Tropical Tryst: 25 All New and Exclusive Sexy Reads

by Nicole Morgan

  “If you’re game, let’s just do it,” I say. Mr. Lee might be in his late seventies, but he radiates competence and calm. There’s no one on the boat I’d trust more.

  The creases around his eyes deepen as he subjects me to a shrewd inspection. “Can you handle a little pain?”

  “Of course.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to confess what I can’t handle, but I want this over. If I keep my eyes closed and focus on my breathing, I’ll be fine.

  My companion nods and springs into action.

  Within a few minutes, he has secured the requisite pliers, which have been cleaned in bottled water and now lie soaking in a pan full of rum. My ear has been similarly bathed in the stuff until it stings, and my eyes water from the fumes. I smell like a soused pirate.

  Mr. Lee has declared his disdain for the crew’s first aid kit. From the plundered depths of his own messenger bag, he produced a clean field dressing and a tube of antibiotic cream. Somehow he has even located a pair of sterile gloves. He holds his hands upright before me, like a surgeon prepared to operate. “Ready?”

  I nod. “Proceed.” I take a deep breath and close my eyes as the gloves advance.

  My ear is seized in a firm grasp. There’s a sharp bite of pain, a loud metallic snap behind my right ear, then the dragging pressure is abruptly released. A few seconds later, the fingers return to smooth on cool ointment, I feel the dressing applied, and Mr. Lee pronounces the drama over.

  I exhale and open my eyes, being careful to keep my gaze averted from the medical supplies. When I’m sure I’ll be steady on my feet and have heard the shushing sound of Mr. Lee shedding his gloves, I stand and offer my hand. “You are a prince among men. Can I buy you a drink when we’re back on shore?”

  “Never touch the stuff.” Vince’s grip is firm and unhurried. “But the offer is much appreciated.”

  “Cool party trick, man.” The Larsons have broken their huddle, and the kid has come forward to indulge his curiosity. I see him bend down to the impromptu tray and realize what he’s about to do a second too late.

  “No,” I say hastily. “Don’t show me my bl—”

  That’s as far as I get before my eyes zero in on the now-dysfunctional lure dangling from his fingers, and the single drop of scarlet anointing its surface.

  I try to focus on my breathing but it’s too late. My heart is already slowing of its own accord. Then darkness swoops in from the edges of my vision, like a flock of malevolent bats, and the deck rises for a wooden kiss.

  WHEN I CLAW my way back to consciousness, the warm sun is turning my eyelids pink. There is a mechanical thrumming below me and I am stretched out on my back, on a firm surface. My right ear stings and there’s a new throbbing pain in my forehead. Someone’s fingers probe my wrist.

  After a time, I open my eyes and catch the not-unsympathetic gaze of Mr. Lee.

  His eyebrows climb. “Hematophobia?”

  I sigh. “Unfortunately.” It’s been an unwelcome feature of my life for a good sixteen years.

  Since a frustrating experience at the dentist, I’ve been working with a psychologist friend of Yolanda’s to get over it. For the most part I’m better, the notable exception being how I respond to the sight of my own blood. It clearly still has the power to unman me.

  “No need for embarrassment,” Mr. Lee says briskly, apparently having added the ability to read my thoughts to his formidable skillset. “It’s a common enough reaction.”

  “Maybe, but I interfered with the trip.”

  “We were about due to return, anyway. Here—” Mr. Lee holds out his hand. “I stowed the equipment, so you’re safe. Let’s get you up.”

  I feel like a total wimp but I accept his help.

  “Any dizziness, nausea?” he asks when I am seated. “I caught you in time to avoid the worst, and you weren’t out long, but you’ve got a nasty bump.”

  I shake my head and wish I hadn’t when the throbbing increases.

  Mrs. Larson comes out of nowhere with a bag of ice, which she presses into my hand. It feels like heaven on my forehead and I give her a grateful smile.

  “Thanks for your help again,” I say to Mr. Lee. “I never asked, but are you a medical professional?”

  “Former soldier. Listen—” He steps closer and drops his voice until it’s barely audible above the sound of the engine. “I’m not much of a believer in the concept of luck, but did you do something to piss off the gods?”

  Not the gods. Liv, I think, before once more pushing away her name. “Not that I know of. Why would you ask?”

  “I was by the pool last night. Caught your involuntary dive. Now this, less than a minute after you take off your hat?” He shakes his head. “I heard you’re some kind of bigshot businessman. If I were you, I’d delay any risky investments.”

  With that enigmatic statement he wanders to the prow, where he takes up a cross-legged position on a cushion, rests his hands on his knees, and gazes calmly upon the advancing shoreline.

  Meanwhile, I sit in the hot sun as gooseflesh erupts on my skin.

  There was a time in my life when bad things would happen and I could justifiably think, Liv, in the way a sailor can eye the sunrise and predict a storm, or a rheumatic can anticipate rain by the state of their knees.

  But it has been years since that was true. So long, that I’ve forgotten to be suspicious. Even suppressed the inclination rather than live in a state of paranoia—all of which makes it weird that Liv has been on my mind since yesterday.

  Besides, even if there is an odd pattern of occurrences, it doesn’t fit her MO. She was never one for going after me directly.

  And this is Jamaica, for Pete’s sake. What are the chances she would be here, much less bent on finding new, inventive ways to make my life miserable?

  No, I’m absolutely crazy for resurrecting her name in this context. I must have hit my head harder than I thought.

  On the other hand, Mr. Lee strikes me as an exceptionally rational man who considers me the victim of a conspiring universe. Yet he doesn’t know the half of it…

  Yesterday afternoon, in front of the Board, I had to practically dive into a pitcher of water—eyes streaming, lungs threatening to explode—after one sip of my Bloody Mary. Turned out the bartender had been distracted during its preparation and accidentally double-dosed me with Tabasco sauce. Though he apologized profusely, my voice hasn’t recovered from the violence of my coughing.

  Then my brand new pair of expensive athletic shorts went missing from the villa’s secure and private patio.

  And last night by the pool, I leaned down to talk to Yolanda, consequently putting myself a little off-balance, when a server came by with a tray of drinks. She accidentally hip-checked me, sending me into the water and ruining my Hugo Boss.

  Now this—an unwanted ear-piercing at the hand of a theoretically skilled fisherman?

  You’re being a dumb-ass to think of her, I tell myself. Bad stuff happens to everyone, and with enough time, this will prove to be a statistically irrelevant cluster.

  But now that the idea has entered my mind, I can’t rid myself of it, so though we’re only a few minutes from docking, I decide, Screw it. I’ll prove myself wrong and get on with my day.

  I pull my cell from my duffel and the signal’s good enough to connect to the resort manager’s private line. A few minutes later, thanks to the heft of the Wakefield account, which has easily sidelined concerns about guest privacy, I hear the clatter of nails on a keyboard. Marissa is combing the records for one Olivia Prosser.

  “Ah-ha,” she says after a minute. “I knew the name sounded familiar. Yes, Mr. Wakefield. She checked in yesterday.”

  Despite having been the one to initiate the records search, the last thing I expected was to hear this news. I am totally flummoxed.

  Liv is here. Liv is in Jamaica. In this resort. Of all the rum joints in all the world…

  “Mr. Wakefield, are you still there?” Marissa asks.

  I finally locate m
y tongue. “Yes.” I clear my throat. “What time did she check in?”

  Another pause while her fingers type. “Her keycard was coded for her room at 1:02 p.m. yesterday.”

  So the timeline would be tight, but if Liv knew I was here, and if she were so inclined, it would be possible for her to have arranged a string of “coincidences.”

  “Is there a problem?” Marissa asks. “I can send out an associate to see if she’s okay.”

  I blink. “She’s sick?” Liv’s here and she’s sick?

  There’s a lengthy pause and when she speaks, Marissa’s voice has cooled. “I’m confused now, Mr. Wakefield. I assumed you were calling out of concern because she didn’t show.”

  “Show where?” I say cautiously.

  “At the retreat,” she says.

  It takes me a minute to connect the dots. Marissa has been cooperating because she thinks I have some authority over Liv, and Marissa thinks I’m calling to check on Liv’s non-attendance. Which means…as bizarre as it sounds, that Liv is both here in the resort and among our new batch of employees. The HMZ acquisition in Columbus?

  I suck in a breath. Of course. Assuming her mom hasn’t moved, that puts Liv within easy driving distance of Stonybrook.

  Yolanda would know if Liv is a new Wakefielder. Yolanda probably even sent me an alphabetized list of names, which I saw and promptly ignored because personnel decisions don’t fall under my purview. I’m the money guy. She does people. Other than my pep-rally speech at lunchtime, I won’t have much to do with our staff.

  But as Yolanda isn’t here right now, and Marissa awaits further instruction, I decide to go for broke.

  “You know what it’s like when you’re training new people,” I say, adding a conspiratorial chuckle for good measure. “Some of them can’t seem to find the ballroom. But we’ll follow up with her. I just need her room number.”

  “Of course, Mr. Wakefield.”

  There’s a smile in her voice again. She’s relieved she hasn’t inadvertently broken the rules. Good manager, this Marissa. I’ll have to mention her to Yolanda.

  “She’s in 304.”

  “Excellent. And I’ll need Tucker Acheson’s number, too,” I say, obeying an instinct that comes out of nowhere. But there’s a method to my madness; though it has been ten years, certain things won’t have changed. Whither Liv goest, Tucker won’t be far behind.

  “Mr. Acheson is in 210.”

  Unreal. Tucker is a Wakefield employee, too. And they are using separate rooms, not that that means anything.

  After I thank Marissa and hang up, I check my watch. I have an hour before I’m expected in the ballroom. This morning, when thinking of delivering my keynote, I thought the biggest obstacle I’d need to overcome was an enthusiasm gap on my part. But matters have become considerably more complex. In my audience will be a former nemesis and an ex-lover who once functioned as a stalker. Worse, Liv might be starting up again from within my company.

  What the hell am I going to do about her?

  CHAPTER 3

  LIV

  I race toward the resort’s conference center, ignoring the stares of the curious as I weave between a cluster of bikinied and sandaled women. I can’t blame them for gawking. At 12:30 p.m. on the cobblestone path which runs along the beach, dressed in business attire, I might as well be wearing an astronaut suit—that’s how much I fit in.

  But I’m late, and if I don’t hustle, I’m going to miss Finn altogether. Then the sleepless nights, all the worrying and rehearsal for our first meeting, they will be for naught. All because I fell asleep while working on the Barker project.

  Stupid Barker project.

  My path is blocked by three shirtless men who are headed in the same direction. I detour around them on the lawn only to have to pause and retrace my steps when a heel catches in the grass.

  The trio draws abreast of me and stops in order to observe my antics. “What’s your hurry, sister?” says the closest man.

  “Someone could use a Jamaican chill pill,” says the guy in the middle. His eyes are a bright blue against a sunburn that’s medical-grade.

  “And an eye exam,” says the first. He points to my shoes.

  Only then do I notice my pumps don’t match. I brought two pairs of heels to the island—both identical in style, purchased in a buy-one-get-one-off sale at the discount store. And somehow, in my haste to get out the door, I managed to put a brown pump on my left foot and a nude on the right.

  For an instant I let my head hang in discouragement and blow out a puff of breath that lifts my bangs.

  “Here.” The blonde with the shaggy haircut offers me a plastic cup of amber liquid. “Have my beer. You look like you could use it.”

  “If only.” With a wry smile and a wave of thanks, I take off again.

  Inside the conference center lobby, it doesn’t look good. There are too many people milling about for a high-powered speech to be underway. Has Finn’s keynote ended already?

  I locate the ballroom where they gave us our orientation session yesterday and step cautiously inside. The raised stage is empty, the house lights are up, and a couple of staff members are busy removing AV equipment. There is no sign of Finn.

  Maybe fifty or so people remain clustered around banquet tables as servers bustle about, removing soiled dishes and cutlery. Great. I missed lunch, too. Could this be more of a disaster?

  I see Tucker at the same time he spots me. He raises his hand and points to the vacant chair beside him.

  “Where have you been?” he says in an undertone as I slip into my seat.

  Take a wild guess, I want to say. Since Friday, I’ve been so nervous about seeing Finn that I’ve barely slept, and last night was so bad I got up at two to work. My sleep deficit must have caught up with me. I didn’t even hear my phone’s alarm. But rather than risk anyone overhearing, I simply say, “Ugh. Long story. Why didn’t you call me?”

  He points to the center of the table, where a wicker basket holds a collection of cell phones.

  “Right, I forgot the rules.” I add my phone to the mix and sling my handbag under my chair before nodding to the table’s other inhabitants. I know Jim from Accounting and Marie from Purchasing. The other four faces must belong to Wakefield’s parent company, headquartered in Jacksonville.

  I’m about to introduce myself when Tucker says, “You missed Finn. He came here looking for you.”

  My stomach does an abrupt flip.

  I’d like to know more, but the middle-aged African-American woman to Tucker’s left perks up. “Do you know Mr. Wakefield, honey?” Her name tag says Georgia, and her Southern accent is thicker than Tupelo honey.

  During the summer I turned twenty, I thought I did. “We have a mutual acquaintance,” I say, thinking of my mama. “I’m supposed to say hello on her behalf.”

  They accept that without comment, which is a relief. If Tucker and I are to remain unremarkable, it won’t help to advertise our prior relationship with Finn.

  The group moves on to introductions before apprising me of what I’d missed. Finn had been funny, wise, and encouraging. Also—this comes from an earnest-looking woman named Barb, and earns her eye rolls from Jim and Tucker—he had been hot. Very, very hot.

  “Amen, hallelujah,” Georgia says.

  I’m spared from having to make a response by Tucker. “You have something on your face.”

  It certainly can’t be food, since I haven’t eaten today. Nor makeup, because I haven’t had time to apply any. That leaves a pen mark, or a transfer from the drawing I’d been working on before I woke up in a puddle of drool. From the intensity of Tucker’s expression, I’m betting it’s the latter.

  I clap a hand to the offending cheek and scoot my chair back. It’s a breach of company rules to take drawings offsite. Better take care of this now.

  “Excuse me,” I say, but when I turn to make my exit, there’s a gentleman blocking my path.

  “Ms. Prosser?” He speaks in such a resonant
baritone, I would bet he’s a fantastic singer.

  “Yes?”

  Though most of the resort staff exhibit the permissive and relaxed Yeah, mon philosophy of life, this man is clearly an exception. I’d put him in his late fifties, and something about his carriage and manner—even the crease in his linen pants—suggests I’m in the presence of an old-world butler.

  He inclines his head a fraction. “I’m Reginald, with the hotel’s concierge services. I’ve been sent on behalf of Mr. Wakefield, my lady. He requests the honor of your presence.”

  “Ooh, honey,” says Georgia, fanning herself. “What did you do to get so lucky?”

  The others at the table send each other significant glances.

  So much for flying under the radar. I swallow and point to the restroom with the hand not covering my cheek. “Certainly. I’ll just slip into the facilities first.”

  “Mr. Wakefield has a restroom.” Reginald’s smile is polite but firm. “And a tight schedule.”

  “Okay, then. Guess I’ll follow you.” While I retrieve my purse, I quirk my eyebrows once at Tucker, who widens his eyes in response.

  As Reginald leads me out into the sunshine, I pull a makeup wipe from my bag and dab at my cheek. He gallantly pretends not to notice.

  This isn’t what I planned for my first meeting with Finn. Not at all. But it’s not like I have a choice. He’s going to have to take me as I am, all mismatched shoes, red-cheeked, and fifteen-pounds-too-much of me.

  Maybe it will even work to my advantage down the road, should certain information come to light. Maybe Finn will take one look at me and think, This woman is too dumb and too clueless to have deceived every person in my company.

  CHAPTER 4

  LIV

  M y defiantly cheerful attitude dwindles, then disappears, as Reginald bypasses the resort’s office buildings and leaves the public restaurants behind. I don’t know what I had expected, but it wasn’t to be led down a twisty cobblestone path, surrounded by lush vegetation, into an area marked Private.