Chapter 10
The morning sun bleeds gold across the horizon. The sea is a flat sheet of turquoise glass beneath it. I’m sitting on the terrace outside my suite with my laptop open and an espresso beside me, trying—and failing—to focus.
It was after three a.m. when I finally prised myself out of Irish’s bed. The sex was even hotter than I’d imagined—raw, unrestrained, addictive. I don’t know a damn thing about her, yet I know every inch of her beautiful body by heart.
And the worst part?
I’m already counting the hours until I can get reacquainted with it tonight.
Unfortunately, I’ve got work to do. I might be on holiday, but the work never truly stops rolling in. The Dublin project files glare back at me from the screen—architectural renderings, cost-projection spreadsheets, emails from Belle flagging investor questions about licensing laws and gaming permits. Those fucking Becketts—Dublin’s most affluent and powerful family—have done their utmost to block my new casino hotel.
It was my father’s dream to return to Dublin one day. To build the biggest, best casino Ireland has ever seen. He was Irish American. He was determined to bring the Hartmann name home one day. To see it light the city skyline. A monument to everything he built.
He didn’t live long enough to make it happen.
But I will—or die trying.
Even if I have to bulldoze down every Beckett in Dublin with a fucking steamroller.
I snatch up my cell and dial Belle. She answers immediately. ‘Mr Hartmann p>
‘Did Beckett Deluxe Design accept the Dublin project?’ Using one of the Beckett Enterprises businesses was my way of extending an olive branch, despite the Beckett’s attempts to block my hotel. Our businesses are going to be a stone’s throw away from each other. I don’t want to start a war if I can help it.
But if they bring one to my door, God fucking help them.
Plus, Zara Beckett and her team are the best in the country at what they do. Last time I was in Dublin, I stayed at Varmont Castle. The décor was a flawless compilation of understated luxury. Every inch screamed precision and taste—clean lines, layered textures, and seductive lighting. When I discovered it was Beckett Deluxe Design Agency, I had Belle reach out. When they didn’t respond, I emailed her personally, and frequently, to turn up the pressure. Zara Beckett is an impossible woman to get hold of. And her PA, Nico, is like a fucking rabid guard dog.
‘They did. Final answer—if you want Zara Beckett herself,’ Belle replies. ‘It’ll be six months before she can even look at the project p>
I drum my fingers on the table, molars clanging together.
‘I suppose I can wait,’ I concede. ‘Realistically, the premise won’t be ready for design until then anyway.’ It rankles that I have to chase these people. I don’t chase. In any other country in the world, design companies fight for the privilege of a Hartmann Hotel contract.
‘Is there anything else urgent?’ I ask, silently praying for a no but holding my breath for what I’m certain is coming.
She clears her throat and pauses for a long beat. ‘Your mom called into the office this morning. I think she was checking you actually are out of the country p>
As I suspected. ‘How is the blushing bride?’ Sarcasm drips from my lips.
‘Excited, nervous, full of hope that this really is it, this time.’ Belle’s been with me for years. She knows the drill.
‘Have our legal team double check the prenup and make sure it’s airtight.’ I sigh.
‘Yes, sir p>
I end the call, setting the phone face down beside my laptop. While I can’t control how my mother honours my father’s memory, the Dublin project is my tribute to him. I can already see it in my mind’s eye—dark marble floors, gold accents, crystal chandeliers—an opulent temple of risk and reward.
I stare at the figures in front of me—the casino’s projected annual revenue in euros, hotel occupancy rates, tax incentives, scrolling through profit forecasts and zoning reports. They should be the only things occupying my thoughts.
But my mind keeps wandering back to last night.
To her.
Irish.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her stunning face, her full round breasts, and the expression of sheer ecstasy each time she came on my cock.
The taste of her skin lingers on my lips.
The sound of her infectious laughter replays through my head like a song stuck on repeat.
Last night was the first night for a long while that I didn’t think about business, my mother’s impending nuptials, or the mockery she’s making of my father’s memory.
Marriage isn’t part of my plans, but if I ever did take a wife, it would only be once. I’m not particularly religious, but I do believe in honour. In loyalty. In seeing things through.
If I give my word, I keep it. If I make a promise, I don’t break it.
And if I claim something—or someone—I don’t fucking let go.
I must have inherited that trait from my father, because I sure as hell didn’t get it from my mother.
I drag a hand over my scalp and glance out at the horizon. Sunlight flashes invitingly off the waves. The memory of yesterday’s sea swim crashes back into my mind—of Irish, again. It’s only been forty-eight hours, but she’s somehow managed to crawl beneath my skin. I deliberately didn’t arrange to have dinner with her today. I didn’t want her to form an attachment to me. That’s not what this thing between us is about.
Yet, apparently it’s me who’s forming some sort of fucked-up attachment, because I find myself slamming my laptop shut, draining my espresso, and heading in the direction of the beach. If yesterday is anything to go on, she’s probably stretched out on a sun-lounger, or sipping a cocktail at the pool bar while the bionic bodyguard patrols the perimeter.
I dump my laptop in the suite, grab my sunglasses, and head towards the beach. The afternoon sun beats down on my back as I stroll through the resort’s lush, carefully tended landscape. I pass the line of luxurious daybeds, scanning face after face. Every glimpse of a brunette kicks my pulse up a notch.
But they’re not her.
She isn’t here.
Disappointment dances in my chest.
I head towards the pool bar.
Maybe she’s already in the water.
But no, a quick scan assures me she isn’t.
Where the fuck is she?
And why do I care so much?
I kick off my shoes, pull off my t-shirt, toss it onto a free daybed and slip into the pool. I swim twenty lengths, then swim up to the pool bar, where I first saw her a couple of days ago.
‘Macallan?’ The server remembers me.
‘No. A beer, please.’ Carefully avoiding the sun-warmed stone, I let my gaze roam across the lavish pool deck as I wait for my drink. Couples come and go. But there’s still no sign of Irish.
I drink my beer, the cold fizz cutting through the heat, then sip down two more, watching the horizon until the sun starts to slip lower, and the sky turns into a vivid shade of amber.
I should have arranged a time to meet her.
But instead I’m sitting here like a spare prick.
There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.