by R. R. Banks
Laurel is in a delightful mood this morning.
"I do. The answer is 'rarely.’ He's been doing better, though. That makes this even more ominous. But if I must, I'll go call him. Thank you, Laurel.”
This is not what I had planned on doing this morning.
I walk to the elevator in the back of the building and take it up to my office. I close the door, and drop down in the chair behind my desk. Dialing my father, I press the button for speakerphone and drop the handset back onto the cradle.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Father."
I still remember when I was a child and called him Papa. I wonder which one of us has changed more since then.
"Hello, Vincent."
Silence.
He does this. Even when he is supposed to initiate a conversation, he sits quietly, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his move. It makes you feel like you're under a microscope. The pressure is too much for some people. They become intimidated by it and crack, putting themselves under his control. It doesn't have that effect on me. It's more infuriating than unnerving. I remind myself of the time I just spent with them. We are gradually rebuilding our relationship. I need to keep that in mind.
"You called?"
"I did."
Yep.
"Good talk, Dad."
I reach to end the call. As if he can see me, my father starts talking.
"I didn't think that you were on Catalina this week."
"And yet you called me here."
"You wouldn't answer your cell."
"I didn't want to be disturbed."
"I heard from Randall Devereaux last night."
"How is he?"
"Not as good as I would like him to be."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"He wants you to be more welcoming to his daughter."
And now I'm disturbed.
"What does he mean by that?"
"According to him, you refused to greet her. And when Miss Devereaux asked to see you, she was told you weren’t on the property."
The reason for Laurel's foul mood is becoming clearer by the minute.
"My staff is under strict orders not to inform guests of my presence at any of my properties. You know that."
"Yes, yes, I know," he says, sounding exasperated. "I still think your insistence on anonymity is ridiculous."
One of the reasons why he is unaware of the existence of several of my properties.
"I'm well aware of what you think."
"You could at least be cordial to my friends."
"They aren't your friends. They are potential business connections. Regardless of who they are, it would still completely defeat the purpose of staying anonymous. You took it upon yourself to invite them to my resort without even informing me."
"I thought you would appreciate the business."
"I have plenty of business."
"You can always use more. I don't understand why you won't reach out to her. Meet with her for a few drinks. Take her to dinner."
"I'm not going to schmooze a woman because you want to be friendly with her parents and their money. That's your business. I didn't want to be a part of it when I was younger, and I don't want to be a part of it now. I thought you understood this. I'm happy that you recommend my properties to friends, but you have to keep my name out of it. You need to respect this, Father."
He is silent for several long seconds. I know he must be thinking about my mother. Truth be told, the relationship between my father and I has rebuilt to this point only because of her efforts. She hated how fractured our family was in the past and worked tirelessly to bring us to reconciliation. I know he's thinking about the blissful smile on her face when we were together just a few weeks ago.
"I understand Vincent," he finally says. "I'll send your regrets for not being available during her visit."
"Thank you."
There is another pause and the call ends. I'm not offended by it. I know my father is probably taken aback by me standing my ground. I've been doing it for years, and yet he has managed to convince himself I'll get over this ‘phase.’ He tells himself my success is temporary. Of course, I need him. Of course, I will go crawling back to him. It hasn't happened. It will never happen. Yet it still shocks him.
I take a deep breath and let go of the lingering anger I feel from our conversation. Finally calmer, I leave the office and walk back through the building. I glance into the only restaurant in the building that offers breakfast but don't see what I'm looking for and continue on. After checking the lounge and the terrace where guests often drink their morning coffee, I walk back outside. I am searching for Olivia. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since last night. That one encounter wasn't enough, even if she did turn me down. I know she wants more out of this vacation than spending all her time poolside with Charlene and her other friends. I want to help Olivia have some fun and show off the features of the resort and the island. Maybe even a few that aren't included in the brochure.
Chapter Six
Olivia
"Feeling less adventurous today?"
I feel my heart jump as I turn to the sound of the voice. A devastatingly handsome man with broad, muscular shoulders, chestnut hair, and a perfect smile, is walking down the beach toward me. Vincent. He's not wearing the all-black motorcycle outfit from last night. Instead, he has on a pair of khakis and an untucked button-up with the first two buttons unbuttoned. It is an effortlessly casual look that manages to look twice as sexy.
"Excuse me?" I ask.
"I asked if you aren't feeling as adventurous. You're out here in the broad sunlight on a stretch of beach used by all the guests instead of sneaking around the out of bounds areas."
I plant a hand on my hip and shoot him an indignant look.
"I am not a sneak," I say. "Besides, like you said, that area isn't out of bounds."
He shakes his head.
"That's not what I said. I said that it's the resort policy not to post signs. That doesn't mean that area isn’t restricted."
"How am I supposed to know that if there isn't a sign?"
"I just told you."
Vincent is within a few steps of me now and I feel my heart beating faster. Honestly, I’m a little surprised to see him. I turned him down without hesitation last night and expected that would be the last of the attention. It wasn't easy to walk away from him. I wished we could have stood there much longer. When he asked to buy me a drink, though, I felt the mood shift. I have never taken a man up on an offer to bring me for a drink. My father raised me to know that isn't the offer of a man with anything positive on his mind. It has stuck with me over the years and any time a man gives me that look and suggests we go to a bar, I immediately walk away. It usually means I won’t hear from him again.
But apparently, not Vincent.
He doesn't seem deterred by the rejection. Instead, he is standing here, eyes burrowing into mine, a smile on his lips that might make me melt if I look too long.
"Do you make it a habit of riding up and down that trail to stop women like me from going back there?" I ask.
"That's my sole purpose," he says. "I ride through the night and stop beautiful women from going into restricted staff areas."
My breath catches slightly at the word 'beautiful,’ but I try not to let it show.
"Is it really? Your sole purpose?" I ask with a hint of teasing in my voice.
"Yes," Vincent replies. "Well, maybe not my sole purpose, but that depends on if I can catch the beautiful woman or not."
I blush and look out over the water, attempting to conceal it. The waves rolling in are a darker shade of blue today. I don't know what it means, but I find myself mesmerized by them. I want to ask Vincent if he works at the resort, but I don't want to be rude. He doesn't look or talk like one of the guests, but he also doesn't have the polish of the staff. I try to skirt around the question a little.
"Does the owner of the resort mind your motorc
ycle?" I ask. "It's noisy."
"It's definitely noisy." I look over at him. "The owner doesn't seem to mind."
I start to reply, but a stronger wave suddenly washes up nearly to my knees. The sand under my feet starts to slide away as the wave recedes. I gasp as I feel myself tumbling backward, but Vincent reaches out for me and catches my arm. His skin is warm against mine and his grip is strong and confident. With a slight tug, he pulls me away from the disappearing sand and into his arms. My hands rest on his chest and his arms wrap around me. Lifting my eyes, I look into his face. He is looking down at me with a smoldering expression in his obsidian eyes.
"I should be going," I say.
"Why?"
"My friends are probably waiting for me. We’re supposed to all have breakfast together today."
"Before you head to the pool for the day?"
I shrug and wiggle out of his hands before starting up the beach toward our bungalow. I feel almost breathless. He is so incredibly gorgeous, and I am unbelievably attracted to him, but at the same time, I'm wary. He is nothing like the men I have dated before. He is certainly not anything like my one serious boyfriend. I hate to admit that I am intimidated, but my curiosity is growing stronger, even as I try to contain it. I'm only here for two more weeks. I try to tell myself that it’s not enough time. That it’s not worth it.
I don't see Vincent for the rest of the day. I can't decide if I am relieved or not. As night falls, I’m surprised to find that Charlene wants to go out. We've eaten all our dinners in the bungalow, and the most nightlife we've seen as a group since arriving is the one time we took a midnight stroll on the beach. Something seems to have shifted in Charlene. She has more energy, more life in her. We head into the main building and into the restaurant where a well-dressed man tells us no tables are available. I wait for Charlene to overreact, but she just smiles and tells him we’re happy to wait at the bar. As we walk over, I wonder what's gotten into her. As soon as she locks her sights on the bartender, though, I know.
Her mourning period, for what it was worth, is over. Charlene is back on the prowl.
We perch at the bar and the bartender walks over. He eyes each of us and his gaze lingers on Charlene. That's to be expected. She looks like a goddess tonight. All the time spent out by the pool has given her skin a golden glow that perfectly complements the bold orange of her dress. I could never wear that color. Even sitting beside that color makes me look sickly.
"What can I get for you ladies?" he asks.
"Something sweet and tropical," Charlene says. "For all of us."
"Just juice for me," I say.
Charlene glares at me out of the corner of her eye. I know her contempt for how infrequently I drink. Even on the rare occasion that I do indulge – I never have more than one. I spend so much of my life controlling myself and my behavior. I don't like the idea of losing that control.
I can also live without the dizziness and risk of being a hot mess, falling over, and flashing my panties to everyone. I've witnessed it before. Not cute.
The bartender walks away, and we turn around to admire the view of the pristine beach and ocean beyond the open doors. Our view is interrupted when someone steps in front of us, holding a glass to me. It is distinctly not tropical juice. There is not even a little paper umbrella. I look up and see that it’s Vincent. Again. There is a grin on his face, but I ignore it, focusing on the drink in his hand.
"What is that?" I ask.
"You ordered a drink," he says.
I look around me. My friends are staring at me intently, sipping their frivolous rainbow-colored drinks. Tiny, gaudy umbrellas abound.
"But I ordered one of those," I point out.
"I think you'll like this," he replies. "It happens to be my favorite."
"And so, you automatically think that everyone is going to like it?"
He shrugs. Some of my initial spark at seeing him has dampened.
"I haven't heard otherwise."
"What is it?" Charlene asks.
"Extra dirty dry martini."
She chokes down a laugh as she tries to cover the sound with her drink.
"A what?"
"Vodka, a bit of vermouth, and olive brine." He leans closer to me. "That's the dirty part."
I feel color splash across my cheeks as an involuntary shiver rolls through me.
"I don't really drink alcohol," I warn him.
He glances at the women with their tropical drinks.
"I thought you ordered one of those?"
"I ordered it virgin. I was after the umbrella."
"Extra dirty dry martinis don't come with umbrellas," he teases.
"Then I guess it's a good thing I didn't order an extra dirty dry martini."
"Just taste it," he coaxes.
"No, thank you. I appreciate the gesture, but I'd really rather just have the drink I wanted."
Vincent looks at the bartender who has been hovering close by throughout the conversation.
"Make her what she wants. Send it to my table."
Vincent holds out his hand expectantly. I look at it, then back at him.
"Your table?"
"That's where we're going to sit for dinner."
"I don't remember accepting an invitation to have dinner with you."
"Well, I guess I didn't really offer an invitation."
"You just expect me to come with you?"
Vincent looks at me and blinks. He doesn't seem to know what to say next. Apparently, this isn't a conversation he's had before. That's just too bad. I don't like the arrogant vibe he’s giving off right now.
"Yes," he says. "You don’t want to?"
"I'm sorry," I say. "I already have plans for the evening."
Vincent stares at me for a few more seconds as if he expects me to change my mind at any moment. The bartender comes around the corner of the bar, obviously on his way to the aforementioned table. I reach out and take the drink he's holding.
"Thank you," I say, taking a sip. "It's exactly what I wanted."
I look back at Vincent and see him give an almost imperceptible nod as he takes a step back from us.
"Alright," he says. "Have a good night ladies."
"Goodnight," I say.
I can still feel the lingering burn of his gaze long after Vincent has left the room.
"Who was that?" Charlene asks.
"A man who might not be as full of himself the next time he decides to ask someone to dinner," I say.
"I don't know what's wrong with you," Tia says. "He's gorgeous. I wouldn't care if he was full of himself when asking me out as long as I got an opportunity to be full of him later."
The other women gasp as if they are scandalized, but I know they are probably thinking the same thing. I don't know why I decide not to tell them that Vincent is the man on the motorcycle, or about our encounter from the night before. Despite turning him down again, I still feel the compulsion to keep him to myself.
Charlene
I'm barely listening to the conversation around me. My friends sip their drinks while Tia gestures to the bartender for another. I twirl the umbrella in my drink around with one finger, my eyes focused beyond Olivia toward the arched doorway on the far side of the restaurant. That is where the man who hit on Olivia disappeared to, and I hope to catch another glimpse of him. He is sexy as hell and I can't believe how she tossed him away. That is so like her. She's so wrapped up in protecting her precious self-image that she can't even accept a god walking up and handing her a drink. I don't care that she doesn't like to drink. If a man who looks like that comes up and offers you a shot of your least favorite liquor, you take it.
I slip off the edge of my stool and smile at my posse.
"I'll be back," I say. "And if I'm not, I'll see you at the bungalow later."
"What are you up to?" Sandra asks suspiciously.
"Nothing," I answer. "I just thought that I would take a little cue from Olivia here and do some exploring."
"Do
you want us to come with you?" Tia asked.
"No. You stay. Enjoy your drink. I’ll be fine on my own."
And if I can find that man and his martini, I'll be even better.
I see Olivia glaring at me through narrowed eyes as I walk past them into the doorway, but I don't care. She had her chance. He was literally standing in front of her, ready for the taking, and she sent him away because of her uppity personality. That is just dandy with me. I'm more than happy to lap up that attention.
I walk through the restaurant beyond the doorway and see that the tables are full, just as the host said. As I get close to the end of the room, however, I see Sexy Martini sitting at a small table in an alcove. The intimate space has spectacular views of the ocean through a rounded window that sits out from the building, making it seem like the table is actually outside. This must be his table. I wonder how he had a private table when we were told that we had to wait over an hour. It is a very small table, really only appropriate for two, so it is entirely possible that it was available because no couples were waiting to be seated. I offer a smile as I walk up to the side of the table. The table is positioned on a raised platform and I position myself, and my cleavage, strategically under him.
"Hi, there," I purr.
He looks surprised at my sudden appearance. That's fine. I have plenty of ways I can surprise him, and I'm ready to demonstrate as many of them tonight as he can handle.
"Hello," he says.
"I was in the bar," I say, twisting slightly to indicate the direction of the bar with my drink.
He gives a single nod.
"I saw you."
I bite my bottom lip and glance down into my drink, then back up at him.
"I saw you, too. I'm sorry about my friend. She doesn't seem to be capable of having fun."
"It's OK," he says. "She had plans tonight. I can't fault her for that."
"You know," I gesture at my nearly-empty drink, "this isn't really doing anything for me."
He eyes the glass.
"It looks like you’ve enjoyed it so far."
I force a giggle.
"I'm looking for the point in drinking it!" I lean slightly toward him. "I've never had a dry martini before. Extra dirty."
