I was right about the king-sized bed.

It takes up at least half of my suite, commanding attention with its lush bedding and oversized pillows. Rich wood accents bring immediate warmth to the cream-colored carpets and sheer curtains. A cobble stone path lined with vibrant flowers leads from the generous patio door at the far end of the room, to the public pool area and a hot tub, partially covered by a brick wall and sweeping palm trees.

I stretch out of the bed and rub my stomach, digesting the last of a thick Hawaiian turkey burger and a platter of potato crisps dipped in a spicy mayonnaise sauce.

I’ve been waiting for Mason to call up to my room or knock on the door, but no such thing has happened. Can he still possibly be at dinner or has he decided not to come by to go over my notes after all?

My foot twitches, kicking aside the stack of folders. The paperwork slides off the edge of the bed, and onto the floor. I lean over the mattress and start gathering the notes with a groan. It will take hours to assemble these files back to normal. My brain is already mush. I’ve become a walking encyclopedia on Daylight Holdings—I can recite statistics, read projections, cite indications of market trends. My Excel spreadsheet is an actual thing of beauty.

Will it be enough?

I finish gathering the paperwork and toss the whole stack onto the table.

Tension spider webs up my spine as the minutes tick by.

Keeping me waiting again. Mason seems to like to show me just how little I mean in so many ways.

I reach behind to massage the knot at the base of my neck, but I’m still wound up like a jack in the box. My gaze drifts to the patio door, and through it, I again spot the empty hot tub.

Fuck it. I’m taking a break.

In the spa-like bathroom, I dig through the suitcase Mason packed, and pull out two bathing suits—a one piece with enough cut-outs it’s basically a bikini, and an actual bikini that’s little more than two pieces of cloth and some string. I hold them both up to the mirror, indecision causing my eyebrows to pinch together. I consider Skyping Renee, but I already know which suit she’d choose.

I climb out of my skirt and drape it over the shower rod, then carefully unbutton my blouse. A cool breeze from the air conditioner whispers across my skin. The fine hair on my arms stands up straight. I shimmy into the skimpy bathing suit and reach behind my neck to tie up the straps. The small triangle of black barely covers my crotch, and I’m one jarring move away from exposing my nipples. I slide into one of the plush white robes that hang off the back of the bathroom door, tie it tight, and pocket my key card.

I walk barefoot through the lobby and enter the pool area from the back, weaving through the umbrellas and lawn chairs that polka dot the deck. The sun has long since slipped behind the horizon, but the air remains warm and humid. My hair sticks to the base of my neck.

A beach ball lands at my feet, but before I can kick it aside, a tanned lifeguard scoops it off the deck and lobs it into the water. A young girl—maybe ten—giggles when the resulting splash gives her an unexpected face wash.

I continue to watch their interaction from the hot tub, where I slip out of the robe, and dip my foot in the bubbling warm water. The tension begins to drain from my body, leaking from my pores in a steady drip drip drip.

When I’m waist deep, I sit on one of the underwater ledges, nestling my back up against one of the powerful jets that forces water into the tub. The pressure pounds between my shoulder blades, working out the knots and kinks after the long flight.

God. It’s been forever since I’ve sat in a hot tub, maybe freshman year at college, and even then, just once.

As the warm water cascades over me, I allow my thoughts to trickle back in time. Jared’s hands clumsily paw at my breasts, fondling the nipples until they have no choice but to go hard. I push his hand away, and he inches closer to trail his tongue down the side of my neck. It’s wet. Slimy. I shiver with revulsion, fighting back tears of frustration when his hand slips between my thighs. There’s no tingle of anticipation, no yearning for his touch. This time when I push him away, he stops groping. Stops whining. Stops everything altogether.

I’ve only seen Jared once since that night, his arm slung around a girl at the movie theatre, the sharp V of her sweater exposing her cleavage and the lace edges of a sheer black bra. I thought I’d miss him, but he wasn’t the first man to break my heart.

My father did plenty of damage in that arena.

He was in a class by himself.

I shift to a different position, and find a new jet. This one pulses against my lower back. Lifting onto my toes, I position the spray so that it beats against my buttocks, igniting the burn left over from Mason’s heavy hand. I lean forward slightly, and the jet shoots between my thighs, pounding against my bikini bottoms. I think of Mason, and my pussy tightens and clenches.

Sweat beads across my forehead. My face feels flush.

“Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” an unfamiliar voice says, startling me.

I move so abruptly it’s almost painful, and land on the underwater bench with enough force to make me wince.

I squint through half-lidded lashes at a thin young man, a bit boyish despite his wrinkles and laugh lines, staring at me with mild amusement.

“Yes it is,” I say, smiling a little.

“That feels nice, doesn’t it?” he asks.

At my slow nod, he raises his cocktail glass in mock cheer. A messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, the strap tight against his surprisingly fit chest. I’d peg him early forties, but I’m usually shit with ages.

“Such a shame Mason couldn’t join you.”

My throat goes raw, and tiny pinpricks of alarm spring up all over my skin. I slink lower into the water, covering more of my skin, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and alone with this stranger who clearly knows more about me than I know about him. I scan the perimeter, but amid the blooming Birds of Paradise and thick jasmine bushes, we’re away from prying eyes. Beneath the swirling water, I clench my hand into a fist. “Do you know Mr. Wood?”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Mr. Wood. Charming.” He tilts his head and regards me with puppy dog eyes. “Doesn’t everyone know Mason?” He licks his lips. “Actually, Mason and I go way back. I’m with the New York Times.” I can actually feel the color drain from my cheeks. “My name’s Buck Andrews.” He extends his hand. “I saw you and Mason in the lobby earlier, but thought I’d let him settle before knocking on his door.”

“In Maui for a holiday?” I say, unsure how to feel. But the Times is the paper of record, so maybe he’s legit.

“On the clock,” he says, with a wink that makes my skin crawl. “But I suspect you understand. Unless…” He leans in close. “You wouldn’t happen to be the new lady in Mason’s life?”

His eyes gleam with the hope of catching a scoop. I won’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but I’m also reluctant to admit I’m nothing more than Mason’s personal assistant. Some girls might wear the title like a badge of honor. I have my eyes on a much more meaningful prize.

“Mason is here on a corporate retreat,” I say, hoping that will be enough to cut short any further discussion. “And I’m not at liberty to discuss anything connected to Daylight Holdings.” Which also includes any information about myself.

I glance over at the pool, and to my room on the other side. I could make a run for it, but hurrying away makes it look like I have something to hide. Last thing I need is a tenacious reporter knowing where I sleep.

“Oh, I know,” he says, cheerfully. “This is my favorite gig of the year. An all expenses paid trip to Hawaii, hanging around the pool, surrounded by pretty ladies.” His attention is drawn by a girl in a red bikini, stretched out on a towel in the middle of the grassy courtyard.

My eyebrow lifts. “An annual gathering of the Daylight Holdings CEOs is newsworthy?”

For Star Magazine maybe, but it’s a bit of a stretch for a respectable paper like The Times.

“Everything about the company is,” he says, smiling. His face goes somber. “Though certainly even more so when that annual retreat lands on the anniversary of the tragic school shooting that killed…” He pauses. “You do know about that, right?”

Damn it. Another gaping hole in my research. A massive one. Although I’d read enough to know of how the incident affected Mason and his partners, I didn’t make the connection with the date.

Today’s date.

Twenty-eight teens, slaughtered, before the gunman shot the teacher, and then turned the rifle on himself.

“But the retreat itself is nothing new,” I say, trying to regain my footing in the conversation, but feeling out of my depth. “So why come to Hawaii? Are you working on an article about hedge funds?”

I know about enough of them to fill in any blanks in his story—though I doubt he’d care for a woeful tale about the companies that refused to hire me as a day trader. If not for my new position at Daylight Holdings, I’d consider pitching him a feminist-charged piece on misogyny in the workplace. Sure to get me axed.

He shrugs. “Not exactly.” He glances over at the pool where a few people are gathered around the bar. One of the men waves at Buck, which he acknowledges with a slight lift of his chin. “You’ll run into a few of us over the next couple of days. The partners are known to unveil new business strategies, or sometimes even make a major trade during the retreat.” Another wave from the bar, this time by a pretty blonde I recognize as a news anchor from New York. “We’re all just trying to avoid being scooped—so this retreat has become traditional. It ends up being more of a party.”

And slightly manipulative on Mason’s part.

From what I’ve already learned about Daylight Holdings, the partners have built a successful business model by remaining mysterious, recluse, and strategic.

The media flocks to this resort practically salivating for a big story, which ensures the major players are too distracted by what’s happening with Daylight Holdings to care about the competition. Clever.

Buck takes a business card out from shirt pocket and slides it next to the hot tub. “My cell is listed,” he says, leaning close. “In case there’s anything you’d ever like to discuss.”

My chest constricts. I push the card away and press my lips together in a thin smile. “I’m afraid you’ll need to find another angle for your story. I’m not interested.”

He climbs out of the hot tub and slips on his sandals, leaving the card on the pavement. “Keep it,” he says. “You just never know.”