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Accidentally Beautiful
Copyright © 2012 by Deanna Wadsworth
ISBN: 978-1-61333-239-9
Cover art by Angela Anderson
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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Also by Deanna Wadsworth
Red Riding Hood
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
The Frog Prince
Ms. Claus’s List
Pip’s Boxing Day Wish
Secret Santa
Bear it All
A 1Night Stand Story
Accidentally Beautiful
A 1Night Stand Story
Deanna Wadsworth
~DEDICATION~
To all of those in my life who listen to my whining and mindless chatter about everything that is the writing biz (even when I keep talking after your eyes glaze over), the ones who call me out when I'm procrastinating, and to the folks who love me enough to love this crazy stuff I write. Thank you!!
Chapter One
“Go to the beach, get some sand in your toes, and have too many beers.” Jagger Castillo leaned in to add, “Then find some hot guy to tie you up and screw you senseless.”
“Sir!” Martin Baird cast an embarrassed glance around the hotel lobby. Since his fair, Scottish skin blushed as easily as a schoolgirl anytime he experienced anger, embarrassment, or arousal, he had to be a shade of red not yet invented.
The hotel manager laughed. “The island has a way of knowing just what you need, so try to relax and let it take you wherever it will.”
Why in blazes did everyone keep telling him to relax? He was the picture of laid-back Caribbean style in linen trousers and a pale yellow Tommy Bahamas silk shirt. He didn’t even have on a tie!
Jagger’s face brightened, and his gaze moved up.
“Daniel’s behind me, isn’t he, sir?” Martin asked.
His boss grinned.
When Martin turned, he came face-to-face with a humongous chest. “Hello, Daniel.”
The soft-spoken activities director nodded in greeting. “Hello, Martin. I hear you’re leaving soon.”
Jagger stepped toward his partner, heat and love altering his expression. “Not right away. He’s vacationing before he returns to Canada.”
“I don’t know how you can live somewhere so cold.” Daniel gave a dramatic shiver.
“Ya warm-blooded southerners,” Martin teased, allowing a bit of his lilt to escape.
The others chuckled.
Martin hadn’t expected his temporary boss to be gay, much less in a domestic partnership, but the three men had developed an ease. Per the usual when discovering a new acquaintance was gay, Martin had breathed easier, realizing he’d be among “family” on this assignment.
As a rule, he kept his sexual orientation hidden from his coworkers, though they doubtless made assumptions. He wasn’t butch, but that didn’t mean he had to announce himself by wearing rainbow shirts and marching naked in parades like those vulgar Americans in San Francisco.
“Our special guests have been taken to the airport,” Daniel reported.
“One limo?” Jagger asked and Daniel nodded.
“Naturally,” Martin said, and they all exchanged knowing smiles.
Who knew seven years ago, when he’d become a head concierge for Castillo Resorts—working his way up from front desk—Martin would become responsible for their highest-priority customer, Madame Eve? Her 1Night Stand service specialized in fantasy encounters, and he had been hand-picked to arrange exotic rooms, romantic cottages, and gourmet dinners for her clients per her detailed instructions. Since the Banff property in the Canadian Rockies saw very few of these guests during the winter, he’d been assisting in Grand Turk for a whole month.
His grin widened with pride. He loved his job.
Though he’d never met her, Martin had always suspected Madame Eve knew a little more than she should about things. Never once had he seen a disappointed couple. He imagined they all must be soul mates and Madame Eve a supernatural matchmaker. Absurd, really. She basically ran a high-end service for rich people who wanted no-strings-attached sex.
Lucky bastards.
Jagger fished a slip of paper from his pocket. “I know you’re supposed to be on vacation, but I have to ask a favor….”
“Anything, sir.”
“We’ve created new drinks for the menus. Would you mind ordering some at the lounges while you relax? On the house.”
Martin laughed. “Not much of a favor, sir. I’m Scottish, remember?”
“You have no accent,” Daniel observed.
“Far too distracting. It’s about the guests, not me. If I were ever sent to work at the Scottish property, I would.”
Not exactly the truth.
The attention his accent garnered made him uncomfortable. People, especially American women, made such a deal about it. Wearing a kilt in public? That would bloody never happen, either. Flaunting his heritage reminded him of his less-than-perfect childhood, something he preferred to forget.
If Mother hadn’t died when he was eleven, things might’ve been different. While Da had never been cruel, Martin couldn’t forget the insurmountable distance in those pats on the back when he’d failed—yet again—at some sport Da had signed him up for. Nor could he erase the envy in Da’s face when his childhood best mate won another rugby match. Ian McCallum had been the big, muscular, straight man every father could be proud of.
“I’d appreciate it.” Jagger held out a list.
“No bother at all, sir.”
The couple shared a look then Jagger added, “I hope you find what you’re searching for this evening.”
The serious tone gave Martin pause. “Um…thank you, sir.”
His boss studied him for an uncomfortable moment then flashed a grin and made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Now go. Enjoy the island.”
Martin had to force himself not to follow the two men as they strolled away. A wash of unease hit him at the prospect of spending a week alone in a tropical paradise. What had he been thinking, staying on for a holiday? Taking a deep breath, he tried to find his center.
Buck up, old chap, you can do this.
Though he liked to present himself as a man in control, he had to stop letting his dependency upon others rule him. After all, he held a prestigious position at a renowned resort chain, traveling around the world for Castillo Resorts and caring for special customers like the ones Madame Eve sent their way. In reality, this job suited him because it involved doing the two things he did better than anything else. Following orders and waiting on people.
Pathetic, perhaps, but there it was.
When he flexed his fingers, Jagger’s cocktail list crackled in his hand. A great weight
lifted from his chest, and Martin realized he hadn’t been left to his own devices after all. Relieved now that he knew where he needed to go, and what he needed to do, he donned his sunglasses and headed outside to one of the resort’s more popular bars.
Glad he’d opted to dress casual today—Sperry deck shoes would fare sooo much better at the beachside cabana than his usual wingtip Oxfords—he followed the sand-dusted wooden path. The tropical sun warmed his skin, making him wish he’d worn short trousers. His blood had thinned so much down here, once he returned home he’d have to wear his heaviest pullovers.
A vaguely familiar steel-drum tune danced in the air around the Tiki structure. Strings of colorful lights hung from the thatched roof along with tin signs advertising different beers and that it was five o’clock somewhere. Martin did a quick count of barstools—seven. He would have to suggest Jagger add an eighth so there would always be a set of two in the mix for a couple. Straight men always left a vacant seat beside them.
The deep rumble of laughter drew him toward the side of the bar where a guest chatted like an old friend with the Latino bartender, Carlos.
Over a pint, sudden friendship springs. Whether in America, the Caribbean, or back home, the old adage always proved true.
While he’d enjoy nothing better than joining them, he kept his head down in the way of straight men, indifferent, no eye contact, and took the empty stool two seats over.
“I’ll find you some new beers to try tomorrow,” Carlos said.
“Or I’ll have to switch to Scotch,” the guest joked.
That caught Martin’s attention, and he glanced over at the man. Sandals, worn, but well-fitted jeans, and a snug, white T-shirt—the deep V-neck revealing a perfect amount of chest hair. Approximately Martin’s height, five-tenish, but with a more solid build, his short-brimmed cap in army-green covered shaggy, dark curls. With his thick-rimmed glasses, he looked smart rather than sloppy. As if he didn’t have time to spend on frivolous things like trimming his week’s growth of beard or getting a haircut. While Martin prided himself on his fastidious personal grooming, the Bahamian style this chap sported had serious sex appeal.
Chuckling, the bartender left to tend to his other patrons, and the attractive guest fixed his attention on the bottle in his hand, peeling off the gold label in one piece. Martin watched him work, his strong, masculine fingers performing the delicate task with ease. The beer was Medalla Light, a Puerto Rican brew he’d sampled more than once with Jagger and Daniel. The man set the torn-off label beside several others and Martin wondered what he planned to do with them. It was anybody’s guess. Tourists did such queer things.
The sexy stranger lifted his head, piercing, green eyes peering out from his glasses and warming Martin all over. He jerked his face away, cursing his fair complexion as it flushed. What was the matter with him, ogling hotel guests?
Playing it cool, he nodded toward the stranger’s beer and retrieved Jagger’s list. “Good beer.”
“Yeah, it’s decent.” He spoke in a sultry, confident American accent. “Decent color and body. A bit sweet, if you like that sort of thing.”
So he knew his beer. Riiiight…. Definitely straight.
Tamping down his disappointment, Martin said, “You should try Prestige. It’s sweeter, almost herbal.”
The man picked up the red-and-blue label of the Haitian beer Martin had suggested. “Too much corn, though.”
He sniffed in agreement. “Right.”
A chat with a nice fellow, gay or not, would be a pleasant way to pass the time. One of the best things about Scotland had always been its friendly neighborhood pubs. Anytime he indulged in drink and conversation at a local watering hole during his travels, it reminded him of home. A longing to visit the Ormelie back in the ’burbs of Edinburgh filled him, although he hadn’t been there in ten years.
Hell, he hadn’t been home in ten years.
“Hello, Mr. Baird.” Carlos’s greeting snapped Martin out of the vast, sweeping hills of his homeland and back to the Caribbean.
He must be lonely if thinking about Scotland made him sentimental.
“I am officially on holiday. Please, call me Martin.”
“You got it.” Carlos winked and smiled. If Martin didn’t already know they “played for the same team,” the bartender’s mannerisms would’ve given him away. “What can I get for you, Mr. Baird?”
He contemplated saying, “Mr. Baird is my father,” but he’d never been very good at flirting. While Carlos was very attractive—toned, Latin, and lovely—it was inappropriate for management to flirt with those beneath them. And if he had to conjecture, Carlos preferred to be the one beneath his men, not the other way around, which wouldn’t suit Martin’s tastes at all. The one time he’d fooled around with another bottom, they’d just stuck fingers up each other’s arses then wanked.
Not exactly the most memorable shag.
Carlos cleared his throat and Martin’s cheeks warmed, as if his thoughts were being played out on a screen across his forehead for all to see.
Order a bloody drink and quit daydreaming about sex!
Ever since Jagger had mentioned getting tied up and screwed senseless, Martin had been able to think of little else. Scanning the list, he selected a random drink. “I’ll have a Rosin Bag Martini.”
The beer drinker gave an amused chortle.
Having never heard of the beverage, he realized it sounded somewhat illicit with the word “bag”—and most definitely a “poof” drink. He tried to share the other fellow’s amusement. “Who comes up with the names for these drinks, right? They all sound so absurd. Sex on the Beach or a Sloe Comfortable Screw.”
The sexy man in glasses spun in his stool to face him, a big grin cutting through his face and bright green eyes sparkling.
Shut up, Martin. Shut your bloody, fucking mouth.
But like a fool, he kept talking. “I’ve heard people order Leg Spreaders and Blow Jobs. Even Buttery Nipples. Honestly,” he let out an awkward laugh, “a Rosin Bag Martini? What is that, anyway? Sounds positively filthy, right?”
“The drink’s named after a cloth bag of powdered rosin that baseball pitchers and bowlers use to increase grip,” the American explained, still smiling.
“Oh, right,” Martin muttered, face now in flames.
“Not sure if I know how to make that, Mr. Baird,” Carlos interjected.
Helpless, Martin examined the list again, though there were no recipes or descriptions to rescue him. “Well, I….”
“It’s whipped cream vodka and a splash of cream, shaken and served straight-up with a cherry.”
Martin stared at the American, stunned. Did he work here? Or was he having a go at him? “How do you know that?”
The man winked and if possible, he looked even more gorgeous. “I invented it.”
Chapter Two
Garret Fischer had been told his one-night stand would show up today, but he hadn’t expected him to be so goddamn adorable.
The man—not too tall and a little on the skinny side—had dressed way too uptight for the cabana, however, and he wore a Castillo Resort nametag, which seemed odd for his prearranged date. Garret longed to mess up his perfect, dirty-blond hair with its tips lightened by the sun then rip off his fitted tropical shirt and well-tailored chinos to see if the dusting of freckles on his face and arms went all over.
Fuck. Garret had always had a thing for freckles.
Having spent years perfecting his gaydar in the Motor City, home of blue-collar rednecks and city white-trash conservatives, Garret could always pick out a gay man when one wandered into his family’s sports bar, The Fourth Base. Pegging Martin Baird had been like shooting fish in a barrel.
Garret had refused to rescue him from his inadvertent, yet endearing, rambling of dirty cocktail names, since they mirrored everything he planned to do to him once he got him alone.
Martin’s demeanor shifted to serious—the one crack in his confident façade a nervous twitch of his h
and against his thigh. Something only a Dom would recognize as significant.
“Do you work here?” Martin asked.
“Nope.”
In his mind, Garret began to change their plans, the romantic candlelit dinner at his beach house, the strawberries and champagne—all off the agenda. This guy needed to loosen up, get outside of his box as bad as Garret needed to get into Martin’s box.
Oh, the night was going to be amazing. His blood warmed with arousal just thinking about it.
“How is it you know our drink recipe when it isn’t even on the menu yet?” No haughtiness occupied Martin’s tone, not a stitch of rudeness, either. While that direct stare might quell an underling, Garret was an “out” gay man who ran a sports bar that served team members of the Detroit Tigers and Lions.
He didn’t intimidate easily.
“Like I said, I invented it,” he answered, guessing Martin required elaboration, but preferring to let him sweat.
In his wildest dreams, Garret hadn’t expected the 1Night Stand service to know him so well. When his buddy John brought home his twinky partner Travis from this very hotel, he’d explained Madame Eve had known what he had wanted even before he did. So Garret had omitted his penchant for dominance as a test to this mysterious woman.
Somehow, she’d known anyway.
“Would you still like the drink, Mr. Baird?” Carlos waited patiently for his answer.
But Martin didn’t reply or even look at the man. Instead, he kept staring at Garret. Enjoying the warmth in the brown depths of his eyes, Garret willed him not to turn away. The longer they stared at one another, the more he could see Martin’s walls melting—a brick of chocolate in a warm pan, losing shape and spreading to reveal the submissive underneath.
Did Martin even know?
“Well?” Garret prompted, adding enough sexual heat to his tone to melt the last bit Martin’s control. “Do you want the drink or not, Marty?”
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