Читать книгу Stripped - Nicola Marsh - Страница 11

‘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.

‘I know the feeling.’ He drags a hand through his hair, mussing it further, and now he’s staring at the ocean, like he wants to swim out and never come back.

I rarely do things on impulse. I’m the good daughter, the good employee, the good girl. Everyone can rely on good old Daisy Adler.

But with this brooding stranger on a balmy beach, I take a risk.

‘Want to take a walk?’ Now it’s his turn to stare at my outstretched hand. ‘I’m Daisy, by the way.’

His brow furrows as he glares at me with disapproval. ‘Hart.’

Oh, no. Hell no. This is Hart Rochester? It’s an uncommon name so I can’t imagine him being anyone other than the guy I have to work with. I have screwed up so badly. His first impression of me is a drunk who can’t stand up after a cocktail or two.

And I can’t hide my identity. It’s only going to make it harder when we meet in the morning. So I aim for levity.

‘I’m your new PR person.’ I force a laugh that sounds inane. ‘I’m really not drunk. I’m a lightweight with alcohol because I rarely drink and those cocktails are strong.’

‘I don’t think anything.’

His stare is intense and unwavering, and I’m increasingly uncomfortable: it’s like being looked at under a microscope, like he can see every one of my flaws.

To make matters worse, I realise my hand is still outstretched. Mentally cursing my inebriated bravado I start to lower it and am startled when he takes hold of it, his grip firm, decisive.

‘If you still want to take that walk, there’s an alcove at the end of the beach where you get a great view of some of the surrounding islands. It might give you a feel for the place before we start working together,’ he says, tugging my hand so I fall into step alongside him. ‘And just so you know, this hand-holding means nothing. I just prefer my PR person to be ready to hit the ground running tomorrow in the office and not hit the ground literally, again, tonight.’

I chuckle at his dry response but he doesn’t join in. This is so weird. In any other circumstances this could be misconstrued as romantic but he’s dour and I’m flustered and we’re like two robots trudging through the sand.

It’s crazy. I’m here to work. Though perhaps for one night I can just live in the moment without second-guessing every damn thing I do. Perfection comes at a high price and I’ve been paying it my entire life.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ he says, squeezing my hand lightly. It sends an unexpected tingle up my arm, a mild, pleasant shock.

‘Just mulling over ways to showcase the parts of the resort we’ve passed.’

Great, now I sound like a kiss-ass, but I need to do something to focus on the professional when the pressure of his hand holding mine is making me feel things I shouldn’t.

I’m hot all over and it has nothing to do with the temperate tropical night.

Once again, we fall silent and after a few minutes we reach the end of the beach, step around an outcrop and he points at the sea with his free hand.

‘Can you see the lights from the other islands?’

‘I can see a glow.’ I’ve been wearing my contacts all day and my eyes are gritty and tired; I have no hope of seeing individual specks of light.

‘I love this spot.’

‘You come here often?’

The corners of his mouth curve upwards. ‘Are you trying a pick-up line on me?’

I laugh. ‘No.’

‘Pity.’ His gaze drops to my mouth again and I can’t resist flicking my tongue out to moisten my lip. Not in any practiced move to attract, but a simple reflex action to a guy like him staring at me like he wants to taste my lip gloss.

After what feels like an eternity he drags his gaze back to mine. ‘We should head back.’

‘Yeah, we should.’

But neither of us move, trapped in some weird alternate universe where two strangers meet on a beach one night, know they can’t flirt because of an upcoming professional work arrangement, but can’t seem to tear themselves apart.

The wind gusts, blowing strands of hair into my face, and before I can tuck them behind my ear he does it for me. A strangely intimate gesture that makes me hold my breath. Then again, we’re still holding hands so he’s just being helpful. It’s all rather bizarre.

His fingertips graze my earlobe and I gasp as a bolt of unexpected longing shoots through me. They drift lower, along my neck, my jaw, tracing the curve of my cheek. It’s like he’s trying to commit me to memory, which is ludicrous. I’m far from memorable.

His fingertips are roughened, calloused almost. They prickle my skin, setting nerve endings alight. My breathing becomes laboured, shorter, as he steps closer and I can smell him. Not aftershave exactly but a clean, crisp citrus blended with something subtler. Body wash? Shaving cream? Whatever it is, I want to devour it. Him. Whatever.

This is so wrong. I need to step away. Now. I swear my brain computes the instruction but my feet don’t co-operate. So I try a few deep breaths. Wrong move. Catastrophic, as that citrus blend fills my lungs, sending messages to the rest of me, messages like ‘you need to taste him now’.

I will him to move away, to be the sane one for both of us. Instead, he edges closer and I’m gone. Falling headlong into a monumentally stupid decision I know I’ll regret but I’m powerless to stop.

I step even closer.

Filled with a daring I rarely possess, I eyeball him. I can’t read his expression. The angle of the moon has cast his face in shadows. But he hasn’t moved, his hand still cupping my cheek, and I know I have to do this before I chalk it up to yet another regret in my life.

Standing on tiptoes, I press my lips to his. Gently. Tentatively. Testing him. Me. I have no freaking clue.

He angles his head and I can’t hold back. The alcohol has loosened my usual constraints and I’m a woman possessed.

I plaster myself against him and start to kiss him in earnest. Our mouths open and the first touch of his tongue on mine makes me moan. He takes control, deepening the kiss to the point where I can’t breathe. I don’t care. I want more.

His hands caress my back in a long, slow sweep, like he’s exploring every bump of my vertebrae, before he squeezes my ass. It makes me a little crazy. I hook a leg around his waist, eager to get closer. My head’s spinning a little, whether from the alcohol or his expert kisses I have no idea.

His hand slides from my ass along my thigh. My maxi dress has hiked up and when he grazes the skin behind my knee I tremble. It makes me pause. What the hell am I doing, making out with Hart Rochester on a beach, flinging myself at him like I’m more than ready to lie down on the sand and spread my legs?

It’s a sobering thought, screwing up a campaign I need to go well, and I’m not sure if he senses my reluctance or I pull away first but suddenly we’re apart and I’m smoothing my dress down, heat making my cheeks burn.

‘That was unacceptable on so many levels.’ My voice is husky and I clear it. ‘I’m sorry for being unprofessional.’

I expect him to say the same. Instead, he says, ‘Let’s head back.’

There’s no inflection in his tone, no hint of annoyance or anger. Like the last few minutes never happened.

Regret, quickly tempered with mortification, makes me turn away before he can see how his curt dismissal adds to my embarrassment. Crazy, because it’s not his fault: I flung myself at him. But with him behaving like that make-out session never happened I’m thrust back into a familiar role of taking whatever is dished out. I don’t like it.

So I break into a jog, desperate to get away and nurse my humiliation in peace.

He calls out, ‘Hey, Daisy, wait up,’ but I don’t stop. I keep going.

I’m done looking back.