From bestselling author JC Harroway comes the first book in The Pleasure Pact series. Grace Metcalf only wanted a onetime fling...but he’s got her risking it all for more!

After my sister died, I knew I owed it to her and myself to get out there and start living. First order—calling off my wedding to a man I didn’t love. Then a margarita-filled night led to an agreement with my best friends: The Pleasure Pact. We’ve all agreed to live in the moment, which means behaving badly, embracing passion and saying yes to every adventure...even a red-hot holiday fling.

When I agreed to go honeymooning solo in sunny Fiji, I didn’t expect to find a gorgeous paddleboard instructor ready and waiting to take my mind off the mundanity of real life. The mysterious Ryan Dempsey is exactly what I need: no rings, no romance, just raw sex appeal. His enigmatic past has turned him off love—now he’s all about lust and spontaneity.

Ryan might be set on keeping things casual, but each electrifying encounter with him only shows me that our scorching chemistry goes beyond the physical. Can I convince this sworn bachelor that risking our tropical affair for a deeper connection is worth it?

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

Lifelong romance addict JC HARROWAY lives in New Zealand. Writing feeds her very real obsession with happy endings and the endorphin rush they create. You can follow her at jcharroway.com, Facebook.com/jcharroway, Instagram.com/jcharroway and Twitter.com/jcharroway.

Also by JC Harroway

A Week to be Wild

Her Dirty Little Secret

One Night Only

The Billionaires Club

The Proposition

Billionaire Bachelors

Forbidden to Want

Forbidden to Taste

Forbidden to Touch

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Bad Business

JC Harroway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09950-9

BAD BUSINESS

© 2020 JC Harroway

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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Katie, to meeting in NYC and for your fabulous editorial expertise, xx

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Grace

THERE’S A MEDICAL term for sudden, uncontrolled, simultaneous laughter and crying. But Friday night cocktails with besties is no time for sobbing over the life-changing decision I made a month ago.

I grab the jug of margarita and top up the three glasses on the table. Seeking a numbness from the doubts making my eyes burn and my voice squeaky, I raise my refilled glass, encouraging my friends Brooke and Neve to follow suit in the perfect distraction technique.

‘To being single,’ I say, trying not to think about the traditional wedding toasts that should have happened this weekend if I hadn’t pulled the plug on my own nuptials.

‘Yes, to sad singletons everywhere,’ says Neve, quoting one of her favourite rom-com movies and taking a hefty swallow of the delicious drink. I too take a gulp that steals my breath, the burn of tequila drowning the rush of shame I feel about being single again by an act of deliberate self-sabotage.

‘At least we’re not desperate singletons,’ adds Brooke, glancing around the bar and catching numerous eyes, male and female. She would protest that it’s the fame thing, the unwanted lot of an international model and renowned London socialite, but in reality the gorgeous Lady Brooke Madden oozes that X-factor, drawing people in like kittens to catnip.

Neve groans, adjusting her new, trendy glasses, which are askew. ‘Speak for yourself. I’m desperately desperate. It’s all right for you.’ She ruffles Brooke’s blonde waif hairstyle affectionately. ‘You’re never short of offers.’

‘Offers of sex have nothing to do with relationships.’ Brooke bats away our friend’s hand and lays a smooch on her cheek to soften the sting, leaving behind a perfect, blood-red lipstick kiss. ‘I have at least four dick pics in my DMs. Besides, most of my offers want to shag a model so they can Tweet about it or steal my underwear and sell it on the dark web.’

Serious accountant Neve’s eyes round before she collapses into a fit of margarita-induced giggles, which rapidly infect Brooke and me.

‘And,’ I say to Neve, ‘you’d have your own share of dick pics if you stopped mooning over Oliver for five minutes.’ I wince when my brain registers the words uttered.

‘Argh! What am I doing?’ I prop my elbows on the sticky table top, grainy with salt, and bury my hot face in my hands. ‘I’m the last person who should give relationship advice. I throw away perfectly good fiancés like confetti.’

The familiar swirl of guilt grips my insides, churning up the margarita. I peer at my friends, seeking reassurance in their concerned expressions that I haven’t made the biggest mistake of my life by cancelling my wedding at the eleventh hour.

‘If it was perfectly good, you’d be shagging him in the honeymoon suite right about now, and Neve and I would be making one-night-stand mistakes with two of the dishiest ushers,’ says Brooke, making an obscene hand gesture that under normal circumstances would make me laugh, but today I’m immune, panic rising up to choke me.

I groan, wishing for the numbing effect of the cocktails, which still have a lot of work to do. ‘All those years spent in a relationship I threw away because it “just didn’t feel right”.’

I close my eyes.

Slam them open again.

I can’t bear to see the hurt on Greg’s face, which is etched on my mind, or my parents’ disappointment as they handed me the list of deposits they lost to the caterers, the florist, the venue... I breathe through the pinch under my ribs, thinking of the pain and expense avoided if I’d been brave enough to break off my engagement sooner.

‘It was more than not feeling right. Don’t forget Greg was pretty lukewarm about getting married in the first place,’ says Neve. ‘You thought he’d only asked you because you’d been together so long and you were engaged for three years.’

‘And you’d postponed the wedding twice,’ adds Brooke. ‘Yes, doctors are busy people, but it was starting to look like neither of you wanted to go through with it.’

I nod, ashamed it took me so long to wake up to my mediocre relationship, cruising along for at least the last two years with Greg.

‘Look,’ says Neve, ‘there’s nothing worse than feeling you’re more committed to a relationship than your man. We want them crazy for us, desperate to put a ring on it...not lukewarm.’

Longing for my sister, Bryony, engulfs me, as it does every time I compare my life with what hers might have been without her health limitations. Despite her being five years younger, I could always rely on her advice, wise beyond her years, and her fearless thirst for adventure. If she’d had the chance, she’d have squeezed life dry, not settled for such self-restraint.

My friends’ arms encircle me, tugging me into a comforting embrace I’ve enjoyed since the three of us became friends at university, but I feel like a fraud. My situation self-inflicted.

I stick a grin on my face. ‘Right, come on, you two—you’re supposed to be distracting me, not indulging me to wallow.’

Neve and Brooke sit up straight wearing matching innocent expressions.

‘So, the big question—’ I focus on the future ‘—do I go to Fiji anyway...alone?’ Part of me thinks going on my honeymoon alone is insane, the act of a woman desperate to prove she made the right decision, which I did. The right decision in the long run, even though it went against my deeply ingrained need to please. But I’m a capable professional. Independent. I don’t need a man to visit a place on my wish list. And Fiji was my dream, not Greg’s—in fact he’d argued we didn’t really need a honeymoon given the hassle of taking annual leave from work at the same time.

‘Go,’ says Brooke. ‘I’d offer to tag along, but I’m working in Italy that week,’ she adds, refilling our glasses for the umpteenth time. The tequila begins to work its magic. I might soon struggle to remember if I even asked my friends’ advice, let alone recall their sage wisdom.

I shrug, picking at a hangnail on my thumb. ‘It would mean I could pay Greg back his share given we didn’t have holiday cancellation insurance.’

‘I can’t come either,’ says Neve, ‘but Brooke’s right. Go—it’s your dream holiday. You deserve a break after the past few months.’ She offers a sympathetic smile, referring to the patient I lost on my watch—every anaesthetist’s worst nightmare. And the devastating incident had somehow acted as a catalyst for re-evaluating my life, awoken all my latent feelings over my sister’s death three years ago, the outcome the realisation I was going through the motions with my fiancé.

I pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my frigid hands. There’s something equally brave and terrifying about the idea of going to Fiji alone.

Neve sees the turn of my thoughts, probably in the queasy expression on my face, and says, ‘They’ve offered you a refund if you teach the staff first aid. Think of it as work if you need convincing. Recharge your batteries in paradise and come home ready for a fresh start.’

My nod feels wooden, as if my head is a bowling ball. What does a fresh start look like? Just because I ended it, doesn’t mean I won’t see my fiancé at the hospital, likely every day... But one less debt equals one less shard of guilt slicing through me.

‘Yeah, you haven’t had a holiday for two years,’ chips in Brooke, pushing hair back from my face in a gesture too tender for my bruised psyche.

‘I’ve had exams...my promotion,’ I say, defensive. ‘You know my job requires unpredictably long hours...’ I deflate with a sigh, because my friends are right. I have zero work-life balance. All I’ve known in recent years is work and study and compromise, the toll itself a kind of tribute to Bryony, who was the very reason I’d wanted to study medicine in the first place. But in the process, I neglected the one area of my life that suddenly seems so important. My relationship.

Neve nods. ‘It’s okay to have some you time, to plot a new direction.’ Her sharp sympathetic stare slices into me. She’s referring to how I haven’t quite been the same since losing Mr Burgess, the professional turmoil unleashing a personal course correction with Greg as the first casualty. Not that he’d put up a huge fight, leaving me to wonder just how long our marriage would have lasted before one of us was brave enough to call it quits.

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ As I speak the words, allow a chink to pierce my failsafe façade, seeds of possibility sprout for the first time in months...perhaps even years.

I’ve been surviving, not living—no way at all to honour my sister, who had so much passion for a life that was taken too soon.

‘Of course we’re right.’ Brooke high-fives Neve as if together they’re quoting the wisdom of the ancients. ‘And while you’re in paradise, it wouldn’t hurt you to live a little, if you know what I mean?’ Brooke says, waggling her eyebrows suggestively, correcting our veer into serious territory. ‘There are plenty of benefits to a beach holiday.’

‘Live a little?’ I roll my eyes at her as she preens like a diva at her wonderful idea. ‘You knit for pleasure and haven’t dated in six months. Do any of us know how to let our hair down?’ If I’m going down, I’m taking these two along.

Neve is the first to snigger at the severity of my tone. We crack up in unison as only the merrily inebriated can. Because all of our love lives are unmitigated disasters.

‘We’re all as bad as each other, aren’t we?’ Neve picks at the remnants of salt on the rim of her glass, sucking it from the pad of her thumb. ‘I think my vagina has healed over.’

Brooke snorts, her grimace telling us she’s sucked margarita into her nose. ‘What about your extensive toy collection—they’ll keep you patent until you abandon Oliver and give some other guy a chance.’

Neve’s cheeks flame as she elbows Brooke and glances at the nearby patrons to see who might have overheard. ‘I told you about those in confidence, Big Mouth.’

Brooke slings her arm around Neve’s shoulders and smacks a kiss on her forehead. ‘What we all need, is a pact.’

‘We’re not twelve,’ I say, rolling my eyes. Most hare-brained ideas come from Brooke, who looks ice-cool and classy but has a dark and devious mind.

‘No, but this is the first time we’ve all been single together. You met Greg at uni. Your first boyfriend. The only guy you’ve ever slept with,’ says Brooke, one index finger levelled on me with accusation, as if never playing the field, never having a one-night regret or a string of dating disasters is some sort of crime against womanhood.

‘What kind of pact?’ Neve chews her lip, the accountant in her no doubt as reluctant as the anaesthetist in me to enter into any agreement with our stunning, extroverted friend.

‘Nothing kinky.’ Brooke laughs. ‘More of a pleasure pact, a seize-the-moment kind of thing.’ She rests her elbows on the table, her wince indicating she’s encountered the stickiness coating the veneer. ‘Grace goes to Fiji and, who knows, perhaps embarks on a passionate holiday fling that helps her to realise there are millions of penises in the world.’

‘Hey, I know that—I’m a doctor, I’ve seen hundreds of penises.’ My voice rises with indignation at the very moment the conversations around us lull. Several heads turn in our direction and we erupt into hysterical laughter.

When we sober Neve casts me a pointed look. ‘Brooke does have a point, sweetie. Even I’ve experienced more than one penis.’ She drops her voice on the last word as if she’s speaking within earshot of a convention of tax lawyers.

I bristle, chugging a mouthful of margarita. ‘Have you both forgotten I’ll be going to a honeymoon destination, not a singles’ resort? My chances of penis are non-existent.’ But now I’ve given myself permission to embrace the idea of some me time in Fiji, a weight slides from my shoulders like the swish of gossamer.

‘There’s bound to be at least one cute waiter or hunky diving instructor. Improvise,’ says Brooke.

I exhale the anticipatory flutters in my chest and point an accusatory finger Neve’s way. ‘I’ll scope out available penis in Fiji if you finally confess your feelings to Oliver.’ Sober I might have said the same thing—Neve has loved Oliver, her best friend outside of Brooke and me, since uni—I simply might have said it with a little more tact and sympathy.

‘I’m sure he’s fully aware of her feelings,’ says Brooke. ‘Why else would he demand she be at his beck and call?’ Brooke eyes our rather shy friend with compassion and a small smile. ‘But Grace is right. Perhaps it is time to tell him...’

‘Oh, please, not this again,’ says Neve, flashing her rarely seen irritation.

‘So where is he taking you this time?’ I ask.

‘To his cousin’s wedding... In the Maldives,’ answers Brooke before Neve can open her mouth, which is pinched with defensiveness.

‘Ooh. Romantic.’

‘Hey,’ says Neve, her neck flushed. ‘Just because he needs a plus one doesn’t mean anything. And without meeting you two for cocktails and occasionally accompanying Olly somewhere I’d have zero social life. Have you met my work colleagues...? Forensic accounting is hardly conducive to after-work drinks or letting your hair down.’

Brooke grins. ‘Well, if you’re not going to confess your lust to Oliver, I’m signing you up to my dating app so you can choose from your own collection of dick pics.’

The horror on Neve’s face causes another fit of raucous laughter. Then she lifts her chin, as if accepting the challenge. ‘And what about you?’ She narrows her eyes at Brooke over the rim of her glass.

‘Oh, no.’ Brooke shakes her head, the signature pixie cut she hates but everyone else adores ruffling. ‘This pact was my idea.’

‘Yes, it was.’ I level a no-nonsense finger at Brooke. ‘But you just said you’re off to Italy soon... I’m not the only one ripe for a holiday fling.’

Neve offers an exaggerated nod of solidarity. ‘Yes—a perfect opportunity to get back in the saddle.’

Brooke lifts her chin, offering us her aristocratic profile. ‘That’s different. I’ll be working.’

‘So? Will you be taking that delicious bodyguard of yours?’ I ask, my lips twitching now the tables have turned on Brooke.

Neve flicks me a knowing look. ‘Yes, what’s his name...? Nate? Rick?’

‘Do you mean Nick?’ says Brooke in a bored tone. But she can’t hide the blush in her cheeks or the way her eyes light up at the mention of the big brooding bodyguard’s name.

Neve and I nod. We’ve met the silent, intimidating Nick. We’ve seen the way Brooke looks at him when she thinks no one is looking.

‘Anyway, he’s not a bodyguard, he’s a fixer stroke driver stroke personal protection expert—’

‘Stroke astounding piece of man meat packing a trouser leg full of knitting antidote.’ Neve guffaws behind her hand, the quiet, serious accountant well and truly shelved for the night.

Brooke pokes out her tongue. ‘I like knitting—it’s mindful. Relaxing. I can take it when I travel. And for your information, Nick is the soul of professional detachment. I’m lucky to get a hello out of him.’

‘Well, take your pick,’ I say, refusing to go down alone, while a warm glow of excitement builds in my belly—I’m going to do this. Go on my holiday and embrace fun and possibility and a fresh start. Make Bryony and my friends proud. ‘It’s one of the dick-pic losers or an Italian fling with Nick.’

Brooke sighs an exaggerated huff, flashing her million-dollar pout. ‘Fine. So it’s on. A holiday fling apiece so we can avoid Neve’s sad singletons’ club.’

Neve shrugs and I avoid comment with a swallow of my drink.

‘Okay,’ says Brooke, finding her stride. ‘So, to the terms of this pact.’ She holds up one finger. ‘Pictorial evidence of the holiday hook-up is required as proof, even if you have to take it while he’s asleep or in the shower.’ She adds a second finger. ‘And the next cocktail night will be a full debriefing session so come expecting to share all the juicy details.’

‘Cheers to that.’ Neve drains the dregs from the jug of margarita, sloshing them unevenly into the three glasses.

We raise a toast, clinking our drinks together. ‘To our pleasure pact,’ purrs Brooke in her best Lady Madden voice.

Giggling and more drinking ensue.

CHAPTER TWO
Ryan

I POINT THE paddleboard towards the shore, my paddle slicing through the pristine clear water of the South Pacific Ocean, which covers the live coral reefs below. The early evening sun warms my back as I study the Lailai resort, my newest acquisition, from my unique vantage with a keen business eye.

Twenty secluded wood and straw bungalows, or bures as the Fijians call them, line one side of the turquoise lagoon, which is a protected marine sanctuary. The palm-fringed beach stretches in a graceful crescent to the opposite side, where a row of over-water bungalows jut out into the ocean and link to the shore via individual wooden walkways.

Currently an adults-only honeymoon destination, it’s paradise. A perfect Dempsey singles’ resort in the making to add to my worldwide collection.

As soon as I can dispense with the nauseating couples cluttering up the place...

I paddle away from my own over-water bungalow, the best the resort boasts, with a sigh. Why then am I forcing myself through the motions? Attempting to relax on my ‘working holiday’ when perhaps I should head back to London at the earliest opportunity?

I paddle harder, trying to outrun my restlessness with vigorous strokes.

The expected satisfaction at my expanding empire never arrives, my gut knotted with the looming sense of emotional upheaval I’ve spent my entire adult life dodging.

The frailty of the only person alive who’s always cared about me: my grandmother.

I grit my teeth, telling myself that my business success ensures her comfort and the best healthcare money can buy. That’s why I’m here. Business. I know from bitter experience that indulging in feelings and believing in sentiment in the past ended in decisions taken out of my control and left me alone, cold and homeless.

I stab at the water with the paddle, the break in rhythm wobbling the board under my feet. The daily check-in phone calls to the nursing home are bound to leave me edgy. Apart from the comfort of my grandmother’s voice, which is increasingly frail, the calls usually reveal sobering news. But I can’t think about that now; there’s work to do.

Perhaps, at thirty-six, I’m bored of the lucrative singles’ resorts business, my constant travelling losing its lustre. Perhaps it’s time to diversify, to buy an airline or something...

Yes—that’s it. I’m off-kilter for a new challenge.

Nothing to do with the lure of home.

I snort, the hairs at my nape prickling to attention. Where is home? I have houses all over the world—million-dollar piles of bricks and mortar, a waste of money for the amount of time I spend in them.

In the shallows, I jump from the board, scoop it up and head on dragging feet towards the hut housing the resort’s water-sports equipment. Not even the excuse of temporarily filling in for the island’s paddleboard instructor, Pita, who’s been called back to the main island for a family emergency, is enough of a distraction. I glance back, drawn to the endless ocean view as if I’ll find solace on the horizon.

Movement catches attention. The doctor. My stare holds fast, eyes burning with curiosity.

Of course I’m interested in the resort’s only solitary guest, her presence, her whole demeanour intriguing. Since she arrived forty-eight hours ago, she’s kept to herself, rarely emerging from her bure before late afternoon and then only to walk along the shore looking wistful, just as she’s doing now. But even wistful she’s striking, stirring something in me, an attraction that makes me forget my troubles and the weird clawing restlessness. Something that makes me wonder what secrets she’s pondering as she walks.

And that inquisitiveness, more than the stirring of a sexual itch, is so rare, so enthralling I hardly recognise the feeling.

I watch her slow meander along the shoreline with growing fascination, my focus honed on her body’s movements and her serene but pensive expression. She’s dressed in the complimentary sarong the resort supplies to each guest on arrival and a vibrant red bikini top, her curves perfectly showcased by the revealing outfit.

No wonder I’m drawn.

The paddleboard grows heavy under my arm, but I can’t move away. Why wasn’t I more curious when I met with my resort manager, Taito, for a rundown of the current guest situation? Because all I was thinking was how quickly I could add my signature singles-only stamp of sexy hedonistic luxury to this idyllic resort and move on to the next acquisition, the next destination, make the next million...

Perhaps my curiosity in the doctor is professional. After all, she’s here to teach my staff first aid. But why? Surely she could have found a working holiday gig somewhere less isolated. Somewhere full of singletons...

A slug of disappointment douses me as if I’ve been plunged into iced water instead of the warm tropical ocean—perhaps she isn’t single.

The itch of attraction turns to discomfort, sliding over my skin like sunburn, which makes no sense. What do I care if she’s attached? I don’t even know her name.

Plenty more fish in the sea...

But I can’t stop wondering if one genuine smile from this enigmatic woman, or perhaps hearing her laugh, would reset my balance. The next chance I get, I’ll introduce myself to the good doctor—time to cast off this irritating fixation. I’m in the singletons business for good reason. I have no interest whatsoever in leaving the bachelor club, where I’m a lifelong member.

I catch sight of a slender leg peeking from the sarong as she walks. My groin tightens, a reminder that I’ve been here a week without any female company.

Hmm, perhaps a one-night stand. That would chase away the gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Help me to refocus on working through the changes to Lailai. I press my lips together, torn.

Yes, she’s hitting all the right attractiveness buttons, but what are her philosophies on casual sex? She’s here alone. At a honeymoon resort. That’s answer enough.

I stride up the beach to the equipment hut, shaking off the moment’s regret like the flick of sand from my feet. Inside I stack the paddleboard in the rack against one wall and stow the paddle. I snag my T-shirt from Pita’s battered deckchair and duck outside to collect the handwritten sign advertising the recreations available on the island, which is propped against a pile of fallen coconuts.

My mouth waters, anticipating the ice-cold beer I know is waiting for me back at my bure, but the idea of returning there alone with this strange weight dragging me down holds no appeal. I clench my jaw, fighting frustration. I’m always alone. It’s never bothered me before. A shower, a bite to eat at the resort’s restaurant and a chat with friendly local, Charlie, the bar manager, will shake me out of my strange mood.

‘Am I too late to book a lesson for tomorrow?’

I turn towards the voice, a slug of satisfaction heating my blood at the sight of the doctor close up. I was right—she’s stunning and I’m doubly intrigued, my thumping pulse proof, even as I groan in my head at the bittersweet timing.

She pushes her sunglasses from her exquisite heart-shaped face onto her head and looks up at me expectantly. For a moment, I free-fall into her eyes; they’re startling, sharp, piercing, as if she instantly sees all the crappy dark places in my fucked-up soul but also open, somehow kind, as if she’s about to offer the cure-all pill.

It must be a doctor thing. Perhaps she looks at everyone that way, figuring how to fix their broken parts...

But unless she can wind back the years and fix my grandmother, I have no need for her professionally.

‘No, not at all,’ I say with a smile that feels too wide. Too self-congratulatory. The lack of a ring on that tell-tale finger gives my libido the all-clear to get ideas.

Snapping out of the hold she’s taken by catching me off guard, I stretch out my hand. ‘My name’s Ryan, by the way.’ I train my eyes from her spectacular body, employing willpower I haven’t used in a long time; she’s that tempting. Rocking body, thick, glossy hair. Intelligent dark brown eyes.

Her handshake is firm and warm and too brief, because, touching her, I’m acutely aware I’m a man who hasn’t had sex in a fortnight wearing only a pair of wet, clinging board shorts.

‘You’re Irish?’ she says, pushing her long mahogany hair back over her shoulders as she gives me the kind of once-over I usually relish from a beautiful woman, because it indicates they’re interested in more than introductions. ‘I am, and you’re English?’

‘Yes.’ She laughs. ‘We’re both a long way from home.’

I was right about her laugh—a delightful sound that swells my chest as if I’m the most hilarious comic in the world. I knew an introduction would recalibrate my mood.

‘That we are.’ Am I actually putting an extra lilt to the accent, trying to impress her with a touch of the charming Irish brogue? What the hell...?

Her smile curls up and she does this thing where she looks from under her lashes as if she’s suppressing amusement—sexy as hell... The ends of her hair brush her freckled shoulders. I have the urge to trace those fascinating blemishes on her soft-looking sun-kissed skin until my head is full of pleasure and nothing else. Not the turmoil in me or the daily dose of worrying news from London.

‘Oh,’ she gasps, stepping closer. ‘You’ve cut your foot.’

I look down to see a thin trail of blood seep from a graze on my ankle. ‘It’s fine—I must have caught it on the coral. It’s razor sharp.’

A small pinch of concern surrounds her beautiful eyes. ‘Would you like me to have a look? I have a first-aid kit in my room—I can go grab it.’

I shake my head, which feels light, spaced out, at her attention. ‘It’s fine.’ I know it’s just a professional thing—doctors are probably never off duty—but warmth spills through my veins, almost too hot to bear.

‘You sure?’ she asks, and I nod, as unsettled now as I am intrigued.

‘If my leg starts to fall off, I’ll find you,’ I say. ‘So, back to this lesson.’

She looks away from my foot to the chalkboard advertising the have-a-go activities available to guests. Now would be a good time to tell her I’m just filling in as instructor and expecting Pita to return tomorrow. But I stay silent. I’m a private person. My resorts often attract negative press—the last thing I need is news I’ve purchased Lailai leaking before the last honeymooners have departed. They won’t take well to discovering their idyllic hideaway will soon be full of people looking for depraved, no-strings fun in paradise... Nor do I want the renovations disrupted by some pap sniffing out a story of Dempsey-style debauchery. The press love to paint me as a notorious commitment-phobic billionaire, a playboy of pleasure who sells sex in tropical locations, slamming my resorts as hook-up clubs. But if the shoe fits... The wealthy and single need somewhere to mingle, just like the honeymooners. So if it’s legal and consensual, anything goes at a Dempsey resort.

Somehow I don’t think the serious doc here would approve, and, beyond her professional credentials and the fact she rocks a bikini like a Greek goddess and rivals the sun in delivering that feel-good factor, I don’t know this woman.

I grab a piece of chalk. ‘A lesson for one?’ I’m fishing. ‘You’re here alone, right?’

She bristles, her smile slipping, eyes dulling with something close to embarrassment even as she lifts her chin. ‘Yes, I am. Is that a problem? Don’t you do lessons for one?’

Whoa... I’ve touched a nerve. I’d better not probe any deeper, despite being more intrigued than ever. ‘Of course we do. One-on-one it is.’ Thoughts of her and I alone, every possible distraction, flash through my head, revisiting the possibility of a one-night stand. ‘My favourite kind of lesson.’

I don’t imagine the way her breathing speeds up or those lush lips part. Dragging my mind from all the ways I’d like to see her excited and breathless, I wipe down the board with the side of my fist, erasing today’s bookings, and look up. ‘What time would you like? I recommend a dawn paddle if you’re an early bird—sun’s up around six-thirty and the sunrise is amazing from the water.’

‘Um...’ She hesitates, the small wrinkle of her nose telling me she’s not a morning person but doesn’t want to say so.

‘Do you have a slot around nine?’ She shrugs. ‘You know... I’m supposed to be on holiday.’

‘Supposed to be...?’ Interesting... I shouldn’t care that she might be struggling to embrace the island vibe. All she needs from me is a lesson in paddleboarding. But is that all she wants...? Could we be on the same page, both looking for a temporary distraction involving those shapely thighs wrapped around my waist or draped over my shoulders...?

I clear my throat. ‘Of course. You probably work pretty crazy hours at the hospital—nine it is.’ I shelve my curiosity at her revealing statement, desperately trying not to picture her asleep, her gorgeous, naked body relaxed...

‘What name shall I write?’ I ask. ‘Will Doc do...?’

She flushes, perhaps embarrassed that she’s forgotten the basics of introductions. Do I make her nervous? I want to make her other things—turned on, greedy, demanding.

‘Grace. Grace Metcalf.’ She swishes her toes through the sand as she looks down, and I’m gifted with another flash of thigh through the opening of her sarong.

‘That’s a beautiful name.’

‘Thanks. I’m trying to outgrow Gracie... That’s what my sister used to call me when we were young...’ She shrugs, all sexy awkwardness that leaves me wondering how often she flirts, because I’m getting mixed signals.

A groan echoes inside my head. Oh, Grace, Grace, Grace... Why do you have to be so exquisite? So tempting? So...unexpected?

‘Have you done it before?’ I write her name on the chalkboard—the laid-back, low-tech booking system on the island, where most things are done on island time—and try not to notice that she’s stepped closer, so close I detect her floral scent and something purely feminine on the warm air.

‘Paddleboarding?’ Her cheeks darken as if we share the same dark delightful thoughts my open-ended question has unleashed.

No, fucked a stranger on a tropical island.

‘Yes.’ I swallow hard, tamping down the fierce surge of heat in my groin. ‘Are you a beginner?’

‘Oh...yes. I...mean no,’ she says. ‘I mean I am a beginner. I haven’t done it before. But I’ve always wanted to try.’

I can’t help my wide grin. She’s enchanting—sexy as sin but a little reticent, flustered. ‘Well, you’re in safe hands, and you’re all booked in for nine a.m.’

Shit, I’m in trouble; I had this week planned out, female-distraction-free, but that was before I met Grace. I could swap one distraction for another...

No... Walk away. Stick to paddleboarding.

But she’s still here, still tracing her toes through the sand, still looking up at me with those intensely penetrating eyes, which seem to be saying things she’s holding back from speaking aloud.

‘Do you want to go grab a drink at the bar? I’ve finished for the day.’ The words are out before I know what I’m doing. Curiosity, even mutual attraction, a bit of banter is one thing, but drinks with a woman who looks as if she’d run a mile from one of my debauched singles resorts and gets tongue-tied talking to a member of the opposite sex is another thing entirely. A crazy thing. A thing destined to end in trouble...

But would she run? So flirting doesn’t come naturally, or she’s rusty. Doesn’t mean she isn’t interested. I know that look on her face—she’s eye-fucking me, such a contrast I’m way beyond my usual levels of fascinated, although I don’t usually work this hard to unearth a woman’s interest.

‘I... Um...’ She bites her full lower lip, her sexy eyes swooping the length of my body. My blood heats; I’m certain I’ve lucked out. She’s going to say yes, drag me back to her bungalow and be exactly what the doctor ordered for my sexual-frustration problems.

The damp fabric of my shorts clings tighter to my eager cock.

A warm gust of wind chooses that moment to blow over the chalkboard, which I failed to jam deep enough into the sand. We reach for it together. Our hands collide, fingers brushing.

She steps back, her colour high as if I’ve touched her all the ways I want to, not simply accidentally brushed her hand. But that one touch is telling. Need is a roar through my head, every instinct driving my body towards hers proof that we’d be good together. But I hold my ground—Grace needs to make up her mind. Embrace the situation. Declare her interest. Take that mental leap I can see holding her back.

I secure the board, pretending I didn’t notice the skittish way she snatched her hand away from mine as if I have cattle prods for fingers. It’s okay if she wants to ignore our mutual attraction. It’s probably for the best even though hunger settles in the pit of my stomach like a rock.

When I look up, she’s no longer relaxed, her posture more rigid, arms clasped across her waist.

‘I should let you finish packing up...’ she says in lieu of a direct no to my invitation of a drink.

I shrug, hiding my disappointment, my imagination rampant to know how her letting go would multiply her potent magnetism.

‘But...thanks for the offer,’ she says, stepping away and putting another slice of beach between us so the earlier hollowness inside me re-expands.

Looks like I’ll never know.

‘No problem.’ But, for the first time in my life, I regret inviting her for a drink, because I’d settle for just her company over spending the rest of the week watching and wondering from a distance. ‘I just figured as we’re the only two sad, lonely people here, we could get to know each other.’

Who am I trying to convince? Her or myself? I don’t normally give a shit about being alone. I’ve been practically alone most of my life. It must be a reaction to the near constant state of worry over Grandma’s health. Every time I pick up my phone, I’m almost too scared to look at the screen in case what I see changes my life in the most definitive and devastating way.

‘I’m fine being here by myself,’ she says, her eyes glowing bright with a hint of challenge that boosts my desire to unearth the secrets of Grace Metcalf. To see the side of her shielded behind the straight back and the stiff shoulders that she only seems to allow out to play when she smiles or laughs.

I hold up my hands in supplication. ‘Hey, I didn’t mean anything by that—there’s nothing wrong with being single. I personally wouldn’t be any other way. But a guy needs to save face after a beautiful woman turns him down.’ I grin, aiming for levity.

She looks away, turning her face to the sea, a frown pinching her forehead. ‘Sorry—I... Perhaps I’ve been too isolated since I arrived. You’re probably better off without my company.’

It’s only what I’ve just told myself, so why does it leave me cold? Why am I pushing, rather than walking away?

She seems to shake herself, new resolve glittering in her extraordinary eyes. ‘I should definitely try out the paddleboarding.’

‘There’s that word again—should. But I agree. You should. There’s no feeling like it.’ With clothes on. ‘So, tomorrow at nine, and if you change your mind about the drink, no strings,’ I add to reassure her I’m not a creep, even though my thoughts are far from friendly. ‘I’m in that bure at the end there.’ I point to the most luxurious of the accommodations jutting out into the lagoon and connected to the sand by a wooden walkway.

Grace raises her eyebrows, impressed. Her mouth opens and then closes again. I can practically hear her mind working—how is a lowly paddleboard instructor staying in the resort’s most exclusive suite and not bunked up with the other staff? But for some reason she doesn’t ask. If I were a gentleman I’d explain, but I clamp my jaw shut. We might be trapped here in paradise, but it seems we’re not going to know each other, even as friends.

‘See you in the morning,’ I say and saunter away. My back muscles twitch with unfathomable tension. My toes scrunch the sand, each step full of resolve, as if, left to their own accord, my feet would turn tail and return to the enigmatic doctor. What the hell is wrong with me and what will it take to feel like myself again?

One last look?

I stop. Turn.

She’s where I left her, staring at my retreat.

Her eyes lock with mine, widen, the only move she makes.

My restlessness returns with a vengeance. I continue towards my bure, pick up the pace. The attraction is irrelevant. Now I know the doc and I aren’t going to be on intimate terms, I can refocus on work as a distraction. It’s never let me down in the past.

But as I round the bungalow and catch sight of the sunset strike the water, regret clings like the salt drying on my skin. These solitary moments are the only downside to a life of determined bachelorhood. My nothing serious rule stops me inviting a date when I travel—wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression. And, in my experience, no matter how openly I declare my stance on relationships, some women refuse to accept they can’t change me, magically turn me into marriage material.

But not the guarded doc. She couldn’t get away quick enough. It’s a small island. The newly-weds aren’t going to be very good company. It makes sense for us to get to know each other...

My dick pulses at that remembered slice of toned thigh, the curve of her breast above the cup of the shocking red bikini, the frangipani flower in that beautiful hair...

Yeah, I want to get to know her, all right.

I head to my bungalow’s private pool area where there’s also a Jacuzzi and an outdoor shower. There’s something magical about being so close to nature, to swimming at dusk, showering outdoors, the water on my back as I watch the last rays of sun kiss the horizon.

I snort; I’ll be quoting Shakespeare next. But already I calculate my investment in this place tripling.

An image of Grace naked in the pool, her hair floating in the water, her nipples breaking the surface, drags my thoughts from work... A frustrated groan breaks free. I need to get laid.

I toss my T-shirt onto a lounger and turn on the shower. I shove my shorts down my legs, kicking the fabric aside and reaching for the body wash.

I squirt out a measure, lather up and perform my washing routine on autopilot, my mind free to wander back to other business. Bad business. Grace.

She certainly eyed me like a woman interested in the contents of my shorts, despite her rejection. I can still feel her stare sliding down the length of my body, the subtle rise and fall of her chest on a tiny sigh, almost of longing, the way her spangled eyes clung to mine. Searching...

As I rinse the sand from my hair, my body energises in anticipation of the morning’s lesson. Hopefully I can coax out that sexy smile of hers, that playfulness hovering behind the reserve and hesitation she seems to use as a shield.

Then I remember she’ll likely be wearing another stunning bikini, those delicious feminine curves on display...

I close my eyes and grip my semi-hard cock, offering it a few lazy tugs. Tomorrow I’ll determine her interest, once and for all. Figure out if her hesitation is shyness, or indifference. A shame, because we could definitely have some fun while we’re both here at Lailai.

My fist grips tighter, my jerks pulling a little harder to uncoil the tension of my inconvenient attraction to my island doctor. I brace my free hand on the tiles above my head and focus on the images behind my eyelids. The evening sun strikes my back and I succumb to the presence of Grace in my head as I climb the slope towards release.

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