by Avery Aster
As Talal directs me away, I turn and wave. “Good-bye.”
He tilts his head. “Until we meet again, Tessa Savage.”
Chapter Six
Tal and I part ways in Paris where I’ve got a short layover. Now, I’m sitting at the Café Voltaire, across from the Seine, sipping a glass of wine. I can’t stop thinking about some of the stuff Christophe said. Some of the stuff Christophe did. Okay, okay, I can’t stop thinking about the man…period.
But, apart from wishing I’d had the chance to jump his bones and/or be Tantra-sized by him (seriously, who the hell cares how we do it?), the conversations we shared has got me thinking. And thinking.
And thinking.
I pull out a mini-notebook from my bag that I keep around for times like these, when ideas just sort of pop into my head.
Across the top of the page, I jot down, A Guide to Smoking Hot Sex by Tessa Savage. Grinning, I start with number one: Love yourself – masturbating with the lights on…
I’m laughing quietly to myself when I realize there’s someone standing directly in front of my table. I close the notebook and glance up to see a man looking down at me. He’s wearing a gray suit and dark sunglasses.
“Mademoiselle Savage?”
“Yes,” I say, taken aback. How the hell does this guy know my name?
“This is for you.”
“Excuse me?"
He hands me an envelope. It’s a beautiful cream color with the texture of heavy silk rather than paper. It’s sealed with wax, like some medieval correspondence, and when I turn it over, I find my name written in beautifully embossed script.
“What is this?”
“My job is to deliver the envelope. That is all.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“I was told you’d be here.” He tilts his head toward me. “And here you are.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I believe everything you need to know is in the invitation.” He nods once and then walks away.
Watching him leave feels surreal like the guy will disappear—poof!—into thin air. But he doesn’t. He turns left at the next intersection and walks swiftly out of sight.
After turning the invitation over a couple more times, curiosity gets the better of me. I break the seal and open the flap. Inside is a heavy card with beautiful gold illumination and a logo for EDEN swirled at the top. The weird sense of déjà vu I experienced multiple times while in Monte Carlo hits me again. Where have I see this logo before? I let my finger trace it, willing the strange sense of familiarity to work itself out of wherever it’s hiding in my brain.
For the life of me, I can’t figure it out. I must have seen the logo in passing. Maybe in one of the many travel magazines left in airplane seat pockets.
My gaze drifts down and I read…
Dear Ms. Savage,
You are cordially invited to spend a week at the Eden resort, where reality is whatever you want it to be.
That’s it. There is no signature, nothing. What the hell?
Standing up, I crane my neck to look for the delivery man. He needs to do some explaining because while this is lovely and exciting and totally unexpected, it’s also confusing and alarming and maybe even a little frightening. I mean, who knew I’d be here? How did he find me? Who sent him?
Is someone watching me right now? I glance up and down the street, checking out the couples sitting next to me. No one looks familiar, but I suddenly feel exposed. I shove the invitation into my purse, leave more than enough money on the table for my unfinished glass of wine and wave down the nearest taxi.
Within forty-five minutes, I’m at the airport and after booking the next transatlantic flight, I find myself sitting in the waiting area outside my gate, about to board. My phone rings and I see it’s a call from one of my very favorite people in the world, Wade Messing.
“Tessa Savage,” he drawls. The phone crackles. It’s a bad connection and I miss the second half of his sentence.
“What did you say?”
“I said we were just talking about you.”
“Oh? Good things, I hope.”
“Always. Connor wants to know if you got our invitation.”
“The invitation?”
“Yes. Things have changed and we weren’t sure where to find you so we sent out a couple of invitations—” the phone beeps in my ear and then goes dead.
I go to phone back, but my battery is completely drained.
Damn.
There’s no time to plug it in because my flight is called and boarding begins for first class. Yes, okay, Tessa Savage is a princess when she flies. Believe me, you’d fly first class too if you could afford it and you flew as much as I do. Airports are not fun and they are getting less and less fun every year.
The complications and annoyances of flying aside, at least now I know where the invitation came from. I bet I can guess what is going on. My two favorite cowboys have probably ditched all their wedding plans and decided to elope at some tropical resort.
Huh.
It makes sense and yet…I have a really hard time picturing my best friends—the Marlboro Man look-alike and his badass boyfriend—getting married anywhere other than their ranch, though I can’t say I blame them. Weddings can be a bitch to plan. If I was to ever get married again—which is even harder to imagine—I think I’d skip that little detail and just head straight for the commissioner of oaths’ office.
Pulling out the invitation, I flip it over. There are detailed instructions on how to get to the island resort, which means when I get to New York I’m going to have to connect to Miami. I slide it back into my bag. Mystery solved. After stowing my things and accepting the mimosa the flight attendant offers me, I close my eyes and drift off into a semi-doze. Why my mind wanders to Christophe, I don’t know.
Okay, I’m such a liar.
Of course I know why it drifts off to Christophe.
There’s something about the man that intrigues me. Whether it’s all an act or whether he really is deeper and more interesting than I’d originally thought, I don’t know, but I am intrigued—terribly intrigued.
I can hear his voice—his deep, sexy accent—in my head, describing how he would remove my clothes.
The daydream begins with the conversation in the Buddha Bar but suddenly (as in all good dreams and daydreams) we are no longer in the private room but in a lushly appointed penthouse suite that is very similar to the one I shared with Talal.
Christophe hands me a glass of scotch and then turns me toward a mirror.
“Watch,” he whispers very close to my ear.
Standing behind me, he begins to undo the buttons on my shirt. One by one. Slowly. His fingers graze the newly exposed skin, first the hollow at the base of my throat, then the hollow between my breasts until finally he reaches the hollow of my belly button.
“Smell the alcohol. Breathe in deeply.”
As I do this, he untucks my blouse from my skirt and somehow the whisper of silk from beneath my waistband skims my skin in such a wonderfully sensual way, I catch my breath as tingling feathers of pleasure radiate over my belly and up my back.
Taking the glass from my hand, he slides the blouse off my shoulders and arms and drops it to the floor.
“Look at yourself.”
I do. Kind of. I look at where his hand is resting at my waist, moving gently against my skin. I gaze up the length of my body and past to meet his gaze in the mirror. His eyes have a soft, sensual look to them as they briefly meet mine and then return to my body.
“Some men would treat a woman as an object,” he says, running his hand up my side, barely over my bra and then to my shoulder. Sweeping my hair back, he comes in lower. “I understand that.” Though his breath is hot in my ear, I stiffen. Yes, even in my imaginings I am affronted by Christophe’s blatantly sexist remark.
“You are a beautiful thing to behold.” He strokes my throat. “The old me would want to possess you. Own you.” His grip t
ightens about my neck. “The more you tried to deny me, the more I would have wanted you.” His hand slides down my bare back to my skirt. He bunches it in his fist, rubbing me hard from behind. “God, I would have enjoyed making you submit.”
I try to pull away, no matter how hot he’s making me. No matter that this is my fantasy, my imaginings…I think.
Though it feels like something else completely. It feels as if my mind is going in other, unexpected directions, like I’m watching a movie that I don’t know the ending to.
His hand releases my skirt and comes around to cup my breast, gently squeezing, holding me in place. “But men who see women only as objects are missing the most beautiful part.” He dips a finger into the glass of scotch and paints the side of my neck.
He breathes in deeply before gently licking the alcohol from my skin. Lapping, nipping, sucking.
“You pair well with this Glenfiddich. So delicious.”
There is something so erotic about watching him kiss and lick my neck, I am almost willing to forgive his arrogance. Almost.
“What is the most beautiful part?” I ask.
He turns me toward him, tilting my chin up to him. “Your soul.”
Chapter Seven
Once I clear customs in Miami, I am surprised to find a man wearing a driver’s cap, standing in the waiting area with my name scrawled on a placard. Wow. Wade and Connor thought of everything.
“I’m Tessa Savage,” I say, as I approach the man.
“Welcome to Miami, Ms. Savage. I’ve got a car waiting to take you to the marina terminal.” He takes my bags and I follow him out to the road where the car is waiting.
It’s a short drive to the other side of the airport where the marina terminal is located. Up ahead I see a smaller control tower and the service road we’re on passes by a number of hangars all adjacent to a canal. The driver pulls up to a newer looking hangar and parks near a dock where a small float plane is tethered.
A woman comes from around the side of the plane. She’s wearing khaki shorts and a black shirt. Mirrored sunglasses hide her eyes.
Familiar. Where have I seen her before?
She strides toward me, hand out, all no-nonsense. “Tessa. Good to see you. I’m Joely. I’ll be flying you to Eden.”
“Have we met? You look really familiar but…” My words trail off, as I search my brain to place her.
Joely smiles secretively and it’s an expression that makes the young pilot appear barely a day over sixteen years of age. “Maybe. Maybe not. Yet.”
Okay. That’s a weird answer. “What does that mean?” I find myself studying her, still trying to place her.
She raises the sunglasses to the top of her head and says, “You’ll see. Climb aboard.” She fondly pats the puddle jumper we’re standing beside as if it’s an old family pet not a flimsy-looking piece of machinery, which makes me completely forget about her strange comment and focus on the fact that I’m supposed to board this thing.
I have to confess, while I fly—a lot—I have a fear of small airplanes. I hate them. And this puddle jumper is as small as they come. I motion dismissively to the plane. “Is this it? This flimsy thing is the only way to get to the island?”
She frowns. “Did you just insult Wanda? Damn, girl. That’s just asking for trouble. Wanda’ll take it personally.” She strokes the plane, murmuring, “She didn’t mean it, baby.”
Turning to me with a twisted grin, she says, “Trust me, Wanda is the most reliable plane you’ll ever have the pleasure of flying in.” Her eyes sparkle with some form of mischief. “Pity you don’t remember her.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” She leans against the plane. “Look, there’s a boat you can take, but I don’t recommend it.” She tilts her head back to check the skies and sniffs a couple times. “There’s a storm coming. I can smell it.” Motioning to the open doorway she says, “We need to get a move on if we want to beat it. So enough chitchat. Climb up. The island’s waiting.”
* * *
Two hours later and the Miami canal has been replaced by crystal clear, azure colored waters surrounding the island of Eden. I disembark and find myself on a long wooden dock leading to what can only be called tropical paradise. A castle, that smacks of fairytale princesses, is visible from where I’m standing, surrounded by lush tropical foliage and the heavy scent of frangipani blossoms. There’s an entourage of uniformed employees to greet me. One woman dressed in a smartly tailored skirt and blouse, has a champagne flute on a silver tray. Two extremely handsome young men stand to the side, waiting to tote my bags.
A tall, dark-haired man comes forward. “I’m Andre. I’ll be your concierge for the duration of your stay.” Pointing to a golf cart, he says, “Please have a seat. You’ll be staying in the private villas on the far side of the island.
Before climbing aboard the cart, I swipe the champagne flute from the woman holding the tray and down it. I have to admit, while this place does not seem like the kind of place Wade and Connor would choose to get hitched, this is exactly the kind of place I would choose for a little R&R.
As we start driving, Andre gives me a brief history of the island.
“The resort has been operating for almost a decade. The castle was purchased in Scotland by The Master and moved, stone by stone, to the island where it was rebuilt and modernized. There are many sections and it’s much larger than it looks. It’s unique in that every stay is tailored to its guest.”
“Wait. Who owns this island?”
“A very wealthy man. Most people refer to him as The Master.”
“Does he have a name?”
Andre smiles. “Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me his name?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“If he The Master wishes for you to know who he is, he will tell you himself.” He glances at me and winks. “Now, the villas where you’ll be staying are reserved for our exclusive guests. You’re welcome to use all the amenities in the castle, and on the rest of the resort, but I think you’ll find your needs will be met where you’re staying.”
His smile is enigmatic.
For the millionth time, I wonder how Wade and Connor can afford something like this. It’s crazy.
Andre continues his monologue for the duration of the car ride, pointing out all the restaurants, bars, night clubs, and swimming pools, giving me the low down on the activity schedule: yoga classes, cooking classes, dance lessons, all typical activities and amenities of a tropical resort. Then there are the atypical amenities and activities, the indoor and outdoor BDSM club, the hedonist pools, the nude beaches.
“The Master has created a resort where fantasy is made into reality, so please do not be shocked by what you see. It is all consensual.”
“Have Wade and Connor arrived yet?” I ask, stifling a yawn, jet lag catching up with me.
“Who?”
“Wade Messing and Connor O’Reilly.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with the names of those guests.”
I’m sure the men are here already or will be soon and I’m too pooped to prod. I tried to sleep on the tiny plane called Wanda, but every little bump and dip kicked up my heartrate making sleep impossible and leaving me with that achy, overtired feeling.
We take a turn through some dense foliage and then through an automated gate that slowly opens between two stone walls that must be at least twelve to sixteen feet high. Following a circular drive, we pull up in front of a pillared archway covered in climbing vines. Just the palapa-style roof of the villa is discernible through the trees. We make our way along a winding stone path until we come to the entrance of the villa.
Seriously? Who died and left Wade and Connor a kajillion dollars? This place is…amazing!
Andre stops outside the closed door and fishes a delicate gold bracelet out of his vest pocket. “May I?”
“Of course.” I hold out my wrist and he attaches the bracelet. It fits me
perfectly. Not too loose, not too snug. There is a flattened gold section that has my name scripted on it.
“It’s embedded with a microchip.” He takes my wrist and holds it up against a small black square just above the door handle. “It’s your key.”
The door swings open and I’m greeted by a cool breeze and…the scent of frangipani blossoms again. I love the scent, sweet and promising; they remind me of the little hotel my ex-husband and I stayed at in Hawaii when we were there for our honeymoon.
Andre gives me a tour of the eight-thousand square foot villa—I suspect the whole wedding is going to take place here—constructed from what looks like local limestone combined with rich hardwood. The vaulted ceilings make the villa airy and natural and each of the five bedrooms are gorgeous, and have their own en suite bathroom. I pause in one bedroom and eye the four poster, king sized bed draped in billowing cotton. Believe it or not, my mind does not automatically imagine the kind of fun the posters of the bed could be used for, all I want to do is curl up on the enormous bed with the open window overlooking the infinity pool and private beach and catch up on some sleep before the boys arrive.
“Unless you have any questions, I’ll leave you to get settled.”
“Thank you.”
After Andre leaves, I head back to the bedroom, fully intent on crawling under the fluffy white duvet. Kicking my feet out, I sprawl out on the bed, too tired to even get to the crawl-beneath-the-duvet phase of my plan. It’s like the bed is drugged with sleep, and the gentle whisper of the billowing drapes at the open window is singing a lullaby. Soothing. Comforting.
My lids drift closed.
My body twitches, on the verge of an exhausted sleep when I hear a noise, like there’s someone at the door. The weird thing is, I don’t sit up. I don’t even wake up. I’m not scared even though, by the shape of the shadow at the door, I know it’s a man standing there, watching me. Suddenly I’m out of my body, watching the scene play out before me. I’m a visitor in my own dream.
So weird.
Like watching a fuzzy, black and white movie, I observe myself, lying there, twisted between the sheets. My skin is pale and seems to glow from the muted light winking in between the open drapes. I watch myself try to move, but the sheets restrict my legs and I moan. The sound draws the shadow closer, moving across the room to the side of the bed.
