Last Resort: S.I.N. Series Page 10

  I feel the warmth of his body behind me, smell the scent of his skin, and the heat of his breath on my shoulder as he dips his mouth to my ear. “I don’t normally play games. I don’t have to. I take what I want . . . but I’ll play, this time. This once. I’ll play because you might be the only bright spot for me in this fucking place. I know the prize and fuck if it’s not worth waiting for.” He slides a hand around my front and cups me. “But be warned, I’m not patient, especially when what I want is sexy as hell and within reach.”

  He licks a line down the curve of my neck before he steps back and walks out the villa’s door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Callahan

  I’ve just fucked myself, haven’t I?

  The question replays through my mind over and over as I walk across the property. It was even the cadence I repeated as I took my second run in as many hours.

  But I had to get out of that villa. Away from Sutton and things I’ve never found sexy before—bedhead, pillow creases on cheeks, and husky morning voices—but now suddenly do after one fucking morning. Away from her flimsy sleep tank that you can see the pink of her nipples through and her question I don’t have the fucking answer to.

  Correction. I have the answer. Hot sex. Great sex. Endless sex.

  That would be a good enough answer for almost any woman who’s had the pleasure of experiencing it with me. Every woman, except for her.

  I know why it bugs me, any man would, but what I can’t put my finger on is why it’s sexy as hell too.

  Being denied.

  Being challenged.

  Having to work for something I’ve never had to work for before.

  Hell, I walked into that suite that first night wanting nothing more than some good sex with the woman who intrigued and challenged me at Club Coquette. Now I’ve set it up so that I’m essentially living with her, seeing her, and being tempted by her every goddamn day.

  Something is definitely wrong with me, because the answer to my own question is, yes, I just fucked myself.

  There’s no way to rationalize it. No way to make me feel less crazy because there’s not an ounce of logic to it. I had her. I wanted her. I swore I wouldn’t let myself have her. And now I’m determined to have her again.

  There.

  I said it. (Again.)

  Now what to do about it.

  Answering the fucking question would be the logical thing to do but what’s the answer? I can’t promise her the promotion with Roz because I have no control over that. I can’t offer her a job at S.I.N. because then she’d be fucking her way to the top. I won’t give her money and she said she didn’t want that.

  So what the hell does she want? What’s her angle? The woman clearly still wants me as much as I want her. That want isn’t in question. It’s the why and the how and fuck if I know how to satisfy her to get it.

  In any other situation I’d think I’m being played, but she’s not playing me. She’s dead fucking serious.

  What do I get out of it?

  I take another sip of my coffee and lift a hand in greeting to a staff member coming down the pathway across from me.

  So yeah, I’ll play this game of hers, but I’ll add my terms too. After all, every great negotiation has to have two opponents. She’s not the only one who can touch and entice and then withhold the endgame.

  I’m already screwed as it is, so I might as well go all in. If I have to suffer, she has to suffer too.

  “Morning,” I say to no one in particular as I walk into the shared office space on the way to my own private one. I keep my eyes focused on my phone, pretending like I have a very important text I’m reading. I know Sutton is there, can smell her perfume and feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look up or even acknowledge her.

  If there’s one thing I’ve found, it’s that ignoring someone makes that person want you even more.

  She wants to play? Let’s play.

  Greetings are muttered back as I take a seat at my desk. It takes a few seconds before chatter resumes, that cautious fear that the person in charge will get upset if people are talking wanes with each passing minute.

  “So that’s the plan?” Brady asks, his voice outside of my office.

  “You say that like it’s a bad plan,” Sutton says.

  “Not bad, no,” he backpedals. “I’m just trying to figure out how you’re going to complete that action list you have taped to the wall behind you that looks like it’s a million miles long while going out and doing all of these things.”

  “These things are what’s going to make Ocean’s Edge stand out and be more attractive. I have to see what everyone else offers that we don’t. Only then can we make ourselves better.”

  “And you plan on doing this in the two-month timeline you’ve given yourself to turn this beast around?” There is doubt laced in his voice, and I wish I could see Sutton’s expression because I’ve no doubt she’s shaking her head, already on the defensive.

  “The financials won’t be turned around in two months, Brady. You and I both know that. But there will be a plan in place for you to build on a stronger foundation by then. The staff should be happier with the new pay structure we’re going to offer, the amenities will be more competitive with other resorts, a change in design esthetic will be underway, and a bolder, more attractive marketing plan will be in motion.” There is a pause as if she’s doing something, and then she continues. “Almost all of those things can be done from right here in my chair, but not the amenities part. That part I need to experience, so I can compare with what we have.”

  “I wasn’t questioning you,” Brady murmurs.

  “I know you weren’t,” Sutton says, and I can hear the reassuring smile in her tone. “I’m fine with being challenged and questioned. That will only serve to make this revamp more successful. Don’t ever worry about that.”

  She’s good with people. She can read the room and tell Brady is worried he’s stepped on her toes. It’s something not everyone can do.

  Brady moves around his desk, out of my sight, and I presume over to hers. “Are you going off that website?”

  “No. I’ve cross-checked about ten ‘best-of’ lists and have curated the ones that are duplicated the most. I figure that will give me the best feel of what people are wanting when they visit the island.”

  “Smart.”

  “Here’s the list I’ve made so far.”

  Brady makes an approving hum. “These are ones I would have picked as well. Why is that one highlighted?”

  “Because that, my friend, requires tickets and I plan on making sure I have one.”

  “To One-Night-Stand Land?”

  And before the last word is out of Brady’s mouth, I am up and out of my seat, casually strolling into their office with my hands in my pockets to prevent them from fisting.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “Sutton here is going to be the guinea pig and try out all of the ‘best ofs’ for the island so we can make ours better. Including, singles night at Isla del Mar.

  Singles night?

  “Oh. I thought I heard something different,” I murmur.

  “You did,” Sutton says more than enthusiastically. I turn to look at her, take in her tumble of hair falling over her shoulders and dark pink shirt, but it’s the smile on her face and look in her eyes that grabs my attention. Mocking. Amused. “Brady called it One-Night-Stand Land. That’s what it’s often referred to in some of the reviews.”

  I purse my lips and nod. “I thought it was understood that we’re trying to target a higher-end clientele. One-Night-Stand Land doesn’t exactly denote class, Sutton.”

  Her back straightens. Yes, I just insulted both of us if for no other purpose than to get her attention.

  And it worked.

  Her eyes fire with anger.

  “I’m well aware of the market we’re catering to in the property’s makeover. But that market—the single, rich kids who take their private jets down here to throw away Daddy’s money on the Instagram vacations, frequent that place in droves.”

  “Your point?” I ask.

  “My point is we have a club on the premises that hasn’t been anywhere near fifty percent capacity since the club at Isla del Mar started doing singles night last year. And what I learned from talking to the manager this morning is that those socialites ready to spend Daddy’s money go there because there is nowhere else for them to go on the island. My bet is those clients want upscale. They want to go where they can get bottle service and velvet ropes of a VIP section like they get back home. They want to be treated like royalty so they can have fun while not having to mix with the little people.”

  “This is the Caribbean, not Manhattan.”

  “They want what they want and will go to the places that provide it.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest.

  “And?” I ask.

  “And we have a club that can provide that for them. We fancy it up. We make capacity limited for non-resort guests, maybe a lottery you have to apply for—something like that—because clearly whatever is off-limits makes people want it more, wouldn’t you agree?” she asks, lifting a lone eyebrow to drive that point home.

  “For some, yes.” I lean against the doorjamb, knowing she has a damn good point.

  “Sometimes the allure of something is more potent than actually having it,” she says.

  “And other times it’s not worth the hassle,” I say, slowly turning to meet her eyes. There’s a defiant lift to her chin and a smirk on that fuckable mouth of hers.

  “It works. I’ve seen it happen before at another resort I consulted on.”

  “So that’s your plan? Tease them with the allure?”

  “Yes.” Her smile grows. “And ultimate
ly asking myself if what we offer them at Ocean’s Edge is enough. What’s in it for them? What are they getting out of these different attractions and excursions that seal the deal?”

  I have to tell myself to look away. To not challenge that stare and those words of hers or Brady and everyone else in here will know exactly what I want to do. Fuck that mouth and those lips that keep up their sassy teasing.

  But I stay put and meet her eyes. “What’s in it for them?”

  “Yes.” The word is slow and deliberate as she fights a smile.

  “A good time. Memories. Stepping outside of their box. Feeling alive.” I lift a brow. “I’d say those are all things that come with the territory that most anyone would be content with.”

  “Some people want to be more than content.”

  Silence falls for a beat. I want to kiss that smirk off her lips, but thankfully Brady takes the opportunity to break the spell.

  “I know I’m not the brightest bulb in the room, but I’m lost. Are we still talking about Isla del Mar and One-Night-Stand Land or did we move on and I missed it?”

  I turn on my heel and walk to the window, hands shoved in my pockets. It’s easier to study the couple walking toward the beach than turn and face the two of them.

  Fucking Sutton.

  “We’re still on the club, Brady. No worries. Sutton has a way of talking in metaphors at times that make no sense to us men.” I turn back to face them and flash a smug smile. “And since you already know this whole scenario in upgrading our club works, then there’s no need for you to go there and subject yourself to cheesy pickup lines and slobbering drunks. I’m more than certain your time would be better spent with you and Brady working over numbers at projections on making this work.”

  I look from her to Brady and give a curt nod before retreating back into my office.

  The land of one-night stands, my ass.

  Like I’m going to let her hang out there by herself where other men can look and want and touch when I can’t.

  It takes a few seconds for my . . . what—anger, frustration, disbelief? —to abate before the numbers on my laptop in front of me make sense.

  Numbers. This was the part my dad loved, and I hated. We’d butt heads. He liked to work from start to finish. I preferred to take the end result and massage it backwards. It always caused a fight. It always ended up with me storming out while Ledger and Ford sat there and appeased him by doing it his way.

  I’d get a call a few hours later. A short lecture about how the wheel doesn’t need to be reinvented all at once and a request to not fight the system next time. Then there would be a non-apology, apology in true Maxton Sharpe fashion, and an offer to meet up at the golf course later.

  Leaning back, I smile at the memory. Even after these past months, it still hurts to know those calls aren’t coming, that the dynamic between us that only we had, will never be again. But the smiles come a bit easier now, the memories not so hard to think about.

  I know my brothers share in the grief, but they also share in a resentment I understood but could never stop. What our father did wasn’t right—even I know that—but there was no changing Maxton Sharpe’s ways, good, bad, or otherwise. My only hope is that with time, they’ll learn to understand that maybe it’s what he needed.

  And I was simply trying to make him happy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Callahan

  Ten Years Ago

  “Wait a minute. You’re saying this is our fault?” Ledger says, exasperated and frustrated as all three of us stand before our father.

  No one refuses a summons from Maxton Sharpe.

  But I sure as hell wanted to.

  Especially now.

  “I’m saying he’s your little brother and it’s Ford’s and your responsibility to look out for each other,” our father says.

  “Little brother by five minutes, Dad,” Ledger says.

  “Exactly. We’re all the same age,” Ford says and then looks at me. “I love you, man, but your bullshit is your bullshit and I’m over it. I refuse to let it drag me down too.”

  I nod. It’s all I can do because my focus is on after this meeting. On the wrath I’m more than certain my dad is going to lay upon me—or threaten me with—that will be way worse than my brothers’ dismay.

  “You’re family. The three of you will be all you’ll have someday,” my father says. “So yes, it is your responsibility to pick each other up and carry each other when the other falls.”

  “You’re right,” Ford defends, “we are family. And sometimes when family fails because they are too busy with their head up their ass partying and getting laid, you let them fail and learn the hard way instead of enabling them by babying them.”

  “Dad, in their defense,” I interrupt, even though it’s probably best for my own sake to keep my mouth shut— “it’s not right to blame them for—”

  “See?” our father says, pointing at me. “That’s exactly what you two should be doing. Defending him like he’s defending you right now. That’s what family does.”

  “With all respect, sir,” Ledger says, the derision in his voice not masked particularly well. “Where was this lecture when I was failing undergrad? I believe the words you told me were don’t be an embarrassment to the Sharpe name. That if I couldn’t figure my shit out, I might as well get a new last name.” His eyes harden. “I’m not hearing any of that right now.”

  “I love you and treat you all the same,” he says and not one of us believes it. Not even him.

  “No, you don’t,” Ledger says angrily. “If this were Ford or me dropping out of Wharton, you’d have kicked our asses out and threatened our inheritance. We would have heard the endless no one embarrasses Maxton Sharpe bullshit. But it’s not us. It’s Callahan and he can never do any wrong in your eyes.”

  I stand there more than ashamed and hating that with each passing second, the weight on my shoulders that had lifted by finally dropping out of Wharton, is being piled back on with every one of Ledger’s and Ford’s words.

  Our father’s sigh is heavy. “I expect to see your up-to-date grades on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

  “You mean Ledger’s and my grades, right?” Ford asks. “What is it that you’re requiring from Callahan to keep his place and prestige in this family and company?”

  “I think I can handle my own son,” he says, making it clear the conversation is over. He lifts his eyebrows, welcoming the challenge, but neither Ledger nor Ford do. They’re well versed in this, and I fucking hate that I’m in the middle of it. “You’re dismissed.”

  All three of us visibly release a sigh of relief.

  “Callahan, sit down.”

  Fuck.

  I guess it’s deserved though considering I am the one who dropped out of one of the best business schools in the country. One my brothers—my equals—are kicking ass at.

  The weight of his stare is unnerving as he waits for the room to clear. The door clicks. The dread hits.

  “Explain yourself.” Two words and fucking endless possibilities.

  “I can’t learn like that, Dad. If I read one more textbook or create one more spreadsheet, I’m going to stab my eyes out.”

  “That’s a bit dramatic, son.”

  “I’m hands on, Dad. I always have been. School is a lesson in futility, and in learning that if you stroke a professor’s ego long enough by filling his head with how great he is, you’ll ace the course. Why am I forced to regurgitate facts and statistics when I can be out in the world creating my own?”

  “You need the foundation though. You need the structure and the—”

  “Fuck the structure,” I say and then wince, waiting for the reprimand, but when I look at him, I’m shocked to see a soft smile on his lips and affection in his eyes.

  “You’re just like her.”

  I don’t ask who he’s talking about because I already know. Mom.

  “She was spontaneous and hated convention and bucked the system more times than not. She was . . .”

  I’ve heard it all before but let him talk anyway. I know the words he’s going to say and the adjectives he’s going to describe her with, just as I know how his eyes are going to fill with tears he only ever cries for her.

  He may have had many girlfriends since her death, but our mom was the true love of his life. I truly think he never got over her death and so sometimes he looks to me to remember her.