SARALYN MARTIN HAD not worn a bikini in twenty years.
The dressing room she stood in was attached to a luxurious bedroom that boasted a king-size bed, all-natural linens and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a white sand beach frilled with emerald palm trees. Luxurious island getaway for one? Check!
With a discerning eye she studied her reflection. Having lived in California the past two decades, she owned many swimsuits, all of them a one-piece. The coverage boosted her oft-lacking self-confidence. Yet, she was here to shake up her life. Step out of her comfort zone. Become a new woman! Bikinis had been the logical choice for this two-week vacation and she intended to wear them daily.
Sucking in her tummy, she prodded at her hips. Bit more flesh there than she’d prefer, but as she faced her fiftieth birthday wearing the new crown of menopause, wasn’t she allowed some padding?
Not by Hollywood standards. Fortunately, she no longer claimed Hollywood-wife status.
A sigh dropped her shoulders and her tummy relaxed. Was it fortunate that she’d recently divorced her soap opera star husband of twenty years who had been unfaithful for half that time? It had been a year and a half since Brock had left their home at her request. The divorce had been finalized a month ago. He had gotten more than he deserved. The house in Los Angeles, the Swiss vacation home. Their friends—Martha, her yoga buddy, was such a traitor! Pieces of her dignity.
Saralyn had to be out of the house by the end of summer. With no idea where she would land, she knew with certainty she did want to leave California and the bad memories it held. With a one-million-dollar settlement sitting in her bank account, she could begin again.
Beginning again was one of the reasons she now stood here in this quiet villa on a private Caribbean island. The other had to do with her career. A should-she-or-shouldn’t-she? dilemma that must be resolved within the two-week stay.
Thanks to her friend Juliane’s last-minute schedule change, Saralyn had the entire island to herself. Juliane had intended to stay here on a romantic getaway with her boyfriend. This island, after all, was where Sex on The Beach had been filmed. She’d been curious to check it out. However, Juliane had gotten a call two days ago confirming she’d earned a seat on a six-month Antarctic research mission that was leaving immediately. An aquatic biologist, Juliane knew a refusal would bar the applicant from ever applying again. After accepting the position, she’d called Saralyn.
It hadn’t taken more than a “you deserve this” and a “sunny skies and blue waters” from Juliane for Saralyn to accept the generous offer. The rental fee had been nonrefundable. And while the divorce settlement had been earmarked for her future home and retirement savings, she had received the final payment for the memoir she’d ghostwritten, so she could manage any expenses this trip presented.
Today was publication day for that memoir.
Sneering at her reflection, Saralyn silently admonished the foolish woman who had written the autobiography Living Paradise. The author’s name on the cover? Brock Martin.
“Just let it go,” she told the woman in the mirror. “He’s out of your life. Start...a new chapter.”
So here she was. Two weeks of blissful blue skies, turquoise waters, white sands and tropical weather. On the island. Yes, she had written the story that had been filmed here—she was contractually bound not to tell anyone, including Juliane, about that. And it thrilled her that she finally had opportunity to visit this place that she felt a proud connection to.
But during these two weeks she also intended to figure out her life. Where was she headed? Dare she allow love into her life again? How to even begin dating as a middle-aged introvert? And should she take the offer to ghostwrite another book for a New York Times bestselling romance author? Or did Saralyn dare to refuse that contract and instead write her own story, the historical-heist idea that had been nudging at her for years?
“You will figure it all out,” she said to her reflection. “I know you can do it.”
Nodding in agreement, but not completely feeling the assurance from her mirror self, she grabbed the bright, oversize pink silk scarf from the top of her suitcase and began to wrap it around her hips. Then she paused. Saralyn shook her head. No one here to see her cellulite or notice that her breasts weren’t quite so high as they had been a decade earlier. And who needed makeup? She was unattached and alone and intended to embrace that refreshing freedom.
She tossed the scarf to the bed. It had only been a half hour since she’d set foot here. The guide who had driven the water taxi to the island had swiftly walked her through the villa placed but a stone’s throw from the beach, pointing out the luxurious amenities—a fully stocked wine fridge!—and various spots of interests, but she’d known the layout. She’d watched the movie five times. The excitement of setting foot on this particular island could not be ignored.
Breezing through the living area, a vast half-circle room that featured curved windows three stories high—every view spectacular—she paused in the kitchen where a discreet black box sat under a cupboard. As she’d learned from the guide, it was a Faraday box. A person could place their electronic devices inside and it would block the island’s Wi-Fi. No texts, no phone calls possible. Utter peace.
Clutching her phone to her chest, she eyed the box. While she wasn’t a huge scroller, she did like to have it near for texts or calls from her mom. On the other hand, she had promised to check in with her, but only after she’d gotten settled.
“I’m going to do this vacation the right way.”
She set the phone inside the box, then pulled her laptop from the carry bag, tucked it in, too, closed it and gave it a pat.
A wood walkway dotted with solar lights led her beneath a palm tree archway that sifted crisply in the light wind as she strolled toward the beach. Stepping onto the superfine, pearl-white sand, she delighted in the sensory warmth, wiggling her toes. Tilting back her head, she took in the azure sky, unreal in its utter blueness, and spread out her arms. The breeze tickled through her long brown hair, not pulled back in her requisite I’m-working ponytail. Her skin prickled as it awakened to the sunshine unadulterated by city smog. And the clear turquoise ocean glittered.
“Thank you, Juliane,” she said.
Spying a set of wooden chaises, she wandered over—but before sitting, decided to wade into the water. Warmth splashed her ankles and her feet sank into the wet sand as she stepped in deeper. This felt too good to be real. During their twenty-year marriage, she and Brock had rarely vacationed. They’d used the Swiss getaway once, and he’d invited an obnoxious gang of friends along. Yet Saralyn had written many a story set in such gorgeous climes, with only the internet as her research. The real thing was...breathtaking. Surrounded by nature and no electronic devices to distract her. This was heaven! Only now, as her very being jittered anticipation and utter awe, did she understand how much she needed this escape. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“To a new and interesting chapter of my life,” she said.
With a kick that splashed water and a dip to swirl her fingers across the surface, she waded back to shore and settled onto the chaise.
The island, owned by a young billionaire inventor, provided the ultimate luxury experience. Food was delivered every morning via a discreet drop-off box she’d seen when the landing boat had arrived. Juliane had selected the drop-off option as opposed to an on-site chef. Various sporty activities were available, including hiking trails, jet skiing, snorkeling, windsailing, and there was even a badminton court at the center of the island next to an infinity pool. Full Wi-Fi—apparently one could speak commands from anywhere and the AI would understand—a spa, yoga taught via Zoom. Everything was ultraluxe yet blended with the natural surroundings.
Digging her toes into the sand, she closed her eyes to the kiss of sunshine on her eyelids. Sea salt and earthy, verdant tones perfumed the air. “I could get used to this.”
For a moment, she processed the sensory warmth, scents, sounds and eventually moved inward to notice her calm heartbeats. Not thundering as they so often did when she was forced to drive the 105 freeway. Over the years she’d become a literal recluse, only driving to places close to home. Saralyn had learned to be alone, even within her marriage.
And you’re alone now. On a big island. With no means to leave. Who else knows about this island and could easily visit it while you’re here?
Heartbeats picked up pace as her writer’s brain concocted anxiety-causing scenarios. What had she done? She’d just relegated herself to a private island, far from civilization—the mainland was a fifteen-minute boat ride—and if anyone did come here she would be like a sitting target. Alone. Unable to defend herself...
Shaking her head, Saralyn chased away the crazy thought. Her brain tended to think the worst, and her body reacted as if it were really happening. She pressed a palm over her chest to calm her rapid heartbeats.
“You’re fine. You’re a big girl. Nothing weird is going to happen. Just enjoy!”
Today, she’d relax and settle in, probably walk the island later to take it all in. She didn’t intend to go schedule crazy. Though she did have a few items on her to-do list. First on the list?
“Figure out what I’m going to write next.”
If she accepted the ghostwriting job for the romance novel, she’d receive a paycheck, which she did need to cover basic living expenses. And that was about all it covered.
The other option, if she chose not to ghostwrite, would be to finish the historical-heist idea and publish under her own name. That would be a roll of the dice. Could she even sell under her name? Saralyn had been a ghostwriter for two decades, her entire writing career. Writing for others had always suited her introverted self. She enjoyed the journey of the story, handing it in, and walking away with a paycheck. No promoting, podcasts or anxiety-inducing book signings necessary. She rarely received credit for her writing; the author always put their name on the book. The nonfiction celebrity autobiographies she wrote did sometimes give her credit on the copyright page. But she’d never felt the need for that recognition.
Saralyn Martin had always been happiest standing in the background. Unnoticed. A literal ghost.
Until.
The divorce had changed her. She still hadn’t figured it all out, but she did know one thing: she didn’t want to be a ghost anymore. And that applied to all aspects of her life. But could she do it? Had she the gumption and courage to stand as her own woman and make a career for herself, support herself and, for the first time in her life, not rely on a man?
The contract she had been offered to ghostwrite was for another romance. The last story she’d written for the author, set on a tropical island, had been exceedingly successful. Sex on the Beach had been filmed on this very island. With no credit for Saralyn.
Yet there was the issue of being able to support herself. Ghostwriting paid well enough but never enough that she was able to save, to get ahead. Her entire writing career she’d been married to Brock and he had supported the two of them. Brock had encouraged her to continue with her writing. It was her creative outlet, a means to thrive. She hadn’t been required to bring in a certain income.
There were times, though, she’d felt he may have squelched her desire to make more money, to try her hand at stepping beyond the ghostwriting and seeing how it would go under her own name. The earnings possibilities were far greater than ghostwriting.
Had Brock purposely kept her under his thumb, emotionally and financially? Keep the wife tucked away at home while he philandered? He’d never argued when she’d stepped back from attending a flashy event with him. The man had an ego. And she knew he couldn’t abide being married to a woman who made more money than him, or who may have stolen the spotlight with a swing of her silken hair and a flash of her veneers. Or possibly, a woman who may have garnered her own fame through her bestselling novels.
Saralyn could craft a great story. And she had the skill to alter her on-the-page voice to match that of the authors she ghostwrote for. And in reviews, fans lauded the author’s ability to craft the ultimate sexy hero. They dubbed him their “book boyfriend” and had even written sexy fan fiction about him.
Saralyn loved to read the reviews. And, yes, she did have a talent for creating a sexy alpha man on the page. Generally, he had dark hair and European features. Muscles for days. And he always knew when to walk around without a shirt on. He was aloof but attentive. Smart and fun. He always protected the heroine. And while he had his own goals, ambitions and dreams, he would walk the world and battle dragons to ensure the heroine was happy. The best men existed on the page.
Might she ever find another hero to walk into her life? Did they even exist in real life? Brock Martin had once been her hero. No longer. And really. Did she need a man to protect and care for her?
She shrugged. “I prefer my men on the page. Give me tall, dark and...”
She softened her focus and allowed the elements of an ultimate hero to coalesce before her. Tall, he walked proudly and perhaps with a slight bow to his legs. Something so sexy to her about a bowlegged walk. Arms swinging confidently with his strides, he mastered the earth with each step, the hero returning to claim all that he desired—which was only ever the heroine’s heart.
His hair, dark as raven wings or coal dust or even precious black tourmaline would be carelessly finger-raked into a non-style, yet look as though a stylist had spent hours on it. Bedroom hair? Oh, yeah. A loose strand would probably dangle over his sharp but domineering eyebrow. Beneath those brows were eyes forged from earth and stone that caught the sunlight and told stories, so many tales of adventure, trial and heartbreak. The heroine could never look into those whiskey-brown irises without catching her breath and seeing her truth reflected back at her.
A chiseled jawline was de rigueur, along with the perfect amount of dark stubble. Not quite a beard, but never straggly. This man was perfection.
And farther down...
“Oh, yes, those abs.” Saralyn blinked, loving the fantasy of bare torso and abs. They were hard. Honed. Tanned. The proverbial six-pack.
Licking her lips, her body softened, relaxing against the wood chaise as the sexy vision approached.
The man who walked across the beach toward her held a string of fish and wore his swim trunks low to reveal the cut muscles that looked hard enough to hone steel. Sweat pearled on those muscles—or no, those were water droplets from the ocean. A merman risen from the depths. Come to seduce her silly with a godlike physique and darkly devastating looks.
Saralyn tugged in her lower lip. The perfect amount of dark chest hair glinted with water droplets. Not too much that a woman would wake in the middle of the night dreaming of bears, and not so little that the sun would gleam on his bare skin. Masculinity defined. And he had...she counted...more than a six-pack. Mmm, wouldn’t she like to wander her fingers over those hard ridges?
A brilliant glint sparkled between his lips as he curved a sun-shaming smile.
“Wait.” Clutching the chaise arms, Saralyn sat upright. Was she hallucinating? She narrowed her gaze against the sunlight and then opened her eyes wide. The man was...real? Couldn’t be.
“There’s not supposed to be anyone on this island.” Never had her imagination conjured the real thing.
Her heart stuttered. Had her worst fear come true? Alone on the island—he didn’t look like a serial killer come to claim his next victim. But what a perfect ruse to lure the victim closer!
No. Chill, Saralyn. He’s just one of the staff. A local? Or a fisherman who had anchored his boat nearby?
Whoever he was, he was stunning.
And she was a pale, middle-aged woman wearing a teeny bikini.
She stood, grasping for her silk scarf, then remembered she’d left it in the villa. Shoot! She clasped her hands across her tummy and nervously slid them upward. Then one hand slid to her hip where she sported that unasked-for menopausal bonus bulge.
“Who are you?” Body discomfort aside, this wasn’t right. “This is my island.”
“Is it, now?” A bemused smile glinted in the stranger’s eyes. Dark irises, probably whiskey brown or even earthen umber. His mouth quirked in a seductive smirk, like a romance hero set to seduce the heroine with his charming aloofness. “Your island?”
“It is for the next two weeks,” she said firmly. How dare he distract her annoyance with an inhale that flexed his pecs? “Are you staff? Is that my dinner?” She gestured toward the fish. “Is that what was meant by ‘fresh food delivered daily’? That’s taking things to the extreme.”
With another flutter of her palm across her stomach, she sucked in. Did he notice her tummy? Her pale skin desperately in need of a tan? Why was the sexiest man alive standing so close to her she could feel her nipples harden and—that was so not what she needed right now.
“Dinner?” He jiggled the line of fish. “If you like. I’m willing to share.”
Share? As in—Was he staying on the island?
“No seriously. Who are you?” she pleaded. “There must have been a booking mistake.”
He offered a hand to shake, which she could but stare at. For as appealing as that hand looked, and it was attached to, oh, such a gorgeous physique, she did wonder if it was coated with fish slime. “I’m the owner of the island.”
The...owner? That man was a billionaire who invented things and should—according to her writerly imagination—be wearing a lab coat or even a fancy business suit. Not looking like a sexy version of Robinson Crusoe.
“The owner,” she said. “Sorry. I didn’t know—but I did pay to stay here. Rather, I’m using my girlfriend’s vacation since she had previous—Oh, it doesn’t matter. This is my vacation. On a private island. Private meaning just me. No one else.”
“That could be one definition of the word.”
“There is only one definition of private,” she protested.
“Private simply indicates the island is secluded. Set off from the rest of the busy world. I’ll be here for a stay.”
“But you... This is supposed to be a private island!”
“You keep saying that but the definition doesn’t change. It is a private island.”
The man showed no sign of understanding or complying with her desperate need to make him gone. “Not if there are two people on it!”
“I have a right to be here anytime I want. It’s in the fine print.”
“The fine print?” Saralyn had developed a need to wear readers for small text. It was not how she’d expected fifty to greet her. Why couldn’t she age gracefully? But no matter. “I didn’t read the contract.”
“Not wise.”
“As I’ve said, this vacation is my girlfriend’s booking. She’s the one who did all the paperwork and read...” Had Juliane read the fine print? What did it matter? The man should not be here!
Saralyn crossed her arms over her breasts. Who cared about her tummy bulge and cellulite? This was just wrong. How to relax and find her groove when Adonis wandered the island? And in nothing more than a pair of khaki swim trunks that seemed to fade from sight against his tan skin and enhance every single spectacular muscle on his body?
“No one ever reads the fine print,” he offered with a shrug. “But don’t worry. I won’t get in your way. I use the island when I need it. And...” His heavy sigh gave her anxiety a pause. What did that world-weary sigh mean? “I really need it right now. I’ll stay at the chef’s cottage on the other side of the island. You won’t see me. Unless you want to.”
Unless she...? Had he said that with a lilting tease? Cheeky of him. Yet it did prod an intriguing wedge into her plans. Alone on an island with a sexy stranger? Such a trope always appealed in romance novels.
“Well, I don’t want to share,” she forced herself to say to defeat her failing stoicism. “I want to enjoy this vacation as was intended, alone and...”
Alone and desperate? She wasn’t desperate. Just...seeking. But she was thrown. Wasn’t sure how to react with all that man and pulsing muscle and wet chest hair and gleaming teeth.
“I need to go change.” She spun and headed to the villa.
“The bikini suits you!” he called.
Saralyn gestured dismissively behind her as she increased her speed. That he must see her thighs jiggle as she hurried off humiliated her. Once in the villa, she pulled the sliding-glass door shut and then the bamboo curtains. Only when she felt sure he could not see inside did she turn her back to the wall and blow out a breath.
A man who bore the physical appearance of every devastatingly handsome hero she’d ever created had just stepped off the page and barged into her reality. And he didn’t seem at all concerned that she was bothered by it!
“This is not going to work.”
Copyright © 2024 by Michele Hauf