In less than a month, on December thirty-first, she would turn thirty-four. On a whim, she’d decided to celebrate and not give a damn about society or her mother. She’d booked a trip to France and bitten the bullet—she had contacted Madame Evangeline’s 1Night Stand and placed a request. She’d figured Madame Eve would hook her up with someone in Paris, but she’d been wrong. The woman had found someone for her right on the island.
As she stepped out of the thatched-roof reception area of the Mauritian branch of Castillo Resorts and Hotels on the rugged southern coast of the island, a gust of wind propelled her toward the waiting golf cart. Her villa stood at the far end of the property. Secluded and private—exactly what one expected for a one-night tryst.
Heat crept up her body and stung her cheeks. She lowered her head so her driver wouldn’t see the shame turn her pale complexion crimson. She’d managed to hold her dignity intact at the reception desk, despite her certainty the front office clerks knew her purpose for visiting the resort. She’d debated whether to wear a disguise, but since Madame Eve had signed her up under her real name, any attempt to alter her appearance would be pointless. And, she did have her pride, thank you.
But now, the situation had caught up with her.
Around her, the wind picked up. A few leaves hit her arm. Had she been nuts to come? There was a Cyclone Warning Class 1 in effect. Mild in the big scheme of things, it did imply a storm in the area and held the possibility the weather would deteriorate.
But who would she contact to cancel the date? Madame Eve? The woman’s nice and distinguished aura shone across her emails. Simmi hated to disappoint her. Madame Eve must have gone to a lot of trouble to pair her up with a man in Mauritius itself—and she prayed, with eyes closed tight, not someone she knew. How would she hold her head up then? A tryst with a stranger in Paris embodied one thing. Meeting a man she likely knew, given how everyone in the one-point-three-million population knew someone who knew someone, presented another matter altogether.
But the pang of being so alone on a reefed island amid a sea of people rattled in her heart. As things stood, she hovered between two worlds, and instead of being the bridge between them, neither one embraced her. Her late father had been white, and her mother of Indian descent. Almost upstairs hooking up with downstairs. At his death, his upper-crust world had shunned her and her mother. The Indo-Mauritian society had welcomed her mother back, but Simmi always felt she existed on the edges of that world, that the people kept her at arms’ length, wary of her “colonist” blood.
Did having someone in her life seem like too much to ask? She’d been on dates, looked for companionship. Men either wanted to get into her knickers to brag about the new notch on their bedpost, or they saw her as a stepping-stone into the high-powered world of corporate executives. Lose-lose, everywhere. So if she had to sign up for a one-night stand to feel the comfort of another human being, the strength of a man’s arms, the possibility of letting go for a few hours, then by Jove, she’d do it.
Did it
, in fact. And now, here she sat, at the opposite tip of the island from her home, overlooking the craggy, basalt-black cliffs of the south coast across the lush emerald green of the eighteenth hole of the golf course…
The driver stopped the cart in the meandering driveway in front of a stone-fronted, thatched-roofed villa reminiscent of colonial houses. Simmi took a deep breath and stepped out of the vehicle. She tipped the driver, and as she watched him steer the cart back to the reception area, the sudden urge to run after him and beg him to take her back gripped her throat in a stranglehold. Right then, she didn’t want to meet the man who waited for her inside the bungalow. How could she have thought she could do this? A one-night stand, with a stranger?
Seriously, Simmi
?
Fallen leaves swirled in a small tornado a few feet from her. The wind slapped them onto her long skirt while she stood still, unable to budge. The gales grew stronger, and in the distance, turbulent waves crashed on the rocks. She imagined the delicate hiss of the sea spray as the white froth dissolved back into the tempestuous waters.
The storm is coming
.
Simmi turned toward the villa’s front porch—compelled by some force beyond her ken.
The door opened as if in slow motion.
Her mouth went dry, and she gulped. His big frame filled the doorway with barely an inch to spare on either side. Twilight threw shadows everywhere. A soft glow radiated from behind him. Against the light, his silhouette should’ve appeared imposing and threatening, but it didn’t. Maybe because of the casual rest of his broad shoulders, outlined in a well-fitted T-shirt, and the relaxed way he propped a jean-clad hip against the doorframe, one bare foot crossed over the other. He held a glass in his hand, which he brought to his lips to tip back the contents. She still couldn’t make out his features, or even the color of his hair.
I want to know what he looks like
. Simmi ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip, and in the distance, he straightened.
With a soft nod, he beckoned her to approach.
I can’t
. Apprehension and anxiety warred inside her, but under his steady perusal, her steps, though slow and cautious, were regular. His mere presence held an unbreakable pull over her, and her feet seemed to hover over the chipped gravel.
Each step brought her closer to him, but none enabled her to see him any clearer. With the light behind him, shadows were his friends. They cloaked him and hinted at the real man.
At last, she stood on the porch, a few feet away from him. The minute she moved under the corrugated tin awning, the darkness around him melted, revealing his features.
Simmi hitched in a breath. He stood tall and broad, at least twice her size and weight. If the way his jeans and T-shirt hugged his body gave any indication, he packed nothing but solid muscle under the garments. Her gaze moved from his waistband, up his torso, to his face, and she bit her lip.
Beautiful. She had no other way to describe him. His tanned features were taut and chiseled, the square jaw emphasized by his close-trimmed, golden beard. His mouth begged kisses, sensual, but not girly. A patrician nose, eyes that, in the cloaked dimness of the porch, looked like deep pools of blue ink…. His dark-blond hair seemed mussed, as if he’d run his fingers through the strands a minute earlier.
“Hello.” His deep, male rumble sent tingles down her spine and along her arms.
He’s a foreigner
—white, yes, but a local white man would’ve addressed her in French, not in English, and not with such a crisp accent in the word.
Now she knew how Madame Eve had been able to pair her with someone on the island. Simmi had mentioned her concerns about meeting someone she might know, so Madame Eve found the perfect solution—an expat.
A foreigner on her island—what were the chances she’d ever meet him again?
Tension drained from her shoulders, and a measure of calm and competence seeped through her. She could—and
would
—do this.
He gave a soft nod. “My name is—”
Simmi crossed the distance between them, and placed the tips of her fingers against his mouth, cutting his words.
“No. Don’t say it. I don’t want to know.”
Chapter Two
Her fingertips lay soft and warm against his lips, and a subtle whiff of Chanel No. 5 drifted to his nostrils while she looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes.
He couldn’t discern her face, her features, not with the darkness of night creeping up all around them. Lars needed to see her. All of a sudden, his gut burned for a glimpse of her, a taste of her, for all of her.
Bloody hell—Madame Evangeline was good. Few women elicited such a response from him, yet the lady had paired him with a woman who made his blood simmer and his lust boil. He shifted to ease the tightening in his jeans and brought his hand up to wrap his fingers around hers.
Her lips parted. She had a beautiful mouth. He craved to know what her lips would feel like, taste like, how they would open under his, how they would feel wrapped around him.
Treat her like a princess
.
Madame Eve’s words—in bold
and
italics—in the confirmation email, blinked like neon lights inside his head. Why did this woman warrant such deference?
He had to see her, damn it. Without releasing her hand, he took a step backward and tugged her with him. She moved as if she floated on a cloud, steps delicate and small, and followed his retreat into the villa without any hesitation.
As he passed the demi-console in the hallway, he put his glass down. Lars moved into the wide-open space of the villa’s living room. The heels of her shoes click-clacked on the polished wood parquet, but when she stopped dead at the edge of the room and pulled her hand back, he grew tense.
He turned toward her, and a fist slammed into his stomach. The soft glow from the appliqué light on the wall fell over her face and lit up her ethereal beauty as if from within. She looked so beautiful with taut, smooth, and radiant alabaster skin, her features sculpted on a fragile bone structure. Her deep-set eyes were big, rich brown like molten milk chocolate. She wore her lustrous black hair in a pixie cut, with longer strands in front, tucked behind her ears.
And he knew her. At least, he knew her name. What man would ever forget such a magnificent face, one that would haunt his dreams? He’d seen a photograph of her once, but once had been enough to burn the image of her physical perfection into his brain.
Madame Eve didn’t always provide the names of the people she matched up front. Full disclosure, in their case, was at their discretion.
The gorgeous woman didn’t want to know his name. Fine by him, before he’d recognized her. But things were different now. Simmi Moyer, Vice-President, Legal Affairs, of Dunmore Group of Companies. A year ago, she’d been in London with the contract for a joint venture between Dunmore and Elriksen Shipping. The insurance branch of Dunmore partnered Elriksen Shipping on the Mauritian, African, and Indian Ocean territories. Lars had been in Sweden when the signatures were exchanged on the documents, and he and Magnus had ragged Stellan senseless because their friend had failed to go after the beautiful, and single, Ms. Moyer. Stellan had maintained Simmi Moyer did not look like the kind of woman one engaged in a tryst; she represented the type of lady a gentleman wined and dined and treated like a princess, if not his equal.
Is she still single today
? Why else would she sign up for a one-night stand? Madame Eve did not arrange adultery.
Why did one of the most beautiful, intelligent, and successful women of Mauritius choose to be here tonight? Simmi could have her pick of men.
And she doesn’t want to know my name
…
“Why?” he asked.
She parted her full, pink lips. They seemed devoid of artificial color—soon, he would know. But first, he wanted answers.
“Why what?”
Her voice held a low, sultry note. He would’ve been disappointed if she’d sounded girly or high-pitched. Simmi Moyer looked like a devastating temptress—the voice of Minnie Mouse would’ve shattered that image to kingdom come.
“You don’t want to know who I am.” He crossed his arms and watched her. “Why?”
“Because…” She bit her lip and looked away.
He narrowed his eyes, and under his scrutiny, she squirmed. Lars uncrossed his arms and stood straighter. In one single step, he reached her side. With his thumb and index finger, he grasped her chin and made her turn toward him.
“Because what?” He kept his voice low and smooth.
She lowered her gaze and then looked up into his face. Even in her heels, she stood a few inches shorter than him. Good—he liked his women small and dainty—not hard to ensure given his height and size. The tinier his partner, the stronger his protective instincts, and his desire for her—to make her come over and over again, to pleasure her ’til she abandoned herself in his arms, delirious with satisfaction—flamed higher. Simmi Moyer would be a choice morsel, but first, he had to know what game she played.
“Answer me,” he said in a soft voice as he dipped his face to hers. The hair at her temple tickled his nose.
“You—” She gulped, the sound audible in the hushed interior. “You know why we’re here.”
He reached out, touched a lock of hair, and tucked it behind her ear. Her breath hissed when he brushed his finger in a light swipe across her temple.
“One night of pleasure. Is that it?” he murmured against the shell of her ear. Then, he blew warm, moist air on her earlobe and the delicate skin of her neck underneath.
“Yes.” The word came out as a moan.
“So how do I make you scream my name when you come if you don’t even know what it is?”
He moved back to look into her face.
“I…”
“Tell me,” he coaxed. “How do I make you come when I don’t even know your name? How do I ask you what pleasures you?”
She blinked, her eyelids drooping. Her pupils had dilated, and the come-hither bedroom gaze she fixed on him poked at the smoldering embers of desire burning in his gut.
“You don’t have to,” she said on a ragged breath.
“Make you come or know your name?”
Stellan had described Simmi Moyer as a formidable dragon hidden behind the veneer of an ice queen. Right now, Lars saw her worlds away from that description. A soft, desirable, yearning woman stood in front of him, stripped of her title, of her status, of her position on the executive ladder. Just a woman, vulnerable and open, her whole being laid down at his feet, for only one night.
Here, she existed just as Simmi.
Who deserved to be treated like a princess.
Lars didn’t think of himself as any prince—not even a knight in shining armor. What did he have to offer her, except one night of pure, unadulterated pleasure?
And what of
her
purpose? He knew why he’d been forced to resort to 1Night Stand for this date, but what about her? Sex with a stranger? Did she get her kicks this way? Or did she thrive as one of those hard-boiled executives whose MO stated all work and no play, and who fell back on arranged dates devoid of any relationship factor for a tryst of fun?