The Bad Boys of Eden (100 page)

Chapter Seven

Once I clear customs in Miami, I am surprised to find a man wearing a driver’s cap, standing in the waiting area with my name scrawled on a placard. Wow. Wade and Connor thought of everything.

“I’m Tessa Savage,” I say, as I approach the man.

“Welcome to Miami, Ms. Savage. I’ve got a car waiting to take you to the marina terminal.” He takes my bags and I follow him out to the road where the car is waiting.

It’s a short drive to the other side of the airport where the marina terminal is located. Up ahead I see a smaller control tower and the service road we’re on passes by a number of hangars all adjacent to a canal. The driver pulls up to a newer looking hangar and parks near a dock where a small float plane is tethered.

A woman comes from around the side of the plane. She’s wearing khaki shorts and a black shirt. Mirrored sunglasses hide her eyes.

Familiar. Where have I seen her before?

She strides toward me, hand out, all no-nonsense. “Tessa. Good to see you. I’m Joely. I’ll be flying you to Eden.”

“Have we met? You look really familiar but…” My words trail off, as I search my brain to place her.

Joely smiles secretively and it’s an expression that makes the young pilot appear barely a day over sixteen years of age. “Maybe. Maybe not.
Yet
.”

Okay. That’s a weird answer. “What does that mean?” I find myself studying her, still trying to place her.

She raises the sunglasses to the top of her head and says, “You’ll see. Climb aboard.” She fondly pats the puddle jumper we’re standing beside as if it’s an old family pet not a flimsy-looking piece of machinery, which makes me completely forget about her strange comment and focus on the fact that I’m supposed to board this thing.

I have to confess, while I fly—a lot—I have a fear of small airplanes. I hate them. And this puddle jumper is as small as they come. I motion dismissively to the plane. “Is this it? This flimsy thing is the only way to get to the island?”

She frowns. “Did you just insult Wanda? Damn, girl. That’s just asking for trouble. Wanda’ll take it personally.” She strokes the plane, murmuring, “She didn’t mean it, baby.”

Turning to me with a twisted grin, she says, “Trust me, Wanda is the most reliable plane you’ll ever have the pleasure of flying in.” Her eyes sparkle with some form of mischief. “Pity you don’t remember her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” She leans against the plane. “Look, there’s a boat you can take, but I don’t recommend it.” She tilts her head back to check the skies and sniffs a couple times. “There’s a storm coming. I can smell it.” Motioning to the open doorway she says, “We need to get a move on if we want to beat it. So enough chitchat. Climb up. The island’s waiting.”

* * *

Two hours later and the Miami canal has been replaced by crystal clear, azure colored waters surrounding the island of Eden. I disembark and find myself on a long wooden dock leading to what can only be called tropical paradise. A castle, that smacks of fairytale princesses, is visible from where I’m standing, surrounded by lush tropical foliage and the heavy scent of frangipani blossoms. There’s an entourage of uniformed employees to greet me. One woman dressed in a smartly tailored skirt and blouse, has a champagne flute on a silver tray. Two extremely handsome young men stand to the side, waiting to tote my bags.

A tall, dark-haired man comes forward. “I’m Andre. I’ll be your concierge for the duration of your stay.” Pointing to a golf cart, he says, “Please have a seat. You’ll be staying in the private villas on the far side of the island.

Before climbing aboard the cart, I swipe the champagne flute from the woman holding the tray and down it. I have to admit, while this place does not seem like the kind of place Wade and Connor would choose to get hitched, this is exactly the kind of place I would choose for a little R&R.

As we start driving, Andre gives me a brief history of the island.

“The resort has been operating for almost a decade. The castle was purchased in Scotland by The Master and moved, stone by stone, to the island where it was rebuilt and modernized. There are many sections and it’s much larger than it looks. It’s unique in that every stay is tailored to its guest.”

“Wait. Who owns this island?”

“A very wealthy man. Most people refer to him as The Master.”

“Does he have a name?”

Andre smiles. “Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me his name?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“If he The Master wishes for you to know who he is, he will tell you himself.” He glances at me and winks. “Now, the villas where you’ll be staying are reserved for our exclusive guests. You’re welcome to use all the amenities in the castle, and on the rest of the resort, but I think you’ll find your needs will be met where you’re staying.”

His smile is enigmatic.

For the millionth time, I wonder how Wade and Connor can afford something like this. It’s crazy.

Andre continues his monologue for the duration of the car ride, pointing out all the restaurants, bars, night clubs, and swimming pools, giving me the low down on the activity schedule: yoga classes, cooking classes, dance lessons, all typical activities and amenities of a tropical resort. Then there are the
atypical
amenities and activities, the indoor and outdoor BDSM club, the hedonist pools, the nude beaches.

“The Master has created a resort where fantasy is made into reality, so please do not be shocked by what you see. It is all consensual.”

“Have Wade and Connor arrived yet?” I ask, stifling a yawn, jet lag catching up with me.

“Who?”

“Wade Messing and Connor O’Reilly.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with the names of those guests.”

I’m sure the men are here already or will be soon and I’m too pooped to prod. I tried to sleep on the tiny plane called Wanda, but every little bump and dip kicked up my heartrate making sleep impossible and leaving me with that achy, overtired feeling.

We take a turn through some dense foliage and then through an automated gate that slowly opens between two stone walls that must be at least twelve to sixteen feet high. Following a circular drive, we pull up in front of a pillared archway covered in climbing vines. Just the palapa-style roof of the villa is discernible through the trees. We make our way along a winding stone path until we come to the entrance of the villa.

Seriously? Who died and left Wade and Connor a kajillion dollars? This place is…amazing!

Andre stops outside the closed door and fishes a delicate gold bracelet out of his vest pocket. “May I?”

“Of course.” I hold out my wrist and he attaches the bracelet. It fits me perfectly. Not too loose, not too snug. There is a flattened gold section that has my name scripted on it.

“It’s embedded with a microchip.” He takes my wrist and holds it up against a small black square just above the door handle. “It’s your key.”

The door swings open and I’m greeted by a cool breeze and…the scent of frangipani blossoms again. I love the scent, sweet and promising; they remind me of the little hotel my ex-husband and I stayed at in Hawaii when we were there for our honeymoon.

Andre gives me a tour of the eight-thousand square foot villa—I suspect the whole wedding is going to take place here—constructed from what looks like local limestone combined with rich hardwood. The vaulted ceilings make the villa airy and natural and each of the five bedrooms are gorgeous, and have their own en suite bathroom. I pause in one bedroom and eye the four poster, king sized bed draped in billowing cotton. Believe it or not, my mind
does not
automatically imagine the kind of fun the posters of the bed could be used for, all I want to do is curl up on the enormous bed with the open window overlooking the infinity pool and private beach and catch up on some sleep before the boys arrive.

“Unless you have any questions, I’ll leave you to get settled.”

“Thank you.”

After Andre leaves, I head back to the bedroom, fully intent on crawling under the fluffy white duvet. Kicking my feet out, I sprawl out on the bed, too tired to even get to the
crawl-beneath-the-duvet
phase of my plan. It’s like the bed is drugged with sleep, and the gentle whisper of the billowing drapes at the open window is singing a lullaby. Soothing. Comforting.

My lids drift closed.

My body twitches, on the verge of an exhausted sleep when I hear a noise, like there’s someone at the door. The weird thing is, I don’t sit up. I don’t even wake up. I’m not scared even though, by the shape of the shadow at the door, I know it’s a man standing there, watching me. Suddenly I’m out of my body, watching the scene play out before me. I’m a visitor in my own dream.

So weird.

Like watching a fuzzy, black and white movie, I observe myself, lying there, twisted between the sheets. My skin is pale and seems to glow from the muted light winking in between the open drapes. I watch myself try to move, but the sheets restrict my legs and I moan. The sound draws the shadow closer, moving across the room to the side of the bed.

Who is he?

I can’t see his face.

Christophe
.

The name is a whisper. Soft as a downy feather brushing my inner ear.

Yes. It’s him. His shoulders are broad, his chest is bare and he’s wearing drawstring trousers that ride low on his hips. His hair is dark and mussed. Not bed head, more like hair that’s had fingers threaded through it…in passion.  He comes to stand by the side of the bed, watching me sleep.

I turn and twist between the sheets, and the spaghetti strap on my negligee—where’d the negligee come from?!—slips down my shoulder as I turn toward him. The movement bares my breast like a gift unwrapped just for him.

It is not Christophe who reaches for my nakedness. It’s me. I fondle my breast, pinching my nipple, sighing softly—a completely sensual sound—and arch into my hand.

By the way I reach for him, it’s obvious I want him and am asking him to touch me.

There is no reply to my silent question.

He stands completely still as my hands roam across his body; his chest, his stomach, dipping below the waistband of his trousers. He is as strong as I guessed, his body as taut, his skin as soft as I imagined. I read him with my fingertips and tug dreamily on his waistband, pulling him closer, making him kneel at my side. Finding his face, I gently caress his cheek and his lips.

“Teach me.”

The words are softly spoken.

“Teach me all you know.”

He reaches for my cheek and cups it tenderly then he bends to me, tasting me slowly and thoroughly, just like he taught me how to taste scotch.

He holds my face so he can turn me, kissing my cheek, my jaw, moving lower along the length of my neck.
“Are you sure?”

Lower and lower he goes kissing my shoulder, the hollow of my neck, just when I think he’s going where I want him, he goes back up. Licking and tasting. Enjoying every little bit of me.

I cover the hand that is holding my cheek and slide it around to my mouth, taking his index and middle fingers between my lips. He lifts his head and by the way his head lolls back, he’s enjoying what I’m doing. A lot.

Withdrawing from my mouth, he trails wet fingers down my neck, following the path his lips took only a moment before and finally—thank God—he moves to my breasts.

I react to his damp touch as if he’s fingering my clit, not my nipples. Crying out and arching in ecstasy.

Fuck.

I need more. More than the greedy suction at my breasts. More than his damp touch and possessive kisses. So, I take control, grasping Christophe’s hand and pushing it past the bunched up silk at my waist, easing it between my legs. But my legs are all tangled up and I can’t seem to free them.

Frustrated, I fit his hand over my mound and hold him there unable to move, unable to spread my legs, only able to pulse my hips into his open palm.

“I need you
,” I say, managing to move the damp material of my panties to the side. “
Please. I need you.”

With one hand propped on the bed beside my hip, he leans over and slides his other hand up the inside of my thigh, circling that part of me that is exposed. I try to move my hips into the path of his touch, but he keeps avoiding the place I want it most.

“Please
,” I beg. “
Please
.”

“What do you want?”
This is said so softly and so deeply, I almost can’t discern the words. Christophe lowers himself and kisses me in the places he has been caressing; the inside of my thighs, my hips, that deep crease where leg meet pelvis.

He gazes up at me and I see his eyes for the first time. They are darker than I remember. It must be the lack of light that make them look black instead of blue.

Finally, finally he moves to my center, licking between my fingers and down to where they are in contact with my open body. The second his tongue touches me, I scream.