Chapter 3
Tate and I spend the afternoon exploring the resort. Well, I explore; he scans the perimeters, no doubt cataloguing every entrance and exit, while simultaneously clocking every guest in the vicinity. The resort isn’t busy. Luxury and crowds don’t gel well together, and this place is pretty luxurious. And with five pools, three kilometres of private beach, and four Michelin starred restaurants, there’s plenty of space.
‘Who was he?’ Tate asks as we make our way back to my suite—the Coral Reef Residence. I’d had my eye on the Celeste Suite, the only one with a rooftop hot tub, but it was already taken. Still, the Coral Reef is a close second. Quadruple glass doors open onto a white-wicker terrace with a small hot tub and private beach access. The shoreline lies barely ten metres away, and the waves provide the perfect soundtrack to my vacation.
Inside, it’s almost exactly how I’d have designed it myself—open plan, bathed in natural light, with oversized ivory furnishings that balance form and function. Soft pops of turquoise and sea-green ripple through the space, mirroring the water beyond the terrace. The lighting is warm, diffused, complementary. Whoever designed it understands flow, proportion, and how to utilise the space perfectly. I love it.
‘Who was who?’ I don’t know why I’m pretending. I know exactly who Tate is referring to. California’s unforgettably chiselled features and blatant flirtation is right at the forefront of my brain. He had great banter—and an even better body. The muscular planes of his chest looked like a goddamn marble statue. He’s ripped. Not like Tate—no he was leaner, more athletic than buff.
Tate quirks a brow. ‘Don’t give me that. If you’re planning on spending time with him, I should suss him out p>
‘I’m not planning on “spending time” with him.’ I use my fingers to make air quotes.
‘Good, because he radiated arrogance. I bet his ego needs its own suite.’ We reach my front door. I swipe my keycard to unlock it. Tate steps in first to check it’s safe. It’s utterly unnecessary. No one but my family, Livvie, Nico, and my family’s private pilot knows I’m here.
‘Ego?’ I echo, following him in, sighing in satisfaction as the aircon hits us. ‘I’d call that big dick energy p>
Tate snorts. He’s grown accustomed to my less than ladylike language over the years. I blame my brothers. ‘Whatever floats your boat. I know you, Zara. I’ve watched you for long enough p>
‘Because that’s not creepy at all p>
Tate rolls his eyes. ‘It’s what you pay me for p>
‘And I also pay you when I want you to look away,’ I remind him, arching my eyebrows pointedly.
‘So you do want to “spend some time with him”,’ he mimics my air quote with his big thick fingers as his lip slants upwards. ‘I better organise a background check in case that—’ he rolls his eyes ‘“—Big dick energy” beckons you to his bedroom p>
I laugh. ‘Don’t even think about it. It was a harmless flirtation.’ Albeit, one that has been playing through my head on repeat all afternoon.
Those ice blue eyes, blonde tousled hair and plump parted lips certainly made an impression. And it wasn’t just Big Dick Energy he radiated. It was his quiet confidence that suggested he’d know exactly how to use that big dick in a way that could be devastating.
‘I’m not going to his bedroom.’ Am I trying to convince Tate, or myself?
Because that precise prospect has tormented my neglected lady parts ever since my bodyguard pulled me out of the pool.
‘Sure?’ He crosses the room to lean against the door frame, folding his burly arms over his chest. ‘Because he was looking at you like he was planning on eating you p>
A hot bolt of lust spears my core as a vivid image of California’s mouth between my thighs hijacks my head. I stalk further into the suite, tossing my sunglasses onto the large glass table in the white wood panelled hallway. ‘I’ve been surrounded by men like him my entire life. That man out there is all about the chase. He’s a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. His stunning smile did nothing to conceal the sharpness of his teeth p>
I bet he fucks like a wild animal.
He’d use me and discard me.
Which I’m not entirely averse to, though I prefer to be the one doing the discarding. Which is why if I do happen to run into California again, I can’t rule out “spending some time with him”, but not until he’s worked for it. My brothers taught me well.
‘But we both know who the real wolf is.’ Tate stares at me with a deadpan expression. He’s witnessed me in action in both a personal and professional capacity.
‘Moi?’ I point my thumb to my chest, feigning an expression of shock. ‘The difference is—I don’t chase what I want. I make it come to me p>
‘Don’t I know it.’ He shakes his head and snorts, backing out the door. ‘I’ll be in my suite if you need me; otherwise, I’ll be back to escort you to the restaurant at eight p>
‘Perfect.’ I nod, then watch as he closes the door, leaving me alone. Privacy is a luxury I don’t take for granted.
I head for the minibar, grab a miniature bottle of bubbly and a flute, and carry them out to the hot tub.
I shrug out of the oversized white shirtdress I’d thrown on to explore the resort, letting it pool at my feet, then sink into the warm water. The tension in my shoulders has eased immeasurably since I stepped off the family jet.
No one needs me.
No one’s looking for me.
No meetings.
No calls.
No chaos.
Unless you count the chaos California wreaked in my bikini bottoms.
Who is he, with that charisma and claimed connections?
It’s laughable really.
If he realised whose sister he’s flirting with, he’d choke on his drink.
Better for everyone that he—and every other guest here—never finds out.
I pop the bubbly, take a mouthful, rest my head back against the side of the tub, and tilt my face to the sky. The sun is setting spectacularly on the horizon, staining both the sea and sky in stunning shades of apricot and rose gold. I close my eyes and listen to the hypnotic rhythm of the waves crashing lazily against the shore.
Why don’t I go on vacation more often?
This is absolute heaven.
By the time Tate raps on my suite door, I’m fully relaxed and ready for dinner. The floral Rebecca Vallance maxi I picked out scoops at my neckline and sculpts my cleavage before floating out from my hips all the way to the floor. Paired with tan leather Jimmy Choo flip-flops, it’s dressy, if slightly bohemian. I didn’t bother applying much make-up in this heat, though I couldn’t resist a sweep of mascara and a slick of red lipstick—just in case I happen to bump into a certain hot American again.
I might not chase, but I won’t run away either. I add a bit of highlighter to the swell of my cleavage. Despite what I said to Tate earlier, I’d love a few sordid stories to regale Livvie with when I get home.
‘The steakhouse, seafood restaurant, or the Italian?’ Tate asks, ushering me out the front door.
‘Seafood, I think. If that’s okay with you?’ Tate never eats with me; he’ll take a table close enough to intervene, but far enough to allow me to feel alone.
‘Sure.’ We walk in companionable silence through the elaborate gardens. I stop to admire the white phalaenopsis orchids. They’re my favourite flower of all time. Underrated, yet exquisite. And they thrive best when they’re alone—like me. I small smile touches my lips.
‘What’s funny?’ Tate gives me a sidewards glance.
‘Nothing.’ I give a little shake of my head. He wouldn’t get it.
The infinity pool glitters invitingly beneath the moonlight, the scent of salt, seaweed and rum drifts in the air. The waves are the ever present soundtrack to my vacation. When we reach the lantern-lit entrance, Tate asks the maître d’ for two separate tables.
A flash of understanding flickers across her features. They must get a lot of high-profile guests here. She welcomes me inside. Tate follows a few feet behind.
The restaurant is unlike anything I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen my fair share of opulent dining rooms. It’s part tropical dream, part architectural masterpiece. The entire space is open to the elements, framed by vast wooden beams carved from a warm ash wood. The floor looks like hand-laid mosaic—tiny turquoise and pearl tiles catch the light from the pendant lanterns suspended overhead. Each one is blown glass, shaped like inverted teardrops, glowing in shades of amber and coral. The entire room flickers with warmth. It’s exquisite. Is it the same company that designed the rooms? Someone definitely understands that luxury isn’t necessarily about marble and chrome. I bet it was a woman.
White-linen tables spill out onto a deck overlooking the crystal-clear Caribbean Sea, each one set with gold-rimmed glassware and cut crystal that glints in the soft candlelight. A warm breeze carries the scent of grilled lobster and garlic. My stomach rumbles in appreciation.
I take in my surroundings, mentally cataloguing details to steal later. But there’s no denying that my traitorous eyes keep sweeping the room—lingering on the bar, the terrace, the shadowed tables near the water’s edge—searching for California.
I’m out of luck.
He isn’t here.
Shame.
Disappointment pricks low in my chest, but I force it down fast. This holiday is about me—and some much-needed alone time. Yes, sex with a hot stranger would be a bonus, but it’s not the be-all and end-all.
I choose a table near the edge of the decking, close enough to the water to appreciate the gentle lap of the tide, far enough from curious eyes. A woman dining alone tends to draw attention—one of the many reasons my family insists Tate travels everywhere with me. They weren’t thrilled when I told them I was holidaying solo, but at the end of the day, I’m a grown woman. We’re beyond them trying to stop me—just about.
I slip into the chair, and cross my legs beneath the table as the maître d’ slides a leather-bound menu in front of me with a polished smile.
‘Something to drink?’ she asks.
‘A glass of Gavi, please p>
She nods and disappears toward the bar. I open the menu. The candlelight flickers across the embossed lettering as I scan the specials—grilled snapper with citrus butter, seared scallops with plantain purée, charred pineapple crème brûlée.
Every dish sounds like summer on a plate. I stick to a fairly good diet at home. I do Pilates four mornings a week. But I refuse to count calories for the next ten days.
The waiter appears with my wine, setting it down with a smile. ‘Ready to order p>
‘The grilled snapper, please.’ I hand back the menu, and he disappears, leaving me alone with the sound of the sea. I lift my glass, sip the crisp chilled wine, and sink back against my chair.
Then the air shifts.
A prickle of awareness blooms at the base of my spine. My skin hums with the knowledge I’m being watched—and not by Tate.
Somewhere behind me, a chair scrapes against the wooden deck, followed by the quiet slide of leather soles.
I don’t need to look.
I just know.
California’s here.
The weight of his eyes burn into my back, hotter than the midday sun.
A slow smile curls the corner of my mouth as I keep my gaze fixed on the water, pretending to be utterly absorbed by the waves.
Mohammed won’t go to the mountain—the mountain will come to Mohammed.
Game on.