Stripped

The wind gusts, blowing strands of hair into my face, and before I can tuck them behind my ear he does it for me. A strangely intimate gesture that makes me hold my breath. Then again, we’re still holding hands so he’s just being helpful. It’s all rather bizarre.

His fingertips graze my earlobe and I gasp as a bolt of unexpected longing shoots through me. They drift lower, along my neck, my jaw, tracing the curve of my cheek. It’s like he’s trying to commit me to memory, which is ludicrous. I’m far from memorable.

His fingertips are roughened, calloused almost. They prickle my skin, setting nerve endings alight. My breathing becomes laboured, shorter, as he steps closer and I can smell him. Not aftershave exactly but a clean, crisp citrus blended with something subtler. Body wash? Shaving cream? Whatever it is, I want to devour it. Him. Whatever.

This is so wrong. I need to step away. Now. I swear my brain computes the instruction but my feet don’t co-operate. So I try a few deep breaths. Wrong move. Catastrophic, as that citrus blend fills my lungs, sending messages to the rest of me, messages like ‘you need to taste him now’.

I will him to move away, to be the sane one for both of us. Instead, he edges closer and I’m gone. Falling headlong into a monumentally stupid decision I know I’ll regret but I’m powerless to stop.

I step even closer.

Filled with a daring I rarely possess, I eyeball him. I can’t read his expression. The angle of the moon has cast his face in shadows. But he hasn’t moved, his hand still cupping my cheek, and I know I have to do this before I chalk it up to yet another regret in my life.

Standing on tiptoes, I press my lips to his. Gently. Tentatively. Testing him. Me. I have no freaking clue.

He angles his head and I can’t hold back. The alcohol has loosened my usual constraints and I’m a woman possessed.

I plaster myself against him and start to kiss him in earnest. Our mouths open and the first touch of his tongue on mine makes me moan. He takes control, deepening the kiss to the point where I can’t breathe. I don’t care. I want more.

His hands caress my back in a long, slow sweep, like he’s exploring every bump of my vertebrae, before he squeezes my ass. It makes me a little crazy. I hook a leg around his waist, eager to get closer. My head’s spinning a little, whether from the alcohol or his expert kisses I have no idea.

His hand slides from my ass along my thigh. My maxi dress has hiked up and when he grazes the skin behind my knee I tremble. It makes me pause. What the hell am I doing, making out with Hart Rochester on a beach, flinging myself at him like I’m more than ready to lie down on the sand and spread my legs?

It’s a sobering thought, screwing up a campaign I need to go well, and I’m not sure if he senses my reluctance or I pull away first but suddenly we’re apart and I’m smoothing my dress down, heat making my cheeks burn.

‘That was unacceptable on so many levels.’ My voice is husky and I clear it. ‘I’m sorry for being unprofessional.’

I expect him to say the same. Instead, he says, ‘Let’s head back.’

There’s no inflection in his tone, no hint of annoyance or anger. Like the last few minutes never happened.

Regret, quickly tempered with mortification, makes me turn away before he can see how his curt dismissal adds to my embarrassment. Crazy, because it’s not his fault: I flung myself at him. But with him behaving like that make-out session never happened I’m thrust back into a familiar role of taking whatever is dished out. I don’t like it.

So I break into a jog, desperate to get away and nurse my humiliation in peace.

He calls out, ‘Hey, Daisy, wait up,’ but I don’t stop. I keep going.

I’m done looking back.

CHAPTER THREE

Hart

I SHOULD GO after Daisy. Smooth things over, placate her, give her a spiel about how the kiss meant nothing, to forget it.

Instead, I stand here with a dumbass grin on my face.

I know why I deliberately provoked her into that kiss. I’ve done it my entire life, since my dad dumped me in the foster system: push people to the edge so they can hate me first.

With Daisy, it backfired, big time.

I’d had a hard-on since I first saw her sprawled on the sand, her ass in the air. It’s why I accepted her invitation for a walk even after she revealed her identity and I knew we’d be working together.

For me, our transient working relationship is perfect, because even if I do fuck her like I want to—the insistent throb in my dick won’t let up—it won’t mean anything. Just the way I like it.

So I needled her, accepting her invitation for a walk when I knew she’d hate me for it because I should know better considering our impending working relationship. I expected her to bristle, to push me away, to be appalled. The part where she reacted by flinging herself at me? Not in the plan.

Fuck, she was a turn-on. A confident woman not afraid to go after what she wants, even if that happens to be me, the guy working alongside her for the next few weeks.

I should go after her and try to salvage the wreckage of this unexpected night before we meet in the morning. Put her at ease. But then I remember the way she devoured me, the way she felt me up, and my damn face feels like it’s going to crack with my smug grin.

I’m rock hard, my balls throbbing. If all my blood hadn’t drained south I’d use half a brain cell and go after her, if only with the intention to invite her back to my room to finish what we started.

I watch her fleeing up the beach until she reaches the resort gates and enters. Only then do I follow at a sedate pace.

My grin fades the closer I get to the resort, the weight of what I’m facing in the upcoming weeks making my feet drag.

I’m nobody’s saviour, least of all Pa’s. But this hotel business is his legacy and, for reasons I can only blame on declining health, profit margins for his pride and joy have plummeted.

I need to change all that.

It’s the least I can do before I fuck off again.

Several couples stroll past, so wrapped up in each other they don’t notice me. A family, husband and wife, with twin boys about seven, are laughing by the water’s edge, kicking at the incoming waves, sending sea spray high into the air, drenching each other.

It’s late, the kids should be in bed, but as I watch the family having fun with a complete disregard for so-called society norms on child-raising, an ache starts in my chest and spreads outwards.

The complete innocence of the boys disarms me; their complete trust in their parents. I had that once. An expectation that the adults responsible for me would be dependable; an illusion ripped away the first time I got whacked across the side of the head for taking the last piece of bread, age three.

And the next time, when my dad took a belt to my butt for accidentally knocking over his beer bottle, I was four.

And the next, when a social worker didn’t believe me when I told her I was locked in a cupboard at night so I wouldn’t sneak off, I was six and in my first foster home.

I learned after that. Adults would never look after me. They would never hug me or care for me or love me.

So I did my best to make them hate me.

It ensured I didn’t get close to anyone. Knowing my shoddy behaviour would have the desired result was the one thing I could control in a crumbling world I despised.

I never trusted anyone and despite how hard Pa tried, I couldn’t let him into that hidden part of me, the part of me that wondered would he, too, eventually cast me aside.

One of the boys lets out a squeal and it pierces my reminiscing. I blink, surprised by the dampness in my eyes.

Shit, I’m turning into a sissy. Tears are wasted. The only good thing my father taught me before he dumped me at Social Services was to ‘harden the fuck up’. Apparently a snivelling five-year-old had never been in his plans after my mum shot through shortly after my birth. I’m surprised the mean prick kept me around that long.

With a shake of my head, I turn my back on the happy family and head for the resort. I have a shitload of work to do and the sooner I get started, the sooner I can leave this place and its unwelcome, maudlin memories behind.

CHAPTER FOUR

Daisy

MY HEAD HURTS. I shouldn’t have drunk those cocktails last night. I shouldn’t have done a lot of things, starting with downing those Gorgeous Gems like cordial and ending with snogging Hart Rochester on the beach.

I have a presentation to nail shortly and the painkillers I took with OJ half an hour ago haven’t kicked in. Facing Hart after I practically mounted him will be hard enough without the drummer boy in my head practising his cymbal crashes.

I’ve done my research. I’m prepared. But unless I can pretend that kiss never happened, I’m in deep doo-doo.

I never should’ve run away. He called out to me too and I didn’t stop. I acted like some crazy hormonal teen when I should’ve been mature and blasé, as he was.

Adults kiss all the time. We were attracted, we gave into it, shit happens. But by running away like some mortified ingénue, I made more of it rather than dismissing it as a casual sexual impulse.

Maybe I can joke about it when I see him shortly. Something witty and fabulous that will clear the air and ensure he takes me seriously when I present my plans to him.

Only one problem: I can’t think of one goddamn thing to say beyond, ‘I’m an idiot for flinging myself at you but you’re a great kisser.’

Nope, not going to happen. I would’ve been nervous before this meeting regardless because I’m always like this before a presentation. Edgy and tense despite knowing I’ve considered every contingency.

My plans to promote this resort on Gem Island are foolproof. Starting with getting the new CEO, a renowned recluse, on board with a major social media ad campaign. It won’t be easy convincing him. If anything, the disparaging media surrounding the hotel giant’s fall from grace makes my job harder.

Ralfe Rochester’s failing health fails his shareholders.

The prodigal grandson returns to manage the teetering family business.

Has the Rochester empire lost its Hart?

I’m up for the challenge, but Hart’s minimal experience in this business and his lack of an online social profile means I’m in for a fight.

Hart needs me but what he doesn’t know is that I need him just as badly. I need a final gold star on my CV before I consider going out on my own. I want to be the woman who puts Rochester Hotels and Gem Island back on the tourism map.

Starting now.

Tucking my portfolio and laptop tighter under my arm, I shut the door to my villa and follow the frangipani-lined stone path to the main building. Reception staff smile in greeting as I traverse the polished stone tiles. Lush palms in terracotta pots are placed alongside cream and cobalt cushioned cane sofas. Floral arrangements featuring local tropical flowers—the Queensland Black Orchid, the Powderpuff Lilly-Pilly and the Giant Palm Lily—throw splashes of colour, adding to the overall sense of understated elegance.

It won’t take much to make this place noticeable amid the plethora of Whitsunday resorts. The owner may be another story. While Kevin gave me a rundown of the basics over the phone I garnered more information from what he didn’t say than what he did.

Hart will be a challenge. His email responses to mine have been terse. I expect my clients to be more forthcoming, especially when we’ll be working together.

I’m about to knock on a glass door leading to the office area when the concierge nearby waves me through.

‘He’s waiting for you.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, with a quick glance at my watch. I’m ten minutes early so I hope Hart values punctuality. With nerves making my knees wobble at our first confrontation since the awkwardness of last night, I need all the brownie points I can get.

The door to the sole office is open so I knock and push it when I hear a short, sharp, ‘Come in.’

Taking a steadying breath, I fix a smile on my face and enter the office.

To discover Hart Rochester glaring at me with ill-concealed disapprobation.

His disapproval washes over me and the blood drains from my face. I can’t move. My feet are soldered to the floor as embarrassment swamps me.

So much for witty banter to dismiss what happened last night.

A deep frown slashes his brow as he waves me in. ‘Come in, Daisy, and let’s get started.’

For a warped second I flashback to last night and think of the many ways we can get started. Before giving myself a mental slap upside the head.

I need to nail this job. Not this client.

I had my whole intro spiel worked out as I crossed the lobby on my way to his office. Something along the lines of, ‘That was bizarre what happened last night, me running off like that after a kiss that meant nothing. So let’s get down to work.’

But if he exuded powerful sexual vibes last night, I’m totally disarmed by seeing him again. He’s wearing a crisp pale blue shirt, with the top two buttons undone and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt is tight, like his impressive torso doesn’t like being confined, and I can’t help but remember how hard those muscles felt last night.

His hair is tousled and it’s lighter than I thought: a lovely sorrel brown with caramel streaks from the sun rather than a hairdresser’s foil.

And those vivid indigo eyes...damn, even if they radiate condemnation, they’re striking.

I settle for a lame, ‘I’m looking forward to working with you.’

One of his eyebrows rises, imperious and condescending, like he seriously doubts my work ethic after last night.

I don’t blame him as I cross the office and place my paraphernalia on the desk. He’s silent, meaning I’ll have to broach the awkwardness of last night.

I try to come up with something droll and light-hearted when he says, ‘Last night was an anomaly. You need to forget it. I have.’

Right. Got the message loud and clear. Asshole.

Totally unfair, because that’s exactly what I want him to do, but his curt dismissal irks more than it should.

When he continues to stare at me, for a horrifying second I wonder if I spoke out loud. But he gestures at the seat opposite and I try not to collapse into it in relief.

‘I’ve taken a look at the preliminaries you emailed and I have some questions.’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’ I clasp my hands in my lap, doing my best to appear cool and professional, while all I can think is, You are the hottest guy I’ve ever kissed.

‘The PR campaign for the resort is clear-cut but I need clarification on your ideas for making the brand more marketable.’ He jabs a finger at my portfolio. ‘You mentioned a more elaborate presentation? Do you want to run through it before I work through my questions?’

‘Yes.’ I sound like an idiot, answering with a monosyllabic affirmative, so I busy myself flipping open my laptop and trying to ignore his impenetrable stare.

He’s making me uncomfortable, staring at me like he can’t work me out. Join the club. How can he dismiss that kiss last night like it meant nothing?

Technically, it did, a random brief hook-up between two adults on a moonlit beach that probably happens every night of the week on an island like this; an unfortunate blip in our upcoming working relationship, a moment of cocktail-driven madness. So what was his excuse?

‘You’re overthinking this.’

My fingers stall on the keyboard as I’m bringing up my presentation. He’s undermined me with his casual observation.

‘Aren’t you the least bit uncomfortable?’

I throw it out there, expecting him to shut me down. Then again, he’s the one who’s brought it up again and I’d rather confront the invisible tap-dancing elephant in the room than have to work in this tension-fraught environment for the foreseeable future.

‘Maybe.’ He shrugs, drawing his business shirt taut across his broad shoulders. ‘But it happened. We can’t change it. So what’s the point of overanalysing it? We’re adults. We acted on impulse. Why worry?’

I’m not worried, other than by an insistent hankering to do more than kiss him, and I can’t help but look at his lips and remember how they felt moving against mine.

‘Don’t do that,’ he says, his voice barely above a low growl.

‘Do what?’

I muster my best innocent act when in fact I’m slightly peeved. He wants to dismiss the kiss, fine. But there’s something in his tone that makes me feel belittled when it was pretty damn fantastic.

‘Stare at me like you want a repeat.’

He’s saying all the right things but I glimpse hunger in his eyes, a desire that matches my own. Crap, we’re in trouble. For despite our protestations there’s a powerful undercurrent between us. I can feel it, an insistent throb where I want him most.

I wriggle in my seat. It doesn’t ease. Yep, trouble. So I settle for funny to ease the tension between us. I hold up my palm and mimic writing on it. ‘Got it. Memo to Daisy. No more kissing hot guys on the beach.’

His eyes blaze with lust and I clench my thighs together, swamped with a ferocious heat like I’ve stepped too close to a smouldering volcano. After a long pause, he drawls, ‘Nice to know you think I’m hot.’

That’s the problem with being a smart-ass. Sometimes my mouth runs ahead of my brain. I should’ve omitted the part about him being hot.

‘What I think is you need me to make you look good so let’s start.’

‘I need you to make this resort look good.’ He leans forward, rests his forearms on the desk, smug and insufferable. ‘I’m doing just fine without your help.’

Heat creeps into my cheeks, scorching and utterly embarrassing. I should’ve turned tail and run the moment I entered this office. But I need to ensure this job is the best work I’ve ever done and if that means battling wits with this inscrutable man, I’ll do it.

Maybe I’m playing this all wrong? If I acknowledge what happened in a fun way, perhaps we can move on to work?

‘Look, we really need to move past this. I acted on impulse last night, something I never do, and it was a kiss, nothing major.’ His eyes widen, as if he can’t believe I’m being so blunt. ‘As for the debate regarding your hotness, I’m not in the habit of kissing random guys I just meet. I ended my engagement a year ago and haven’t dated much, so considering the way we went at it last night I guess my libido classifies you as hot even if I don’t want to acknowledge it myself.’

That’s another thing that happens when I’m floundering. Verbal diarrhoea. It’s too late to take it all back and he’s gaping at me in open-mouthed shock.

I bite my bottom lip and start typing, bringing up my presentation. ‘Now we’ve got all that uncomfortableness out of the way, let’s get to work.’

I could kiss him—again—when he nods. But he doesn’t stop staring during my entire spiel and I’ve never been more grateful for my obsession with preparation, because if I didn’t have slides I wouldn’t have been able to speak.

I blather about social media campaigns and photo shoots and upgrading websites. I manage to sound halfway intelligent but the intensity of his stare is unnerving.

When I give my final spiel about a newsletter blitz to tourism boards around the world, I’m ready to snap my laptop shut and bolt.

‘Your work is excellent.’ He steeples his fingers and rests them on the desk in front of him, channelling a guy double his age. ‘But you can forget about doing most of what you just said.’

I struggle to hide my shock. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I won’t do it.’

With those four little words, I realise I’m in for the fight of my life.

CHAPTER FIVE

Hart

THE POCKET ROCKET is gaping at me in a most unladylike manner. Her hazel eyes glitter, the gold and green flecks glowing like cut glass when she’s angry. I saw it earlier, when I dismissed that kiss as nothing. A crock of shit considering the memory kept me up all night.

When she walked into my office full of bright-eyed optimism I was stunned by the irrational urge to bend her over my desk. I don’t give in to impulse as a rule so the fact her boldness bamboozled me last night into making out on the beach had already put me on edge this morning. But I’d chalked it up to a brief encounter that meant little, until Daisy strutted in here and I remembered exactly how good she tasted...

I hid my reaction well. I’m a master of the poker face. No one can get a read on me. Only Pa has ever seen the real me—to a point.

How he had the patience to coax my angry, recalcitrant sixteen-year-old self into a new life I’ll never know. After discovering my existence, a wiser man would’ve thrown money at the problem. But Pa insisted I live with him: sent me to the best school for the final two years of my studies, funded my university degree, gave me everything.

But all that didn’t make much of an impression: it was his unswerving faith in me, despite not really knowing me, that made me eventually trust him. I wish I’d realised it sooner and that I’d had the guts to tell him.

‘What do you mean you won’t do it?’ She bristles like an indignant echidna, making her even cuter. Her honey-blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a loose topknot, to add extra height I assume. She’s five foot two max, with the kind of curves that beg for a man’s touch. I obliged for an all too brief time last night and now we’re working together I can’t touch her despite the urge to do just that.

It makes me extra tetchy. ‘Unless you’re hard of hearing, I mean exactly that. I won’t do social media. It’s not my thing, posting nonsensical, egotistical garbage for all the world to see in the hope of making people “like my brand”.’

I make those annoying inverted comma signs with my fingers that I hate. ‘And I’m not doing photo shoots to promote the resort. Focus on the scenery, the ocean, the island, the resort’s many drawcards, that’s it.’

I jab a finger in her direction. ‘And no way in hell will you get me doing live podcasts or videoconferencing on the beach.’

If she was bristling after my initial refusal she’s practically livid now. A vibrant pink stains her cheeks, making her eyes glow even more, and her hands are clenched so tightly I can see her knuckles pop where she’s resting them on the desk.

When she forces a sickly-sweet smile, I know I’m not going to like what she says next. ‘That’s a pity, considering you were more than willing to do other stuff on the beach last night.’

Wham. She’s hit me in a weak spot: my foolish attraction to her. It’s wrong, fantasising about this woman, especially when she’s working under me.

Fuck, bad analogy, and my dick hardens.

I have to admit, she’s gutsy. A lesser woman would back down and defer to me because of my wealth and status. I’m the CEO of fifteen five-star hotels around the country and the media have been all over the story of Pa’s passing and my return home to fill his proverbial shoes. It’s why I hired this PR firm—because reports haven’t been favourable.

The media dug into Pa’s health decline and the accompanying effect on the hotels, making wrongful assumptions and generally painting him as an incompetent old fool who wouldn’t move into the twenty-first century. Bookings at all the hotels plummeted as a result, as if morons think the hotels will close their doors unexpectedly at any minute. Gem Island has taken the worst hit and considering it was always Pa’s favourite, it jolted me into doing something proactive.

Enter Daisy Adler, with her too-tight black power suit better suited to a city glass tower, her immaculate make-up, her towering stilettos and those expressive eyes that sucked me into a vortex I have no intention of going near again.