by Mia Downing
Three, how much would it cost him to get Ryan to bring him back here. Alone. To lay Blake to rest, sure, but if that weren’t on the agenda, he’d still make that trip. No, that wasn’t right. He should want to have lunch with Ryan, get to know him like a true business partner, not celebrate hedonism like Blake would.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ryan murmured.
“You think Trigger’s seen a waterfall before?”
“No waterfalls like this in Texas.” Ryan smiled serenely at Jordan. “I left a whole world behind for this waterfall. Crazy, I know. But every time I see it, especially at this time of the day…kind of drives home why I did this.”
“The rides don’t usually come here?”
“No. This is a special trip. Usually we take clients down the beach to play in the waves. There’s a trip Saturday night that goes out to a location where we have a feast, complete with roast pig, fresh fish and seafood, and traditional island entertainment—called a meke. The riders stay the night in beach bungalows and we return the next morning at sunrise. We have five different trips, so clients can go out every day and see a different aspect of the island. But we only do this ride under certain circumstances, and we only take a small group.”
How had his PA known this was the trip Jordan had to take? Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so anxious about not having a cell phone. If Brownie tumbled down the hill, he was already one step closer to heaven.
But Brownie was as sure-footed as a garden gnome, meandering along in that plod of his between the dark volcanic rocks. The plants here were softer, and a few had flowers of some sort. Pretty. Not tasty, because Brownie let them be. Finally, the group came to rest at the bottom, halting next to the crystal clear pool of water.
The waterfall was actually farther away than he realized, because Ryan only had to shout a little to be heard. “The story told by the islanders is that a brave warrior of sorts sat on those rocks up there,” he pointed to an outcrop near the origin of the waterfall, “and watched the ocean for his love to come back from a wedding trip on another island. There was no waterfall or pool at the time.
“But a cyclone blew in and he was sure his sweetheart had perished. So he dove off those rocks to his death, only to be found later in the day by his soul mate who had survived the storm. The waterfall appeared, representing the tears of the couple, the pool a tribute to their undying love.”
The other clients oohed and ahhed at Ryan’s crock-of-shit story, probably the traditional, cliché crap every tourist expected to hear about a waterfall. Jordan snorted and shook his head.
“What,” Ryan asked, laughter sparking in his blue eyes as he dismounted from the quiet Trigger. “Don’t believe in the power of love?”
“No woman is worth diving off a cliff for.” At least none he had met thus far. He knew a lot of women, and for some reason, not a one did it for him. It wasn’t like he had a shitty past, either. His parents were happily married, as were his grandparents. There was absolutely no reason for him to think that way, except for the fact that he hadn’t met the right one, he guessed.
“Who said he dove off for a woman?” Ryan’s smile turned knowing, as if he held all the secrets and Jordan had none.
Jordan’s heart picked up the pace a little, his palms sweaty on the reins, unsure if Ryan was proclaiming his sexuality or challenging Jordan’s. Blake had been gay but had never mentioned if his business partner’s tastes followed suit.
Ryan walked his horse over to a hitching post of sorts, Jordan’s gaze glued on him, the firm thighs that would be corded muscle under the jeans. All lean and wiry, hard. Rugged. Powerful. As a jungle virgin, Jordan definitely wanted power at the helm, hardness wrapped in a package of sexy, blue-eyed cowboy.
Jordan bit back a groan of frustration. It wasn’t like him, thinking that way about a man. Fresh air, sunshine. It was a bad, bad thing.
Ryan McCale glanced back at Jordan Hill—Blake Hill’s uptight, über-rich, powerful half-nephew—and decided his partner and best friend had been right. If Ryan shoved coal up Jordan’s ass, it would be a diamond by the end of the trail ride. Ryan relished a tight ass, but Jordan’s virginal one would turn his dick into diamonds or mush or something really unsavory. He was that uptight.
Jordan radiated control even though Blake had made damned sure he’d be out of his element when they finally met. He had warned Ryan, over and over, that the only way to get Jordan on his side was to show him the waterfall. If he hadn’t made Jordan come here, Bendura Island Resort would have been sold, sight unseen, lock, stock and barrel. Ryan wasn’t so sure at this point that Blake was right—or sane—to toss the two of them together like this.
His partner’s dying wish was twofold—Jordan was to see the island and meet Ryan. Why, he had no clue on either account, especially when Jordan had a built-in calculator ticking off the money as he assessed everything. Jordan could probably tell him how much each horse cost in hay, how much the hotel wasted in olives not used in martinis, and how much everything was going to be worth when he sold it. Ryan got that. He didn’t want it, but he got it.
But him needing to meet Jordan—Blake was a loon. The man was straight as an arrow, not a blip of gay on his gaydar, so there was no hope of a relationship or hookup. They had nothing in common to cement them as friends except their love for Blake. Jordan was all city and business, tailored suits and cuff links, dinner at ten, mimosas for breakfast. If Ryan wasn’t doing a tour or needed at the stable, he was naked on the beach, tanning or swimming, eating mangoes for breakfast and drinking rum with dinner at five-thirty.
Ryan had done the big city life as a lawyer at a powerful firm in Houston. He hadn’t been spewing lies when he said the waterfall changed everything. The falls had worked their magic, lured him into thinking his life was here, made him believe there was something better than nine-to-five, high-powered deals and loneliness.
After Mark had passed, Ryan’s life had been an empty shell until Blake had given him a chance to change it all. Now he lived the good life. Little stress, sun and surf, his first love—horses—every day, all day. He wouldn’t change a minute of it, not even for the chance to ease the gentle whisper of loneliness.
Given all that, Ryan should have a strong dislike for Jordan. But as he glanced over as Jordan dismounted from Brownie in the most uncoordinated fashion, he realized his mind and body disagreed. His mind said no-fucking-way, but his cock stirred as Jordan bent to unwrap the rein from Brownie’s front leg, his ass and thighs firm under those new jeans. Thank God for that horse. He was worth every ounce of his weight in oats. Jordan gathered the reins and stood.
Out of the corner of Ryan’s eye, he cast an assessing glance. The man was fucking hot. Five-tenish, expensive haircut styling his jet-black hair, dark brown eyes that glittered with intelligence and cynicism as he watched the other clients. He’d forgone the shave and the hint of stubble edged a strong jaw. Perfect nose—Jordan Hill wouldn’t have ever gotten into a fight. Firm lips, a dimple in his chin. His frame was lean yet muscular from hours at the gym, a body that would look good in those tailored suits. Actually, Jordan rocked the painfully new jeans and conservative blue polo shirt.
Just when Ryan was silently cursing Blake for being a fucking idiot on so many levels, he caught Jordan gazing at the waterfall again, something wistful etching his handsome face. A look crossed his handsome face that reminded Ryan so much of himself, five years ago as he stood on the same spot. Jordan turned then, and the depth of expression was anything but calculating and cynical.
There was surprise in the chocolate brown depths, giving way to the tiniest flare of desire as his pupils widened. His lips curved into the hint of a smile, one that stole Ryan’s breath, made him want to taste the firmness of Jordan’s lips. Too quickly, Jordan blinked twice and turned away, back to the waterfall and his thoughts.
Ryan’s libido sat up, took notice, and smacked the gaydar reader to see if it might be broken. When was the last time he’d been this aware of a
nother man, especially a guest? Eons. He didn’t do casual and didn’t dare risk his heart after losing Mark. His mind warred with his body. His body was winning, breaking down the defenses, offering the glimpse of a waved white flag that said if Jordan were willing, perhaps his mind would allow it.
Maybe, just maybe, Blake wasn’t crazy. Maybe he knew something, sensed things Jordan didn’t know about himself. Blake had a gift for that, seeing the man underneath all of the armor and trappings, stripping him down to the barest essentials to reveal him as human at his finest. Maybe Ryan had a little more in common with Jordan after all.
But then Jordan shot him a peevish look, one that blew any hope of friendship out of the water. Ryan was wrong. Jordan had come, and he would conquer and sell. Blake had set up this meeting to annoy the living shit out of Ryan. Or maybe it was a challenge, to see how long Ryan could go without killing him. Blake had a warped sense of humor like that.
In any case, Ryan had the impossible task in front of him. Convince this uptight guy that this island was paradise? One he didn’t want to sell?
Impossible.
Chapter Two
They finished up the ride, the horses ambling through the dusty corral to the back of the red stable that housed a few stalls, the office, and a saddle storage place that Megan, the guide-ette, called a tack room. Jordan dismounted, his ass and inner thighs aching although they’d done little more than walk each way. But it was worth every minute of pain he’d suffer and he fully intended to go again, tomorrow, if his butt could take it. He wanted to see the other rides, other parts of the island.
A part of him wanted more of Ryan’s time, too, and not just to get a sale hammered down. That need was unnerving, because Jordan didn’t usually crave company unless it was for business or sex. But he wanted that, maybe because that part of him that wanted to please hoped to shut Blake’s ghost the hell up. Spending time with Ryan would make the sale go easier and connect him further to Blake’s memory. Nothing uneasy or weird about that.
Megan came and took Brownie from him. Jordan turned and watched Ryan interact with the Murphys. There was a note of familiarity as Ryan chatted, noticeable in the way he leaned in to laugh, his fingers briefly touching Mrs. Murphy’s shoulder. The easy banter between them led Jordan to believe the Murphys were return guests, confirmed when Mrs. Murphy leaned in and kissed Ryan’s cheek. A moment later, Ryan tousled the younger boy’s hair as he returned from petting the brown goat staked out on the tiny lawn in front of the barn.
The Murphys left, and Ryan turned to him, hands in his pockets, his deep-blue gaze assessing him, sizing him up. That look told Jordan that Ryan knew damned well who he was, why he was here.
Another first, because Jordan thought he had the upper hand on that one. The man was smooth. Maybe Ryan was closer to Blake than he guessed, because he hadn’t given more than his first name to reserve the trail ride.
But he had signed his life away on hold-harmless forms, so maybe he recognized his name from there. In any case, Blake hadn’t mentioned Ryan more than in passing, which he found odd, especially since Ryan was a good-looking guy, the exact type Blake went for.
“We need to talk,” Ryan said. For someone that had shown such compassion and emotion saying farewell to the Murphys, he was virtually unreadable, his gaze guarded, no hint of a smile on those firm lips.
“I suppose we do. Would you like to meet for lunch? Dinner?”
“Dinner, but you can come to my place. I don’t go to the hotel unless I have to. Are you allergic to anything?”
Jordan blinked, surprised that Ryan would sweep in and assume control that easily. That was his job. “No.”
“Then come for five-thirty, dress casual.”
There was something biting in Ryan’s voice that said if Jordan wore a suit, he was slamming the door in his face. “How casual?”
“Hawaiian print shirt and khaki shorts. Sandals or flip-flops. It’s too hot for jeans.” Ryan’s lips curved into the hint of a naughty smile. “They sell those at the resort shop, too.”
“Any certain color for the shirt, or will you allow me to choose that?” Smart ass, tossing the gauntlet like that, assuming he didn’t own casual clothes.
A quick mental tour through the suitcase told Jordan that he didn’t, which pissed him off. He had stuff for the gym, a swim suit, casual slacks, suits. Which meant another trip to the hell that was the resort shop.
Fuck you, Blake, thinking you know me better than I know myself.
Ryan’s gaze thoughtfully slid down and then up Jordan’s frame. Jordan’s skin heated with a tingle that had nothing to do with the humidity. He shifted, appalled that his cock would stir even just a little as Ryan’s perusal ended at his mouth, hesitating there for a nanosecond that Jordan surely read wrong. But stir his dick did, his body obviously okay with being checked out.
Ryan cocked his head, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “Blue. Or Green.”
“And if they don’t carry one?”
“You’re coming to talk to me about selling your portion of the island. It would be wise to humor me if you want me to listen to what you have to say. I can make this deal sit in court for years and years, so if I want you to show up naked, I suggest you do.” Ryan’s tone was soft, but his eyes glinted with blue steel.
Jordan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been given an ultimatum, so this was another fucking first.
The sizzle of anger paled in comparison to the jolt of desire singing along his nerves, one that joined with the fierce need to run right out and buy that blue shirt and khaki shorts. Holy fucking shit.
“Well?” Ryan asked softly, shoulders squared over lean hips.
Jordan nodded, dropping his gaze for a moment to hide the fact that he found that deep, commanding voice to be…exciting? He breathed deep to still the raggedness, every sense heightened. Ryan took a step closer, and the scent of horses and leather with a hint of light aftershave washed over Jordan.
“Unless you’d rather be naked,” Ryan said in a low voice. “My side of the island is clothing optional.”
Jordan’s gaze snapped to Ryan’s, the other man’s dancing with amusement though the challenge was still present. So, so wrong of his cock to jump at that. But for some reason, as much as testosterone and adrenaline wanted him to fight it, something about Ryan called to a secret part of him. A deep yearning only tapped on occasion by one other person.
“How about I surprise you,” Jordan managed through his tight throat, wanting nothing more than to run. And though the little voice that belonged to Blake whispered, chicken, in his ear, he turned and beat feet.
“I’ll see you at five-thirty,” Ryan called behind him.
Ryan had won this battle. Jordan would be better prepared for the next one.
****
Jordan bumped along the sandy dirt road on Blake’s motorcycle, feeling a hell of a lot more comfortable as the distance between him and the stable grew and the ache in his pants lessened. Over and over, Jordan replayed Ryan’s words in his mind, his ultimatum, and the instant reaction his dick had to Ryan’s dominance. He hadn’t sprouted unbidden wood like that since he was in high school.
Jordan didn’t believe he was gay. But he did run on the submissive side.
The submissive tendencies he knew about. It was what drew him to his friend with benefits, Samantha Melbourne. He’d known Sam since college, and they often turned to each other for hot, kinky sex. At first, it was to fill the need, but eventually it became something they did because it was easy, not because there was deep love in the romantic sense. He could relax around Sam, let her take control, let her unleash the pleasure his body craved under her dominant hands.
It didn’t make him feel any easier to know he’d spiked a hard-on in front of Ryan, because if he had seen, then any sense of upper hand he had on this deal was dead in the water. He’d be Ryan’s bitch for the entire sale, damn him. He didn’t do bitch status. He didn’t even want to contemplate what it m
eant in the bedroom, because he didn’t plan on going there.
Jordan reached the hotel and returned the bike to its parking spot until later when he made the ride out to Ryan’s. He went up to his room and spent the afternoon on the phone, trying to get information on Ryan McCale. The news emailed back wasn’t good.
Well, if one wanted a partner, it was great news. Ryan had been an attorney in Houston at a large firm, specializing in corporate law, had gone to college with Blake, also a lawyer. He had moved here about five years ago to partner up when Blake decided to expand the tour options offered to his resort clients.
Ryan could indeed stall the sale if he so wished, tying the whole deal up tighter than sailor’s knots. From the brief glance at last quarter’s earnings, Ryan also knew business, which meant that, though he’d given the morning off to his hungover employees, he had everything under control. All of the accounting added up thus far. Bendura was making Ryan—and now Jordan—a hell of a lot of money.
So Jordan slunk down to the resort shop for the second time that day and invested wisely in an obnoxious, blue Hawaiian print shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals. And though he chose the ugliest shirt just to piss Ryan off, he couldn’t hide the intense pleasure building, sizzling through his veins as he added the items to his purchase pile on the counter.
Jordan frowned and added two of everything to the pile, just in case. He wasn’t shopping again. The neon-green flip-flops were just too weird, that piece between his toes annoying, as was the noise they made as he tried them out, winding around the racks of shorts. He also bought a pair of aviator-styled sunglasses and print swim trunks he liked better than the plain board shorts he had. He pictured himself wearing those shorts in a hammock, sipping a manly drink with a touristy but manly umbrella in it. Maybe shopping wasn’t so bad.
Jordan went back up to the hotel room, restless, unable to concentrate. He needed to investigate more, see how the hotel ran, what it offered, look at the books again. He needed to tour the island, see what the local village had to offer. But his mind kept going back to Ryan, his ass in the saddle, his thighs straddling that golden horse…that deep, commanding voice.