by L. B. Dunbar
Table of Contents
Other Books by L.B. Dunbar
Inspiration
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Connect with the Author
About the Author
Redemption Island
Copyright © 2017 Laura Dunbar
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
Cover Design: Shannon Passmore/Shanoff Formats
Cover Image: Stocksy
Edits: Kiezha Smith Ferrell/Librum Artis Editorial Services
Table of Contents
Other Books by L.B. Dunbar
Inspiration
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Thank You
Connect with the Author
Other Works by L.B. Dunbar
About the Author
Other Books by L.B. Dunbar
The Sensations Collection
Sound Advice
Taste Test
Fragrance Free
Touch Screen
Sight Words
The Legendary Rock Star Series
The Legend of Arturo King
The Story of Lansing Lotte
The Quest of Perkins Vale
The Truth of Tristan Lyons
Paradise Stories
Paradise Tempted: The Beginning
Paradise Fought: Abel
Paradise Found: Cain
The Sex Education of M.E.
The History in Us
Inspiration
“If you succeed in judging yourself rightly, then you are indeed a man of true wisdom.”
- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
Prologue
The Island Sees You
Terrence Jackson Corbin IV understood right from wrong. He’d been doing right his whole life, until one day he chose wrongly. He didn’t know why he did it, only that he did. He wanted to be something other than who he was. For one night, he wanted reckless and meaningless and bad. But sometimes bad goes too far, and he had pushed that limit. He’d crossed it actually, and the result faced him.
Tack, the name he took for himself, stared at the island over the bow of the racing boat. Secluded, lush, and bursting with greenery, the sensuous curve of the natural landscape ahead seduced him. He’d spend one year in this place—alone. He longed for the solitude. His world had grown too chaotic, and he’d take this penance. Banishment. Reflection. However, the board wanted to dress this up, it was what it was—punishment. He had to face the consequences of his crime, and an alternative process of justice was provided. Father had friends in high places.
Jail time in the family story wasn’t an option for the opulent Corbin family. No, the token son—the only son, the single, blessed child—could not face such a heinous mark on his resume, despite the cruelty of his crime.
A year off, his mother muttered through the over-Botoxed, pinched smile forcibly plastered on her pristine face. She’d never look at him the same again. She’d never forgive him in the name of womanhood, but her devotion to her husband and the wealth of his income kept her silent to her true feelings.
A year to discover what’s important, his father sternly emphasized, narrowing his green eyes, the same eyes that graced his own face. His father believed a year without modern conveniences and frivolous amenities would remind Tack of the privilege he had. It would also remind him that his father had the power to heartlessly squash him like an annoying insect.
A year of reflection, the softly spoken restoration coach had interjected. Tack thanked the heavens and lucky stars for the intervention of his father’s lawyers and their assistants to find an alternative to prison. Tack could admit he’d never survive becoming the bitch to another man. His pampered life emanated from his pores, and he sensed that a sex-starved inmate could smell his weakness a mile down a dusty road. On the other hand, no one understood the injustice Tack had already endured. He’d learned to fight back, but more often with words than his fists. It wouldn’t help him in an eight-by-six cement room with a metal cage for a door.
The island drew closer as the bow cut through the Caribbean waters. Tack smiled to himself, inhaling the allure of a tropical paradise before him. He’d been warned. There was no resort here. No swimming pool or weight room. No daily spa or five-course meal. No unlimited bar. This would be only Tack and nature. He laughed. He didn’t need those glorified amenities. He needed to be alone. He wanted to get away. A year on an island by himself sounded heavenly. Five-star accommodations or not, this punishment would be a piece of cake.
+ +
Juliet Montmore had nothing left. Everything had been stripped from her on that fateful night. A crime committed against her, so heinous, so vile, nothing remained of who she was or who she wanted to be. The little she had before, the short distance she’d come, all disappeared that night. Innocent, curious, unsuspecting, she’d followed like the lost sheep she once had been. But she was no longer easily tamed. Her inner wolf sprung free. Her crime had been justified for the one done to her.
She stared forward as the bite of ocean spray nipped at her face. She closed her eyes with the sense of freedom. Three months in a detention center had done things to her. It built her strength. It restored her desire. She’d never be taken advantage of again. The thought held her head higher. She refused to wobble with the bounce of the metal craft over reckless water. Her good behavior had paid off.
A one
year experiment, her mentor offered her as compensation for her detainment. Time was needed to prove the justification of her release. The social worker for women’s rights wanted to prove Juliet hadn’t displeased any god. A man had done what he’d done to Juliet. Her response was warranted. His life for hers.
A year to repent, her uncle suggested, shaking his greasy-haired head and lowering his eyes. The solicitous gaze under those lids hinted that she’d deserved what happened and expressed his sorrow that he hadn’t been the one to think of it. Or perhaps, he had, only he didn’t act on his fantasy. Tormented her, yes, but acted, never. How sorry he’d have been if he had, as her actions had proved.
A year to restore, the masculine voice of the Native American liaison interjected. Rich in cultural heritage, the concept of circle justice had reached a modern age of restoration for sins. Whatever one does to another has to be rectified to find inner peace. Juliet did want that peace, so the concept of being alone appeased her. Her thoughts haunted her, but the idea of being away from her limited family, people who were no longer willing to be her friend, and the dreams she had lost, sounded appealing. A year on an island—alone—sounded heavenly.
The engine cut, the speed lowered, and the metal skiff drew forward into a small bay surrounded by an alcove of trees hovering over the water’s edge. The sudden fragrance of sweet fruit and salt air was intoxicating. Juliet did not fear the lack of modern amenities. She’d been raised on scraps, provided with little clothing, and discouraged of her dreams. She was a survivor. She could hunt and trap, fish and find berries. A small shelter was provided for her protection from the elements and the concept of having her own place, a space to be free, seemed like a fantasy. Repentant for sin or not, this tropical haven was the religious revival she needed. She’d atone in the sun, bask in freedom, and hold no regret for the evil she’d done.
1
Day 1 - Tack
After the motor boat sped away, I stood surrounded by four giant trunks. I had every survival item imaginable for a luxurious camping trip, but all I wanted was to find the hammock designed to hang from trees. I wasn’t going to waste a moment of my paradise banishment. Wiggling my bare toes in the sand was step one. A nap in the shady heat would be my second act.
The only information I had about this place was its isolation and reported safety, meaning, it was relatively free of inhabitants other than monkeys, birds, and some giant-sized insects. I didn’t worry about food, as provisions were promised to be delivered, and a botanical guide had been provided to help me decipher plant life. My father thought living below my means would be an excellent lesson in humility. I scoffed at the thought. What did he know about being humble?
“There are people less fortunate than you, Tack. You’re wasting what’s been provided for you.” The statement sounded callous and clinical, not surprising from an unfeeling man who lacked emotion. He knew nothing about tenderness. Born the first son to a prominent family, tracing their history back to the original settlers of America, pride ran deep in the blue blood within our family’s veins. My father was the poster child of privilege generating prosperity. Only he didn’t follow the common philosophy of those well-off to be generous. My father hoarded his dollars, dispensing funds with a calculated purpose. He often commented that I wasted his hard-earned money.
I laughed again at the thought. My father’s money came from money before him and would exist long after me if I didn’t squander it like my father warned. Terrence Jackson Corbin III was full of cautionary advice for his son, Terrence Jackson Corbin IV. His biggest suggestion: Don’t get caught. So when I did, the expense was more a disappointment than the crime committed.
As to that crime, billionaire Terror Corbin, as he was known among the industrial elite, didn’t even blink at the accusation. What was the taking of a woman against her will to him? Certainly not the legally termed word—rape. No, to my father, women demanded respect at all times, unless they acted in a disrespectful manner. Then, any means necessary was the measure—force being preferable. I shuddered at the thought. Visions flashed before me, hazed and muted. The sight shimmery. The scent scintillating. The scream sadistic.
I bent for a trunk, willing my mind to let go of the images and begin my adventure. The first thing I needed to do was find higher ground within the brush for my shelter, a safari style pop-up tent, complete with four-ply canvas protection from the predicted rains. I set to work, happy with the distraction.
+ +
A week into my banishment, I couldn’t stand myself. I swam in the warmth of the crystal-clear Caribbean waters. I snorkeled like a pro discovering the beauty within the sea. I built a sandcastle like a child and slept on the beach under the blanket of stars, but I was bored out of my mind. Beginning to talk to myself, I worried I’d be making friends with a volleyball soon. If only I had one.
“As long as you don’t decide to fuck it as well, you’ll be good,” I spoke to myself in second-person as if I might answer me.
I decided I needed to explore my surroundings better, learn the lay of the land like a voyager or the frontiers in the heritage of my family. Traditional compass in hand, I’d struggled through the week without electronic devices doing all the work for me. Nothing predicted the weather. No channels to surf for information on stocks or bonds or business in general. No GPS to point the direction for me. Holding the instrument securely in my palm, I trekked forward, marking my trail as I walked, making mental notes as I went in order to find my way back.
This was all her fault, I thought as I trekked. If she’d kept her mouth shut. If she hadn’t gone after Rick. If the tape was never exposed, I wouldn’t be on this island. My restoration coach, Garvey Edwin, was a graying-haired Native American who said I blamed everyone else for my predicament. What did he know? He wasn’t there. He didn’t feel the pressure to do as Rick said. He hadn’t wanted to be a member of the club. The Front Door’s secret society required what had been asked of me. I hadn’t given it a thought, only acted. It was her fault she didn’t play along.
I can’t say I hiked more than a mile over rooted terrain and under lush foliage canopy when I came upon a natural spring and the rushing sound of a waterfall. The setting was picturesque—cascading white caps, crystal clear water, and a subtle ripple pressing outward. I wished I had a phone to capture the image, if only partially. Scanning the curtain of water as it fell from feet above to be captured in the filled rock basin, I discovered movement under the stream.
Suddenly a creature popped upward, startling me despite my concentration on the moving current. A dark head of slicked back hair rocketed upward as the upper body of the most peaceful, beautiful creature I’d ever seen appeared like a sea nymph released from the water. Rivulets of liquid caressed a solid, feminine back, licking sun-kissed skin. She spun and two delicious globes of perfection pointed at me. Each stood at attention, ripe to peaked-perfection and emphasized with the lushness of rosy nipples. Swiping back the sopping hair, delicate fingers caressed over a wet face of chiseled cheeks leaving behind an expression of calm serenity. Then lazy lids lifted and violet beams glared up at me. Startled, she screamed. And I recognized her instantly.
2
Day 7 - Juliet
Paralyzed for a moment in my shock, several things transpired in the wake of sixty seconds. My eyes pierced the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. A testament to glory and ancient gods, he stood on the edge of a rocky cliff, one knee bent upward as if staking his claim on a piece of land discovered solely by him. His hands hung at his sides in solid fists. The bulge to his long arms exuded strength. His hair was dark brown and mussed as if thick fingers recently combed through the strands, the tips kissed with sun-bleach. His eyes trained on my chest, dark and hollow in a face chipped as if by an expert in woodcraft, held me in place in my watery haven.
And then, I screamed.
The expression of his hard face transformed before me. His eyes opened wide. His mouth fell open. Startled. It was the only description of
the look on his perfect face. And then it morphed, softening only briefly. His eyes flicked—the subtle motion a statement to something like recognition. Slowly his fists rose and unclenched, palms facing outward toward me. The sheer size of his mitts and the length of his fingers choked another scream from my throat. The second time, words followed.
“Go away.”
With the sound of my voice, his head snapped backward, the slightest knock as if I struck him. Dark orbs within his sockets softened again. Then his cheeks hardened, the impression of wood returning. A tick at his cheek hinted at the clenching of back teeth. His eyes remained focused on my breasts, and my nipples tightened at the heat he exuded. I told myself it was the refreshing water still trickling off me, exposing my skin to the gentle air above the surface. I let him stare for just seconds before slapping my arms over my chest, tucking my hands under my pits. A shiver followed the movement, but it wasn’t excitement that filled me.
It was fear.
And I refused to let it take me.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I yelled as if he was a dog that could be chased away with words. He blinked and that wooden stare roamed my body. It felt lurid and luscious like a long lick, but I refused to acknowledge the tingle of pleasure. I denied it could exist in me.
“Get. The. Fuck. Away from me,” I bellowed again, beginning to wonder if he was hard of hearing. Then wondering what he was doing on this island. The place was abandoned. I’d been told it would only be me. Small creatures, possibly. Millions of bugs, probably. But another human? Absolutely not.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” A hoarse voice, tired and croaking from lack of use broke through the echo of my final demand. A tiny memory pricked at my brain, like a needle attempting to pop a balloon. Not quite through the surface of latex, my memory pressed back in resistance, refusing to allow penetration while it absorbed the sting. The hint drifted.