Bad Business

by JC Harroway

  Brooke pokes out her tongue. ‘I like knitting—it’s mindful. Relaxing. I can take it when I travel. And for your information, Nick is the soul of professional detachment. I’m lucky to get a hello out of him.’

  ‘Well, take your pick,’ I say, refusing to go down alone, while a warm glow of excitement builds in my belly—I’m going to do this. Go on my holiday and embrace fun and possibility and a fresh start. Make Bryony and my friends proud. ‘It’s one of the dick-pic losers or an Italian fling with Nick.’

  Brooke sighs an exaggerated huff, flashing her million-dollar pout. ‘Fine. So it’s on. A holiday fling apiece so we can avoid Neve’s sad singletons’ club.’

  Neve shrugs and I avoid comment with a swallow of my drink.

  ‘Okay,’ says Brooke, finding her stride. ‘So, to the terms of this pact.’ She holds up one finger. ‘Pictorial evidence of the holiday hook-up is required as proof, even if you have to take it while he’s asleep or in the shower.’ She adds a second finger. ‘And the next cocktail night will be a full debriefing session so come expecting to share all the juicy details.’

  ‘Cheers to that.’ Neve drains the dregs from the jug of margarita, sloshing them unevenly into the three glasses.

  We raise a toast, clinking our drinks together. ‘To our pleasure pact,’ purrs Brooke in her best Lady Madden voice.

  Giggling and more drinking ensue.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ryan

  I POINT THE paddleboard towards the shore, my paddle slicing through the pristine clear water of the South Pacific Ocean, which covers the live coral reefs below. The early evening sun warms my back as I study the Lailai resort, my newest acquisition, from my unique vantage with a keen business eye.

  Twenty secluded wood and straw bungalows, or bures as the Fijians call them, line one side of the turquoise lagoon, which is a protected marine sanctuary. The palm-fringed beach stretches in a graceful crescent to the opposite side, where a row of over-water bungalows jut out into the ocean and link to the shore via individual wooden walkways.

  Currently an adults-only honeymoon destination, it’s paradise. A perfect Dempsey singles’ resort in the making to add to my worldwide collection.

  As soon as I can dispense with the nauseating couples cluttering up the place...

  I paddle away from my own over-water bungalow, the best the resort boasts, with a sigh. Why then am I forcing myself through the motions? Attempting to relax on my ‘working holiday’ when perhaps I should head back to London at the earliest opportunity?

  I paddle harder, trying to outrun my restlessness with vigorous strokes.

  The expected satisfaction at my expanding empire never arrives, my gut knotted with the looming sense of emotional upheaval I’ve spent my entire adult life dodging.

  The frailty of the only person alive who’s always cared about me: my grandmother.

  I grit my teeth, telling myself that my business success ensures her comfort and the best healthcare money can buy. That’s why I’m here. Business. I know from bitter experience that indulging in feelings and believing in sentiment in the past ended in decisions taken out of my control and left me alone, cold and homeless.

  I stab at the water with the paddle, the break in rhythm wobbling the board under my feet. The daily check-in phone calls to the nursing home are bound to leave me edgy. Apart from the comfort of my grandmother’s voice, which is increasingly frail, the calls usually reveal sobering news. But I can’t think about that now; there’s work to do.

  Perhaps, at thirty-six, I’m bored of the lucrative singles’ resorts business, my constant travelling losing its lustre. Perhaps it’s time to diversify, to buy an airline or something...

  Yes—that’s it. I’m off-kilter for a new challenge.

  Nothing to do with the lure of home.

  I snort, the hairs at my nape prickling to attention. Where is home? I have houses all over the world—million-dollar piles of bricks and mortar, a waste of money for the amount of time I spend in them.

  In the shallows, I jump from the board, scoop it up and head on dragging feet towards the hut housing the resort’s water-sports equipment. Not even the excuse of temporarily filling in for the island’s paddleboard instructor, Pita, who’s been called back to the main island for a family emergency, is enough of a distraction. I glance back, drawn to the endless ocean view as if I’ll find solace on the horizon.

  Movement catches attention. The doctor. My stare holds fast, eyes burning with curiosity.

  Of course I’m interested in the resort’s only solitary guest, her presence, her whole demeanour intriguing. Since she arrived forty-eight hours ago, she’s kept to herself, rarely emerging from her bure before late afternoon and then only to walk along the shore looking wistful, just as she’s doing now. But even wistful she’s striking, stirring something in me, an attraction that makes me forget my troubles and the weird clawing restlessness. Something that makes me wonder what secrets she’s pondering as she walks.

  And that inquisitiveness, more than the stirring of a sexual itch, is so rare, so enthralling I hardly recognise the feeling.

  I watch her slow meander along the shoreline with growing fascination, my focus honed on her body’s movements and her serene but pensive expression. She’s dressed in the complimentary sarong the resort supplies to each guest on arrival and a vibrant red bikini top, her curves perfectly showcased by the revealing outfit.

  No wonder I’m drawn.

  The paddleboard grows heavy under my arm, but I can’t move away. Why wasn’t I more curious when I met with my resort manager, Taito, for a rundown of the current guest situation? Because all I was thinking was how quickly I could add my signature singles-only stamp of sexy hedonistic luxury to this idyllic resort and move on to the next acquisition, the next destination, make the next million...

  Perhaps my curiosity in the doctor is professional. After all, she’s here to teach my staff first aid. But why? Surely she could have found a working holiday gig somewhere less isolated. Somewhere full of singletons...

  A slug of disappointment douses me as if I’ve been plunged into iced water instead of the warm tropical ocean—perhaps she isn’t single.

  The itch of attraction turns to discomfort, sliding over my skin like sunburn, which makes no sense. What do I care if she’s attached? I don’t even know her name.

  Plenty more fish in the sea...

  But I can’t stop wondering if one genuine smile from this enigmatic woman, or perhaps hearing her laugh, would reset my balance. The next chance I get, I’ll introduce myself to the good doctor—time to cast off this irritating fixation. I’m in the singletons business for good reason. I have no interest whatsoever in leaving the bachelor club, where I’m a lifelong member.

  I catch sight of a slender leg peeking from the sarong as she walks. My groin tightens, a reminder that I’ve been here a week without any female company.

  Hmm, perhaps a one-night stand. That would chase away the gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Help me to refocus on working through the changes to Lailai. I press my lips together, torn.

  Yes, she’s hitting all the right attractiveness buttons, but what are her philosophies on casual sex? She’s here alone. At a honeymoon resort. That’s answer enough.

  I stride up the beach to the equipment hut, shaking off the moment’s regret like the flick of sand from my feet. Inside I stack the paddleboard in the rack against one wall and stow the paddle. I snag my T-shirt from Pita’s battered deckchair and duck outside to collect the handwritten sign advertising the recreations available on the island, which is propped against a pile of fallen coconuts.

  My mouth waters, anticipating the ice-cold beer I know is waiting for me back at my bure, but the idea of returning there alone with this strange weight dragging me down holds no appeal. I clench my jaw, fighting frustration. I’m always alone. It’s never bother
ed me before. A shower, a bite to eat at the resort’s restaurant and a chat with friendly local, Charlie, the bar manager, will shake me out of my strange mood.

  ‘Am I too late to book a lesson for tomorrow?’

  I turn towards the voice, a slug of satisfaction heating my blood at the sight of the doctor close up. I was right—she’s stunning and I’m doubly intrigued, my thumping pulse proof, even as I groan in my head at the bittersweet timing.

  She pushes her sunglasses from her exquisite heart-shaped face onto her head and looks up at me expectantly. For a moment, I free-fall into her eyes; they’re startling, sharp, piercing, as if she instantly sees all the crappy dark places in my fucked-up soul but also open, somehow kind, as if she’s about to offer the cure-all pill.

  It must be a doctor thing. Perhaps she looks at everyone that way, figuring how to fix their broken parts...

  But unless she can wind back the years and fix my grandmother, I have no need for her professionally.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I say with a smile that feels too wide. Too self-congratulatory. The lack of a ring on that tell-tale finger gives my libido the all-clear to get ideas.

  Snapping out of the hold she’s taken by catching me off guard, I stretch out my hand. ‘My name’s Ryan, by the way.’ I train my eyes from her spectacular body, employing willpower I haven’t used in a long time; she’s that tempting. Rocking body, thick, glossy hair. Intelligent dark brown eyes.

  Her handshake is firm and warm and too brief, because, touching her, I’m acutely aware I’m a man who hasn’t had sex in a fortnight wearing only a pair of wet, clinging board shorts.

  ‘You’re Irish?’ she says, pushing her long mahogany hair back over her shoulders as she gives me the kind of once-over I usually relish from a beautiful woman, because it indicates they’re interested in more than introductions. ‘I am, and you’re English?’

  ‘Yes.’ She laughs. ‘We’re both a long way from home.’

  I was right about her laugh—a delightful sound that swells my chest as if I’m the most hilarious comic in the world. I knew an introduction would recalibrate my mood.

  ‘That we are.’ Am I actually putting an extra lilt to the accent, trying to impress her with a touch of the charming Irish brogue? What the hell...?

  Her smile curls up and she does this thing where she looks from under her lashes as if she’s suppressing amusement—sexy as hell... The ends of her hair brush her freckled shoulders. I have the urge to trace those fascinating blemishes on her soft-looking sun-kissed skin until my head is full of pleasure and nothing else. Not the turmoil in me or the daily dose of worrying news from London.

  ‘Oh,’ she gasps, stepping closer. ‘You’ve cut your foot.’

  I look down to see a thin trail of blood seep from a graze on my ankle. ‘It’s fine—I must have caught it on the coral. It’s razor sharp.’

  A small pinch of concern surrounds her beautiful eyes. ‘Would you like me to have a look? I have a first-aid kit in my room—I can go grab it.’

  I shake my head, which feels light, spaced out, at her attention. ‘It’s fine.’ I know it’s just a professional thing—doctors are probably never off duty—but warmth spills through my veins, almost too hot to bear.

  ‘You sure?’ she asks, and I nod, as unsettled now as I am intrigued.

  ‘If my leg starts to fall off, I’ll find you,’ I say. ‘So, back to this lesson.’

  She looks away from my foot to the chalkboard advertising the have-a-go activities available to guests. Now would be a good time to tell her I’m just filling in as instructor and expecting Pita to return tomorrow. But I stay silent. I’m a private person. My resorts often attract negative press—the last thing I need is news I’ve purchased Lailai leaking before the last honeymooners have departed. They won’t take well to discovering their idyllic hideaway will soon be full of people looking for depraved, no-strings fun in paradise... Nor do I want the renovations disrupted by some pap sniffing out a story of Dempsey-style debauchery. The press love to paint me as a notorious commitment-phobic billionaire, a playboy of pleasure who sells sex in tropical locations, slamming my resorts as hook-up clubs. But if the shoe fits... The wealthy and single need somewhere to mingle, just like the honeymooners. So if it’s legal and consensual, anything goes at a Dempsey resort.

  Somehow I don’t think the serious doc here would approve, and, beyond her professional credentials and the fact she rocks a bikini like a Greek goddess and rivals the sun in delivering that feel-good factor, I don’t know this woman.

  I grab a piece of chalk. ‘A lesson for one?’ I’m fishing. ‘You’re here alone, right?’

  She bristles, her smile slipping, eyes dulling with something close to embarrassment even as she lifts her chin. ‘Yes, I am. Is that a problem? Don’t you do lessons for one?’

  Whoa... I’ve touched a nerve. I’d better not probe any deeper, despite being more intrigued than ever. ‘Of course we do. One-on-one it is.’ Thoughts of her and I alone, every possible distraction, flash through my head, revisiting the possibility of a one-night stand. ‘My favourite kind of lesson.’

  I don’t imagine the way her breathing speeds up or those lush lips part. Dragging my mind from all the ways I’d like to see her excited and breathless, I wipe down the board with the side of my fist, erasing today’s bookings, and look up. ‘What time would you like? I recommend a dawn paddle if you’re an early bird—sun’s up around six-thirty and the sunrise is amazing from the water.’

  ‘Um...’ She hesitates, the small wrinkle of her nose telling me she’s not a morning person but doesn’t want to say so.

  ‘Do you have a slot around nine?’ She shrugs. ‘You know... I’m supposed to be on holiday.’

  ‘Supposed to be...?’ Interesting... I shouldn’t care that she might be struggling to embrace the island vibe. All she needs from me is a lesson in paddleboarding. But is that all she wants...? Could we be on the same page, both looking for a temporary distraction involving those shapely thighs wrapped around my waist or draped over my shoulders...?

  I clear my throat. ‘Of course. You probably work pretty crazy hours at the hospital—nine it is.’ I shelve my curiosity at her revealing statement, desperately trying not to picture her asleep, her gorgeous, naked body relaxed...

  ‘What name shall I write?’ I ask. ‘Will Doc do...?’

  She flushes, perhaps embarrassed that she’s forgotten the basics of introductions. Do I make her nervous? I want to make her other things—turned on, greedy, demanding.

  ‘Grace. Grace Metcalf.’ She swishes her toes through the sand as she looks down, and I’m gifted with another flash of thigh through the opening of her sarong.

  ‘That’s a beautiful name.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m trying to outgrow Gracie... That’s what my sister used to call me when we were young...’ She shrugs, all sexy awkwardness that leaves me wondering how often she flirts, because I’m getting mixed signals.

  A groan echoes inside my head. Oh, Grace, Grace, Grace... Why do you have to be so exquisite? So tempting? So...unexpected?

  ‘Have you done it before?’ I write her name on the chalkboard—the laid-back, low-tech booking system on the island, where most things are done on island time—and try not to notice that she’s stepped closer, so close I detect her floral scent and something purely feminine on the warm air.

  ‘Paddleboarding?’ Her cheeks darken as if we share the same dark delightful thoughts my open-ended question has unleashed.

  No, fucked a stranger on a tropical island.

  ‘Yes.’ I swallow hard, tamping down the fierce surge of heat in my groin. ‘Are you a beginner?’

  ‘Oh...yes. I...mean no,’ she says. ‘I mean I am a beginner. I haven’t done it before. But I’ve always wanted to try.’

  I can’t help my wide grin. She’s enchanting—sexy as sin but a little reticent, flus
tered. ‘Well, you’re in safe hands, and you’re all booked in for nine a.m.’

  Shit, I’m in trouble; I had this week planned out, female-distraction-free, but that was before I met Grace. I could swap one distraction for another...

  No... Walk away. Stick to paddleboarding.

  But she’s still here, still tracing her toes through the sand, still looking up at me with those intensely penetrating eyes, which seem to be saying things she’s holding back from speaking aloud.

  ‘Do you want to go grab a drink at the bar? I’ve finished for the day.’ The words are out before I know what I’m doing. Curiosity, even mutual attraction, a bit of banter is one thing, but drinks with a woman who looks as if she’d run a mile from one of my debauched singles resorts and gets tongue-tied talking to a member of the opposite sex is another thing entirely. A crazy thing. A thing destined to end in trouble...

  But would she run? So flirting doesn’t come naturally, or she’s rusty. Doesn’t mean she isn’t interested. I know that look on her face—she’s eye-fucking me, such a contrast I’m way beyond my usual levels of fascinated, although I don’t usually work this hard to unearth a woman’s interest.

  ‘I... Um...’ She bites her full lower lip, her sexy eyes swooping the length of my body. My blood heats; I’m certain I’ve lucked out. She’s going to say yes, drag me back to her bungalow and be exactly what the doctor ordered for my sexual-frustration problems.

  The damp fabric of my shorts clings tighter to my eager cock.

  A warm gust of wind chooses that moment to blow over the chalkboard, which I failed to jam deep enough into the sand. We reach for it together. Our hands collide, fingers brushing.

  She steps back, her colour high as if I’ve touched her all the ways I want to, not simply accidentally brushed her hand. But that one touch is telling. Need is a roar through my head, every instinct driving my body towards hers proof that we’d be good together. But I hold my ground—Grace needs to make up her mind. Embrace the situation. Declare her interest. Take that mental leap I can see holding her back.