by Meg Ripley
Cassie gazed up at him, her eyes wide and unblinking.
“I don’t have any common sense—but please, don’t let that scare you away from me. I’m willing to learn. I want to learn. And more importantly, I want to show you the way you make me feel—so you understand why I’m so damn taken with you.” Eric swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “You make me feel like I’m the only one who matters on Earth…and I’m so used to putting that idea out of my head in favor of work or profit, that I didn’t realize I wanted and needed that kind of love so badly.” He squeezed his hands. “Do you know what I mean by that?”
Cassie finally opened her mouth to speak. “I think I do.”
Eric didn’t try to hide his surprise. “So…will you give me another chance?”
Cassie paused. His eyes were shining with such luster and love that she felt like she was being warmed by the sun from the inside out. She did know exactly what he meant—Eric was the only person immune to her shield of invisibility. Before him, she had no idea being seen could feel so good. Cassie pulled him down and pressed her lips to his hungrily, wrapping her arms around his neck as he slipped his hands around her waist and melted into the kiss.
When he pulled back, he looked dizzy and more than a little dazed. “So…that’s a yes?”
Cassie laughed. “Let’s run another test and see.”
THE END
Seduction On Eden Island
Story Description
Finding out on national television that her long-term boyfriend is a cheater, mild-mannered HR manager Rayne Baker throws caution to the wind and accepts a mysterious invitation to an exclusive new tropical resort.
But not is all as it seems on Eden Island; there are mysteries behind every bend.
After making a horrifying discovery, Rayne and her sexy cohort are on the run. Will they make it off the island? Will they discover what’s making the guests disappear? Who can she trust?
On Eden, no one can hear you scream.
There was blood everywhere. It coated the walls, the floor--there were even spurts on the ceiling. Rayne held a double-ended canoe paddle in both hands and braced herself; this was not in the brochure.
Earlier…
Rayne had woken groggily on the private jet; she had slung back far too many gins and her head ached. Twenty-four hours ago, she had sat at her cubicle mopping smudged mascara, trying to explain to a group of disgruntled accountants why all the fridge contents had to be cleaned out the previous day.
“There were intelligent life forms growing in that petri dish of yours. We had no other choice but to abide by OSHA regulations before new forms of sentient life became a real problem for us. You handle multi-million dollar accounts and can find a tax loop-hole in the eye of a needle; why can’t you keep an eye on the expiration dates of your food?”
After another thirty minutes of discussing the implied freedoms of the communal fridge, Rayne lost her nerve and threw a fistful of snotty tissues at the group. “Could you please just get the fuck out of my cubicle and get back to work? If a gross fridge was my biggest problem today, I would be your all-singing-all-dancing kind of HR manager, but I’m not. Get out!”
After threats of common assault were bantered about, Rayne’s director, Rod, stepped in and sent the grim accountants back to their floor. In a gush of bubbly snot and stinging black tears, Rayne revealed it all: her boyfriend of five years, Jason, had been photographed with another woman, an infamous socialite with a penchant for little dogs. Jason was a statistician; not exactly a sexy job, but he had boyish charm--and apparently wandering hands. The photo had been taken when they were sitting together, and from the torso up it looked fine, but the camera caught activities happening below the small table they sat at.
Rayne had only become aware of this when the pixelated version flicked onto her TV screen as she was cooking dinner at home. Within moments, her phone had scuttled off the kitchen bench in the dance of the many silent vibrations. Her social media page had gone bonkers, too, with strangers and journalists trying to contact her. Jason never did come home--turned out he wasn’t at a statistics and budgetary meeting that day after all.
Rayne was gently guided from the building by Rod and was told to consider an extended break until the media buzz died down. Floating past the newsstands filled with full-page reproductions of her boyfriend’s cheating--or, more likely, the unabashed shame of the socialite--Rayne ambled to the subway, pulled out a worn paperback from her bag and settled onto a bench to immerse herself into a story where the almost-fiancés weren’t caught out on national media cheating with pretty socialites.
Several people had joined Rayne on her bench; one was a stylish woman with a glossy blonde bouffant, designer coat and black patent stilettos. The woman was flipping mindlessly through a thick glossy fashion magazine, paying only slight attention to the fashion spreads. A rush of air across the platform signaled the arrival of another train. The woman folded back several pages of her magazine and tucked it under arm as she hoisted her large leather tote and stepped into the crowd of commuters, disappearing among the throngs of beige trench coats and black jackets. Just as the train was pulling out the station, sucking another gush of air from the platform, Rayne felt a frantic fluttering at her side; a business card had lodged itself into the slats of the bench. Rayne picked it up and was surprised by the weight. It was made of a very luxurious bright white card stock but felt like it contained something heavier—almost as heavy as a credit card. Pressed cleanly into the card were crisp black letters in a take-no-prisoners serif font:
YOUR PARADISE AWAITS…
The other side just had a cryptic web address of letter and numbers. Rayne looked back to see the final train carriage disappear from view; the woman must’ve dropped this. Rayne tucked the card into her book and continued reading, deciding to check out the website once she was within Wi-Fi reach and see if she could drop the card off.
Despite the lust and romance that sprinkled the pages of her favorite books, opening the door of her brownstone apartment brought Rayne back to her immediate future. Mentally exhausted, Rayne began to boil water for tea, getting out her favorite mug. Remembering the special business card tucked in her book, Rayne scrabbled around looking for it before booting up her laptop.
Dropping onto the couch, Rayne turned the card over in her hand and carefully typed in the long URL, double-checking the letter and number sequence twice. Within a fraction of a second of pressing the enter button, Rayne’s screen went black. Of all the people in the world to type in a link to a virus…
Then, the screen faded into white; a set of black letters materialized and faded in a gentle sequence:
“Welcome to Eden. You have been selected to join us for an exclusive getaway. Disappear into a tropical island paradise. For your eyes only.”
Oh crap.
The screen changed to show expensive resort imagery with sweeping tropical landscapes. After one rotation through the images, a registration screen popped up demanding details. Rayne searched the static page looking for contact details, but there was nothing.
I can register, but I’ll explain that it was a mistake and I’m looking for the right person.
Rayne typed in her details and, after a moment of hesitation, pressed ‘submit’.
Another screen popped up among a new gallery of resort images: “Thank you for registering. One of our resort team members will contact you shortly.”
Rayne opened a new search window and typed in “Eden Resort,” only to get back tens of thousands of possible clues. She extended the search with “island paradise,” only to whittle a couple of thousand from the list. Before Rayne could contemplate another search term, her landline phone started ringing.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Rayne Baker?” a bubbly woman’s voice echoed down the phone.
“Yes, who is this?”
“My name is Cassandra from Eden Resort. We just received your registration.”
Wow,
that was fast.
“Look, I’m glad you called because I actually think this invitation was for someone else.”
“Was there a name on the card?”
“No, just a web address.”
The woman’s voice brightened, “In that case, it’s very much your card. This is part of a secret promotion Eden Resort is hosting prior to its official launch; I believe a few cards were distributed through random circulation."
Smart PR move…
Rayne could hear typing and clicking in the background. “You’re actually very lucky, Ms. Baker. I've just checked the reservation, and it seems that you have been assigned the Lotus Suite, one of the most expensive suites on the island. There’s yoga, massage and private dining included in your package, which… yes, you’re entitled to over $18,000 worth of value for a six day, seven-night stay.”
“I’m sorry, what? Did you say an $18,000 stay?”
“Yes.” The disembodied voice was practically beaming down the phone.
“Do I need to purchase anything for this?”
The woman laughed, “No, not at all. It’s an exclusive invitation. A bit like what travel agents get to review resorts.”
“So, I am to review the resort in exchange for over $18,000 of value?”
“That’s the plan.”
Rayne sat, astounded by the opportunity that landed in her lap. “So, when do I leave?”
****
Rayne massaged her temples and smacked her lips together, desperate for a steward to provide her with a glass of water. She had been hauled out of bed at 4 am and taken by private car to a private airport where she had boarded...a private plane.
There were two other guests on the plane, though none had yet to say hello. The first she met was a man with stiff, swept back blonde hair, a gingham shirt and beige slacks. Despite the ungodly hour, he seemed preened and ready for a midday outing. The Tommy Hilfiger wannabee deemed Rayne worthy of just a small nod before staring pointedly out his window.
Okay, not to worry--he’s just one prick.
The second guest had arrived as Rayne was just tipping back the final contents of a fresh mimosa: a stunning woman with a magenta pixie-cut. The woman was swimming in furs, constantly peering over her sunglasses.
It was at this point that Rayne had to admit she felt underdressed. Her ensemble of dark-washed jeans, leather boots and layers of cotton jersey stood in another world. The magenta vixen had chosen to associate with the blonde bastard behind her.
The conversation between the two guests seemed to bubble along pleasantly enough, though they seemed to be discussing designer brands as though they were people. Then it dawned on Rayne that they actually did know the designers and they were talking about them.
The magazine, the fashionable woman; the ease she had walking in stilettos, who was that woman who was supposed to have this card? I’ve made a grave mistake…
Before Rayne could think of a surprise illness that would send her back home, there was an insistent tap on her shoulder. Turning, Rayne came face-to-face with the magenta pixie, a fixed smile emblazoned on her professionally made-up face.
“Hi there, I don’t think we’ve met. My name’s Billie Toms,” she held out her hand.
“Oh--hi, Billie. I’m Rayne Baker.”
“You’re not of the Baker House Fashion family, are you?” Billie’s eyes widened.
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m of the…” Rayne thought screw it “I belong to a prominent financial institute; unfortunately, my terms of agreement don’t allow me to mention the company’s name.” Where was this coming from?
Billie nodded in understanding; Rayne had obviously passed some internal test.
“So, you’re here to review as well?”
“You could say that. I’m sure there are some other members of my team who would like to come along with their wives and girlfriends--or both.” Rayne smiled conspiratorially.
Billie smiled and sat back into her chair; the plane was readied for landing.
****
Rayne exited the plane into a blast of warm humid air and a vague scent of coconut oil drifting across the tarmac. The plane sat on a heavy-duty runway that ended with a cluster of huge hangars. Makes sense, they would have had to maintain commutes for their construction and staff teams.
The trio descended from the plane to be greeted by a slew of resort staff in freshly pressed linen uniforms and a tray of tropical cocktails. One by one, the guests were led to a brand-new chauffeur-driven golf cart emblazoned with “Eden Resort” before they were whisked into the tropical forest that surrounded the landing strip.
“You work in finance?” Rayne’s driver chirped. Obviously, her suitcase and attire didn’t hint at any other reason why she would be invited to the resort. The driver wore a luxurious cream-colored linen shirt cut in a Chinese style over slightly darker slacks.
“Yes, actually; how did you know?” She hoped he might reveal something of the other guests she would meet.
“Pardon my frankness,” it seemed that English wasn’t this driver’s first language and he hesitated before continuing, “You seem very different from the other guests I have met. Is it, how they say, professional?”
Rayne laughed and nodded, “I guess that’s the best excuse for it. I will take it as a compliment.”
Her driver smiled and started pointing out various sites along their trip to the resort. “You may have noticed that the other guests have disappeared; they are living in a slightly different area from you. You are in the best area. Guests in cheaper accommodations are not given quite the same view.” On cue, they drove past a thundering waterfall that tipped river water from a height of several stories into a brimming lagoon. “They are also slightly further away from the luxury services.”
They wound gently through the forest until the tree line parted to reveal a stunning vaulted cabin. The driver parked and hauled the suitcase off the golf cart, motioning to the doorway.
Stepping over the threshold, Rayne was assaulted by the most magnificent views she had ever seen in her life. The entire far end of the cabin consisted of single-panel windows that reached from the hardwood floors to the vaulted ceiling two stories up. Beyond the balcony that sat outside the windows was a plummeting view of the tropical rainforest. To the left, misty mountains; straight ahead, a leafy rainforest canopy that cut sharply into the white gold sandy beach and aquamarine tropical waters; to the right, a gentle curve of similar style cabins and buildings--the continuation of the resort.
“Wow,” Rayne stood stunned. The driver chuckled and made an attempt to explain where her amenities were before disappearing out the back door and to his golf cart.
Everything about the cabin was supersized: the bed was a king, the bathroom had a shower you could cartwheel into, the spa was gigantic and the kitchen was better equipped than her apartment’s. Flipping idly through the amenities brochure, glossy magazine stock, how la-di-da, Rayne gathered that the cabin functioned as a complete separate entity to the resort. Guests were encouraged to hire the on-site chefs and staff rather than mingle with the ‘common people’ down in the restaurant and pool area. The room also came with a private-use golf cart, but as this was yet to be delivered (according to the booklet,) Lotus Suite guests were entitled to a courtesy driver.
Just as Rayne began unpacking her clothes, there was a ring from her door. Rayne let in a petite, prim woman in Eden uniform. This attendant gave Rayne a quick once over before plastering what could only be a professional smile on her face. Am I going to be kicked off the island? This attendant’s glossy black ponytail and barely-there makeup made Rayne feel uneasy; she felt like, at any time, a photographer would pop out to take some in-situ shots for the staff training manual: staff evicts chubby sham guest.
“Welcome to Eden Resort, Ms. Baker! We are so thrilled you could join us. I hope you are finding this room to your liking; is there anything you need?”
Rayne had a quick, cursory look, “No, I don’t think
so.”
“I am so pleased to hear that, but remember, you can call housekeeping any time if you would like to make a request.”
“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind then.”
The attendant stood expectantly for just a moment too long—long enough for Rayne to rummage out a crumpled bill for the attendant’s tip.
“Oh, no thank you, Ms. Baker; we don’t accept tips here. Thank you for your generosity, though. What I was going to ask, I mean, say, is that you have been invited to our beauty room for a free private session. It’s perfect timing as tonight we are hosting drinks with a pre-set dinner to welcome our newest guests.”
“The three of us who arrived?”
“Well, yes and no; we are also welcoming guests who arrived yesterday and the day before.”
Rayne stood and nodded slowly, “Sorry, what time is the dinner?”
“Seven pm.”
“And what time is the beauty session?”
“It’s happening right now. You would need to leave soon to be ready for dinner.”
Rayne looked at the clock in the kitchen; it was just after lunchtime. “I’m going to be gone for hours?”
The attendant had the conscience to look at least sheepish while she nodded, “It’s free, Ms. Baker.”
Resigned to fate, Rayne gave a bewildered nod and followed the woman.
Rayne had been plucked, massaged, trimmed, washed and blow-dried to a rosy pinkness before the beauticians had called it quits and trolleyed out a makeup stand worthy of a department store display. Two women had then worked on Rayne’s face, critiquing and refining their work until they both stood back and clapped. Rayne had never felt so humiliated; they’re relieved the Herculean task is over.