by Anna Durand
I lean back against the palm tree behind me. "I'm a disease detective. That's the common term for it. It's not a sexy job. Basically, I do lots of research, gather data, collate statistics, look for patterns. Whenever there's an outbreak of a new disease or an old one, epidemiologists like me show up to ferret out the source and come up with a treatment. Until ten days ago, I was in Ethiopia working with my colleagues to pinpoint the source of an Ebola outbreak."
"Did you succeed?"
"Yes. But a dozen people died before we got there. Eight more died after we showed up." My throat goes dry, and though I try not to, I remember the sight of those bodies lying under white sheets. "The site was way out in the boonies, and nobody could get the right medicine to the village until we brought the stuff. The treatments don't always work, though."
"Do you work for a hospital or an organization or something?"
I grab my half-eaten sandwich, my gaze aimed at the food while I try to shake off the memories. "I used to be with Doctors Without Borders. After that, I took jobs with various organizations, wherever I was needed."
"That all sounds past tense."
"Because it is. I'm unemployed or taking a sabbatical, whatever you want to call it. Though I have been offered a job at the CDC, which is the Centers for Disease Control. It's in Atlanta, Georgia." I drop my sandwich and reach for the bottle of beer I've been nursing while we eat, then I take a large swig of it. Naveen Misra recommended me for the CDC position, but I haven't decided if I want to work with my ex. Or if I want to be a disease detective anymore. "I got burned out, I guess. A human being can only watch so much suffering before it starts to eat away at your soul. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe nobody else feels that way. I needed to get away from my job and my life for a while so I can decide what I want to do moving forward."
"I understand how you feel," he says. "My career has become a sort of albatross around my neck. Partly my fault. I made a few questionable decisions that have congealed into one massive pile of shit, and I'm trapped underneath the whole stinking mess."
I lean toward him, sniffing. "I don't smell any shit."
"When I said it's a 'stinking' mess, I meant that as a metaphor."
"Yeah, I know. Just trying to make you smile, but I failed." I couldn't even make myself smile. We both need a cuddle, I decide, so I wriggle sideways to edge closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder. "I'd like to hear more about your work, if you want to tell me."
"Later." He grabs his beer bottle and guzzles the remaining half of it in one long gulp.
He's reluctant to talk about himself. I get that. I mean, I'm not exactly thrilled to discuss my life either.
"Let's talk about you some more," he says. "Where did you go to medical school?"
"Nowhere. I'm not a physician."
"But you're an epidemiologist, and you said people call you Dr. Solberg. Your sister tells everyone you are a doctor."
Oh, Rika. I know she means well, but really, she has a bad habit of giving people the wrong impression of me.
"I love my sister," I tell Richard, "but she tends to exaggerate when she's talking about me. Well, it's more like she lets other people infer the wrong conclusion from what she says. I'm not an MD. I have a PhD, a doctorate in epidemiology."
"Your sister says you're her hero because you save lives every day."
"Let me guess. Rika has everyone believing I'm a superhero doctor who cures people with a wave of my hand." I drink some beer before I say more. "I'm afraid it's nothing that glamorous or exciting. It's mostly a numbers game for me. Once I've collated and analyzed all the data, I work with my colleagues to come up with a treatment for the disease in question. I also look for ways to prevent another outbreak. Finding out where an outbreak started is key, but I'm not a cop who arrests the bad guys. And I don't directly save lives like surgeons do."
"But your work is critical. You shouldn't downplay the importance of what you do."
"I don't. Maybe I'm uncomfortable with how my sister has been describing me to other people when I'm not around, but I'm proud of the work I've done."
"As you should be."
I sneak an arm behind him to loop it around his waist. "Now, are you going to share your burnout story with me, or do I have to torture it out of you?"
"I don't have a good reason for my burnout. You're exhausted from traveling the world to help people. I've just…published books."
"Come on, that's nothing but an excuse for not opening up." I hook my leg over his and tickle his ear with my lips. "Guess it's torture, then. The steamy kind that'll make you explode."
"All right, I surrender. I'll tell you my story."
Chapter Eight
Richard
Maddie is one hundred percent right, of course. I despise talking about myself, and I especially don't like admitting I'm knackered from years of working sixteen-hour days while trying to appease prima donnas and outright arseholes. Not all my clients are awful, but the few who are have made my life hell.
But Maddie has a point. I'm avoiding the inevitable. If I want to get to know her, I need to explain my life.
With a sigh, I resign myself to confessing. "My father started a publishing company before I was born. By the time I turned fifteen, Hunter Publishing had become one of the most successful small publishers in the UK. Five years after that, the company had gained international renown for producing some of the best nonfiction books on the market and for its growing list of bestsellers. Once Dad decided to branch out into fiction, the business took off."
"That's amazing. When did you start working there?"
"After university, I took a job as an intern at Hunter Publishing. My father insisted on it. He told me I needed to learn every aspect of the business and work my way up to taking over for him." I lay a hand on her thigh, where it drapes over mine, and use caressing her soft skin as an excuse not to speak for a moment. Or maybe I do that strictly because I love touching her. "When I was thirty-four, my father handed the company over to me. I wanted to make him proud, but instead, I ran it into the ground."
"What happened?"
I shrug one shoulder. With Maddie tucked against me, I can't shrug them both. "I was trying to bring the company into the twenty-first century. Dad liked to keep things as they were, as they'd always been. I had grand ideas about modernizing and attracting younger authors who might bring us a new audience to complement our existing customer base. So I courted a few celebrities."
Maddie wriggles her toes, tickling my leg. "Sounds exciting."
"Not really. Not for me. I've never thought of fame as being a great accomplishment in itself."
"True. But you were trying to promote your company, right?" She pokes me in the side, gently. "Come on, you have to tell me the rest."
"First, I signed an Olympic sprinter, Helmut Beyer. He had suffered an injury that nearly destroyed his career but came back from it to win the gold medal. Helmut also broke the world record for the most social media followers for an athlete."
"Sure, I remember that guy. He got on all the talk shows."
I watch the waves lapping against the shore for a few seconds before I summon the nerve to tell her the rest. "I paid Helmut a rather large advance, but the book was a smashing failure."
"Doesn't 'smashing' means something was really good? But you called it a failure."
"I was being ironic." I wince when I remember the outcome of my next attempt to bring my company into the new millennium. "After that, you'd think I would have learned my lesson about celebrities. But I didn't. I signed a reality TV star who had a massive fanbase. I suppose I assumed the Helmut Beyer disaster was a fluke, and that Danisha Davies would be different."
"But something went wrong."
"Her book was a number-one bestseller in the UK and the US, and the profits poured into Hunter Publishing."
Maddie smiles. "You saved the company."
Her smile makes me feel…completely unde
serving of her praise.
She tips her head to the side, studying me. "Why do you say you ran your company into the ground? You had one flop, followed by a big success."
I laugh without any humor. "Yes, it sounds brilliant, doesn't it?"
"Why do you say that like it's not true?"
"Because it isn't." I rub my eyes and sigh. "I'm an idiot and an arse."
"You're neither one."
"Which you know after spending twenty-four hours with me."
"I'm a good judge of character." She nuzzles my cheek. "There's clearly more to the story, so tell me the rest."
"Three days before I left for the Caribbean, I found out Danisha Davies had plagiarized her entire book. She stole the unpublished memoirs of another, lesser-known reality star who had been good friends with her."
"But you didn't know what Danisha had done."
"Doesn't matter." I cover my face with my palms, groaning again, then I lower my hands. "The other woman, Miriam Watkins, is suing Danisha Davies and Hunter Publishing for copyright infringement. This could destroy the company."
"How is it your fault she plagiarized stuff? If it was from an unpublished memoir, you had no way of knowing."
"We have a contract with Danisha, which means we are responsible for ensuring everything we publish meets all legal requirements. Every contract includes an indemnification clause, but she's claiming we committed secondary infringement because she told us where she got the material and we went along with it. We didn't do that, but she has forged emails that make it look like we're complicit."
"I hope you're fighting it."
"We're trying. But the legal costs involved in disproving her claims could be steep, and we can't be sure of a favorable judgment in court." My head falls back against the palm tree like it's become so heavy that my neck can't hold it up anymore. "The day I left for the Caribbean, our solicitors informed me that we should settle with Miriam Watkins and agree to her demands, which include monetary damages. For legal reasons, I can't share all the details. I started the process of removing the book from sale, but the lawsuit coupled with the failure of Helmut Beyer's book might bankrupt the company unless I inject my own money into the settlement deal. So yes, I have run my company into the ground. My father's legacy is in tatters, and I am a disgrace."
Chapter Nine
Maddie
"You are not a disgrace," I say. "Nobody could've guessed that author would turn out to be a plagiarist and a liar. I'm sure your dad will understand if you explain what happened. Have you told him yet? If not, you really should. Wondering how people will react is torture, so stop doing that to yourself and just talk to him."
He screws up his mouth but then sighs and bows his head. "I know you're right. I've known it since the day I found out what Danisha Davies had done, but I'm too much of a coward to tell my father. Then I'll have to inform the board of directors, and who knows what they'll do. My company's reputation will be destroyed, and I will probably be sacked."
"Will you be bankrupted, personally, if you use your money to pay the settlement?"
Rick twists his mouth up again, his face pinched. "No, I'll be all right. Not as well off as before, but hardly penniless. The scandal alone could destroy the company, though."
"I'm so sorry you're going through all of this."
"Don't feel sorry for me." He turns his eyes to look at me, his head still bowed. "I'm sure you've experienced much worse things."
"It's not a competition. But yeah, I've watched people die and been helpless to stop it. That's part of the reason I'm so burned out. After my last assignment, I felt emotionally wrung out and raw." I don't want to remember those events, but my mind disobeys my command and shows me a replay of the worst moments. "It's horrible to watch adults wither away, but it's the children who really tear your heart out. I cried every time a child succumbed. Ebola can be up to fifty percent fatal, which means there isn't much we can do. I still have nightmares about it."
He slings an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. "I wish I could do something to make you feel better. No one deserves a stress-free holiday more than you do."
"We both deserve that."
"May I ask a personal question?"
"Sure."
Rick hesitates for a moment, twining a lock of my hair around his finger, then letting it unravel. "Why don't you have a boyfriend or husband?"
"I've dated. Until a couple of months ago, I was involved with a virologist I met in Somalia last year. It didn't work out, though. We both work too much to keep a relationship going."
"Yes, I've had the same problem. Working sixteen-hour days might keep my company afloat, but it doesn't leave time for relationships." He braces his chin on top of my head. "I never married either. Most days, I eat al desko."
"Do you mean alfresco?"
"No, al desko. It's a British term that means I eat at my desk, alone."
"Yeah, me too."
He strokes my arm, gazing out across the serene blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. For a few minutes, we don't speak. He holds me, and I rest my cheek on his shoulder. I met this man yesterday, but somehow, he knows exactly what I need and when I need it. I can't believe I told him so much about myself, but he shared a lot of himself too. How can I feel an intimate connection with a virtual stranger?
Maybe I should stop worrying and let myself enjoy this.
"I have an idea," he says.
"Love to hear it."
"We should spend the next two weeks together, doing anything and everything that's fun and frivolous. No talk of work. No more serious conversations. We enjoy each other's company, that's all, and then we say goodbye if that's what we want. No strings, except on your bikini."
"I'd love a two-week escape from real life."
"So would I. Should we do it, then?"
"Absolutely."
He kisses the top of my head. "Wonderful. Let's start right now, by taking a walk down the beach."
"Sounds perfect."
Richard gets up, picking me up with him, and sets my feet on the sand. Hand in hand, we stroll down the shore with crystal-clear blue water on one side and swaying palm trees on the other. I'd kicked off my shoes and left them on our blanket, so I revel in the warmth of the sand slipping between my toes and sliding along my soles.
He keeps watching me—or rather, glancing at my belly region. Lower belly. Maybe he's staring at my hips. Whatever's caught his attention, it's kind of weird.
Suddenly, he stops us and turns toward me. "Christ, I'm an arse."
"What? Not sure where that comment came from. You're a complete gentleman."
"No, I am not." He nods toward my lower body. "You keep wincing and touching your hip like it hurts. But it's not your hip, is it? I ravaged you for hours last night. You're sore."
Okay, yeah, I am. It's not awful, though, and I'm no wimp when it comes to pain. But the stricken look on his face proves to me that he thinks he's damaged me severely.
I spread a palm over his cheek. "Relax, I'm okay. Sure, that was more sex than I've had in a long time, maybe ever, but I'm only a little sore. I'll be fine, promise."
"But I should have known better than to…abuse your body that way."
"There was no abusing. I could've said no after the second time, or the third time, but I loved being with you. A little soreness is worth it."
He rubs the back of his neck, veering his gaze away from mine. "Maybe you aren't horribly sore, but I still think we shouldn't have sex again for a while."
"I'll be good to go tomorrow."
"I believe you, but let's try not shagging for a few days at least, maybe even a week. We can take this time to enjoy each other's company without the distraction of sex." His lips twitch into a slight smirk. "I may need a blindfold to accomplish that, though. Your body is the most distracting thing I've ever seen—or felt."
"Would you rather I wear baggy pants and bulky sweaters?"
&n
bsp; "No." He starts walking again, still holding my hand. "I'll manage in spite of your distractingly gorgeous body."
"Not sure I can restrain myself if you're wearing skintight swim briefs." I'm not joking. His bod in that swimsuit… Damn, it's like the scent of fresh donuts wafting out of a bakery down the street. I want to run there, grab all the donuts, and gorge myself on them. His "donut" is hidden inside a single layer of spandex. And yes, I want to pull it out and feast on him. Which gives me an idea. "During our escape-from-real-life thing, is oral sex allowed?"
He chuckles. "Determined, aren't you? I can't be so amazing in bed that the thought of doing without gives you withdrawal symptoms."
"Just trying to make sure we have the best possible time for the next two weeks."
"Let's try not talking about sex for at least an hour. See how it goes."
"All right, if you insist." I bump into him on purpose and give him a teasing smile. "But you're the insatiable beast who seduced me over and over."
"I know, but I'm giving this my best effort." He lets go of my hand, draping his arm around me. "How about a swim? The cool water might ease your soreness."
"What a fantastic idea. Skinny dipping?"
"Didn't you hear what I said about your body? I won't survive two minutes with you naked in the water."
"My bikini is skimpy. I'm practically naked already."
His gaze wanders down my body. "Let's keep up the illusion that you're not naked. For my sake."
"Okay." I give him a quick kiss. "Guess my willpower is stronger than yours."
"I'll order a gold medal for you."
He picks me up and races into the water up to his knees, then he tosses me in.
I shriek while water splashes up around me and I sink beneath the gentle waves. When I surface, I'm completely soaked. "Oh, you'll pay for that, Rick."
"Looking forward to it." He belly-flops into the water, spraying it over me. Shaking his drenched head, he grins. "Let's race to that rock over there."
He points toward a boulder that sits half-submerged maybe fifty feet from the shore.