Damien
I linger in my bedroom, letting the cold air from the AC wall unit hit the still-sensitive back of my neck. My skin burns as if I’ve been out in the sun too long, but that can’t be the case. I’m blessed with olive skin—I tan, not burn. The pinkish tinge on Irene’s skin evoked a primal urge within me to soothe the woman’s worries and run my hands all over her body with sunscreen. Fuck. I’m not an inexperienced adolescent. I’ve seen to the pleasure of a woman or two. Maybe not a woman like the one lounging on my terrace, though. Irene is definitely different, and I’m a sucker for different. I squeeze my eyes shut and knead the back of my hypersensitive neck.
The bungalow is a mess as it’s under renovation. I’m pretty sure there isn’t even a bed there. If not, Michael will figure out a solution. He’s like a bloody magician. I zip up my duffel bag, stuffed with the three days’ worth of clothes I brought with me.
Pausing, I glance out the window. I should just go home. Leave the island and the woman alone. When she lowered her sunglasses to reveal sad blue eyes, the tug at my heart nearly forced me to back down. I hate seeing women in distress. It’s my eternal downfall. Although, Irene’s stiff spine and steady glare suggested she’s no weakling needing my protection or help. However, she had an undeniable effect on my pulse. In fact, Irene caused more than my heart to throb.
I grab my phone from the nightstand before remembering it will be useless out at the bungalow. Dammit. Without Wi-Fi, I won’t be able to get shit done. Not that I want to work with the image of Irene at the forefront of my mind. I came here to escape from my responsibilities, not add to them. Just beyond the glass, the turquoise-blue ocean spreads out for miles. The white caps beckon to me. Fuck it—I deserve a few days off. I haven’t had a vacation in over a year.
My phone buzzes inside my pocket, sending a jolt down my leg. Rarely is a calendar reminder that interesting. Farrington deal, Tuesday 1 p.m. I’ve already gone over the agreements with Charlie at least a half dozen times. Before I can change my mind, I text Harley, my extremely competent and undemanding assistant. Out of reach for a couple of days. Tell Charlie he’s in charge until I return. I power off my phone before the three dots disappear and a string of questions from Harley appears.
Charlie has been vying for more responsibility in the past six months, specifically the position of President. It’s not that I’m a control freak. He’s been annoyingly efficient, and if I’m being honest, it’s because of Charlie I was even able to consider taking time off this weekend. Normally right before a big deal closing like the one coming up with the Farringtons, I’d be stuck pulling all-nighters at the office.
I’m not afraid to relinquish control to my younger brother. He’s more than capable. But I want him to have a life. He should be out having fun, not tied to his desk twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Although lately he’s been spending an extraordinary amount of time in his office. I’m the older brother and the one responsible for the family business.
Swinging my duffel over my shoulder, I leave the sanctuary of my room. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with work, I would’ve had more time and energy to deal with what was really going on with Rebecca. That’s a lie. A fucking weak-ass excuse. No, I just simply didn’t give a shit. I wanted to believe she was interested in me and not my money. That I’d finally found someone who shared my passion for the arts. I overlooked her deceit. Why did I come to the island? Truth is, it wasn’t to get over Rebecca. I closed that book when I broke it off. My grandpa’s voice echoes through my mind. My boy, I designed this island for one purpose and one purpose only—to heal the soul. I wish he were here. He’d know exactly what to say to straighten me out. But he’s not. I’ll have to figure it out on my own out at the bungalow.
I pause in the hallway. The image of the misery on Irene’s face is like a gut punch. Unlike Rebecca, she probably doesn’t possess a deceptive bone in her body. She looks guileless and innocent. And she evokes every caveman instinct I possess. I want to crush the man who betrayed her trust. What I wouldn’t give to haul her over my shoulder and hide in a cave with her, keeping those delicious curves under me. Whoa. I escaped to be alone, not fall for a stranger. Time to clear my head.
Forcing my feet to move again, I walk past a red-splattered contemporary painting hanging on the wall. For years, the idea of hosting monthly art exhibits for unknown artists had been simply just that—an idea. Then Rebecca entered my life. A stunning redhead who called me out on my every move. What was the purpose of spending hours working on building an empire? If I genuinely believed in the arts, why didn’t I do more than merely write a check at various charity functions?
My scheming ex made me question my moral compass. She said she wanted to help establish a gallery and give starving artists a place to show their work. It was when I began thinking with my brain again and not my dick—the one that loved being in her mouth and every other orifice she let me enter—that I realized the woman just wanted access to my wallet. Rebecca was a thief with no interest in helping establish any philanthropic project that wouldn’t allow her to siphon off money into her own bank account. I couldn’t care less about the money, but the sting of her betrayal left me raw. I have three days to regain my sanity. Plenty of time.
Ugh, too much time. What the hell am I going to do all day if I can’t work?
Out the patio door I spy Irene still perched on the side of the deck chair, the breeze catching the loose strands of hair around her face. I shouldn’t have pressured her for dinner and need to apologize. Sliding open the door, I march across the cobbled patio.
Irene glances up, her blue eyes clear but still miserable.
I stop short. “About the dinner invite earlier. That was rude of me.”
She shrugs and gives me a watery grin. My soul aches, desperate to draw a real smile from this woman.
Irene tilts her head to one side, exposing her neck. Like I’m a fucking vampire, my mouth salivates. I clench my jaw at the image of grazing my teeth along her tender flesh.
Her voice breaks through my thoughts. “Apology accepted. And about dinner . . . if you promise not to ask more questions, I’d love the company.”
She used the word love.
My instinct is to walk away. In my experience, women who use the word freely and often are also firm believers in the emotion. Then why is my mind currently reformulating her sentence into I’d love to have dinner with you? Love is an extremely complex sentiment I’ve yet to fully understand. I’m still waiting to find that woman—the one who will break down my defenses and make me act like the heroes in my grandma’s romance novels.
I blink away my wayward thoughts. “You’ve got yourself a deal. See you at six.” I should nod and leave her alone, but I stick out my hand and wait.
She slips hers in mine. Fuck me. Her firm grip instantly makes my cock twitch. I’ve shaken hundreds of women’s hands over the years at business meetings and deal closings, but none ever resulted in me having a hard-on. The idea of yanking her into my arms and dragging her to the bedroom flashes before me as the material of my shorts stretches tight.
I give her a lazy smile. Instead of receiving a flirtatious comment or a do-what-you-want-with-me look, she releases my hand and pulls her sunglasses down, but not before I notice her eyes briefly dipping down below my waistline.
“Have a lovely day, Mr. Merman.”
She used a variation of the word love, and instead of making me want to run it has the exact opposite effect. With her shield clearly up, I crave getting closer and tearing it down. “What did you call me?”
“Mr. Merman. Ya know, since you appeared from the ocean this morning.” She swings her long, shapely legs up onto the lounger and lies back.
So many curves. This woman possesses the type of body men dream about sinking into. But it isn’t her body that prevents me from running. Her complete lack of interest in me and my wealth keeps me standing over her a second longer than I should. Rebecca ensnared me with her nonchalance about my wealth, though, and I’m no fool. I won’t be making the same mistake again. It’s better she doesn’t know my name. I’ll be fucking Mr. Merman for now.
I’ve stalled long enough. “See you later for dinner.”
She flinches at the word dinner.
Who is this woman? Walking away, I pull out my phone, typing in a quick search for Irene Gilliard before I get out of range. The top results show a bunch of obituary notices and a few social-media profile pictures, but all of them are of women over fifty. Fuck. Talk about being a goddamn hypocrite. I hate when women check me out on the internet.
Turning off my phone, I slide into the car.
My ever-loyal driver Michael looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”
“The bungalow.”
“But we haven’t completed all the repairs.”
“It’s okay. The young lady paid to rent the house. She should have it.”
In the six years Michael has been in my employ, I’ve never seen him look anything other than calm and relaxed. “Is there a problem?”
“No.”
“Michael, you suck at lying.”
“There isn’t even running water out there.”
“Stop worrying. It’ll be fine.” I last two minutes before I break the silence. “Did you pick up Miss Gilliard from the strip?”
“I did.” Michael’s focus remains on the dirt road.
“And?”
He glances at me in the rearview mirror but says nothing. I drum my fingers on the side panel of the door.
With a huge sigh, Michael relents. “After you left for your swim, I received the regular notification of a guest arriving.” His eyes don’t waver from the road. “I assumed she was a guest of yours.”
Who the hell is Irene Gilliard? Few people can afford to simply hop on a flight to the Caribbean and rent a private island listed for seven or eight thousand a night on a whim.
“Do you know anything about the Gilliards?”
Michael frowns and then glances up in the rearview mirror. “The only Gilliard who comes to mind is Phillip Gilliard, a famous architect. His wife is some famous fashion designer, and I heard his daughter is a pretty successful graphic novel artist or author or something like that.”
Irene used a sketchbook to cover her lovely chest earlier.
“Like comic books?”
Michael shrugs as the car stops at a path leading to the bungalow. Humidity smacks me in the chest as I exit the vehicle, but it isn’t only the climate that has me sweating. The image of Irene in her string bikini was hot and one I wasn’t about to forget anytime soon.