Hawke: Christmas in Paradise (Billionaire Boys Club)

by Ellie Masters

  When I return to my seat, my fingers curl. Quinn sucks down the last of what looks like wine and shoves something suspiciously like cold medicine into a ratty backpack.

  “What’s that?” I point to the empty glass.

  “What’s what?”

  “Look, I get you’re afraid of flying, but chugging booze and guzzling cold medicine is a recipe for disaster.”

  She jerks back in her seat and tucks her chin as indignation fills her face. “I think I can make that decision for myself.”

  “You’re right.” Her snarky comment draws my anger. “You’re a grown woman and if you want to get punch drunk before landing in a foreign country, then far be it for me to get in your way. For the record, it’s a piss-poor decision.”

  “I don’t remember asking you.” Her eyes flash, sparking with emerald fire.

  Her defiance stirs something primitive within me. The need to exert my dominance over her swells, and that’s not all that swells. My dick takes notice, growing long and hard within the span of a few heartbeats.

  “You didn’t. Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

  Her arms cross with indignation, and her mouth opens and closes as she tries to come back at me. But she can’t. She knows I’m right.

  Instead of asking her to unbuckle and let me in, I contort my body between the seats and slide into mine. I wouldn’t be able to do that in coach.

  “Look, I’m just saying a woman traveling on her own needs to be careful.”

  “Who says I’m traveling alone?”

  I cock my head. “Aren’t you?”

  She squints at me as if deciding whether to be truthful. The moment she gives in, it feels like I’ve won a major victory.

  “I am, but I’m fully capable of taking care of myself.”

  I glance at her backpack, wondering how much cold medicine she’s taken. Is that why she was passed out for practically the entire flight? The intercom pops overhead as Andy speaks to the passengers.

  “Our captain has put on the seat belt sign in preparation for landing. Please make sure your tray tables are in their full and upright position…” He drones on with what I’ve heard hundreds of times.

  Quinn, however, listens intently, hanging on every word as if her life depends on it. I snort and turn my attention outside the window. Landings are the most exciting part of flying.

  Quinn yawns beside me and sinks deeper into her seat. Her lids droop and she gives a start. A few moments later, a big yawn escapes her and she blinks furiously. The poor thing is going to be passed out again before we hit the ground. That may be the best thing, to be honest. If her reaction to landing is anything like takeoff, I’d rather have her sleep through it.

  Which is exactly what she does.

  The landing is smooth as silk. I barely feel the wheels touch down before the engine brakes roar, slowing us down. Still no movement out of Quinn. I give her a tiny shove, mindful we’re still strangers, but when she doesn’t move, I pinch her arm.

  Nothing.

  Well, shit.

  One of the perks of first class is getting to be first off the plane, but Quinn is completely knocked out. We arrive at the gate and everyone surges to their feet. My nudge becomes more forceful. More of a prod. Finally, she stirs.

  “Huh?” Her voice slurs and I roll my eyes.

  I can’t leave her like this.

  The outer door opens and those lined up cram forward toward the exit. I give up on getting out of the plane first and work on waking Quinn up. As the passengers file out of the plane, I get her to come around, but now I need to wait for the plane to empty. I slap her hand. Pinch the back of her wrist, and give Andy dirty looks.

  Finally, there’s no one left but us. Once again, I contort my body and wiggle into the aisle.

  “Come on, Quinn. It’s time to go.”

  What the hell am I going to do with her? It’s not like I can drop her off someplace.

  Fortunately, she’s waking up. It’s slow, but progress. In the back of my mind, I remember her dragging a rolling carry-on and find it in the bin overhead. I reach down and sling her backpack over my shoulder. Then I lift her out of her seat.

  More awake, she rubs at her eyes and sways on her feet. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve landed.”

  “Landed?”

  “Yes. You’re back on the ground.” I can’t wheel her carry-on and take care of her at the same time. After loosening the straps on the backpack, I wear it old school, like a dork, and lift her carry on. With it in hand, I practically carry her off the plane as well.

  As I pass Andy, my eyes pinch. “Your superiors will hear about this. With no idea who he’s dealing with, Andy is in for a rude surprise. The CEO of this airline is a golf buddy of mine and he will hear about this.

  With Quinn staggering beside me, I manage to get her up the jet bridge and into the main terminal. But now what?

  “Quinn, do you know where you’re staying?”

  She mumbles something incoherent and I look up and pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration.

  “Do you have any bags to claim in baggage claim?”

  Her head droops, but it gives a sharp shake. At least I don’t have to deal with the fiasco of figuring out which bag is hers. My attention shifts to the small carry-on in my hand. What kind of woman travels with one piece of luggage?

  She’s not helping me out, leaving no choice but to invade her privacy and look through her backpack. The first thing I want to find is her purse. Everything valuable to a woman resides in her purse. Except Quinn doesn’t have one.

  I dig through her backpack, looking for anything which might help. I find her passport and ID along with a crumpled piece of paper. I almost toss it, but see print on the inside.

  Bingo, but what are the damn odds?

  She’s staying at my resort.

  At least I know where to drop her off. As for the rest of it? I’ve had my fill of Quinn Hayes. She’ll get to the resort in one piece, safe and sound, but the rest of this? I’m not a damn babysitter for a grown woman. She’s far more trouble than I’m willing to expend chasing pussy.

  Only, that’s not what you want.

  I ignore the voice in my head, not clear what it thinks I want out of Quinn.

  I flag down a worker and get a wheelchair. No way in hell is she making it through customs under her own power. With a grin plastered on my face, I smile to the customs official and tell him my fiancée had too much to drink on the flight. It must not be the first time because he waves me through without blinking.

  My driver, Paul, is at the curb by the time I get there. His brow arches when he sees the drunk woman I lift into the limo.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Do I ever?” He holds the door for me to climb in behind Quinn, then shuts me inside.

  I can’t help but breathe her in. Above the faintest smell of liquor and minty cold medicine, the lightest fragrance of jasmine and rosebuds floods my senses. Another groan escapes my lips because this woman is getting under my skin.

  The limo shakes as Paul places her luggage in the trunk, then again when he sits in the driver’s seat.

  “Your home, Mr. Sterling?”

  “No.” My plans for the next two weeks included spending time alone at my beach house, but plans are meant to be changed. “Take me to Euphoria. Do me a favor and call ahead. Tell them to prepare my villa.”

  I thought I could walk away, but the truth is, this woman fascinates me. I need to know more. I plan to take what I want, satisfy this gnawing hunger inside of me, then walk away once I get my fill.

  She’s semi-conscious through check-in, and I learn a few things. First and foremost, she’s booked into one of our honeymoon suites. The booking doesn’t come from her, but rather someone named Scott Aiken. Both of them are listed on the reservation.

  I study her left hand longer than I should and pull at my jaw while the front desk receptionist, Nalia, checks Quinn into her room.

  Not marri
ed.

  Not engaged.

  What’s her story?

  As an all-inclusive couple’s resort, there are several tiers to our suites. Whoever this Scott guy is, he booked the lowest tier. I bump that up because I can.

  Not sure why she’s traveling alone, I confirm Scott is not only not checked in but a note on the reservation says he won’t be coming.

  Nalia looks up, blushes, and bites her lower lip. She knows who I am and appears overwhelmed to be speaking directly to the owner.

  “That’s it, Mr. Sterling. I have Miss Hayes checked into her suite and confirmed yours is ready. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Call Dr. Conte and have him report to her room?”

  “Right away, Mr. Sterling.” It’s about the tenth time she refers to me by name. A simple ‘Sir’ will do, but I don’t correct her. It’s not often I check in at reception. In fact, this might be the very first time.

  As far as Miss Quinn Hayes, my decision to bring her straight to the resort, rather than the local hospital, is self-serving. Jack happens to be staying at Euphoria. He’s an excellent physician and an old college buddy. If she needs more definitive care, he’ll let me know. He’ll also be discreet, which serves me well. I’m not interested in news getting out that I brought an incapacitated woman to the resort.

  That kind of shit is exactly the fodder my mother eats up. She then turns it against me to serve her purposes to force me into doing shit I don’t want to do. Anything to cast her disapproving eye on me is fair game.

  The bellhop takes Quinn’s bags while I help Quinn to her suite. Her voice slurs and her feet drag, but some of the alcohol and cold medicine is wearing off. I place her on the couch and tip the bellhop, then sit and wait for Jack. No way am I leaving her alone in this state. Although, if she comes around, how am I going to explain all of this?

  I may not have thought this through.

  It takes about an hour before there’s a knock on the door. In that time, I’ve taken care of the final pieces of a major merger and opened up the latest proposals for my firm’s annual venture capital investments—the ones my mother rejected. After my conversation with Mother, I need to review my recommendations.

  When I open the door, Jack spreads his arms wide. “Sterling! What the fuck are you doing here?” He wraps me in a man-hug, thumping my back, and flashes his infamous megawatt smile. “Why was I pulled out of the pool and told to come here? I thought you were staying at your house this time around.”

  “I was, but now I’m not.”

  “And you need me, why?”

  I point to the couch where Quinn begins to stir. “How concerned do I need to be about alcohol and cold medicines?”

  “You resorting to drugging the ladies? Lost your magnetic edge?”

  My reputation with the ladies borders on legendary. I’ve never found myself without a date or a satisfying lay. My looks can kill, and if that doesn’t work, the size of my bank account seals the deal. I’ve been featured more times than I care on various world’s-most-eligible-bachelor lists. Not that I follow that shit.

  “I didn’t drug her, asshole.”

  His hand goes to his chest like he’s hurt. “You wound me.”

  “I wound nothing.” I gesture toward Quinn. “She’s not even with me.”

  “Then what the fuck are you doing in her suite?” He glances around and lowers his voice. “And a honeymoon suite to boot. Is there a husband lurking around?”

  “Not that I can tell. And as for what I’m doing here, I’m taking care of her.”

  “Now this promises to be an interesting story.” He ambles over to where Quinn rests, kneels down, and takes her pulse. Never without his black doctor bag, he pulls out a stethoscope and listens to her chest. I’m more than a little peeved that he gets to touch her breasts before me. Although, he isn’t groping her tits like I want to do. His touch is clinical and professional. “I know what’s wrong with her.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, asshole.” He throws my taunt back in my face. “She’s fucking drunk.”

  “I know she’s drunk, but does she need to go to the hospital?”

  He shakes his head. “She needs to sleep it off. Do you know what she took? Any chance there are other drugs involved?”

  “Doubtful. Three glasses of champagne. At least one glass of wine. And…” I look around for that ratty backpack of hers. “Hang on. Let me find the cold medicine.” The backpack is in the bedroom. Yet again, I rifle through her things, and pull out a nearly empty bottle. “Here.” I shove the bottle at him.

  Jack takes it from me and looks at the label and reads the list of ingredients.

  “Looks like she took double or triple the dose. Why the fuck would she do that? Is she sick?”

  “I don’t think so?” I shrug. “At least, it didn’t look like it on the plane.”

  “Yes!” He stabs a finger toward me. “This is the juicy story I’ve been waiting for. What did you do to her on the plane?”

  “I did nothing.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Look, I’ve never taken advantage of a woman and I’m not about to start now. She’s afraid of flying. Had one or two or more glasses of champagne, I guess to take the edge off.”

  Jack nods. “And I bet she googled on how to sleep on a plane. It explains the cold medicine.”

  “Is it dangerous? Should we be pumping her stomach or something?”

  “How long was the flight?”

  “About six hours.”

  “And how long since you landed?”

  “Maybe another hour?”

  He taps his chin. “Let’s assume she had three or four drinks, plus half that bottle of cold medicine. I’d say she’ll be okay.”

  “Is that your professional opinion?”

  “It is. She’s going to wake up and regret it.” He glances around the room. “And she may not have a clear memory of what happened. Are you planning on being here when she wakes?”

  “Not really.”

  He makes a show of the chin tapping thing. “So, you’re telling me you took the time to make sure she got off the plane safely. Brought her to Euphoria. Checked her in. Asked me to examine her. And you’re walking away?”

  “Some things aren’t worth the trouble.”

  “Seems as if you’ve gone to a great deal of trouble already, but that’s cool. I highly recommend someone watches over her. Medically, she’s intoxicated, but after nearly seven hours, most of the alcohol is out of her system. The cold medicine will linger for several more hours. She’ll be drowsy. Best to put her to bed.”

  A snort escapes me. “The last thing I’m going to do is put a woman I don’t know in bed in a strange place and hang around for her to wake up. That screams all kinds of bad-fucking-idea.”

  “True, but what are the options?”

  I cross my arms over my chest and give him one of my infamous stares.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sterling. This is my vacation.”

  “You’ll be compensated for your time.”

  “And my inconvenience?”

  “Name your price.”

  He mumbles something about rich, entitled bastards always getting what they want. I’d take offense, except he’s not wrong about it.

  I’m rich. Entitled. And a bastard.

  As for always getting what I want? I do.

  Which is why I leave Jack with my oddly unnerving flight companion. I’d consider staying, except I don’t trust myself. Distance is what I need, because the strange beauty managed to worm her way under my skin. That’s not something I tolerate. I don’t like not having the upper hand.

  Before we meet again, it’ll be on my terms, and I’ll definitely have the advantage.

  I head to the owner’s suite and dig up everything there is about Quinn Hayes.

  What I find both intrigues and bothers me.

  Eight

  Hawke

  “Another whiskey, Mr. Sterling?” Andrew,
the bartender, takes my empty glass and wipes away the water ring with a flourish of his towel. He waits for me to look up from the papers spread out in three neat stacks.

  “Two fingers, and make it neat this time.”

  I sit at a bar in the far corner of one of Euphoria’s restaurants and enjoy my whiskey. One of many bars, this one is attached to the main dining area. Soft music floats through the air, and cozy, understated lighting adds to the romantic atmosphere. This is a place for love, not a place for a single man to sit alone at the end of the bar.

  But I’m here on a mission.

  My things were delivered to my villa less than an hour after I arrived with Quinn, brought from my beach house by my staff. Euphoria is a side adventure I started with my best friend Steve Calloway, another rich, entitled, billionaire friend.

  Unlike me though, he’s not a bastard.

  Other than that, we’re practically brothers.

  Euphoria began as a joke. We bought some land. Formed a LLC. Then built an audacious, over the top, bachelor pad where we basically fucked every girl under the sun. And we wrote the whole thing off as a business expense.

  Then we built another for some of our friends to join in on the fun. Then another. And another.

  We never intended to take Euphoria commercial, and not once did we envision it would become a successful enterprise. Those initial bachelor pads became the cornerstone of our exclusive honeymoon retreats. The rest of the development followed, taking advantage of tried and true business practices. We took the best of all the couple’s resorts we could find around the world and combined them into what Euphoria has become: the best of the best.

  This place may be the only thing that is truly mine. All the rest of what I have comes from my mother. With her threats, I’m not likely to see a dime of my inheritance, but if I act the role of dutiful son, bow to her wishes, and scrape the shit off her shoes, she just might give in.

  Oh, and there’s the whole get married and pop out an heir thing. Mother is officially insane if she thinks that will happen.

  There’s too much bowing and scraping for my tastes. I constantly buck against her authority and groveling is not my style. Not that it’s my fault. She raised me to stand apart and dominate the business world.