Stripped. Nicola Marsh

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY

       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

       CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

       CHAPTER THIRTY

       EPILOGUE

       About the Publisher

       CHAPTER ONE

      Hart

      I’M NURSING MY third bourbon when Kevin barges into my office without knocking.

      ‘Thought I’d find you here,’ he says, helping himself to a double shot and joining me in the leather armchairs around the coffee table.

      ‘Not a great deduction on your part, considering I’ve been sitting here every night for the past two weeks.’

      ‘You’re a sarcastic bastard.’ He raises his glass to me before tipping it back and draining half in one gulp. ‘Your grandfather was the same. The great Ralfe Rochester took shit from nobody.’

      My throat tightens, like it does every time anyone mentions Pa. It has been three long weeks since the funeral here on Gem Island, his favourite island in the Whitsundays, four since he died—without me beside him. Pa wasn’t just sarcastic; he was a stubborn old bastard too.

      He should’ve called me; should’ve told me about the ongoing heart-valve problems. But he didn’t and he dropped dead before I could tell him half of what I should’ve. Like how much he changed my life. Like how much I owed him. Like how much I loved him despite doing my best to prove otherwise since he found me.

      He died not knowing how I felt about him and that’s something I’ll have to live with every single day.

      ‘He’d be proud of what you’re doing here.’ Kevin gestures around the monstrous office, with an entire glass wall overlooking the resort and the ocean beyond. ‘This hotel has always been his favourite.’

      I know. It’s the only reason I’m stuck on this godforsaken island and not back in Buenos Aires or Brooklyn or Bangladesh, working behind the scenes to set up infrastructure for foster kids. Those kids need me like I’d once needed Pa. He found me at sixteen, took me in, nurtured me. He gave me everything. And what did I do in return?

      Pretended I didn’t need him. Acted like an ungrateful prick every time he reached out. Did a lame-ass job with the role he assigned me in the company.

      Abandoned him.

      I should’ve been here when he died, held his hand and given him whatever comfort I could. Instead, he died alone, his heart giving out just like the docs said it would. Yeah, Pa was stubborn to a fault. Guess I know where I get it from.

      ‘I intend to get this place noticed.’ I swirl the bourbon, staring at it until my eyes blur. It’s easier than looking up and meeting Pa’s right-hand man’s eyes and seeing pity. It’s a wasted emotion and I don’t stomach it, never have. That’s one of the things Pa first said to me, how he admired my resilience, how I didn’t wallow in self-pity.

      I didn’t tell him that feeling sorry for myself had been belted out of me in the first foster family I’d grown up in. Attacks I’d deliberately provoked to prove my defiance meant more than their disdain. Fuck ’em all had been my motto growing up. Still is.

      ‘Do you want me at the meeting with the new PR firm in the morning?’

      I shake my head. As much as I appreciate Kevin’s input I need to start doing things for myself. I need to get this business back on track. The extent of Pa’s failing health has revealed itself in the company’s bottom line and it isn’t pretty. I can do this for him, even if being tied to a desk for the foreseeable future is the last thing I want. Maybe if I’d been a better grandson I would’ve known how dire things were and stepped up earlier.

      I’ve been so goddamn angry at myself for it. It’s been a rough four weeks dealing with my grief and discovering the extent of the company’s problems and I haven’t hidden my irritation well. I’ve snapped at staff, been abrupt to the point of rudeness with the board and almost sacked a decade-long employee for daring to question me.

      I’m not proud of my behaviour, so when Kevin tactfully suggested I take a daily dose of happy pills—translated to snap the fuck out of it—I knew what I had to do. Shelve my guilt at being a poor excuse for a grandson. Make up for it by focussing on restoring the hotel chain to its former glory. Then appoint a great manager and hit the road like I always do.

      ‘I’d rather meet the PR rep on my own, then when her boss arrives maybe the four of us can get together later tomorrow?’

      ‘Fine by me.’ Kevin tosses back the rest of his drink. ‘Anything else you need?’

      ‘Kev, you’re my PA, not my butler.’ I point at the door. ‘The night is young. Go mingle.’

      ‘I could say the same about you.’ He hesitates, a wry grin creasing his face. ‘Maybe that’s why you’re so grumpy. When’s the last time you got laid?’

      Too long ago to count, not that I’m interested. I’ve got too much to focus on. Like ensuring I pay back all Pa gave me, even if he won’t know it. But I’ll know, deep down in that place no one has ever touched, and for now that will have to be enough.

      Besides, I don’t date. I seek pleasure on occasion but most women