by Anne Marsh
Maybe Fantasy Island had a gift shop.
The woman had ink-black hair and an ear full of piercings that must have given the TSA fits. She’d paired the metal-head look with jeans, a ripped concert T-shirt from a band Laney had never heard of and a pair of military-issue combat boots. An audible, fist-pumping beat issued from her earbuds. Laney, on the other hand, sported her usual yoga wear from Target in practical black. Dark colors didn’t show the blood, and since as a trauma surgeon, she tended to get called in whenever she wasn’t actually already at the hospital, there was no point in not being comfortable or racking up a dry cleaning bill. In fact, now that she thought about it, her yoga pants were just about the only thing she owned that weren’t hospital-blue or wedding-white.
Right. So not going there.
Champagne dripped onto the carpet as her new seatmate brandished a trio of flutes. Amusement sparkled in her eyes as she popped the earbuds out.
“Want some?”
Ten o’clock in the morning, Laney’s brain volunteered. Wouldn’t be prudent. Sure, partaking would be fun, but the careful habits of a lifetime were awfully hard to break.
Her hostess jiggled the bottle. “It’s free.”
Nothing was free. As Laney’s credit card company had called to remind her yesterday.
“You look as if you could use a drink.” Goth Princess leaned forward, revealing that she’d skipped a bra that morning. When she reached over to offer a flute to the third woman in the cabin, she followed the boob shoot with a flash of neon-green thong, which was way more than Laney needed to know about the woman’s preferences in the underwear department.
“I’m good,” she said.
Which was part of the problem, wasn’t it?
When Laney didn’t take the flute, the other woman curled up in her seat and grinned. “Two for me. Yay.”
“If we’re experiencing turbulence, you should probably buckle up.” PSA...achieved.
Goth Princess shrugged and knocked back half the flute. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Laney knew exactly what could happen. “Fractures, head trauma, a snapped spine—all are likely outcomes of a hard-impact crash landing. If we hit something besides water, add road rash and possible burns to the list.”
“Wow.” Goth Princess nodded but didn’t lose her death grip on the bottle. Instead, she propped the buckle against her stomach, ramming the clasp in with her elbow. “Good points.”
Message received. Safety and champagne were an option. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind...”
Reaching over, Laney snagged the second flute. She was probably performing a second public service because she had no doubts whatsoever that Goth Princess would drink both. And, since the other woman clearly weighed some minuscule, waifish amount—unlike Laney—she’d be drunk before the seaplane ever landed. Or crashed. Whichever came first. Laney swallowed a sip of champagne reflexively. She should have been a married woman by now, but her fiancé had kicked the week off by cheating on her. On day two, she’d negotiated with the wedding venues—and been forcibly reminded of the meaning of nonrefundable deposit. On day three, her credit card company had called to not-so-gently remind her that they appreciated prompt payments, and her upcoming vacation to Fantasy Island had overextended her credit limit. Day four? No more job.
Not working double shifts in the trauma bay should have allowed her to finally catch up on her sleep, but her head wouldn’t stop running options to address days one, two and three. She hadn’t even processed the unfairness of being the one who had to give up her job because her fiancé had been caught having sex at work with another woman—and her continued presence at the hospital would make him feel uncomfortable—because that needed to happen on a beach while clutching a Mai Tai. Plus, since even God had rested on the seventh day, she was really hoping today would go better.
“So.” The cabin’s only other occupant leaned around her seat to take them both in. Laney had no idea where the redhead had found a pink suit, but instead of screaming board of trustees or clash worthy of a circus clown, the cinched-in jacket with a ruffle promised fun and sassy. Or maybe that was the spray of freckles covering the woman’s nose. “Spill. What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my honeymoon.”
She swigged more champagne. Huh. Somehow, she’d reached the bottom of the glass, which didn’t even have the decency to be half-full. Goth Princess leaned forward and obligingly topped her off, temporarily fixing the problem.
Pink Suit blinked and eyeballed the cabin. The three of them were the only passengers. “Lose someone?”
That was one way to put it.
“He decided getting married wasn’t in his plans. Since our tickets to Fantasy Island were nonrefundable and he preceded his antimarriage announcement in front of the entire surgical unit with cheating on me, here I am. Laney Parker, MD. Unemployed, newly single and extremely broke.”
The movers had taken her pitifully few boxes from his condo straight to storage. She’d deal with permanent relocation when she got back.
“That’s harsh.” Goth Princess stuck her free hand out. “I’m Ashley Dixon. I won a free ticket. Sorry.”
Laney shook the woman’s hand, the plane promptly lurched and champagne went everywhere. Hell. Wiping her palm on the superexpensive leather seats was probably a social faux pas, but it was that or her twelve-dollar yoga pants. Ashley licked her champagne-covered fingers. “Even better than spitting and swearing to be blood sisters.”
“Gross.” Pink Suit extended her own hand, displaying a really pretty French manicure, but no rings. “Madeline Holmes. I write a wedding blog.”
Free ticket. Gainfully employed. Yep. Laney had definitely drawn the short straw.
“I need snacks.” The champagne suddenly hit her empty stomach like a Mack truck barreling into a freeway retaining wall, the results of which she’d seen firsthand last week and which were decidedly unpleasant. She unbuckled and stood up. Never mind the possibility of blunt trauma injuries in the immediate future—she needed something salty. Now. Madeline grinned. “What happened to snapped spines and bashed-in heads?”
“I’m hungry. And really bad turbulence would bounce you hard enough in your seat to fracture your spine, anyhow. Or you’d slam your head back into the headrest.”
Ashley blinked. “Wow. Thanks for the visual.”
“You try working six days a week in a trauma bay in San Francisco.” She’d stopped sugarcoating approximately three hours into her first day on the job. She walked down the narrow aisle toward what looked like a small galley. Beneath the elegant granite counter was a stainless-steel fridge. She yanked open the door, leaving behind a sticky smear of champagne, and hit the mother lode. The seaplane folks had stashed an entire tray of chocolate-covered strawberries inside the fridge. Something salty would have been better, but who could pass up chocolate fruit? Plus, maybe if she ate her weight in treats, she’d feel better about the credit card bill.
“What kind of doctor?” Madeline asked at the same moment that Ashley yelled “Share!”
“Trauma surgeon.” Gunshot wounds, stabbings, freeway car pile-ups...she had seen plenty of action.
Her cases were unlike the small regional hospital in the Midwest where her mother worked, or the slightly larger, but not much busier hospital in Stockton, California, that had an unexpected need for a good ER surgeon. Of course, her mother had also come through for her, and she appreciated the offer letter tucked in the bottom of her bag. Really. All she had to do was sign on the dotted line and she’d be gainfully employed again. In the middle of nowhere.
She could sign after her honeymoon. Vacation. Whatever.
Right now her token gesture to playing it safe was to return to her seat and buckle up. “Well, Madeline and Ashley, what brings you out to Fantasy Island?”
Madeline had the grace to look apologetic as she reached forward and snatched a strawberry from the tray Laney held. “Just me, myself and I. No guy in sight for me,
but since I blog about honeymoons, here I am. From what I’ve heard, the brochures don’t begin to do this place justice.”
Madeline toasted her with the flute, and then they both turned and stared at Ashley, who stared back and actually blushed. Laney got the feeling that was a red-letter day.
“Okay,” Ashley groused. “I’m flying solo, too. I won a vacation for two and there’s no boyfriend, fiancé or husband on my horizon.”
Madeline lifted her glass solemnly. “Your secret’s safe with me. That’s more than I’ve got. Guys look at me and assume I’m holding out for a white picket fence and a ten-carat diamond. Just once, I’d like to have hot, kinky sex. Not every guy has to be a keeper.”
The pilot came on the intercom to announce their imminent arrival. Seconds later the plane banked, and a small island swung into view on the right side. The first thing Laney noticed was the impossible quantity of palm trees—surrounding an impossibly teeny-tiny runway. The ocean flashed outside her window, a light aqua blue dotted with the darker shadows of coral reefs. So far, Fantasy Island was even prettier than its pictures. Laney couldn’t wait to see her private villa and check out the two-plus miles of white sand beach.
Madeline leaned forward. “Do you think it’s true, what they say about the cocktail menu?” She laughed at the look on Laney’s face. “That it’s not really a drinks selection. It’s a list of fantasies. Point and pick. That’s all you have to do.”
“They can do that?” According to the sleek marketing brochure Laney had read, Fantasy Island advertised itself as a small slice of paradise in the Caribbean Sea—and the perfect place for a honeymoon or a destination wedding. Renowned for barefoot luxury and discreet hedonism, the staff’s mantra was “Pure decadent pleasure.” Any wish. Any desire. If she’d read between the lines correctly, no sensual fantasy or pleasure was off-limits for the well-trained staff that catered to guests’ needs. At the time, that had seemed fairly adventurous, but she’d been thinking in terms of beach massages and sex on the sand with her new husband.
Apparently, she needed to broaden her horizons. Live a little. Blah blah blah.
It was some consolation that Ashley looked as shocked as Laney felt. Or not. Because, as the seaplane started a rapid dip and glide toward the island, the other woman grinned, and there was no mistaking the look of glee on her face. “This is going to be awesome.”
Laney double-checked her seat belt and wondered, not for the first time, why Harlan had picked this particular locale for their honeymoon. He’d been a grade-A asshole, but maybe the man hadn’t been as clueless about their bedroom fun times as she’d believed. Maybe he’d had fantasies and she’d not been enough. Well, screw that. This time the only fantasies that mattered were her own.
2
ON A GOOD DAY, Laney saved at least five lives by noon. Her numbers dipped during the slower weeks, because not all days were a constant rush-rush of heart attacks, gunshot wounds and four-car freeway pileups. San Francisco traffic made the Autobahn look tame, and the off-ramps at Balboa Park alone had ambulances pulling into the bay on a semimonthly basis. Instead of scrubbing in, arms up as she hip-checked her way through the surgery door, however, now she was...naked.
Absolutely butt-naked and stretched out, waiting for a man to come and run his hands over her body.
Usually, naked was cause for celebration, except for the inescapable fact that she was all alone in a cabana with the same grade-A ocean views that had greeted her plane yesterday. Her surroundings included miles of powdery white sand, dotted with palm trees, and nothing but the calm blue Caribbean Sea begging for a close encounter with a snorkel. Fantasy Island—which was a ridiculously fantastic name—was undeniably much prettier and calmer than her usual Monday morning gig.
Harlan didn’t know what he was missing, the bastard. Oh, he was still a good-looking bastard, tall, broad shouldered and dark haired. He’d been tapped to play football for his college, but by then he’d already decided medical school lay in his future, and he’d passed on the team because he couldn’t risk the damage to his hands. If she hadn’t taken the Hippocratic Oath herself, she’d have been tempted to step on those talented fingers. Hard.
Imagining Harlan here on Fantasy Island was surprisingly difficult, although he’d been the one to pick out the place for their honeymoon. She was fairly certain she remembered what good sex was like. Or, at the very least, she remembered having sex. Decent sex with matching his-and-her orgasms at the end. Since both she and Harlan were trauma surgeons, they didn’t share too many off-the-clock hours, and she’d had to schedule time to make love with him, which was a sad commentary right there. This trip had been her chance to not be in control of every step of their sex life, and she’d been looking forward to it. While he, on the other hand, had been checking out nurses.
She wriggled on the massage bed and snuck another peek at her phone. Her ponytail slid over her shoulder and she forced herself not to grab it and play with the ends. But holy awkwardness. Lying here like a slab of meat hadn’t been in the spa brochure. Her cabana boy—aka masseuse—was late. The spa attendant had turned on some kind of New Age crap music, heavy on chimes but missing any noticeable beginning or end. The chiming went on ad nauseum. For added bonus points, the attendant had spritzed the air, and Laney’s towel cocoon smelled like some kind of floral scent that made her nose itch.
Waiting was not a good use of time. The sixty hours a week she spent—had spent—in a San Francisco trauma bay had been measured in increments of a minute or less. Of course, the same could be said about her sex life, which was her problem right there. She hadn’t been getting any, ergo she had sex on the brain.
Or maybe that was the resort’s fault. Her libido had Madeline’s explanations on the seaplane playing in a sexy loop through her head. Place an order from the cocktail menu—and pick a sexual fantasy. A Good-Night Kiss, Affair, Climax, Double Jack, Triplesex... Pick one. Point. All she had to do was ask for it.
She lifted her head up and fished her phone out from beneath her sheet. Six minutes late. She’d scheduled thirty minutes for this massage business—so she had twenty-four minutes left.
She liked to keep to her schedule.
Her masseuse, apparently, did not share her outlook on life.
“You’re cheating, sweetheart. No phones in the spa.”
Two big legs appeared in front of her, legs as big and rough as the voice issuing orders. Laney looked up and up and...sweet baby Jesus, the man had good genes. He was also more than a little rough around the edges. His face was all hard lines, his hair cut ruthlessly short with military precision. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw as he towered over her. He wore the loose white pants and form-fitting T-shirt that all the male resort employees sported, but somehow he managed to make the cotton look lethal, as if he were balanced on a razor edge, ready to pummel or go brute predator on the first threat that crossed his path.
This was her masseuse?
He tapped her phone. As if he had the power to make her do precisely as he commanded. It wasn’t hard to imagine him giving orders. Hit man. Maverick CEO. Rogue mercenary. She had no idea who he was, but her body leaped in anticipation when his thighs bumped against the side of the massage table.
Was he on the menu?
“This isn’t the spa.” Since her butt was stretched out beneath a cabana with a thatched roof, building rules absolutely did not apply. Neither did logic since, although Fantasy Island had twelve private villas, all positioned for maximum privacy and sunset views, what it did not have was an actual spa building. She’d been promised her masseuse would be happy to attend you wherever you wish, madame. “And you’re not in charge.”
“You’re on my massage table.” Amusement colored his deep voice, although his face remained impenetrable. Playing poker with this man would be dangerous. Hell, everything about him screamed dangerous. He certainly didn’t fit the spa’s brand of peace and mind-numbing serenity. He made the gangbangers, with their frequent-flyer cards to h
er ER, look like tame bunnies.
“That makes me the client.” And your boss. After all, she’d be picking up the tab for this little hands-on session.
“Uh-huh.” He plucked the phone out of her hand. “What could you possibly need to check?”
“The time. Give me back my phone.” She rolled over, sat up, extended an arm, and the sheet promptly dipped to nipple level. Damn it. The spa attendant must have been an Egyptian embalmer in a former life, because somehow the woman had gotten all the individual pieces of sheet strategically arranged to cover the embarrassing bits. Laney could do an emergency intubation on a flatlining patient, but the sheet defied her. She yanked it up and used her armpit as an anchor. Sexy. Not.
“You have a hot date?” He pocketed her phone, ignoring her outstretched hand.
Are you busy? “So. Are you going to massage me or what?”
Oops. That sounded downright pornographic. Her girl bits immediately voted for option B even as she lowered her arm.
“Lie down.” He nudged her eye covering back down, plunging her into the dark. She didn’t do vulnerable—and apparently her credit card wouldn’t need to cover a tip for this man because he had zero customer service skills.
“Wait.” The blast of heat she felt as she processed his order—and followed it—was chemistry. She knew all about chemistry, thanks to medical school. This man simply possessed enough symmetry that her own body had ramped up the pheromone production. It wasn’t personal—it was simply that he was mate-worthy.
“Who are you?”
Before he placed his hands all over her naked body—please—she needed to know his name.