Stripped

‘Fifty this year and proud of it.’ He wiggles the third finger on his left hand. ‘And this gold band says I can get laid whenever and however many times I want.’

‘It also says your wife carries your balls in her handbag.’

Kevin guffaws and I find myself laughing along with him. I rarely laugh. The occasional chuckle, maybe. But the cities I live in, surrounded by the poor and vulnerable, don’t make me feel like smiling much, let alone laughing.

Pa understood my need to help kids like me. He recognised my restlessness after I’d completed my economics degree and worked alongside him in the hotel business for two years. He’d been grooming me and I’d done my damnedest to make him proud. But it hadn’t been enough and he was man enough to let me go. Sure, I’d accepted a token position. Hotel Quality Control. Basically, an invented position akin to a mystery shopper where I’d travelled the world, checking into the company’s hotels, and reporting back on everything from cleanliness of the linen to room service.

Pa swore my feedback mattered, that he instigated measures to improve hotel failings. I think I could’ve written my monthly reports in Mandarin and he wouldn’t have noticed, that’s how much faith he had in me.

I owe him. Big time.

‘On that note, I better go find my balls.’ Kevin stands and stretches his arms overhead. ‘Let me know how the meeting in the morning goes.’

‘Shall do.’ I salute, glad that I have a guy like Kevin to lead me through the maze.

Being Pa’s assistant for thirty years ensures he knows everything there is to know. He’s invaluable to me. More like a mate, even though he’s old enough to be my dad.

Considering the mammoth task of getting this resort back on track, I’m glad he’s giving me a hand.

I need all the help I can get.

CHAPTER TWO (#u20777631-807f-5804-a7e4-ab1be2ad9967)

Daisy

‘I’LL HAVE THE most colourful cocktail on the menu, please.’

I point at the chalkboard behind the bar like a pro, when in fact I get tipsy after one glass of wine.

The cute barman who bears a passing resemblance to a young Mel Gibson flashes me a grin, like he knows exactly how much of a phoney I am, before turning away to grab a multitude of bottles.

If all that alcohol is going into my cocktail, I’m in trouble. I don’t care. This is my first night on Gem Island, one of the jewels in the Whitsundays, and I’m about to do a kickass PR job for the most enigmatic man on the planet.

I’ve done my research. He’s an introvert who prefers travelling the world doing a menial job in Ralfe Rochester’s hotel empire to following in his illustrious grandfather’s footsteps. He has a limited social media presence. There’s nothing to suggest he’ll be a capable replacement for one of Australia’s famous hoteliers who died recently, leaving Hart his sole heir.

According to my research, the Rochester business empire is floundering, which is where I come in. If I can make the Rochester hotels attractive to clientele, it’ll be a massive coup professionally and one step closer to my goal: starting my own PR firm.

‘Here you go.’ The barman places a giant martini glass in front of me, filled with a pale purple liquid that has a sprig of lavender floating in it. ‘Go easy. It’s strong.’

‘Thanks, what is it?’ I feign nonchalance as I pick up the glass, swirling it like an expert.

‘It’s a Gorgeous Gem, one of my award winners.’

I look suitably impressed and he continues. ‘Vodka, white rum, coconut, house-made lavender syrup, lychee juice, lemon juice and a secret ingredient I can’t reveal.’ He leans across the bar, close enough that I realise he smells as delicious as his cocktail. ‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’

He winks and I hide how flustered I am by taking a big sip. Bad move. Catastrophic. Because I choke and cough and splutter, demonstrating I’m lousy with alcohol and a hopeless flirt.

He chuckles. ‘Let me know when you want another.’

Try never, I refrain from saying, taking a more cautious sip this time. It’s amazing: fruity and sweet, with a powerful kick. I take a bigger sip, enjoying the buzz. Who knows, I might even order another? Alf, my boss, isn’t arriving until tomorrow, so tonight I can relax.

I never do this back home in Brisbane. Not for the last twelve months, since my engagement to Casper imploded. Our engagement lasted three months, doubling the time I’d dated him. Turns out the perfect guy on paper isn’t so perfect to live with.

Thoughts of Casper make me skol the rest of my cocktail. It burns my throat but man, I feel good. Better than good. Freaking invincible. Filled with false bravado, I order another.

‘Thanks.’ I flash him my best dazzling smile when he places it in front of me and he returns it with the slightest shake of his head, as if he knows what a lightweight I am when it comes to drinking.

As for the flirting part, he’s already moved on to two girls barely out of their teens, leaving me feeling ancient at twenty-seven.

I raise the glass in his direction in a silent cheer. Your loss, buddy boy, I think, downing half the glass before I realise how fast the alcohol has affected my brain if I’m contemplating flirting with a stranger. I don’t do that. I’m wildly out of practice. I’ve been on one date since Casper and that was a disaster, my one and only foray into a dating app. The guy turned out to be fifteen years older than his profile pic, and had lost all his hair along with his sense of humour. He’d been dour and sleazy, a terrible combination. I’m better off sticking to my career.

‘Cheers to that,’ I mutter, downing the rest of my cocktail and signing the tab.

When I stand, I sway a little. A short walk along the beach to clear my head might be in order. I have grand plans for my first night on Gem Island: room service, any movie featuring Ryan Gosling, and a bath. I’m living it up.

I follow the path from the bar towards the beach. Tea-light candles placed on palm fronds light the way and add a nice touch. This place is gorgeous. Romantic. Pity I’m flying solo and intend on staying that way for the foreseeable future.

I stumble at the end of the path and fall headlong onto the sand. It cushions my fall and I can’t help but giggle. A giggle that turns into a full-blown laugh as I imagine how I look: on hands and knees, imitating my best cat yoga posture. Thankfully my ankle length maxi dress hides the bits I’d like to keep hidden but it’s not a good look.

A pair of feet appears in my line of vision. Designer shoes. Dark tan. Scuffed, like they’ve been worn for ever and are the owner’s favourite.

‘Need a hand?’

The voice is deep, edgy, invoking an instant sense of annoyance. Like my putting a dent in the sand has somehow pissed him off. But at least he’s stuck out his hand because with my head spinning from those lethal cocktails I seriously doubt my ability to stand on my own.

‘Thanks.’ I take the hand on offer and allow him to pull me to my feet.

My first impressions in the flickering firelight cast by tall torches: black hair long enough to be unconventional, dark eyes that could be indigo or brown, sardonic twist to his lips. Nice lips. Hot lips. Crap, I sound like an idiot even in my own head. Drunk and dumb. Not a good combination.

He looks vaguely familiar but I can’t place him. He drops my hand quickly, like he’ll catch girl cooties if he hangs on too long.

‘That last step is a killer.’ He sounds disapproving as he points to a gap between the pavers and the sand.

‘Yeah.’ Way to go with the scintillating response. So I say something even more mortifying. ‘I think it’s the killer cocktails at this resort that are more dangerous than any step.’

‘You’re drunk?’ His eyebrow rises, making him rather rakish. I don’t like bad boys as a rule but I’m willing to make an exception in his case. Crap, definitely the vodka, rum and whatever other alcohol I consumed in that cocktail earlier making me see things that aren’t there. Rakish? Where did I even pull that from?

‘Not drunk, just happy.’ I grin to prove it but he doesn’t smile back. In fact, he stares at my mouth with an intensity that leaves me a tad uncomfortable.

‘You shouldn’t be walking out here alone if you’re feeling under the weather.’

Damn, now he sounds like Casper, lecturing me on what to do or not to do. Though Casper extended his alpha asshole-ness to telling me what to wear, what to cook, what to say in front of his stockbroker cronies. I’ve had enough of guys telling me what to do to last a lifetime.

So I snap back, ‘I’m fine,’ which only serves to raise his other eyebrow.

I wince. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long...year.’

It might have been my decision to end my engagement but I was still hurt. Disillusioned. Exhausted. Throwing myself into work seemed like the only solution at the time but after jumping through proverbial hoops for Alf for twelve months I’m still no closer to a promotion. Considering he’s an old family friend who did my dad a favour in hiring me in the first place, it’s awkward.