Blame It on Paradise (3 page)

“J.T. is no longer on the premises.” The receptionist shifted her gaze from the appointment book to the fashion magazine beside it. “You’ll have to reschedule for tomorrow.”

The muscles of Jack’s neck tensed. “I’m in town for twenty-four hours. I need to see J.T. Marchand
today
. Can you give me a number to call, or a home address?”

The receptionist finally glanced up at him. Her eyes widened for an instant, becoming two deep pools of jet within the terra cotta of her face before her lids dropped, suggestively hooding her eyes. She took the left corner of her lower lip between her pearly teeth and gave Jack a long, leisurely appraisal. “I can give you
my
number. I guarantee that you’ll have more fun with me than with J.T. Marchand.”

Jack squinted in annoyance and shook his head. He took several long strides back toward the plate glass lobby front. He turned and knocked his head against the surrounding brick as he formed a mental picture of exactly how he would financially keelhaul J.T. Marchand.

The receptionist’s voice dragged him from his vengeful reverie. “J.T. has an opening tomorrow morning at 7:30.”

“I’ll take it.” He finally raised his head from the brick.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr.…?”

“Yes,” Jack snapped pointedly. “I need a place to spend the night.”

A feline grin slowly spread across the receptionist’s face. Wearily, Jack sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward.

CHAPTER 2

For all of her forwardness, the receptionist proved useful in arranging a homestay for Jack. The one-bedroom cottage with its hand-woven thatched roof was owned by none other than J.T. Marchand, which—despite its rustic exterior—likely explained its tourist-friendly amenities. The first thing Jack did upon arriving was search the house for a phone directory, an address book, a list of emergency numbers—anything that would enable him to contact Marchand—but the cottage yielded nothing.

Jack succumbed to the allure of the large bathroom, which featured a whirlpool bath and an oversized shower stall. He stripped, leaving his clothes on the floor, mourning the custom-tailored suit ruined with sweat and road dust.

Billowy clouds of steam lazily floated through the room as Jack stepped into the shower stall. The gentle blasts of hot water washed away layers of grime and fatigue, leaving more room for Jack’s growing frustration. He was sorely tempted to dress and search the island. There had to be a car for rent somewhere, and there were only so many places a person could hide on an island of less than two hundred square miles. But then Darwin was an alien landscape of dizzying cliffs, savage seas, treacherous coastlines, volcanic peaks, waterfalls, peat bogs, lagoons and endless beaches. Marchand could be hiding out in the thick patches of tropical forests Jack had viewed from above during the descent to Darwin.

The island’s benefactor could be anywhere, and given the helpfulness of the locals so far, Jack decided he’d be better off getting a good night’s sleep.

He took his time shaving after his shower, thinking up an alternate plan of attack for his early morning face-to-face. His original strategy had been to soft sell Marchand, to simply illustrate how partnering with Coyle-Wexler would make him almost as rich as God while benefiting a world gone crazy with fad diets and gastric surgeries.

Jack was in no mood for the soft sell, not after a 21-hour flight, a chicken chase, a 10-mile hike, a missed meeting and being forced to spend an extra day on the island. He switched into offensive mode. Between now and six
a.m.
, he would outline a plan that would leave Marchand with little more than the volcano that had upchucked Darwin an eon ago.

He carefully ran the silky-sharp edge of his German-crafted razor along the lathered plane of his jaw. “The ol’ snake probably never intended to see me today at all. Nice move, J.T. Way to throw your adversary off his game.” He ran water over his blade to clean it of its dark stubble before splashing handfuls of water over his face to rinse away the last specks of shaving cream. He ran his wet hands through his shower damp hair as he stared at his reflection.

He tried to see himself as Marchand would. Of course, he’d be wearing a suit and not a towel swathed around his hips when he finally met Marchand, but there was no denying what the mirror showed him. It had been eleven years since he’d last tossed a game-winning touchdown pass, but he still had the durable and well-built physique that had led the Boston University Terriers to a bowl game. He had an imposing physical presence, when he wanted to.

A former girlfriend had dragged him to a yoga class, and to Jack’s eternal shame, he had enjoyed it. Yoga had increased his strength, flexibility, concentration and confidence, not that he’d lacked those qualities before. Yoga had also given him the ability to control his physical presence, to appear less intimidating when he needed to—or more so, as the occasion warranted.

Jack intended to overwhelm J.T. Marchand in every possible way.

He gave his arms and back a good stretch as he exited the bathroom. “Thanks for the delay, J.T. The worst thing that could happen to you is me getting a good night’s sleep.”

Only trouble was, Jack wasn’t sleepy. Even though it was a warm, moonlit night, his body was still on Eastern time. It was 10
p.m
. on Darwin, so his body recognized its bedtime, but his mind was hungry for its 4
a.m.
cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee.

Jack pulled the towel from his hips and deposited it on top of his ruined suit before he climbed into bed. “At least it’s a king-size,” he groaned, pulling a light flannel blanket up to his waist. He pillowed his head on one forearm and draped the other forearm over his middle. Closing his eyes, he tried to force himself to sleep.

He might have succeeded, if not for the scent of mango. His stomach growled as he sat up and noticed that the sliding doors leading to the back patio had been opened. He leaped out of bed and tugged on a pair of black sports briefs. Screen doors kept out animals and insects, but a two-legged creature had opened the glass doors while he showered.

He cautiously approached the screen doors, listening…nothing, other than the arrhythmic chirps and clicks of insects and the gentle movement of water. He quietly slid the door open farther and poked his head out for a more thorough look, but he saw nothing other than the mint-blue underlighting in a private lagoon and vast canopies of tall, palm-like trees hooding it from the moonlight.

“Wow,” he exhaled. Jack still wasn’t sleepy, but he suddenly felt more relaxed as he stared at the picturesque scene before him. The view left him speechless, so he had nothing to say when he noticed the netting-covered platter on the rattan table on the patio. His stomach grumbled with more enthusiasm when he went to the table and drew back the netting.

His last real meal had been on his first-class flight from Los Angeles to Sydney. He’d had packets of snack crackers on the chartered flights from Sydney to Christchurch and Christchurch to Darwin, so once he sat down at the table, he realized that he was starving. He began gorging himself on slices of fresh mango, green and gold kiwi, cantaloupe, honeydew melon and spiced ham, and practically swallowed whole a salad of marinated grape tomatoes, goat cheese and fresh basil. He particularly enjoyed a spicy roasted bird that tasted like chicken, only with a more robust, mildly gamey flavor.

He tore open a large crusty roll and chomped into the satin fluff of the interior. After a few cursory bites, he took a swig of the pale amber beverage in the goblet beside the platter. The drink was cool and refreshing, and Jack made special note of its subtle mint flavor.

“So this is it.” He swirled the drink, watching the way it caught the moonlight. “The green gold of Darwin Island.”

He set down the goblet and shoveled in another chunk of roasted poultry. The tea was good, but a cold Sam Adams would have been better. Jack enjoyed a bittersweet chuckle thinking about the last time he’d had a Sam Adams. It had been around the same time he’d last played football. Over the years, his tastes had evolved to appreciate the complexities of Czech pilsners and rare milk sugar vodkas. No matter how pretentious his palate became, it would never forget its humble origins belonging to the son of a dockworker who had bought him a Sam Adams on his twenty-first birthday.

Jack might have eaten himself sick if the ring of his cell phone hadn’t drawn him away from the food and back into his room. Only one person had his cell phone number, so without looking at the text box, he knew who was calling.

Rather than waste words on a greeting, Jack got right to the point. “I had a transportation problem at the airport and missed my appointment. Marchand had left the office by the time I arrived. I’ve rescheduled for 7:30 tomorrow morning.”

“Have you seen any other predators down there?” Reginald’s voice crackled over the thousands of miles between them.

Jack knew exactly what Reginald meant by ‘predators.’ ”Not a one. C-W’s secret is still a secret.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Jack fought back a yawn. “For now, at least. This place is crawling with tourists, but none of them look like competition.” He stood at the patio doors and stared at the water lapping at the man-made part of the lagoon. A sudden shift of shadow in his peripheral vision aroused the hairs at the back of his neck. Fully alert, he again stepped outside and peered into the darkness of the wild foliage surrounding the cottage and lagoon.

“Jack?”

“What?” he responded a bit too sharply.

“It’s only a matter of time before word of the tea gets out, now that I’ve announced my plans to the company,” grumbled Reginald.

“I know. C-W’s secrets have been sprouting wings lately.” Sensing a presence he could not see, Jack spoke in hushed tones.

“You’ll get this done, won’t you, Jack? Burke is champing at the bit for a shot at this acquisition, and I’m tempted to give it to him.”

Jack returned his full attention to Reginald. This was the first time he’d heard even a hint of doubt regarding his negotiating skill, and Reginald had never before threatened him with Edison Burke. Burke’s style was far different from Jack’s. While Jack preferred to negotiate person to person, laying all the facts and incentives right out on the table, Burke’s success had been built by stating half-truths and making side deals.

“Marchand’s mine, Reginald,” Jack stated. “I know this game and I always win it. I’ll get J.T. Marchand. First thing tomorrow.”

He disconnected the call and tossed the phone back into the bedroom. When he turned back toward the patio, he saw her.

More stunned than surprised, a pained groan seeped from deep in his chest. True to the advance billing given by Reginald’s photos of Darwin’s female population, every woman Jack had encountered since his arrival, Levora included, had been nothing less than beautiful.

The woman slowly crossing his patio had to be their queen, which was odd considering that, at first glance, she wasn’t particularly attractive. At least not in any conventional sense.

Individually, Jack found her features peculiar. Her nose was rather thin and elongated, her odd-colored eyes set too wide and her lower lip much fuller than the upper one. But puzzled together, they comprised an amazingly alluring face. Stars of moonlight gleamed in her blue-black hair and made her dark brown skin glow. Tendrils of her long hair whispered against her exposed shoulders and collarbones, and the movement guided Jack’s gaze lower, to her bare torso. Her breasts were magnificent. Round, high and tipped with tiny mahogany buds, they stoked a very specific hunger within the black knit of Jack’s shorts. Her lightly muscled abdomen drew his eyes to the sensuous swell of her hips, around which she wore a sarong made of what seemed to be a black silk handkerchief.

She walked with the grace and body awareness of a prima ballerina. Hypnotized by the sylph-like movement of her thighs and calves, Jack could look away from her body only after she was standing directly in front him and had captured his gaze within the crystalline grey of her own.

When her lips parted as if to speak, Jack had to clench his hands to stop himself from touching his fingertip to the plumpness of her lower lip.

He took a healthy step back before he embarrassed both of them by poking her in her stomach—with a body part far more insistent than his hands. “I like your outfit,” he blurted. He’d wanted to express admiration for the supple sheen of her skin, but then decided to keep his opening remarks more tame.

She’d never been self-conscious about her body. This was the first time she’d ever felt naked when she was half nude. Snared in the heat of the handsome American’s serious hazel gaze, she prickled with glorious exhilaration. This was it.
He
was it, the unknown something she had been expecting. All day, her sense of expectation had been a low simmer in her belly. Now, standing before him, that pleasant sensation began to roil. Following her instincts had earned great rewards or big trouble time and time again, with no in between. Unsure which path the trend would take, she circled the out-of-place American, her island’s most interesting new visitor.

“Is that a Moriori costume?”

She narrowed her eyes a bit. So he had done his homework. Many tourists came to Darwin with knowledge of the Maori, the indigenous tribesmen of neighboring New Zealand, but few took the time or interest to visit Darwin to learn of its indigenous people, the Moriori.

“Do you speak English?”

She reached past him and ran her fingertip along the rim of his tea goblet. Jack swallowed back a hard lump that traveled through his body and settled below his waist.

“¿Usted habla español?”
he persisted.

She answered with an amused half smile.

Jack scrubbed a hand through his damp hair, leaving it more rakish. English, French and Maori were Darwin’s official languages, and Jack wanted to kick himself for not even trying to learn basic Maori phrases during his long flight. He gave it one last try.
“Je parle français, et vous?”

She smiled, and its radiance made him sweat between his toes. His thigh muscles weakened under the force of her clean, unadorned beauty. All at once, he was relieved to know that she couldn’t understand him because it gave him the freedom to say whatever he wanted. He moved closer to her, so close that his words softly buffeted the top of her head as she sorted through the grapes on his tray.

“My work takes me all over the world,” he told her. “I’ve seen the sun set beyond the Greek isles and doves fly over the Taj Mahal. I’ve heard angels sing in the Sistine Chapel, and watched children play in Buckingham fountain. I’ve seen some of the most beautiful sights in the world…” A lump caught in his throat, and he was unable to continue until he forced it back. “But…my God…I have never seen anything as beautiful as you. I thought this was the most godforsaken rock on the planet, but now I suddenly find myself thinking I’m in paradise.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. Jack opened his mouth to apologize but then realized that she had not understood a word. He might have apologized anyway, had she not abruptly turned on her heel and started for the lagoon.

It never occurred to Jack to remain behind. He followed her to the water’s edge and found it surprisingly warm as he climbed down the natural steps and into a tile-lined section of the lagoon. His guide dived into the water with the sleek, splashless ease of a dolphin, and she swam out beyond the tile and into the cooler ocean water. She was as agile as an otter, spinning onto her back to see that he still followed before she ducked under the water only to emerge several yards ahead of him moments later.