“Hi Patrice, some joint,” Indie received his kiss kiss without the intimate hand clasp. He was older, maybe late forties, like Sasha liked them, but he was a stunningly well-built and handsome man, rugged, with a finger-tempting swish of blonde hair, tan and supremely at ease with himself. The hazel eyes dancing with delight at the presence of his amour only added to his charm.
“Busy tonight, do you have a table hidden somewhere for us?” Sasha said, coyly, knowing full well he had the best reserved for her.
He led them to a window table with candles and flowers on the white linen, laid with designer silverware and painted chargers. As soon as he'd pulled out each chair and settled them, a waiter was at the table bearing a tray with a pair of cocktails.
“Passion fruit margaritas,” Patrice said as he took the glasses from the silver tray and presented each with a flourish. “I will open the champagne immediately, Mademoiselle.”
“Thank you Patrice.” Sasha was positively on fire with the glow she was putting out. The whole room could tell in an instant what Indie had already guessed.
“Okay you, spill,” Indie said as soon as Patrice retreated to his duties as host. “What's going on between you and Olivier Martinez?”
“That's why we're here, I couldn't wait for you to meet him,” she whispered across the table. “Isn't he divine?”
“What's he doing calling you Mademoiselle? Does he know you're married?”
“Of course he knows. Everybody knows everything about everybody on the damn island. He's French, he doesn't care.”
“Tolar isn't French though. Does he care?”
“Fuck yes. He's got me tied to the house so tight now. He only let me out tonight 'cause he knows I have to keep an eye on you.”
“So I'm your cover story?”
Indie's eyes bulged at the stunning plates of hot crab positioned before them. The dinner was Michelin star amazing and the bill would be a fortune. She wasn't going to be able to keep up at this level for three months.
“Don't worry, Patrice won't charge us,” Sasha said, throwing back her cocktail and washing it down with champagne.
“I can't live off you and your lover for three months,” Indie hissed.
“Don't worry, I told you. Tolar won't even notice and anyways I need you here.”
“What for?”
“Back up.”
After dinner they moved to a pair of black leather stools at the long black glass bar and the music pumped up for late night dancing.
Sasha filled Indie in on how she'd fallen for Patrice when, bored out of her mind when Tolar was traveling, she sat at this very bar and ordered dinner three nights in a row and they got talking.
“One thing led to another thing then another and soon we were meeting almost every afternoon on his sailboat, away from the prying eyes. And I have to tell you it was the hottest freaking sex I have ever had in my life, the man is a maniac with his tongue. Come on let's dance.” The girlfriends had always enjoyed their reputation for dominating the dance floor with some girl action. They gave themselves over totally to the music and pumping out a sexual rhythm, twirling around each other with a few provocative moves that never failed to get onlooking guys stirring more than their martinis. A bunch of new arrivals flooded the floor and Indie found herself dancing with first one stubbled French hunk then another. Hmm, easy to see what Sasha meant when she said everything here was gorgeous.
After a good hour of loosening up her body at long last, Indie was parched and moved back to the seat at the bar. Sasha was nowhere to be seen so she downed a glass of water and then the chilled fresh champagne the bartender magicked in front of her.
“Slow down. No one's gonna steal it.” A way too smart, deep French voice said right beside her ear. The closeness of his cheek and whisper of breath made her neck tingle. Who the hell did he think he was? She turned on her seat to face the real Oliver Martinez, no not the real one, but the same wide Gallic jaw and melting dark eyes, strong nose, slick black hair on a base of broad shoulders in a tight tee shirt, sizzling white in the dark nightclub. her inner thighs quivered and he looked down at her legs, bare all the way to the mound. Jesus, I should have considered buying a less risque sliver of dress. I've got it all out on display like a vendor at the fruit market.
“I'm thirsty actually. I've been dancing.”
“Well let me quench your thirst,” he said, leaning one arm on the bar and his torso a little too close to her cleavage that was rising and falling a little too rapidly, even if she had been dancing up a typhoon for an hour.
“Oh, no thanks,” Indie said. “I have to go find my friend.” Before he could dissuade her, she picked up the last dregs in the flute and moved out on the floor. Slithering her way into the middle of the throng to dance slowly, eyes closed, holding the glass in one hand like a shield. Her heart was still pounding from the fucking stunning face that kept rising up in her vision. He was so damn sexy and so damn sure of it.
She was not in the mood for fending off lotharios who wanted to score models and then compete with them. Men who loved themselves for their physique were a major drag to be around. You had to be constantly buoying up their egoic sense of themselves and Indie was there to relax, not make some island stud feel hot. The men on the dance floor swam up to dance beside her for a while, moving on when they realized she wasn't returning their lascivious stares and attempts to brush rub her. That was fine. Attention was good for her sore heart, anything more was too much.
Sasha was still completely vanished, taking another tour of the upstairs apartment no doubt as Patrice was also nowhere to be seen.
Indie made her way back to the bathroom, feeling blindfold in the totally black glass room lit by tiny yellow sconces buried into the wall like a medieval dungeon. She fixed her lipstick and slithered the sheath dress down over the curve of her hips, trying to get a smidge more coverage. And was wiggling away, admiring how the dress made her body look MTV hot, when the black glass reflection behind her shivered as the stall door was thrown open and he came out. The gorgeous alpha did a double take and looked on fascinated at Indie's hands smoothing across her pelvic region.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Indie blurted, flaring red with embarrassment.
“Same as you, I guess. This is mans and woman’s washroom,” he said in that liquid gravel french accent. “We are not so uptights like Americans here.”
“Good for you.” Yeah great, bozo. Do you usually get you what you're after by insulting a girl? Actually I bet you do. He could probably get any girl he wanted. Her discomfort wasn't backing down, thanks to the barely covered mound between her thighs, sparking off with eager tension at the guy's sheer sexual magnetism. “Excuse me.” She walked past, careful not to brush against him as he set his bulk without moving aside for her and left him gazing into the black mirror, sure he'd be there for an hour.
Back at the bar, another full flute was placed before her.
“I will get that one, Sebbo.” There he was again, edging his way between the crowd at the bar to stand pressed up close beside her, leaning over her, trapped on the high stool.
“Don't bother,” she said. “My friend knows the owner.”
“That's okay.” He nodded his instruction at the bartender. “I know the owner too.” Not like she does, Indie thought. “Who's your friend?” Indie told him, sure he wouldn't know her.
“Ah yeah, the wife of that big German?”
“Er yes, do you know her?”
“I've seen her water-ski, she's good. So how long are you staying in Mauritius?”
“I arrived today and my return flight is in three months.” Fuck, I can hardly speak the way he's looking down at me, his mouth is barely inches from mine. The press of the crowd forced them closer and was making her so hot it was hard to draw a breath. The crush was making her heart pound, maybe she'd suddenly developed claustrophobia or something.
“That's a very long vacation,” he said. “Maybe we'll get to know each
other better.” In your dreams.
“So what do you do?” Indie asked, wriggling on the stool pretending to adjust her dress to get some distance from him. He gazed down hungry with admiration at the shift of her shapely legs.
“I, er, work in a hotel,” he replied, still staring at the naked thighs with a satisfied grin. Eyes up asshole.
“That must be interesting, meeting people, um, hard work?” Shit, she shouldn't have let him buy her drink. Hotel staff made almost no money. Her gorgeous hunk of busboy had just blown a day's wages for nothing.
“Hard work, yes, I don't know about interesting- people are always leaving. You didn't tell me your name yet.”
“No I didn't.” Indie gazed back into his plundering eyes, determined not to be swept off by the needy pulsing deep in her core. Yes, he was gorgeous and her heart was doing a tango in her chest from having him press just a little too close to her in the crush, but he was way too sure of himself and she was way too sore at men to feel like taking on a handful like- “You didn't tell me yours either.”
“You first.” Indie raised her eyebrows like; 'That's all you got?'
“Okay. Hi, Monsieur Mystery, I'm Indiana.” She reached her hand out for a formal introduction.
“Indie-Anna, like Polly-Anna?” He took her hand in both his large ones and the tango in her chest dipped a deep lunge.
“Yes, exactly like Pollyanna. Most people call me Indie, sometimes India, and can I have my hand back?” He had no idea how much she was about to be the Pollyanna.
“Sorry, I was getting comfortable holding on to it,” he said, dark eyes glistening. Uh-huh, way too sure of his power and that voice, the creamy French accent could read The Ten Commandments and make it sound dirty.
The press of people at the bar had thinned as the hour progressed around toward dawn. A hand touched her attentive new friend's ripped shoulder and he turned to engage in a rabble of furious conversation that her high school French was simply not up to. Jesusfreakingchrist was there a single person on this far-flung heaven that wasn't eye-popping delicious? The new arrival was a slightly smaller version of French candy, same taut muscles under tight tee only in a more compact package. Swept back light brown hair and exceptionally deep eyes of a color hovering around sea green. Indie had never seen two more divine hunks of man go at it and she was after all used to working with male models fairly regularly. Those primpers rarely engage in heated discussion or take the time to seduce a girl, they're too busy looking in the mirror. People outside the industry think it's a stereotype, but us girls joked about it all the time- there is something vastly unattractive about a man who can only love his reflection.
Indie swiveled around on the stool to watch the two talking fast and heated, not a fight, more a persuasion, a battle of wills to dominate. Conversation could be very interesting when you don't understand the words and have to listen through body language which they say is the strongest part of communication. This one was also sexy as hell as the muscles in two torsos rippled and flexed beneath tight tees in their own dispute.
When the discussion between the two combatants became more tempestuous and began to attract interest from the couples all around, ramping up their physical fascination in each other getting ready to take it somewhere more private, gorgeous one grabbed the other hunk's arm and led him out to the parking lot.
“Are you causing trouble already?” Sasha appeared from behind the bar as the gold metal front door slammed shut on the two fiery hunks. She was followed immediately by Patrice, who popped champagne for everyone left standing at the end of the night.
“Nothing to do with me, just minding my own business all by my lonesome.” A naughty picture of faux innocence stuck to her face.
“Sorry about that, it's the only chance I got to see him in over a week.”
“No worries, I've been amusing myself just fine, however I am ready to keel over of this stool.”
“I know, you must be completely knackered after that flight without happy pills. Come on let's go home.” As she kissed Patrice goodnight rather more lingering that was good for public performance, Indie felt a pang in her heart at not getting to say her own goodnight. The raven-haired Frenchie was over confident in the extreme but when he pressed just a little too close, something had ignited her senses all the way down to her peep-toes. Dang, get a grip why don't you? He is not goodnight material.
“You surely aren't going to drive,” Indie said as Sash strode across the lot to her car.
“Of course. Stop being such a goodie-girl, it's different here.” Reluctantly, with no option, Indie opened the passenger door just as a gleaming black truck swerved into the lot and screeched to a halt beside them. The door flew back on its heavy hinge as the heavenly hound from the bar swung his slim hips off the black leather seat. The dipping dance in Indie's heart flew into her throat as he halted in front of her, suddenly tongue-tied with nothing to say. Sasha stopped mid-way getting into the car.
“Hi, Damien. You okay?” she asked, confused at to what was happening between the two people in front of her staring stupidly at each other. Damien. Damn you Damien you are so fucking hot. He stood in front of Indie, eyes locked, struggling for words, a reason to be there.
“Hi, Sasha. Er, how are you?”
“I'm fi-ine.” She was looking back and forth between them, curious.
“Well, okay good night then.” Damn Damien, got back into his truck and started the engine with the door still open. Heart plopped back into gut, Indie turned to get into the car, wishing she could think of something, that her mind hadn't totally wiped out.
“Hey Sasha, how's the skiing?” Damien suddenly looked up from the wheel and called through the door.
“Bit out of practice since Tolar smashed up the boat.”
“Bad luck about that. Do you fancy going out tomorrow?”
“I, er, sure.” Sasha was really confused now, very unlike her normal stance.
“Great. Come over tomorrow about four.”
“To the hotel?”
“No, come to the house. And bring your friend.” With that instruction Damn floored the gas and wheeled the truck around before remembering to pull the door closed.
“Trust you,” Sasha said as she wheeled her own car around toward the deserted road. “First day here and you reel in the hottest guy on the island.”
“Him? He's hot I guess, but he works in a hotel.”
“He owns a hotel. Or twenty. And his father is the most powerful man in Mauritius. Oh, I can't wait-I've never been invited to his beach house. No one ever gets inside those hallowed portals.”
Chapter Five
Damien
Merde. What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm so pissy about that woman I can hardly think and I never get wound up about women. Women are good for one thing and I don't care if that sounds harsh, I can't help it, I just don't want them close to me. But that one, Polly-Anna, she got me so riled up in that slink of tiny dress covering that steaming body, I'm still fucking pissed. I should have pulled her back into the stall and got between those naked thighs because then I wouldn't have been imagining it the rest of the night. I was so angry about I don't even know what, I virtually shoved Laurent out of the cab when I dropped him off at his place. Fuck that too, what am I going to do about him living in that house? She's got me so tense my jaw is actually aching. There are a thousand women on the island, what's the big deal about this one.
She's just so- I dunno- real. She's as gorgeous as heaven on earth but she doesn't know it. I love how she says she's just a clothes horse, standing around all day having pins stuck in her, downplaying the New York model thing that most of them play up. Fuck it, that one I met on the beach last week doing a shoot for Vogue, what was her name, Camber, or something, could not stop looking at herself long enough to look at me. Even when I was fucking her, she was looking at herself over her shoulder in the reflection in the glass door to the terrace. Then she walked around the house like an auctioneer, pricing ev
erything up as though she was planning her divorce payout already. Fat chance little bitch. Great tits, tits you just wanna mound in your fist and grind, but the rest of her bored me stiff, not in a good way.
Polly is different alright, but there was something about her, something held back. She was hurting somewhere inside I know it. I got the delicate sense of a person wounded and moving tenderly through the world to keep themselves safe. And for once I loved that, it was so adorable. I didn't want to take it and crush it, just the opposite, I had the overwhelming and uncomfortable urge to put my arms around her and protect her from everything forever. I have never in my life looked forward to seeing a woman like I'm dying to see her tomorrow, at least not that I can remember.
So when Faustine tapped lightly on my door and whispered was I awake, I should have kept quiet, let her think I was asleep already. But I was too mad. Mad at everyone and everything without knowing why so I told her to come in, even though I knew what her game was. She sat down casual enough, although the bottle of tequila in her hand should have been a bit of a clue.
“How's it going?” I asked, casual as next Tuesday. “Liking the new job?” Fuck, I wished I hadn't brought that up. Right now, the last thing I wanted was for her to talk about her boss and be reminded of- that.
“It's great. I might be able to work full time by next month. Which would be awesome seeing as you and Laurent don't seem eager to get me on board with you. Oh, my boss says to say hi.” There it was, fuck it. I could have just let it roll over me, instead I took another massive slug from the tequila bottle and felt the amber liquid sear through my throat all the way down to my gut. It seemed to please Faustine no end, my discomfort and she slid out of the chair across from me to sit beside me on the bed.
“Stina, you're my cousin,” I told her.
“Second cousin,” she replied too fast, as though she had it planned. “It isn't illegal, we could even get married.”
“Yeah, I ain't the marrying kind.”
BILLIONAIRE Island: Idyllic Mischief Page 4