Tropical Tryst: 25 All New and Exclusive Sexy Reads

by Nicole Morgan

  TUCKER and I stand in the shallows, staring at one another. His eyes look as round as mine feel. We are both panting. I must have bit my tongue at the last, because my mouth tastes of copper.

  “You okay?” I finally manage.

  He swallows. “Yup. You?”

  I nod. In the end we’d landed as lightly as thistledown. My feet rest upon sand that is as gold and fine-grained as that of the resort. My hair isn’t even wet. For a moment, it feels like we’ve pulled off the best possible outcome under the circumstances.

  But something’s not right. The motorboat idles in front of us, making no move to draw nearer. Its two occupants watch us with expressionless faces.

  I shake my head at Tucker. “I don’t think that was an accident.”

  I’m definitely positive it wasn’t when the cord tethering us to the boat is abruptly released. We stagger back and nearly go under. Now that there’s nothing anchoring us in front, I can feel the parasail providing slight backward traction.

  “Harness off,” Tucker shouts, and the next few minutes are spent in fumbling urgency lest we are dragged out to sea or, worse, into the ocean’s depths.

  Then we are free. We wade to shore.

  Tucker insists we pull the sail with us and gather it up onto the beach. My arms ache as we fight the lapping waves, but his reasoning is sound. Until we know what’s going on, we can’t afford to give up a single resource. It’s hitting me how vulnerable we are. We have nothing but our life jackets and the clothes on our bodies—no ID, no means of communication, no food, no drink. No idea about the purpose behind the two men’s actions.

  Have we been tricked by a pair of mismatched pirates? Are we being held for ransom?

  The one thing I am sure of is how grateful I am to have Tucker here. My god. If he hadn’t insisted on coming along, if I was facing this alone…

  When all the equipment is in, I collapse on the beach. I reach a trembling hand to work my life jacket’s zipper when a movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention.

  I turn my head. I blink.

  Five hundred feet away, a shape has detached itself from the rudimentary hut that occupies a small stand of palms. The shape is a man. A man in a T-shirt and board shorts. I reach out, groping for Tucker’s arm to shake it in warning, and watch disbelievingly as the man turns into a known and formerly beloved figure. Finn.

  I climb to my feet.

  Finn has one hand to his brow—a visor shading his eyes as he looks across the water to the boat. He lifts the other hand in a signal and Reginald waves in reply. The boat roars to life and heads north, toward Jamaica.

  “What the hell?” Tucker says from beside me. “What is he doing here?”

  While Tucker might yet be baffled, things are sliding into place for me: Finn’s earlier, uncharacteristic acceptance of my refusal. His absence at the party, giving him time to set this up. The unusual choice of helpmates. Even Reginald’s subtle implication that Tucker wouldn’t be welcome on the ride, thus guaranteeing Tucker’s absolute interest.

  “You might want to groom your whiskers,” I say to Tucker, and start toward Finn. Because while I might be slow to catch on, I sure as hell know when I’ve been transformed into a lab rat.

  CHAPTER 24

  FINN

  Y olanda is real big on challenging assumptions. Turns out in planning this gig, I made several that have already been proven false. I hope that doesn’t speak to the potential success of this mission.

  Assumption number one: That it would be a piece of cake to get Liv and Tucker to the cay.

  Reality: I’ve been a nervous wreck from the minute I heard the whine of the motorboat, and when I saw Liv and Tucker headed for the water, and the expression of fear on her face… It’s taking everything I have to project an aura of confidence as I walk toward them.

  Assumption number two: That I would be facing two very pissed-off people.

  Reality: Once she spots me, Liv gets what this is about almost instantly, and she’s not pleased. But Tucker seems baffled. That has to mean Liv hasn’t told him anything about last night, which is an encouraging sign. Since Darcy couldn’t come up with any helpful insights about Liv’s deep dark secret, my best hope of this coming out the way I want—to get everything on the table—is by dividing and conquering. All to the better, then, if they begin with less than perfect unity.

  Assumption number three: Tucker will fall into the asshole role and further alienate Liv.

  Reality: Gone is the petulant challenger of the last few days. If I had to guess, it’s the adrenaline of the landing that banished him. Unfortunately, he’s been replaced with a Tucker at his most dangerous best.

  “What’s going on?” Tucker says, when they draw level with me. He stands just behind Liv’s shoulder, his hands in his pockets, alert but at ease. Liv’s self-appointed protector.

  “We’ve been kidnapped,” Liv says.

  “I prefer to think of it as strategically relocated,” I say. “The boat will be back in a few hours.”

  Liv looks away with a snort devoid of amusement.

  “Wonder what the authorities will call it,” Tucker says.

  “A small-group exercise,” I say. “I have a lot of latitude with the waiver you signed for the week, and we’re definitely working on communication.” I’m bluffing, of course. I’m on such shaky legal ground I didn’t run this escapade past DeShawn or Yolanda. I knew they’d string me up by my nuts.

  “Even if true, that would only apply to employees,” Liv says pointedly.

  Tucker’s head swivels casually enough toward her, but his eyes have taken on a shrewd cast and he pulls his hands from his pockets. “Which you are,” he says to her carefully, testingly.

  She shakes her head. “I resigned last night. They offered me a new job and it didn’t suit me.”

  “Your letter’s in the bottom of the shredder, where it belongs,” I say. But neither pays me any attention. There’s some kind of silent communication going on between them—the kind that pushed my jealousy buttons in the old days, and that frankly doesn’t feel so great to witness right now.

  Play along with me and I’ll fill you in later, I imagine Liv saying to him with her eyes. Whatever she sees in response must be reassuring, because her shoulders visibly relax.

  Tucker turns to me. “What a shame,” he drawls. “A great loss for the company. So what’s your plan, then? We stay here and what?”

  “We talk. We probably argue.” I look directly at Liv, willing her to see the depth of my love for her. “And if Liv agrees to honor me with another chance, maybe we even celebrate.”

  “An odd way to win a lady’s heart. But I guess if you can’t manage a normal courtship…” Tucker gives an elaborate shrug. “And I’m here why, exactly?”

  “Because you pushed your way in,” I say.

  Liv snorts and shakes her head at me. She knows I’m full of it—that with Reginald’s help, I set an irresistible trap for Tucker’s ego.

  “I told Finn I can’t be with him because I have a shameful secret,” Liv says. “He knows you’re in on it.” Again comes a moment where I’m positive she’s warning him into silence. She turns to me. “What I want to know is, are you going to threaten Tucker’s job if I don’t cooperate?”

  A few hours from now, if I hadn’t been getting anywhere, that was one point of leverage I was prepared to exploit. But Liv’s too damn smart. She’s ahead of me, boxing me in. Her narrowed eyes and the angle of her chin warn me the wrong answer will derail everything I hope to accomplish here. And right now, compared to the unusually composed Tucker, if I say yes, that I’m prepared to fire him to get to her, I look downright unhinged.

  “When you have time,” Tucker says, “I’d like to hear the answer to this one, too.”

  I have to work to unclench my jaw. “Of course not. You’ll be judged by normal performance standards.”

  “Huh,” Tucker says. “Good to know.” He stares meditatively at the sand for a moment then s
pins on his heel. “Well, c’mon, Kibble.” He takes a few steps toward their discarded life jackets before realizing she isn’t keeping pace. “Coming?”

  She looks uncertainly at me, then back to him. “To do what?”

  “Scavenger hunt. Finn knows you could have snapped a leg when we landed. He doesn’t have a phone on him—pockets are too small—but he wouldn’t bring you here without having a way to communicate.”

  “You were never in danger,” I tell Liv. “I had them practice five times before I let them fetch you.”

  “So considerate,” she says. “A kidnapper with a commitment to safety.” Liv’s eyes flicker assessingly over me. “You want my trust? Start by emptying your pockets, buster.”

  “Since you’re the one asking…” I oblige by pulling them inside out and cock an eyebrow at her. “Want to do a pat-down, too?”

  “Pass.” And she’s off after Tucker without sparing me a backward glance.

  I exhale and take a minute to compose myself before following. I lost that round decisively. But Liv hesitated to join him. She grimaced when Tucker called her by that ridiculous nickname. We’ve got plenty of time for his gentlemanly facade to slip.

  Also, I’ve brought props.

  CHAPTER 25

  FINN

  I chose the cay because of its remoteness, but also its diminutive size. When trying to engineer a showdown with someone, it helps if they can’t simply hole up in a separate location.

  At high tide, which we are at now, there’s an acre-sized scrap of sandy beach to the south. A few coconut palms lie to the east. Their fronds wave lazily in the offshore breeze, providing shade and modest shelter to a three-sided hut made of weathered wood. The north shore faces the nearest land mass—a larger cay that’s about two miles away. But the rocks make the north shore virtually inaccessible. Some are sharp-edged, most covered in guano, and they host a variety of nesting seabirds. For people without footwear it’s not an inviting landscape.

  So yes, Tucker can search and try to undermine my plans, and Liv can avoid conversation by helping him, but after fifteen minutes or so, they’re going to run out of distractions. Then maybe the real work can begin.

  When Liv wants to head straight for the hut, Tucker shakes his head. “Too obvious.” Instead he leads her on a grid search of the beach, kicking at any sandy areas that appear disturbed, in a few places even dropping to his knees to excavate with his hands. The whole time he’s watching my face for a tell.

  When he nears the hut, he ignores it in favor of scanning the palm trees. The fucker even takes off his belt and, looping it around the closest trunk, uses it to climb twenty feet up. He cranes his neck to examine the foliage and spends a good while peering out over the water.

  “Where’s a shotgun when you need one?” I’ve spoken under my breath, but Liv hears me and our eyes meet as she fights a smile.

  “Don’t tell me you forgot about his skills,” she says, no doubt thinking of how Tucker helped feed Ada’s dogs.

  “I don’t forget anything,” I say, holding her gaze and thinking of the sounds she made last night and this morning.

  Heat flares in her eyes and her cheeks turn a gratifying pink. “I was talking about hunting.”

  “Funny, so was I.” I smile at her as she huffs out a breath. In a way, this feels just like old times. “We can leave any time you want, Liv,” I say softly. “Please, just talk to me.”

  Her eyes widen. “So there is a phone.”

  Of course there’s a phone. And a default plan. If Reginald and Vince haven’t heard from me by six, they’re to come back and collect the bodies.

  When I shrug without comment, she only shakes her head and looks away.

  Tucker finally drops to the sand, clearly annoyed, and I try to hide my relief. It had been unlikely he’d find anyone to come to his rescue, but there was always the faint chance of a fishing boat or recreational sailboat happening by. Knowing Tucker, he’d figure out the means to flag them down, if only to thwart me.

  He heads for the rocky shore while Liv opts to look in the hut.

  I trail after her. For one thing, I want to be on hand for her upcoming discovery. For another, I’ve stashed a sat phone, cash, and ID in a waterproof bag under a pile of particularly filthy rocks. I’ve done my best to avoid leaving a detectable trail, and hopefully Tucker’s formidable tracking skills won’t be up to the unfamiliar terrain, but I don’t trust my poker face. Why make things easier for him?

  As we enter the hut, I hear the noise of protesting seabirds, and sweeping shadows darken the doorway. Tucker is venturing into the rocks, then.

  Nothing I can do about that, though, so I fold my arms over my chest and lean a shoulder against the wall as Liv takes inventory. She runs a hand over the insect repellent, the sunscreen, a first aid kit. There are towels, a soft cover-up I caught her admiring on the beach, one of those broad-brimmed hats women like to wear, and an extra pair of sunglasses. I even brought three beach chairs in case we get to a Kumbaya moment. She flips the lid of the cooler open and inspects the offerings—sandwiches, cut fruit, soda, chilled water. Even a bottle of champagne, should I be so lucky as to need one. Everything your sophisticated hostage might need to thrive during a couple hours of captivity.

  She holds up the bubbly and arches a brow. “Cocky of you, isn’t it?”

  “Hopeful,” I say. “The hope of a man in love.”

  “How long have you been planning this?”

  “Since the minute you left my bed this morning.”

  She levels a gaze at me. “Don’t get me wrong. At some point, after my heart rate returns to normal and I can breathe without wanting to vomit, I’ll be moderately flattered you went to this trouble. But this is the wrong way to go about building trust.”

  “How am I supposed to do it from a thousand miles away, Liv? I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  A sad expression sweeps over her face, and for a moment, before she bends to put the bubbly back in the cooler, her eyes glisten.

  I run my fingers through my hair, wanting to comfort her, knowing she’ll rebuff me at this point. That expression is why I’m being such a manipulative asshole. Some part of her wants to be pushed to the truth.

  She lifts the cooler to check under it and finally spots the paperwork. She pounces. “What’s this?” She brandishes the Ziploc bag.

  “Information you deserve to know before you leave Jamaica. I only found out about it yesterday.”

  She flicks an unreadable glance at me and pulls out the top sheaf of paper, grasping it with two fingers like she’s afraid it’s going to bite her. It’s a black and white photo of Tucker’s old girlfriend right before she slashed all four of my tires. Dressed as she is, with the hat and all, the woman is a pretty close ringer to Liv. If I had seen this picture before, I would like to think I would have spotted what Darcy did and know something was fishy. But given how predisposed I was to believe it was Liv doing the dirty work, I’m not sure I would have been that smart.

  “We think that’s Cynthia Fisher,” I say.

  Her head shoots up. “We?”

  “Me and Wakefield’s PI. The second page is an itemized list of petty crimes she committed while impersonating you.”

  Now I have her full attention so I explain everything I know. At some point she sinks onto the lid of the cooler. Rather than hover over her, I unfurl one of the beach chairs and sit. When I’m finished, there’s a long silence.

  “I—I can’t say I’m all that surprised,” she finally says. “I was a mess when I got back from Jacksonville. I cried on Tucker’s shoulder for a week, which is probably how he got the idea. Even before that, he was very angry at you on my behalf. I always thought it was weird he didn’t drive down to Jacksonville and call you out, or something.” She frowns. “Guess he did after all, in his typical backhanded way.” She shoves the documents back in the Ziploc and, standing, places them in my hand. Then she pulls a diet cola from the cooler, pops the tab, and takes a long swig
.

  I stand, waiting expectantly. When she offers nothing further I say, “That’s it? I tell you he deliberately sabotaged us, and that’s your reaction?”

  “No,” she says, in the kind of tone you’d use to speak to a fractious child. “When I’ve calmed down and I’ve had a drink, I’ll speak to him.”

  “If you got any calmer, you’d be comatose.”

  Her eyes widen and she makes a noise of disgust. “Look, guy, don’t mistake a lack of hysteria for a lack of concern. And let me tell you, you’ve got a lot of nerve. I’ve had roughly six hours in Jamaica where I haven’t been marking up drawings, or climbing up stupid ropes, or losing my job. Six hours. I had hoped to spend the last couple with you, in idle frolic and revelry—”

  “I can frolic.”

  “—instead, I get this: a kidnapping, a dusty hut, and an interrogation.”

  “I see the wooing is going well,” Tucker says from the doorway, his timing impeccable, as usual. My one comfort is that he remains empty-handed. His lip curls as he scans the contents of the hut. When he spots the soda in Liv’s hand, he perks up. “Got an extra?”

  “I’ll do you one better.” With an overly sweet smile directed at me, Liv pulls the champagne from the cooler, along with two paper cups. She passes the lot to Tucker.

  “Cool,” Tucker says. He squints to inspect the label. “This is good stuff, Finnegan. What did it set you back? Two hundred bucks?”

  “Five,” I say glumly, as he peels off the foil and starts untwisting the wire cage.

  “Open it on the beach,” Liv directs Tucker. “Pour me a tall one while you’re at it. We have to talk.”

  “Okay,” Tucker says, obviously sensing trouble. He shifts things until he’s holding the bottle and cups in one hand, and scoops up the two folded beach chairs in another. He ambles out of the hut.

  “You—” Liv points her finger at me. “You will stay here.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it. I want to talk to him alone.”