by Lydia Rowan
With his strong arm around her waist, he guided her around the dance floor with confident, smooth motions.
She should’ve expected that, because she’d seen him move before, all grace and speed, but being in his arms, being held and guided by him, gave this a different dimension, to make no mention of the fact that his smooth, easy movements were so at odds with his often gruff demeanor.
The change was something she’d noticed during the entire trip. She’d seen a slight softness on his face, the occasional lingering look, the way she’d caught him smiling at her when they’d locked eyes.
This isn’t real, Sloan, she said to herself.
And she needed the reminder. Because here, under this light, it was all too easy to think it was real, to desperately want it to be.
She couldn’t give hope to that feeling, couldn’t feed it, because it would distract her from the purpose at hand, which, much to her sadness, had nothing to do with her raging libido or the feelings that could be all too real if she let them.
“You’re not so bad at this,” she said, smiling up at Adam.
He returned the expression. “Don’t have much opportunity to break out the dancing lessons, but glad I can still surprise you,” he said, giving her a quick wink.
“Did you just wink at me?” she said.
He chuckled. “I did.”
“And does that usually work on the ladies?” she asked.
“It worked on the only one that mattered,” he said, twirling her again.
That was far too close to the truth for Sloan, so she simply smiled and let Adam lead her around the dance floor.
“You ready to retire, honey?” Adam asked three dances later.
“Yes, darling,” she replied, looking up at him indulgently.
He moved closer to her and brushed his lips against her ear. On the outside, it probably looked like a show of genuine affection, but to Sloan, it didn’t feel like an act. So much so, she went quiet as Adam led her out of the pavilion and back toward their room, hoping the quiet and the walk would help her clear her head and get her body and mind back into control, which wouldn’t be easy with Adam’s strong fingers interlaced with hers.
“I’m so happy to get out of this dress,” she said when they reached the room. She probably should have kept quiet, but her nerves wouldn’t let her.
“Why?” Adam asked.
She turned, looked at him, and sighed. “I feel ridiculous in it,” she said. “I don’t know how Cassandra convinced me to buy it.”
Adam kept his eyes on her, not agreeing or disagreeing, and then he began to walk closer. She froze, looked at him confused as he moved even closer and then stopped when he was not even an inch away from her, so tall, she had to crane her neck up to meet his eyes, which were again that amber darkness, and she thought she could stare into his eyes, be in his arms, forever.
“I think you look beautiful,” he finally said, speaking with such an earnestness, Sloan couldn’t disbelieve him.
“Good night, Sloan,” he said, and then he brushed past her to the bathroom.
7
“This is so pretty, beautiful, really,” Sloan said the next morning as they sat under the same thatched-roof pavilion, this time for breakfast.
Adam, who had been busily searching the terrain with his eyes, trying to see and understand everything there was about the resort and surrounding outbuildings, looked at her.
And immediately regretted it.
She’d taken a bite of melon and was now washing it down with the guava juice that had been provided with their meal, her lips wet and glistening in the morning sun. Adam couldn’t stop the image of himself kissing those lips until the wetness was gone, feasting on the sweetness of her lips. Couldn’t stop himself from imagining those lips opening to take his cock.
“Yeah,” he said gruffly and then he looked away.
Barely eight a.m. and he was already fantasizing about her. Not that last night had given him any respite. There had only been one bed, couples’ retreat and all, and Adam, finding a shred of chivalry or maybe out of self-preservation, had offered to let her have it. She’d told him no, insistent they could share a bed.
They had, both of them hugging their respective edges, backs to each other. But there hadn’t been a single second that Adam hadn’t been aware of her, much like he was now.
Adam tried to bring his attention back to the matter at hand, which was seeing past the opulence to what was going on here, something that would be impossible if he was too busy thinking about all the ways he could debauch sweet Sloan.
He’d probably been too terse, but had no choice. He needed to keep it short and concise, because his companion, the one who was supposed to make their cover believable, might become the reason he blew it. And he would if he let the desire raging inside him get a moment’s foothold.
“Honey…”
At Sloan’s sweetly whispered endearment, Adam turned to face her again.
“You’re not eating,” Sloan said.
She went quiet then, bugged her eyes out, and then quickly looked around at the other tables.
There were about thirteen small tables situated under the pavilion, laid out in an ideal structure for couples, one that gave the illusion of privacy, making it seem as if each couple was alone.
He looked back at Sloan. “What?” he said.
“You’re not eating,” she said a little louder, tilting her head to put emphasis on the point.
He shook his head, looked down at the plate of fruit that was beautifully arranged and the side of eggs that Adam had no doubt had gone cold and rubbery. He looked back at Sloan. “No. I don’t eat breakfast,” he said.
She frowned. “That’s not healthy. You should have breakfast every morning,” she said, her voice light, high-pitched, flirty.
He felt himself frowning in return, and in response, she smiled, and that expression was a kick in his gut, one that ramped up his desire, desire that only intensified when her eyes crinkled around the edges and she got a faint little blush on her cheeks.
“But I guess you know what keeps you healthy,” she said, her voice dropping an octave.
He didn’t respond to that but instead frowned down at the plate. Sloan’s movement caught his attention and he looked back to her and watched as she put her fork down, sliding the juice away. Then she met his eyes, hers serious, as serious as Adam thought he’d ever seen.
“Do you think it’s poisoned?” she whispered urgently, her voice starting off light and nonchalant, but growing desperately worried by the time she got to the word “poisoned.”
Despite himself, Adam felt the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. She was so earnest, blinking, wide eyes now deep with concern. Adam wanted more than anything to cup her face in his hands, kiss her cute lips. That wasn’t an option, so instead he smiled brighter.
“Little late to be asking now, don’t you think?” he said.
Sloan looked stricken and sat up straight, her eyes even wider. “Oh no!” she said, yelling now. “I didn’t think—I mean, I figured you’d tell me—”
Adam reached out, put his fingers atop hers, and felt something far too much like actual electricity sparking where they touched. He quickly pulled his hand away, but his fingers still tingled where they’d touched her. She still looked stricken, so he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though he didn’t have much experience with those, and said, “It’s not poisoned, Sloan. I just don’t eat breakfast.”
“Oh God,” she said, breathing a harshly exhaled sigh, “this is why I stay in the office.”
Adam laughed, an honest-to-God laugh, not like the occasional chuckle Seth was able to get from him just for being purely ridiculous. He recognized it as the genuine, heartfelt laugh of a man who had a woman he found infinitely amusing. A woman he shared the laughter with, one he could share a life with.
“I got you. Don’t worry. I have my eyes open and if there is any danger, of the melon variety or otherwise,
you’ll be the second to know,” he said.
“And I guess you’ll be the first,” she said laughing, lifting her rounded shoulders.
“Bingo.”
He tilted his head toward her discarded plate.
“You should finish your breakfast,” he said.
She shook her head. “You think I could eat after that?”
“Yeah. You can, and you have to. People are going to ask questions if you don’t,” he said.
“People like who?” she asked, her brows dropping as her laughter cut off.
“People like Alistair Jones. Who is coming right this way.”
••••
As soon as Adam said the name, Sloan got a whiff of Alistair’s cologne and then heard his thudding steps on the solid pavilion floor as he approached.
Instead of groaning like she wanted to, she stuffed another piece of melon into her mouth and began to chew it, having decided to ignore the question of poison.
Adam was right. If he thought there was cause for concern, he would have told her. Of course, logic didn’t stop the slight curdling in her stomach, one that increased when Alistair walked up and put what she supposed he thought was a friendly hand on her shoulder.
“Good morning, Sloan, Adam,” Alistair said.
His clipped accent was the sound of refinement, and wouldn’t have been out of place on the headmaster of an elite school, but to Sloan he just seemed like a spy movie villain, though she might have been biased by her inexperience.
He removed his hand after Adam’s long glare, and the air at the table intensified. Sloan took that as a sign to do damage control.
“Good morning, Alistair,” she said when she finally swallowed the melon.
Adam said nothing, and Sloan wanted to kick him under the table.
“Enjoying your breakfast?” he asked, quizzically looking at Sloan’s half-empty plate and Adam’s untouched one.
“Just getting started,” she said. “We just were chatting and lost track of time.”
Alistair nodded knowingly, but didn’t comment, though Sloan swore she could see in his eyes that he wanted to.
“Well, make sure you do. The fruit is the freshest anyone can get their hands on, and the egg came from hens raised on this very property,” he said.
That caught Adam’s attention, but she couldn’t tell if Alistair noticed. In fact, she only did because she had been studying him every chance she could for over seven years, so the small, almost imperceptible lifting of his eyes, the way he drummed his fingers against the table, told her Adam had been paying attention.
“Oh, how interesting! Can we have a tour of the farm?” Sloan asked.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want you to waste your time on a dirty farm. But we have a lot of activities planned for you, should you find the time to partake,” he said, letting those words linger for a moment. “You should try some of them. I think the activity director has scheduled a paddleboarding session sometime today. It would be lovely to see you there.”
Sloan noticed he didn’t actually answer her question, but she didn’t challenge him on it. “Sounds amazing! We’ll see what we can do. Won’t we, Adam?” she said as she reached over to grab his hand just as he had hers just moments ago.
Unlike him, she didn’t get the chance to rip her hand away immediately because he held it firmly, caressing her fingers with his blunt-tipped ones. His hand against hers, only intensifying the desire she had for him. She wondered how much more she could take before it raged out of control.
“Yeah, sounds good,” Adam muttered, and Sloan wondered if it was possible for him to sound less enthused.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” Alistair said, seeming not to notice Adam’s tone.
“Thank you. We’ll see you later today,” she added.
Alistair nodded curtly and then walked away, headed to another table. Sloan could hear him speaking, but couldn’t quite make out the words, so she turned to Adam, who looked a little more focused than he had before. Obviously that talk about the farm had really grabbed his attention.
“So I guess I’ll have some breakfast,” he said.
“Why?” Sloan asked, her forehead crinkling.
“Because fuckin’ Alistair probably counted each slice of fruit on the plate, and we wouldn’t want to make him suspicious,” he grumbled.
Then he began to dig into the food, eating the sweet, delicate melon like it was beef jerky, scowling the whole time.
Sloan didn’t want to laugh; she definitely didn’t, but before she could stop it, a giggle escaped her throat.
Adam looked at her, eyes almost venomous, which only made her laugh even harder.
He was giving her a death glare, but the effect was muted by the bright blue sky behind him, the patterned Hawaiian shirt he wore, and the heavy silver fork in his hand.
His expression said angry mercenary, but his outfit and surroundings said rich, spoiled guy on vacation. The contrast was too much to ignore and Sloan finally gave in to the laughter that bubbled up inside her.
Adam stared at her for a moment longer and then jabbed his fork into another piece of melon.
8
“Almost, Sloan. Tighter. Hold it like you mean it.”
Sloan complied with the instructions, gripping the paddleboard oar with all her might and bending her knees just as she had been instructed. The motion pushed her butt out and put her hips at an odd angle, but apparently the awkward position was necessary to guide a paddleboard when they finally got it out on the ocean.
Assuming they ever got it out on the ocean. They were forty-five minutes into the lesson and hadn’t made it into the water yet. Armando, the resort’s paddleboard instructor, had told them he wouldn’t take them out until they learned how to paddle.
“Almost—” Armando said.
She looked up into his brown eyes, serious but having fun as Armando studied her, examining her posture. The sun lit his bronze skin and filtered through his sun-bleached hair, his lean muscles not covered by a shirt. He had the hot-beach-bum thing down perfectly, but he didn’t move anything in Sloan.
In fact, she felt vaguely ill at ease. Not because of Armando, who had been friendly if a little flirtatious.
Her unease was entirely Adam’s fault.
At that thought, she shifted her eyes and looked to Adam where he stood at her left flank, arms crossed over his massive chest, the tight tank top he wore showing his powerful build, thick, corded forearms, and the veins that lined the back of his hands.
He also had his patented Adam scowl on his face as he stared at her and Armando, looking like he was planning to go to war.
“This is how,” Armando said.
Sloan jumped, having just that quickly forgotten about his presence, and when he put a hand on her hip she looked at Adam again. His expression hadn’t changed, but she saw a glint in his eye that made her regret taking this job.
He was making this far harder than it had to be. Instead of joining in, adding to the image they were a happily engaged couple, he stood on the periphery, watching and not participating. So while the other couples giggled and played, he was watching Armando give her a lesson, and looked none too pleased about that fact, an extreme understatement.
“Shift like this,” Armando said, pulling her hips back toward him.
Sloan thought she heard a growl from Adam, but didn’t look at him and instead bent her knees deeper, which pushed her back toward Armando. He kept one hand on the paddle, the other on her hip, twisting them so their bodies were close but not entirely touching.
“Yes,” he said, his voice coming from above her, his hand still heavy on her hip. “Just like that. You lean into the water, let it guide you,” he said as he subtly shifted her body forward.
“I’ll take it from here,” Adam said, his voice low and lethal-edged.
Sloan looked over and saw that Adam now stood inches away from her.
She took a moment to glance down at his flip-flop-clad feet, smiling faintly as
she remembered this morning when they had dressed. He’d wanted to wear cargo pants and a T-shirt but she’d finally impressed upon him the importance of fitting in, which involved not dressing like they had raided a navy supply store.
She’d gotten him into the shorts, tank top, and patterned shirt Seth had given her, and then he’d sat on the edge of the bed and prepared to pull on combat boots.
“No,” she’d said.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” Adam had asked as he’d slammed his foot into the boot.
“You can’t wear combat boots to the beach. To make no mention of the fashion felony that is combat boots and shorts,” she’d said, her nose scrunching up in disgust.
“I wouldn’t have to wear combat boots and shorts if you’d give me my pants,” Adam had said.
She’d shaken her head. “No. With these,” she’d said, extending the flip-flops she’d held in her hand.
“No,” he’d said flatly, pulling the strings of his combat boots as if to punctuate the point.
“Adam—”
He’d glanced up at her, scowled. “I hate those things. They get sand in them,” he’d said.
Sloan had hardly been able to believe her eyes, but they weren’t lying to her. Adam Reins, the gruff, mysterious Adam Reins, had been pouting. She’d bitten her tongue and stayed focused on making her point instead of pointing that fact out to him.
“Adam, it’s a beach. There is sand involved,” she’d said, switching to her most soothing voice.
“I hate the beach,” he’d grumbled.
It had taken everything inside her not to go and kiss him. His petulance was oddly endearing, as was the churlish way he’d stood and hobbled toward her with one combat boot on, the other off, and grabbed the flip-flops from her.
“If it’s any consolation,” she’d said, unable to stop herself, “you look adorable.”
His icy glare had been his only response. He wore much the same expression now, though it was aimed at Armando and not her. Armando was close to her, but there was nothing bothersome about his closeness, at least not from Sloan’s perspective, or at least not until she looked at Adam and saw the berserker look on his face.