He trails his finger up my thigh, sending little shocks of awareness through me. “Trust me, sweetheart. I fully intend to do just that.”
A private jet makes traveling much more comfortable, but even my husband cannot change the speed at which the earth rotates and jets fly. Which means that even though we flew from Los Angeles to the Bahamas in fabulous comfort, it is so late by the time we get to Nassau and then to Serafina that we barely even look at our bungalow before we peel off our clothes and fall into the soft warm bed that dominates the master suite.
Morning, however, is a completely different story. I am awakened by the sun streaming in through the open windows. The ocean is just steps away, and even though I know that this is a resort, with the exception of Damien’s voice filtering in from the next room, I can hear nothing that even hints at other people on this island.
Nothing except Jamie’s voice, that is.
Jamie?
I frown and pull on one of the robes that hangs on a hook by my side of the bed, then head out of the bedroom to figure out why my best friend is inside my romantic getaway bungalow.
I realize soon enough that she’s not, of course. Just her voice over a speaker and her face on Damien’s computer screen.
I stand in the doorway, out of view of both of them, and listen as my best friend tells my husband that he’s being an idiot.
“You can’t pay, Damien. You never do that shit.”
“I have my reasons, Jamie.”
“What, you mean Nikki? No way does she want you to pay.”
“Nikki is part of it, yes. But so are you. Have you considered that I don’t want to see that footage of you spread all over the internet?”
I can see her face and the screen, and for a moment she looks touched. But the expression fades quickly. “I can deal,” she says. “Seriously, you think I want that on me, knowing that you’re caving—why you’re caving? Trust me, I can handle it. I mean, dealing with shit like this is practically my hobby.”
“My mind’s made up.”
“You’re an idiot, Damien. I’m allowed to say that now because Nikki’s like my sister, so that makes you like my brother.”
“Fine. As your brother, I’m allowed to hang up on you. And that’s what I’m doing now, Jamie.”
She starts to protest, but he closes the screen. He sits for a moment, and though he doesn’t turn in my direction, he reaches back and holds out his hand to me.
I walk to him and twine my fingers with his. “She’s right, you know,” I say quietly. “You pay to keep the tape from being released, and it’s never going to end.”
“It will end when I find whoever’s behind this,” he says darkly. “And I promise it won’t end well. In the meantime, I will take care of the people I love.” He turns to look at me. “Tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I like it. And I hate that it hurts you.”
He stands, then kisses me. “In that case, you know how I feel. Let’s leave it aside for now. I want to enjoy this time with my wife. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Despite the fact that staying in our own private bungalow on our own private beach sounds deliciously romantic, we both want to explore. After all, Damien and I did the private island thing recently. Now we want to check out the spa, the bar, possibly even the tennis court.
“This section of the island is limited to couples and spa guests,” Damien says as we walk down a path that runs along the beach. “It has its own shops, bars, sporting activities. There’s a reef not far offshore. We can go snorkeling later if you’d like.”
“That sounds fun,” I say. “So long as snorkeling doesn’t trump spa-ing.”
“Never,” he promises.
“And that’s why I love you,” I trill.
We spend the rest of the walk making a list of the things we want to do for the rest of the day, and I’ve just added long bubble bath in the Jacuzzi tub when we arrive at the restaurant.
It’s buffet style, and as the hostess leads us to our table, I think of one thing we didn’t factor into our plans. “By the way, when are you meeting the architect?”
“Not sure. I left a message for him this morning, but he hasn’t called back.”
“Probably out snorkeling,” I quip. “Or maybe he’s just having a late breakfast,” I amend, then nod across the room toward the omelet station where a dark-haired man waits in line. “That’s him, isn’t it? That’s Jackson Steele?”
His back is to me, but the commanding presence I’d seen in the photograph is more apparent in real life. It’s a presence I’m intimately familiar with, as Damien has the same air about him.
“That’s him,” Damien confirms. “Come on.”
He’s still in line as we approach, and Damien steps in next to him. “Jackson Steele,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Damien Stark.”