Stripped

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

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.’