speed that had her squeeze her eyes tightly shut. The moment she'd discovered she was pregnant with Oscar's baby. The intense mix of fear and a wild happiness. Her mother's utter dismay. And then the pain of loss weeks later, as she'd miscarried. Along with her mother's obvious relief.

  Emma knew there was no point in re-living the bad times.

  Oscar had moved on, forgotten her.

  Then they'd met this morning.

  And she'd lost her mind.

  Desire and a chemistry that could not be denied had overthrown common sense. But there was no doubt he'd been as affected as her, maybe even more so if that was possible. He couldn't seem to help himself.

  They'd made wild and passionate love.

  It meant nothing more than that.

  So she shouldn't read anything more into it.

  What was to stop him repeating the past, drawing her in and then walking away?

  She shook her head.

  Why hadn’t she asked him what he was doing here?

  What had happened to change him, the tattoo, the hair, like that?

  Too many questions and no answers now crowded into her busy brain.

  Emma didn’t know where to turn, what to do with herself.

  Then a little voice whispered softly in her mind, told her to use these feelings, to write them down, to get them on paper and out of her head.

  She leaped out of bed, raced to her laptop and began typing.

  All her thoughts, all her fears, poured from her fingers.

  Hadn’t she learned the hard way that having sex, even hot sex, with a man meant nothing? Certainly not love, commitment or marriage. Three years ago Oscar, she reminded herself, hadn’t wanted a wife, or even a partner, he’d only wanted a booty call to scratch an itch. Emma had to hand it to him, he’d been clever. Three years ago she’d have done anything he’d asked. Anything. Even been an acceptable society wife, a woman who could juggle all the balls in the air expected of women today; wife, sex siren i
n the bedroom, earth mother, homemaker, career woman.

  It had taken her years... including marriage to a monster... to finally accept that taking every promise or compliment from a man literally had been more than stupid.

  Both Oscar and Richard had given her a clear-cut view of today's man. They could not be trusted. Once a woman handed them her heart, handed them the power to hurt, that woman was completely lost.

  Emma finished typing, her fingers stiff, her head pounding as she closed her eyes with fatigue.

  Oscar Zamani wasn’t looking for anything more than good sex.

  What had happened between them this morning had been utter foolishness on her part and an error of judgement on his that wouldn’t happen again. And even if Oscar was looking for a lover, she wasn’t.

  Emma Ludlow answered to no one, certainly no man. She answered only to herself and that was the way she wanted it. With a renewed sense of purpose, she clicked on her story file and got back to work.

  When she was deep in a story, it was easy for Emma to let worries and cares slip away, even thoughts of Oscar and hot sex.

  And when it came to plotting crime, Emma covered all the angles. With the psychopath in this story, she wanted something the killer could use that would be speedy, something that would be hard, if not impossible, to trace. Poison. A nice quick-acting poison.

  Hmm.

  Today she was introducing the killer to Cole, heaven help him. Georgia Bailey was a jaw-droppingly beautiful, sophisticated, sensuous, sexy bitch. A bitch who would tie her detective hero in knots. A bitch who, ultimately, needed to go out with a bang, rather than a whimper.

  But before all that, today's challenge for Emma was to find just the right poison.

  Something exotic.

  Something rare.

  Maybe something plant based.

  Emma was mulling over a couple of ideas when, without warning, her focus slipped.

  * * *

  Her mind spun her on a sly little side-trip right back to her disastrous marriage. She hadn’t been in love with Richard. Maybe fiercely attracted, but attraction was not enough, so she'd had no business marrying him in the first place. It was all very well blaming her mother for steamrolling her into what had turned into an unmitigated disaster. But Emma had been a grown woman, for God's sake. A woman who should have done a basic background check on a man she'd known nothing about.