Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation Book 4)

by Samanthe Beck

  He laughed and put his lunch aside. “She didn’t have quite that much sway over me. I’ve worked with scores of actors over the years. Sports and entertainment clients made up most of my business for a long time. Some have been amazing, others frustrating. I do credit her with teaching me a valuable lesson about mixing my professional life with my personal life.”

  An impulse to argue his conclusion gripped her. Not your business. “So, if your experience with her didn’t put you off this industry, what did?”

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  Now she laughed. “Pfft. Of course not. Why would I take your utter lack of esteem for my chosen profession personally?”

  “Because it’s not directed at you, but it’s personal to me. About five years ago, at the request of a client who was involved with a charity for injured armed forces personnel, I took on a vet who had lost a leg in the line of duty. He’d struggled with weight since the injury, and had just been diagnosed with type-two diabetes. This guy wasn’t after washboard abs or a V-cut. He didn’t give a shit about looking good for the camera. He needed to get control of his blood sugar, and reclaim his health.

  “It wasn’t easy, but we did it, and working with him changed me as fundamentally as it changed him. His determination energized me, and reminded me I had the skills to help people make life-altering improvements. I could continue to use those skills to line my pockets even though I’d started to question the value of my work, or I could get a new goal in place and set about making changes of my own. Over the following years, I took on more clients with substantial health challenges. Training athletes and celebrities pays well—”

  “No kidding.” She still got a serious cramp in the vicinity of her wallet when she thought about the cost of this six-week boot camp.

  “The money allowed me to buy a facility, add staff, and concentrate on clients with serious weight management issues and all the accompanying complications. We don’t merely offer physical training. It’s everything—diet, habits, mindset—we help identify and tackle all the obstacles between the individual and their optimal health. We’re small, but we’re good, and we get results. Even so, it’s taken a lot of energy and focus to evolve the business to where it is today. I have a great team in place, and a comfortably full roster of clients. I’m finally at the point where I could consider stepping back for some personal time.”

  Well, damn. Now that she knew his situation, his arrogance started to seem more like the genuine frustration of a man caught between a need to recharge, and his vow to a friend. She didn’t really know what to say. “Just so you know, I didn’t ask Eddie to—”

  The waiting room door swung upon with a squeak, and then someone drew in an audible breath.

  “Holyyy Shiiittt. You’re Quinn Sheridan!”

  Chapter Six

  The outburst came from a guy, sixteen or seventeen if Luke had to guess, who stood in the doorway next to a woman who wore a facility ID around her neck.

  “Joshua, wait,” the woman admonished as the kid made a beeline for Quinn.

  Luke leaned forward in his chair and prepared to stand. Occasional bodyguard duty came with the territory, and currently, he was the only thing protecting Quinn from unwanted attention. But her hand landed on his forearm, signaling him back. She sent him a restraining look before turning a full-wattage smile on the kid. “Hi. Something tells me you’re a Pep Rally fan.”

  “Massive fan.” He nudged the nurse now standing beside him. “Camilla here can tell you. Me, and most of the other kids in my program, watch the show every week. We’re bummed this is the final season.”

  “Becky was a lot of fun to play. I’m glad you enjoyed the show.” She held out her hand to Camilla. “I’m Quinn.”

  The woman took her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m a patient escort for the wellness center. And this is Josh. I’m supposed to be keeping him in check…”

  Josh rolled his eyes at that, but Camilla sent him a grin before adding, “I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all.” Quinn patted the seat next to her. “Please, sit. This is my…friend, Luke.”

  He greeted them, and then sat back and listened as Josh told her how “righteously hot” she was, and how his friends were never going to believe he’d met her. She offered to take a picture with him, but he explained he’d had to surrender his electronics as part of his intake process—he was on Paradise Bay to complete a ninety-day rehab program. Quinn digested that without blinking, and told him she was there preparing for a role.

  “I know. You’re going to be Lena fucking Xavier! Me and my friends at home play Dirty Games all the time. We’ve like, hit the level cap. It’s our favorite.”

  “I hope we can do it justice on the big screen.”

  “You’re going to kick ass.” In the way of excited, hormonal teens everywhere, he peppered Quinn with questions. What was going to happen on the final season of Pep Rally? Was so-and-so going to end up with so-and-so? Did she ever date fans?

  She answered with easy humor, insisting she couldn’t tell him any Pep Rally spoilers or she’d have to kill him, and she hadn’t had time to date anyone lately.

  Luke silently reminded himself that last piece of information was none of his concern.

  Quinn also delicately asked a few questions of her own, and discovered Josh lived in Southern California, but had come to Paradise Bay for rehab. Second attempt. The first effort, back home, hadn’t stuck. She didn’t follow him too far down that hole. Instead, she simply asked him how he was feeling, and offered congratulations when he proudly announced he’d earned his sixty-day chip.

  Most people encountering a kid Josh’s age asked about future plans—college, career—stuff like that, but Quinn didn’t. Instincts, or maybe some personal experience, told her he had enough on his plate just getting through the next month. She kept things in the moment, focusing on the island. Had he been to the beach? Snorkeled?

  The sensitivity with which she handled Josh’s situation, his adulation—all of it—wasn’t cautious or awkward, and Luke couldn’t help but admire the seemingly genuine, and relentlessly positive way she interacted with a young fan at such a complicated place in his life. Respect did have to be earned, but she was earning some of his with this encounter. When a nurse appeared at the door and announced the doctor was ready to review her MRI results, Quinn handed Josh a card she slipped out of a pocket on her phone sleeve.

  “This is my agent’s number. When you get back to Cali, call him, and he’ll arrange for you to visit the Dirty Games set. Bring your ninety-day chip with you, because I want to see it. We’ll get pictures then, okay?”

  Josh was stoked, to say the least. He took the card, and a hug. As Quinn followed the nurse through the door and down the hall to the doctor’s office, Luke whispered, “You just gave that kid the best incentive any therapist could offer to get him to complete his program.”

  Quinn’s answering smile was startlingly bittersweet. “While it would be nice to think I could be so effective with nothing more than my good intentions, I know that’s not the case. The biggest key to Josh’s recovery is Josh. We’ll see.” She shrugged, but it fell short of noncommittal. “I am rooting for him.”

  Yeah, there was definitely more to dig into here. She’d been touched by addiction. Maybe a friend, or a family member, or…maybe her? His gut tightened at the thought. They’d delve into the topic later, when they had privacy. For now, he followed her into the orthopedist’s office and leaned against the windowsill while the congenial, middle-aged man confirmed her MCL, and knee as a whole, looked good. He recommended using a brace if she felt like she needed lateral support, and mentioned that the pharmacy carried a wide selection if she didn’t already have one.

  Luke aimed a questioning look at her. She frowned and shook her head. “I used one during the initial phase of PT, but I didn’t bring it with me. I haven’t needed it in weeks.”

  “Looks like we’ll be stopping at the pharmacy.”


  “I don’t need a brace,” she said under her breath as they left the medical office.

  “You don’t need to reinjure your knee.” He held the door to the pharmacy and ushered her inside.

  After explaining to the clerk what they were looking for, she showed them to the sports brace section, and invited Quinn to try on any that interested her. Then she retreated to assist another customer. Luke pointed to one of the two chairs the shop had placed in the section. “Sit.”

  “I’m not a German shepherd,” she huffed, but sat anyway. He scanned the options, looking for something simple and streamlined, and selected three possibilities.

  “I like that one,” she said as he knelt in front of her and placed the choices on the chair beside her. Picking it up, she inspected it more closely. “It’s much smaller than the one I had.”

  He took it out of her hands and unfastened the straps. “We’re going down a level from what you probably used. You don’t need the same degree of support anymore.”

  “I don’t need any support. Hey—” She stiffened as he pushed the leg of her sweatpants up to midthigh. “What are you doing?”

  “Putting it on. I want to see how it fits, and I want you to move and tell me how it feels.” As he spoke, he slipped the brace around her knee and secured the lower Velcro strap. Tight. Unwanted images infiltrated his mind. Quinn, sprawled across his bed, with her wrists strapped to his headboard, and her ankles tethered to his bedposts. A quick inhale brought his head up in time to see awareness flicker in her eyes.

  He secured the top strap, and tugged the brace a little to test its give. “Are you comfortable?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes. Um. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a little snug?”

  “We’re after a secure bind. Secure, but I don’t want you to feel overly restrained.” He forced himself to blink, break the trance they’d both slipped into. The effort wasn’t entirely successful, especially when she replied, “I think I can handle this level of restraint.”

  He traced the top seam of the brace around to the delicate skin at the inside of her thigh. “I’m going to ask you to stand and do a few exercises in a moment. Concentrate on how it feels here, because this area is vulnerable to chafing.”

  “Oh.” Her breath left her lungs in a little gust that ruffled the hair at his temple, and her back sagged into the chair. “Is it?”

  He looked up into slumberous blue eyes. Without really meaning to, he pressed his thumb into the soft flesh. A deep muscle quivered and released. Every part of his body tightened. “It can be. I want to address your specific needs, but not with something too punishing.”

  Her hand drifted down her thigh, fingertips stopping just short of where his rested. “That’s right. You don’t believe in punishment.”

  “I never said that.”

  Her lashes snapped up, and her eyes locked on his. “You said…consequences.”

  “I merely drew a distinction between punishment and consequence. If I were to punish you, Trouble, it would be a very deliberate, very unmistakable thing. There would be absolutely no question in your mind about what was happening to you, or why. It would not be a careless act, and while you might experience certain aftereffects”—he rubbed his thumb along her skin, right above the brace—“I guarantee you an abrasion wouldn’t be one of them.”

  She slid forward in the chair, and he lowered his head a notch. Maybe she wouldn’t notice he was fantasizing about burying his face between her legs?

  It took her two quick inhales to catch her breath. “I’m tougher than I look. Nobody who knows me thinks I’m fragile.”

  Jesus, he had to get ahold of himself. He shook his head to clear it at as much as to refute her statement. “Parts of you are.” He cupped the back of her knee and honed in on the question she’d skirted with him, and the doctor. She’d characterized her injury, been detailed about the type and degree of the sprain, but she hadn’t disclosed the cause. His instincts nagged at him to ask. He looked into her beautifully unguarded face. “How’d it happen, Quinn?”

  Something shuttered behind her eyes. She looked away. “I fell.”

  “An MCL sprain is a contact injury. I see it with football players, soccer players. Clients involved in tackle sports.” He took her chin and turned her face back to his. “Did somebody take you down?”

  She was already shaking her head when she opened her mouth. “I—”

  “Remember rule number one,” he interjected. “Don’t lie to me.”

  Wrong tactic. Her chin went up, along with all her defenses. “I’m not. Look, Luke, you already know everything you need to know about my knee. You’re not my insurance company. I don’t owe you an accident report.”

  So much for instincts. He had to pick his battles with Quinn, and the truth was, he didn’t want to draw a line in the sand over this. Not yet, anyway. He got to his feet and walked to the display wall, leaving an open area between them. “Sounds like we’re done talking, then. Let’s put this brace to the test.” He pointed to the space. “Come over here and give me ten four-count burpees.”

  If looks could kill, he’d be getting sized for a body bag right now. But despite her mutinous expression, she stood, walked to the center of the floor, and prepared to do as he asked.

  “Oh, and Quinn?”

  She expelled a loud breath and turned to shoot lasers at him with those baby blues. “What?”

  “I’m tougher than I look, too.”

  …

  “I’m thinking the fact that you answered my call means you’re not still mad at me, eh, Quinnie?”

  Quinn heard a note of contrition beneath her brother’s forcefully upbeat question and warned herself not to drop her guard completely. Drugs or no, Callum was an excellent actor. “I’m not mad at you.”

  “Even though I trashed your life?”

  Although she stood alone in the kitchen of her villa, the instinct to take precautions against anyone overhearing anything about her brother’s situation kicked in. Maybe, as twins, they felt extra protective of each other, or maybe watching him grow up in the spotlight had done it, but guarding his privacy came as naturally as guarding her own. She used the towel draped over her shoulder to wipe sweat from a relentless morning of cardio off her face, and then switched the call from speaker and brought her phone to her ear. “You didn’t trash my life.” Aspects of it were a little worse for wear, but nothing she couldn’t repair. Hopefully. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay.” A self-deprecating laugh flowed over the line. “Rehab sucks, even in this country club you’ve sprung for, but I’m feeling better. More stable. Much more in control.”

  “Good to know.” She hated the caution in her response, but dealing with Callum the last several months had trained her to be wary. The days when there had been no need for careful words and safe topics seemed like another lifetime. She missed hanging out on set with him when they were little, plotting escapes from stern, old Mrs. Frick, their tutor, in between taping his scenes as the precocious, what-will-pop-out-of-his-mouth-next kid in the family-oriented sitcom that had put him on the map. Hearing old Eminem songs could bring tears to her eyes, remembering how they’d filled downtime making their mom film “videos” of them rapping and dancing to “Slim Shady” or “Lose Yourself.” When she’d get depressed about a botched audition or a lost role, he’d talk like Yoda or Forrest Gump just to make her laugh.

  “What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy to talk to me? Shit. You are mad, aren’t you?”

  “No. I just…I didn’t expect to hear from you.” She opened the fridge and looked for today’s lunch box from the resort. Luke preordered all her meals, snacks, and drinks, so they’d be ready and waiting for her at the proper times. Five days into her training, she already knew a meal break was nothing to squander. Her stomach growled in protest at the empty shelves. Dang. They hadn’t delivered her lunch yet. She’d have to call the concierge when she finished talking to her brother. “You were pretty resistant to g
oing to Foundations. I thought you might be mad at me.”

  “I’m not. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep myself together, Quinn. Really sorry.” Then, because maybe the moment felt too heavy for him, he pitched his voice into an impersonation of Yoda and added, “Miss you, I do.”

  It still made her smile. “I miss you, too.” On this point, at least, she could be completely honest. She missed her brother—the talented, active, mischievous brother she remembered growing up with. Not the untrustworthy, manipulative stranger coke had turned him into. She definitely didn’t miss dividing her time between her professional commitments and trying to keep tabs on him.

  “That’s actually part of the reason I called, besides to hear your voice. I wanted to invite you to come visit.”

  Her heart clutched a little. She leaned against the kitchen counter and noted a new goody basket on the island. Luke had cancelled this little hospitality, but either today was an exception or somebody new in housekeeping hadn’t gotten the memo. “I will, soon, Callum. I promise.”

  “I’ll be here all week,” he quipped.

  “I know. But it’s going to be more like next month.”

  “Seriously? I mean, I know you’re busy. I’m just…I’m fucking lonely, you know? You and me, we go way back.”

  It was an old joke, but she felt her lips lift anyway. “And we’ll go way forward, too, but I can’t get there right now.”

  “Are you on location for something?” His curiosity sounded a little forced. Their career trajectories were a sensitive issue. Because she wasn’t on location, but rather facing down a setback of her own, she decided to level with him.

  “Not exactly. I’m in my own form of rehab. Eddie sent me to fat camp at Paradise Bay for six weeks.”

  “No shit?”

  “None whatsoever. I went into couch potato mode the last couple months.” Callum didn’t need to know why. He had no clue he’d sprained her knee when he’d accidentally tumbled them both to the sidewalk outside the treatment center. “The Dirty Games shooting schedule moved up, and now I’m under the gun to get in shape.”