Chapter 2
I haven’t taken a vacation in five years. Not because I can’t, but because work is my preferred escape from the shitshow that I call “my family”. Case in point: my mother is currently preparing to walk down the aisle for the third time in as many years, and I’ve had more than enough front-row seats to her matrimonial chaos for one lifetime.
Instead of allowing herself to work through the grief of my father’s untimely passing, my mother has done her best to fill the void his death left in her life.
But her best is a fucking abomination.
When the ‘save the date’ landed last month—complete with a glitter border and a photo of her latest fiancé, Doug, photoshopped to look twenty pounds lighter—I got Belle, my PA, to book the jet out of the country before she could even contemplate asking me to give her away—again. No, I’ll leave that honour to Luke, my little brother. He might squeeze in the wedding in-between filling his face with cocaine and squandering his inheritance on fast cars and loose women. So far, his bachelor’s in business has pretty much gone to waste. If he pulled his head out of his ass, he could help run our family’s hotels, instead of hindering the business by being publicly hauled to rehab. It wouldn’t be so bad if he stayed in the damn place and actually got clean. But no—he always signs himself out the first chance he gets and immediately starts snorting again.
I glance around the luxurious resort in the Dominican Republic. It doesn’t have a patch on Hartmann Hotels—nothing does—but it has a certain level of lavishness, and it’s well maintained. Sunlight glints off the infinity pool like scattered diamonds. The water is so blue it almost appears filtered. Palm leaves rustle overhead in a lazy breeze. The scent of salt, sunscreen and tropical fruit seeps through the air.
The balmy heat soaks into my shoulders and chest, painting a sheen of sweat along my torso as I spread out on one of the plush daybeds beside the infinity pool.
Did Belle think I wanted a honeymoon destination? Admittedly, I instructed her to book a place I wouldn’t be recognised, but this—this is romantic, intimate even. Half the damn guests are walking around with fucking hearts in their eyes. Loved up couples lie entwined on the sun loungers beside me, exchanging heated kisses that promise primal activities to come.
Primal activities that I haven’t had time to even contemplate for the past year, let alone pursue. For fuck’s sake.
I stand and drop into the pool by the swim-up bar. The water is shockingly cool against my sun-scorched skin. I order a Macallan from the barman, and rest an elbow on the stone bar briefly before jerking it away. Mother fucker! I could fry a steak on that fucking thing.
‘Ice?’ The barman holds up my whiskey. I’d never normally ruin a good whiskey by diluting it, but in this heat, I’ll dehydrate if I don’t.
‘Sure.’ I nod, pushing my sunglasses up higher on my nose.
He drops in one giant cube and hands over the glass. I sign it to my suite—The Celeste Suite, the resort’s most opulent suite and the only one with a rooftop hot tub. What are the chances of finding a woman to share it with me?
In the States, when women hear my name, they throw themselves at me, which is why Belle booked this reservation under an alias. I’m not naïve enough to think it’s me they’re after—not really. It’s the Hartmann legacy. The prestige. The empire.
The sad thing is, because of that, I’ll never know if a woman truly wants me or simply wants one of the Forbes top-one-hundred billionaires.
I’ve made my peace with that.
Unlike my mother, I’m not looking for matrimonial bliss.
But some decent company wouldn’t go amiss.
Someone real.
Someone interesting.
Someone with a spark about them.
I turn my back to the bar, training my eyes on the vast Caribbean Sea on the horizon, soaking in that iconic turquoise water, then raise my glass in a silent toast to the only man in my family who had any sense—my father.
I wish he could see the Dublin hotel. The casino. The bar. See that I’m continuing his legacy. Know that I will do whatever it takes to have his name—our name—lit up in bright neon lights in the city he called home.
I take a large sip, feeling the burn settle low in my chest.
An almighty splash from a few feet away sends a wave of water cascading in my direction. For fuck’s sake. My eyes narrow, then snap to the source.
‘Fuck,’ a woman in an indecently decent white bikini curses.
Fuck is right.
Because that’s all I can think about as my eyes rove over the tiny sculpting Lycra clinging to her womanly curves.
Her eyes are impossible to make out, hidden behind oversized sunglasses, but her face is utterly flawless. Delicate features. Chiselled cheek bones. Full red lips which roll into a pout as she battles to adjust to the temperature of the water.
The sight of her raised nipples sets the air whooshing from my chest.
She is stunning.
I drink in every detail as she glides towards me. Well, towards the bar, I suppose. Confidence rolls from her in undulating waves, and it’s equally as sexy as her long dark glossy locks—the ends of which brush enticingly over the swell of her generous breasts. My greedy eyes roam over them before dropping to her taut, tanned stomach. Her belly button is pierced. The stone glints in the sunlight like a five-carat diamond.
She’s young, there’s no doubt about it, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.
Yet her body language—her posture, and the way she carries herself screams that she is all woman.
My eyes flick to her left hand. No wedding ring. Well, well.
Is it possible that I’m not the only single ready to mingle at this ridiculously romantic resort? God knows my neglected dick is dancing at the mere prospect.
I sit back and watch as she drops into the seat beside me. She pretends not to notice me—most women do the opposite—but there’s something in the flick of her gaze, the twitch of her mouth, that tells me she clocked me the second she hit the water. She’s playing it cool. I respect that. Hell, I like it more than I should.
She’s probably too young for me. Or she would be, if I was a good man. But I’m not a good man. And I don’t even pretend to be. I’m the kind of man who sees something he wants and takes it.
And I want her.
I scan the perimeter looking for any sign of a boyfriend—or even a girlfriend, but everyone else is paired up.
I grin into my glass, but it freezes on my face the second she speaks to me.
‘Water ruins whiskey,’ she tuts, pushing her Chanel sunglasses up on top of her head. Striking ebony eyes, framed with thick, long lashes, fall to my drink.
Her accent takes me by surprise—I’d recognise that soft Dublin lilt anywhere. ‘Know a lot about whiskey, do you p>
She huffs out a long low laugh. ‘More than most p>
‘So you’re a fan of the hard stuff?’ I wink, flirtatiously.
I’m rewarded with another infectious bout of laughter. ‘Only when it’s hard, rich, and tastes exquisite.’ Fire dances in her irises.
Blood rushes below as an image of her cherry red lips wrapped around my dick highjacks my head.
‘Is that so?’ I knew this woman was something else the second I laid eyes on her. But in addition to being stunning, she’s sassy, with a smart mouth as well. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ I motion to the barman.
‘Are you offering to buy me a drink? Or are you trying to buy your way into my bikini bottoms?’ She arches a brow.
A deep chortle rumbles at the back of my throat. Busted. ‘Both p>
‘In that case, I think I’m safer getting my own.’ She arches a single eyebrow, smirks, and turns her attention to the barman. ‘An Old Fashioned, please. What kind of whisky do you have p>
The barman’s eyes stray to her chest. Irritation ripples down my spine.
Eventually, he picks his jaw up from the floor to answer. ‘Macallan, that okay p>
She wrinkles her nose. ‘I suppose it’ll have to do p>
‘What’s wrong with Macallan?’ I ask as the barman mixes her cocktail.
‘It’s Scotch,’ she says, twisting her body until she’s facing me. Her eyes linger for a beat too long on my lips. Is she imagining what they might feel like on hers? Does she feel the chemistry pulsing between us?
‘And let me guess, you prefer Irish?’ I twist my own body, until there are mere millimetres between our knees. Those deep chocolate eyes dart over my torso, and I’m suddenly grateful for Graham, my personal trainer, and the gruelling daily workouts he puts me through.
She shrugs as her eyes meet mine again. ‘When you’ve had the best, it’s hard to settle for anything less p>
That, I have to agree with. ‘What if you only think you’ve had the best?’ I cock my head to the side, dipping my face closer to hers deliberately. ‘What if you haven’t even tasted the best yet p>
‘Are we still talking about whiskey?’ Her lips curve upwards, and I get a flash of her perfect white smile. ‘Because it sounds suspiciously like something else p>
‘You have a dirty mind.’ Electricity buzzes between us.
‘So, what if I do?’ Her smile widens, and her irises flare with devilment.
‘What’s your name?’ I blurt.
‘Does it matter?’ She inches forward a fraction, and our knees touch. Despite the water, heat singes my skin, shooting straight up over my thighs, directly to my dick.
No, her name shouldn’t matter. In fact, not exchanging names is a bonus. At least then I don’t have to worry about her working out how to lock me and my billion dollar empire down.
‘No, it doesn’t.’ My eyes remain trained on her as I lift my glass to my lips. She’s right; the ice ruined the whiskey.
‘I didn’t come here for a deep and meaningful conversation,’ she drawls, dragging her knees from mine, and crossing her legs. Without the contact, my body feels bereft.
‘What did you come here for then?’ I shift in my seat, deliberately repositioning myself until my thigh touches hers again.
She jolts like she experienced the same intense sensation that shot through me. ‘Same as everyone—a break p>
‘From what p>
‘Work. Family. Expectations. Life in general.’ Her tongue darts out over the dip of her cupid’s bow. What I wouldn’t give for that to be my tongue. I bet she tastes sublime. Everywhere.
If I get my way, I’m going to find out.
‘I know the feeling p>
The server hands over her drink, along with the slip to sign the cheque to her suite. For some reason I find myself squinting at the receipt as she scribbles.
Shit. What now I’m like some sort of stalker?
Clearly, the heat is getting to me.
Or she is.
My attempts at glimpsing her name are futile. She snaps the leather bound receipt closed before I can ascertain a single thing about her.
Twisting her torso back to me, her eyes fixate on mine and my pulse spikes. I’ve never experienced attraction like it. ‘So do you come here often?’ She reaches for her cocktail. ‘To escape work, family, expectations and life in general p>
‘Careful, Irish. That sounds like a pickup line.’ I grin.
‘Irish?’ She inclines her head, and my focus falls to her slim elegant neck. What I wouldn’t do to mark it with my mouth. Mark her as mine for however long she’s here.
‘Well, I have to call you something seeing as we’re not exchanging names p>
‘Huh.’ She flicks her glossy hair from her shoulder. My gaze follows the motion, drinking in the smooth lines of her clavicle. ‘I suppose I’ve been called worse p>
‘By who?’ I inch closer until I’m a hair’s breath away from her. The scent of her citrus perfume floods my senses. I lower my voice. ‘I have connections—if you want them dealt with p>
She throws her head back then, her rich, throaty laugh echoes through the air again, attracting the attention of half the people in the pool. ‘Thanks for the offer, California, but, believe it or not, I have my own connections p>
‘California?’ My eyebrows furrow.
‘I have to call you something, and I don’t care for your real name. Like I said, I didn’t come here for deep and meaningfuls. I would call you The Yank, but I already have one of those hounding me—I’ve never even laid eyes on the man, but I’m pretty sure he’s an asshole p>
I snort. ‘I’d hardly call offering to buy you a drink “hounding p>
‘You did admit you were trying to buy your way into my bikini bottoms p>
‘I’m only human.’ I shrug.
A shadow falls over us from the edge of the pool. I look up to see a pale, auburn haired six foot five brick shithouse blocking my sun. Man, the guy is ripped. I’d put money on him being military.
‘You okay?’ He asks the woman beside me, his face creased with concern.
Ah fuck. So she does have a boyfriend. It was stupid to think otherwise.
‘Great, thanks.’ She downs her cocktail in four mouthfuls. I watch as she swallows. It’s practically a porno. She sets her glass down, then turns her megawatt smile to him. I don’t even know him, but right now, in this second, I hate him.
Okay, hate may be a strong word—but I am jealous as fuck.
He extends a hand to her, and she slips her tiny palm in his huge one, then he hoists her up out of the water—away from me and my silently screaming penis.
She throws me a wave over her shoulder. ‘See you around, California p>
Oh, I fucking hope so.
Preferably without the bionic boyfriend in tow.
I watch her pert round ass cheeks sashay away. Never mind a drink, I’d buy her the entire damned resort to get into those bikini bottoms.
She’s the first woman I want to tell my name.
And ironically, she doesn’t want to fucking know.