Stripped. Nicola Marsh

He drags his gaze off my chest and meets my eyes. His pupils are dilated amid all that gorgeous blue. I’m definitely winning this battle.

      ‘What?’

      I eyeball him, daring him to articulate what’s going on here. Disappointingly, he mutters something unintelligible and turns away, missing my victorious fist pump.

      ‘I can see your reflection,’ he says, sounding amused rather than annoyed, as I belatedly realise we’re standing near the trendy glass-enclosed poolside bar.

      ‘Good. Then you’ll know how absolutely pumped I am that this photo shoot is going so well.’

      He turns back to me. His pupils have returned to normal and he looks way too controlled. I’ll fix that. I’m not done with payback for that little cabana stunt yet.

      ‘Where do you want me next?’

      I flash him an innocent smile. ‘If you’re after the PG version, I’d like you to strike a casual pose over by the bar.’

      He swallows. ‘And if I want the R version?’

      I lean closer and his sharp intake of breath indicates he isn’t as controlled as he appears. ‘You’ll have to be a lot nicer to me.’

      I will him to say he does want it, that, despite our logical agreement to forget that kiss, he isn’t averse to doing it again and a whole lot more.

      I brace for him to fob me off and put an end to our verbal sparring.

      ‘I thought we agreed not to do this,’ he says, sounding gruff.

      ‘We’re just flirting. It’s healthy.’

      ‘The thing is, if you push me too far, it won’t stop there.’

      I resist doing a fist pump again. ‘Promises, promises.’

      He swipes a hand over his face, like he wants to eradicate my presence altogether. ‘This is a dumb idea.’

      ‘There are dumber.’ I hold up my hand and start ticking off a list by lowering my fingers. ‘Leg warmers. Crimped hair. Scrunchies. Acid-wash jeans—’

      ‘As much as I like hearing that you’re an eighties aficionado, can you be serious for one damn second?’

      Okay, maybe I’ve pushed him too far because now he looks plain tortured. ‘I don’t like mixing business with pleasure.’

      I shrug. ‘Me either. But we’re both adults. I’m pretty sure we can separate what happens out here from what could happen in there.’

      I point over his shoulder towards the luxurious villas scattered among the lush tropical gardens. ‘Or do you prefer it on the beach only?’

      ‘Fuck,’ he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, ensuring I’ll have to smooth it before the next batch of photos is taken.

      He’s conflicted. I see it in the shadows scudding across his eyes like storm clouds, in the wry twist of his mouth. He wants me but doesn’t want to relinquish control.

      So I take pity on him. ‘The photographer’s ready to start shooting again, so why don’t you head to the bar?’

      He locks eyes with me and I glimpse something that gives me hope: indecision. ‘This isn’t over.’

      ‘I’m counting on it.’ I wave him away with a dazzling smile. I hope it hides how damn uncertain I am about this too.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      Hart

      IT’S BEEN TOO long since I got laid. I need to remedy that pronto if all I can think about is taking my PR rep up against the nearest wall.

      She’s driving me insane.

      I know it’s wrong. It will muddy our working relationship. Then again, she won’t be on the island for long. Four weeks max. Why can’t we indulge this thing between us, and walk away unscathed at the end?

      Because I’m a realist and know that the clean break-up after casual sex is a myth. A fucking fairytale.

      I’ve never been involved with a woman, even physically, for longer than a week. It doesn’t make me a man-whore. It makes me smart. Women I screw know the score. We’re in it for a short time not a long time. Pure physical release. Fun.

      Yet I have a feeling that even if I spell it out for Daisy she’s the kind of girl to get under a guy’s skin. I like the way she doesn’t back down, the way she fires back quips, the way she fills out a dress. Yeah, I’m a shallow, narcissistic prick but I can’t stop thinking about her and I have a feeling I’ll be a mess until I slake my thirst for her.

      Kevin bollocked me after the shoot because I hadn’t looked over the next quarter’s projections and bookings are still falling. I wish I could shoulder the blame. I’d happily announce to the hotelier world I’m a nomadic hippy destined to run Pa’s empire into the ground. I’d do anything to stop the muckraking press from besmirching Pa any more than they already have. And that means I’ll take the Rochester hotels back to the top. I’ll show them.

      One thing not many people know about me: I never give up. I may not want this role thrust upon me but I’ll be damned if I screw it up and let Pa down—more than I already have over the years. I have a plan: regain consumer confidence in the Rochester brand, install quality management hierarchy, then leave.

      I can’t be tied to a desk. It’ll kill me. I’ve tried it before, after Pa invested in me. Back then I worked alongside him for two years after earning my degree, putting on a game face, as if running hotels was what I was born to do.

      Pa saw straight through me. He invented a meaningless job for me, ensuring I could travel as much as I wanted but still be semi-attached to the company. I mucked that up, focussing more on the foster kids outreach stuff than my bogus hotel job. It makes me feel even guiltier that I let him down, that the one job he entrusted me with I didn’t do properly. I felt like a fraud; still do.

      I’ll never understand how the gruff tycoon welcomed me into his life and gave me what I craved most: a family. He’s been my emotional touchstone for so long—my only one—that since he passed away I’m dead inside.

      Until Daisy.

      She’s the first person to make me feel anything other than repressed and shut off, even if it is only lust. I’d be a fool not to capitalise on it. She’s joining me shortly, on the pretext of scouting more locations for her bloody photo shoots to make the hotel brand more likeable in some media blitz. She’s insistent I need to be seen as part of the new brand to instil confidence in consumers and restore faith.

      What a crock of shit. She’s wasting her time. I have one of those faces that tends to scare off everyone. But I need this campaign to work if I want to escape the desk and return to what I like doing best: helping kids like me. Wary, resentful, terrified kids abandoned to foster systems around the world. They need me even if they don’t know it, like I needed someone way back when.

      Pa was my saviour, but at sixteen I’d already seen too much and endured too much, way more than any child should. Some people say I have a god complex. I don’t. I’m not narcissistic enough to think I can control everything around me, but when it comes to those kids I’ll do my damnedest to make sure they have a better life than I did for the first sixteen years of mine.

      I hear humming and something akin to lightness makes the tension in my chest ease. Daisy definitely has a thing for the eighties because as she nears the caves she breaks into a Rolling Stones classic, off-tune yet endearing.

      I smile. It feels foreign because I don’t do it a lot. Yeah, a sizzling sexual encounter with this bold, quirky woman is just what I need to take the edge off and get me refocussed on the job at hand.

      She