Compromising Her Position

by Samanthe Beck

  “Oh my God. When?”

  A voice at the other end of the phone responded, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  “But what about the baby?”

  Now he didn’t need the other side of the conversation. Obviously Barrington and the love of his life had hit the skids. No big surprise, but a big fucking mess if they allowed their personal difficulties to spill into the workplace. Neutralizing that possibility should have been foremost in his mind, but all he cared about at the moment was Chelsea’s reaction to the news. He wished he could see her face.

  “I can’t believe it. No, I know you predicted this, but I’m stunned.”

  Stunned happy? Stunned appalled?

  “Me? She’s lost her mind. How in God’s name is this my doing? I’m not even there.”

  She shook her head and paced a few steps, moving out of his view. Her words became an indistinct murmur. He nearly got up to position himself closer to the door when she paced back to her starting point. “Yes, but—”

  He didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Okay, fine. He has called, several times, and left some voicemails. So what? I haven’t responded.”

  The son of a bitch had called her. She’d chosen not to open the lines of communication, which offered minimal comfort, but would she change her mind now that things between Paul and Cindy were unraveling?

  “Well, that wasn’t very smooth of him.” She bit her lip and hugged one arm across her waist.

  Did she realize how conflicted she looked?

  “Whatever happens is between them. I wish they’d chosen a better place to have a spat than a staff meeting, and I wish they’d left my name out of it.”

  Was her heart out of it? Not that he expected her to make any pledges to him, but the notion of getting her body while her mind remained stuck on the past made him want to slam his fist into the wall, or Barrington’s face. Most likely he’d have to settle for terminating the asshole’s employment, but one way or another that guy needed to be gone. He’d call this afternoon and light a fire under the corporate recruiter.

  Chelsea finished her call, closed her eyes, and ran the heel of her hand over her forehead.

  He busied himself at the computer, and sensed more than saw her re-enter the office. “Is your friend okay?” he asked, without looking up. Yes, he was playing dumb. Less because he didn’t want her to know he’d overheard as he wanted her to share the conversation with him of her own accord. More to the point, he wanted her to tell him she couldn’t care less if Barrington was back on the market. Hell, he wanted her to slap his face for even thinking she might give a damn.

  “Laurie’s hanging in.” He looked up to see if she’d volunteer anything more, but she sent him an unconvincing smile and slid into the guest chair on the other side of the desk. After crossing one leg over the other, she leaned forward and fiddled with her phone.

  “Other troubles?”

  She frowned at her phone, sliding her thumb over the screen and tapping as if calling up an email. “No. Everything’s fine.”

  Disappointment settled in his gut. He needed to get a grip. They shared a professional goal, first and foremost. Yes, they also shared some incredibly entertaining sex, but he could practically hear his father lecturing him for letting sex distract him from his primary purpose. “If everything’s so wonderful, why are you giving your phone a dirty look?”

  Wary brown eyes found his. “Lynette emailed me a reservation confirmation. We’re scheduled with Undersea Escapes for a dive at the St. Anthony tomorrow morning.”

  “I know. I asked her to set it up. Tradewinds has a multi-year contract with the vendor, which St. Sebastian will have to assume or pay off.”

  “Guests routinely give them four or five star ratings.”

  “What do you give them?”

  “I…um…” She tapped the touchscreen again, and her frown deepened. “I haven’t done that particular activity yet.”

  “You’re certified, right?”

  “Yes, but the St. Anthony is sixty feet below the surface. That’s a little out of my depth.”

  “I’m a dive master. I’ll make sure you know which way is up.”

  She made a noncommittal sound and squinted at her screen.

  He rose and stretched, then wandered over to where she sat, still focused on her phone. Crouching, he took hold of her wrist and adjusted the angle of her screen until he could see what concerned her. The dive company’s website filled the view, featuring a photo of the St. Anthony. A sleek gray shape with white-tipped fins took up one corner of the shot. Mystery solved. Chelsea was worried about becoming part of the food chain. He took some satisfaction from knowing it wasn’t thoughts of Barrington and his potential breakup distracting her. “Are you chicken?”

  Her eyes locked on his. Beneath his fingers her pulse quickened. “I’m cautious.”

  “That’s a reef shark, you know. They’re not man-eaters.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether I know. Do they know?”

  He smiled, tightened his hold on her wrist, and pulled her closer. “I’ll protect you. The only creature likely to bite you tomorrow is me.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rafe firmed his grip on Chelsea’s wrist, effectively stopping her retreat. The bubbling hum of their oxygen and the water itself muffled her protest, but he knew full well she wanted to bolt, and he knew why. They were midway through their second dive of the day, suspended in the cool depths of the open ocean, surrounded by a group of sharks.

  The school was small. The sharks were not. But they were minding their own business, not paying much attention to the human interlopers, at least not until Chelsea saw them and promptly forgot every bit of training he and their dive master had given her regarding how to react in the event of a sighting.

  Was she staying calm? Nope. Keeping her arms in and making as few movements as possible? Not even close. As soon as she’d spotted the sharks, she’d screamed and thrashed around in the water like a cartoon character running off a cliff.

  No real danger loomed. The big fish couldn’t have been less interested, but her panic handed him an excuse to play protector to her damsel in distress. Letting go of her wrist, he pulled her into the circle of his arms and held her there while the school swam past, some close enough to reach out and touch, if you wanted to lose a hand. But only guilt attacked him as her body trembled against his.

  She really was terrified, and he felt bad because this particular excursion had been his choice. The only reason she’d joined him was because he’d assured her shark sightings were rare, and then he’d played the deal liaison card.

  Didn’t the Templetons instruct you to introduce me to as many of the resort activities possible?

  They sure had.

  He should have cut her some slack. In between juggling her regular job and facilitating the kind of direct, first-hand access to the operations even his father couldn’t criticize, she’d toured the entire resort with him, and most of the rest of the island.

  She’d let him drag her out of their warm, cozy bed in the pre-dawn hours so they could share coffee and a sunrise on Mount Haleakala, and afterward, ride mountain bikes down the steep slope of the sleeping volcano. She’d kayaked miles of coastline, and snorkeled with turtles and manta rays at Molokai.

  Action-packed as the days were, they paled in comparison to the nights. And yet he couldn’t get his fill. Too many times over the last five days he’d found his thoughts—hell, his priorities—straying to her instead of the deal. During a conference call, she’d fiddle with a blouse button, or run her tongue over her lower lip, and suddenly he’d be bending time and space just to get her alone. Touch her, taste her, lay claim to every inch of her in some primitive attempt to satisfy an addiction that only seemed to be growing. She held nothing back, but he still craved more. And every time her heart pounded under his, he heard that damn clock ticking in his mind—an annoying but relentless countdown to his departure.

  At the
moment, however, her heart pounded furiously against his chest for an entirely different reason than normal. A large shark, about six feet long, broke away from the school and lazily circled back. He rubbed his hand over her arm.

  When the shark approached, she gave a little squeal of dread, squeezed her eyes shut and tucked herself into him. Either her noise or boredom quickly drove the animal off, but he held on to her because her body plastered against his felt too good. Conscience battled libido.

  Conscience won out, eventually, and he squeezed her hand. Behind her mask, her eyes opened and rounded as she watched the sharks swim off. He pointed his finger skyward and lifted his brows.

  She nodded and started kicking. He let her glide through his arms and, a decompression stop later, they were safely on deck.

  “Oh my God. That was…”

  “Thrilling? Amazing?” He helped her out of her harness and stacked their cylinders and equipment in the designated area.

  She turned around and smacked his shoulder. “Terrifying!”

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re gorgeous when you’re terrified?”

  She hit him again, but he saw her lip twitch. “When you’re scared and wet and clinging to me,” he continued in a low voice, crowding her against the railing with his body. “Come on, confess. You found the dive exciting.” He sure as hell had, less due to the sharks than her in little black bikini bottoms that cupped her ass like a candy wrapper, and a long-sleeved black swim shirt that might as well have been painted on. The way it clung to her breasts completely fucked with his concentration. Or maybe his fucked concentration had more to do with the fact that those breasts currently heaved with agitation?

  He glanced at her face and revised his conclusion. Not agitation. No, she’d seen him looking her over and read his mind. He leaned closer, let his chest brush her breasts. “I’m guessing yes, because you seem a little excited.”

  She inhaled sharply. He loved her instant, unguarded responses. There was nothing contrived about Chelsea. Placing his fingers against the base of her throat, he went on. “Your pulse is racing. Your pupils are huge. I’d have to say you’re excited.”

  “I’ve never come so close to anything dangerous before. Other than you.”

  “I’m harmless.”

  “You’re lethal,” she said softly, but he barely heard her because he was too distracted by the way she ran her tongue over her lower lip. He couldn’t take his eyes away.

  “You like it.” He brushed his thumb along her damp lip.

  Just then chatter and laughter sailed across the deck, signaling the arrival topside of other members of the dive party. Tactical blunder. He should have known better than to trap them on a boat with a bunch of strangers and absolutely no privacy. “I’ll prove it to you. Later,” he whispered and, with reluctance, dropped his hand.

  She glanced over at the ladders, where other divers now climbed aboard, then back at him. “Maybe I’ll prove a few things to you as well, Mr. St. Sebastian.” With that, she turned and strolled away.

  Excitement over the shark sighting infected the entire group. In his experience, a day of diving bonded virtual strangers with an instant, intense shared experience, and that was especially true when it came to shark encounters. It left everyone euphoric and festive. With the day’s dives completed, the crew opened the bar, turned on the music, and the dive boat transformed into a party boat for the cruise to the dock.

  Hanging back, nursing an ice-cold beer, he watched Chelsea circulate amongst the passengers. They were all Tradewinds guests, mostly under forty, but still a diverse group.

  Her energy, ready smile, and easy friendliness attracted people. She chatted with everyone, from the girls-getaway group of New York City thirty-somethings to the trio of Seattle-based software engineers who clearly hadn’t seen the sun in at least six months.

  One of them handed her a beer. While she smiled and thanked him, the man’s eyes roamed over her, and Rafe battled a territorial urge to stride across the deck and drag her away.

  What was that about? He didn’t get possessive about women. He could try to justify the uncharacteristic instinct on the basis of their arrangement. During this week—his week, damn it—he required her undivided attention. But that was business, and this feeling was unquestionably personal. Worse, spending time with her only intensified his desire, and transformed it into something complicated and less centered on physical need. Time was running out. What did he plan to do about it?

  Nothing. You’ll enjoy tonight, fly back to L.A., complete the deal.

  Completing the deal could take four more weeks.

  But you won’t have time to spend any of them back here. The Las Ventanas re-launch has to stay on track.

  After the close…

  You’ll be her boss once the deal goes through. She’s got rules.

  Be persuasive. Convince her to make an exception for you.

  Right. She’s going to agree to what she views as a career-endangering exception for the thrill of a hookup whenever you come through on business? Think you’re that persuasive? Here’s how this plays out. You leave, the deal closes, and you finally get what you’ve been striving for since the time you were old enough to answer the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” She stays, meets a stable, decent guy, and lives happily ever after. She’s a smile on your face when you’re ninety and a big-eyed, dark-haired nurse comes in to check your blood pressure.

  He watched his future favorite memory laugh at something one of the pasty perverts said. His blood pressure spiked and he had to force himself to relax his white-knuckled grip on his beer. Her twinkling gaze collided with his and held. Her smile faltered. Pink invaded her cheeks. After a moment, she took a long drink, licked her lower lip, and turned back to her conversation. Shit. He rubbed his palm over the center of his chest, where an uncomfortable tightness lodged.

  You’re in worse shape now than when you landed five days ago.

  Jan. 11

  3:45 p.m.

  Chelsea,

  Mr. Collins in Room 112 wants to know if we can pick the lock on a pair of handcuffs.

  Thx.

  Lynette

  Yes, they could. Chelsea sent a request to the head of maintenance, and dropped her phone into her bag.

  “Problem?” Rafe asked, and waited for her to join him on the path leading to the villas.

  “Nothing life or death, unlike our latest adventure. You told me shark sightings were rare, but I’ve seen fewer dorsal fins during a Shark Week marathon.” She tried to smile and ignore the countdown screen in her mind steadily ticking off his remaining hours at the resort. A light offshore wind caught the edges of the orange and black tribal print sarong she’d changed into after their dive. Waves crashed in the distance, sending out a low repeating echo. Last day.

  He shot her an innocent look, or as close to innocent as he could come. “Shark sightings are relatively rare.” Then he squeezed her hand. “Consider us lucky.”

  “I think we’re feeling lucky for different reasons, but either way, I’m not going to press mine.” Or maybe she was, because she let him draw her to the door of his villa. “I’m content to call today a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

  “You say that now, but after today, diving in the safe, boring shallows won’t satisfy you anymore.” He unlocked the door and held it open for her. “You’ll want the adrenalin rush that comes from going deep.”

  She walked through, grappling with the sneaking suspicion his words applied to more than just diving. After this week of going deep with Rafe, would her days seem tame and boring? She perched on the arm of the sofa and kicked off her sandals. “Too bad you fly back to L.A. tomorrow. You won’t be able to put your theory to the test.”

  Just mentioning the fact out loud made her want to wrap herself around him and…cling.

  Nope. No clinging. You went into this strictly for fun. Fun and sex. Wonderful while it lasted, but it ends the moment his limo pulls away from the resort
tomorrow.

  Yes, okay, good rule to keep in mind, because she was in no condition to risk an emotional attachment right now. Even if she could, he wasn’t the man to do it with. He’d been crystal clear about his limits. Tomorrow she’d pull on her big girl panties, kiss him good-bye, and move on. She wasn’t looking for Mr. Forever, and he wasn’t auditioning for the role.

  He stepped close and tipped her chin up until she stared into moody eyes. “You chatted up a storm with everyone on the boat today. Now you’re suddenly quiet, except to mention my departure. Anxious to get rid of me?”

  No…and yes. His barest touch sent a familiar thrill of heat through her, but God, she could get dangerously addicted to that thrill. After tonight, she’d put his demanding yet surprisingly giving hands out of her mind. She’d ignore the residual whisper of his voice in her ear, and relegate the sensation of his hungry mouth exploiting every vulnerable part of her to a corner of her memory.

  After tonight.

  His mouth kicked up at one corner. “Not in the mood to talk?”

  She shook her head. She wasn’t. Not so much.

  “Something else you prefer to do instead?”

  This time she nodded, and undid the tie that secured her sarong. The slippery fabric puddled at her feet, leaving her naked. “I believe you have some unfinished business, Mr. St. Sebastian.” Then she turned and bent over the arm of the sofa.

  She waited like that for a long, quiet moment. Finally, his low curse shattered the silence, and a rustle of activity followed—the hushed sound of his trunks hitting the rug, the quick tear of a condom wrapper. She sank her toes into the thick rug, and then arched up onto the balls of her feet.

  Two cool fingertips trailed slowly down her spine, and came to rest at the last notch.

  She dug her fingers into the cushion beneath her. “Mr. St. Sebastian?”

  Firm hands clasped her hips and lifted her precisely where he wanted her. She closed her eyes and held her breath.