8
Tack
“Abby, I told you I’m not playing this here,” I snapped, gripping her wrist and pulling her to me. I was pissed. Juliet was here, and she hadn’t come to see me. She’d checked in, and I’d been told she went down to the pool, but I didn’t see her. Three bourbons and my head was spinning. I decided I needed a dip to cool off. Abby followed me. Just like she followed me to St. Croix.
The Goodwins were lifelong family friends. As blue blood as the Corbins, our families settled Virginia centuries ago. Abby liked to think we were destined for one another, betrothed in the cradle and all that historical crap. I knew better. While we’d been playmates as children, forced together by our parents and the same social circle, Abby and I were nothing alike. She was a socialite. She wanted a large ring, a big wedding, and an expense account for doing nothing. That made her no good, in my book. Fucking her was out of the question. But it didn’t prevent her from being a decoration on my arm when my investors insisted I bring a date to entertain their wives. It also sent her the wrong message.
“Friends,” I reminded her almost every single time I called on her services to escort me.
“Friends,” she agreed, but her eyes told me otherwise. It’s one of the reasons I did not invite her on this trip. It’s one of the reasons she followed me.
“You might need a friend,” she had said when she arrived unannounced and checked into a room near mine. She’d been here almost a week, and twice she’d tried to convince me to take her to bed—no strings attached. It’s as if she sensed the only person I wanted tied to me was going to be at the resort. Only that person was avoiding me.
Abby’s nails dug into my skin, and she stepped closer to me.
“Damn it, Abby. Don’t play like this.”
“Who is she?” Abby asked, as I searched over her shoulders and around the edge of the pool deck, concerned Juliet might actually be a witness to Abby’s flirting.
“Who?” I snapped my attention back to her brown eyes.
“The girl you’re looking for. Who is she? Who do you want? I can be her for you.”
Aw, Abby, I thought. You could never be my Mouse.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I said, releasing her wrist and taking the offered towel.
“It can.” I looked away as I dried myself off, rubbing the towel down my chest and along my arms.
“They’re going to have to hose off this pool deck when you’re finished,” she teased.
“Why?” I scoffed.
“Because every woman just creamed herself watching you exit that pool and then rub your body with that towel.”
“Don’t be crass, Abby,” I bit, as her eyes raked my body. Her comment was something I’d definitely say, but directed at me, knowing Juliet could be one of the women present, made me uneasy. I scanned the pool deck again, noting someone opening the iron security gate and exiting the area. She wore a large brimmed sun hat, despite the evening hour, and a conservative yellow bikini with a mini-scrap of material tied at her waist. I’d recognize that walk anywhere, as I’d followed her through jungle trails and steep climbs visualizing that body beneath mine.
“Shit,” I murmured, wrapping the towel around my waist and brushing past Abby. I briskly dodged around the haphazard lounge chairs, making my way to the pool gate.
“Mouse!” I called out when a tap came on my shoulder.
“The Mouse Trap, actually.” A man with overly styled hair, deep set eyes and a smile of puffy lips stood behind me. He was a head shorter than me, and his extended hand hinted he’d said something to me.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—“
“Miller James. With The Mouse Trap, one of the not-for-profit organizations selected for your Humanity competition.” He paused, looking in the direction of Juliet. “And might I add, you do.” His eyes returned to me, roamed my body, and then he spoke again. “Yes, you do.”
“Pardon me?” I asked, still not introducing myself.
“Miller,” he repeated. “I’m her partner.” And his head nodded in the direction of a disappearing Juliet.
+ +
“What the fuck?” I barked, pacing my office the following evening. Dinner was in an hour. She’d been here a full day, and I hadn’t run into her again. The feeling was all too familiar to the times she’d disappear on the island. Those were the moments I believed I’d dreamed her. I thought I’d made her up for my own nefarious reasons. She always came back to me, though, until the one time she promised she’d find me and didn’t.
Branson sat on the couch, arm extended along the back. “Look, you need to calm down. She’s here. You know it’s her.”
“Then why do I have so many doubts? She hasn’t come to me, and now I’m concerned I’ve made another mistake.” Maybe she really didn’t want to ever see me again. Maybe the girl on the island had been a figment of my imagination, a dream girl. No, dammit. It was her, I was positive; she was still the same no matter where we were, and her partner, as he introduced himself, seemed to know who I was in relation to her.
“You need to settle down. And stop drinking. You aren’t going to get answers if you’re wasted.” I downed the rest of the burning liquid in the crystal tumbler, slamming it on the sideboard when I was finished. I sat with a heavy thump in the chair opposite him.
“Why is she doing this?” Both my hands slipped into my hair. I was too warm. My heart raced. I just wanted to hold her.
“Did you ever read her dissertation?” Branson asked.
“No. I was there,” I snarked, but then my eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I think you might have some answers if you had.” Branson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. I slumped back in the leather chair, my hands cupping the edge of the arms, preparing myself for something.
“Paraphrase,” I demanded, assuming Branson had read her study.
“It was a social experiment. Take a convicted criminal, place him on an island. Through self-reflection, and visualization, the convict finds healing, forgiveness, and restoration.”
“That sounds a little hippy-dippy, but I suppose it isn’t too far off.”
“In her report, she imagined you.”
“What?” I shouted, sitting forward again.
“The report claims she saw a man on the island, but she eventually writes it off, decides that the experience wasn’t real. He was part of her imagination. The process was a vision quest. Another study, one produced by a Lillian Varga, refutes Juliet’s. It states, in short, that Juliet was part of a social experiment where two convicts were placed on the same island for retributive purposes. The intention was to study how they fared together, as the victim faced her attacker, when said perpetrator was equally aggrieved with what he had done.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, sitting back in my seat again. With another hand swipe through my hair, I was certain it all stood on end. Lillian had been her academic advisor and mentor in the restorative program. Had Juliet not understood her own part in the experiment? Or had she played me? “Did Juliet know I would be there? Does it state she knew I was there, a pawn in their research?”
“It doesn’t in Juliet’s. Her report says she visualized you—although she doesn’t name you specifically—allowing herself to take control of her own life in response to what you’d done. She claims she found restoration through manipulating your interactions.”
“Manipulating—” Branson raised a hand to stop me.
“Lillian refutes Juliet’s claim, saying you were both intentionally placed on the island, together, and that Juliet experienced you in a manner opposing her own report.”
“Meaning?”
“What Juliet says she visualized, actually happened in person.”
“Manipulating me. In person,” I barked.
Branson looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “Let me ask you something. You say what you experienced with each other was intense—“
“It was. It was real. It was—” Branson stopped me with a look.
“Let me rephrase. You’re Tack Corbin. Do you honestly think you could be played by that girl? The same girl who you took advantage of first.”
My mouth popped open to speak, intending to refute him, but Branson’s eyes narrowed, warning me not to argue the point.
“Do you think she could turn around and take advantage of you?”
I’d love someone to care for me. About me. Her words whispered through my memory. She didn’t seem like she had the capability to be heartless. I didn’t want to believe she could, but too many times over the course of the past two years, I didn’t know what to believe.
+ +
As she entered the private dining room, my breath hitched. The air around her was different. Confident. Radiant. The white halter dress she wore accentuated her breasts, narrowing at her waist and flowing softly over her hips. Her hair hung long and loose, a touch lighter from the bark-brown color of years ago, but the curve of her neck held my focus. I hadn’t nibbled her there often enough. The sight of her skin reminded me how she smelled. Tropical. She redefined passion fruit in my mind, because I was tempted by her, and I wanted another bite.
She hadn’t looked at me yet, but I watched her. I stood my ground, waiting for her to cross to me. She smiled politely as she greeted each person in the room. She hesitated, standoffishly shaking hands with Grover and Mitzi Huffington, an older couple dressed in island fare, from Cap It Off. Their organization focused on knitting, a skill easily taught to women in deprived areas, selling their wares for educational material and teaching women sex education. Juliet’s Mouse Trap was closely related to their group, and I hoped by inviting them she might have the opportunity to discuss strategies and feminine societal reforms within repressed cultures.
Next were Tom Cross and Mike Alberts, both tattooed and rugged-looking, from RainbowFair. Their organization worked on continuing HIV education, finding experimental drugs and implementing distribution. I liked their group, but they weren’t who I was looking to sponsor. Tom and Mike were smart businessmen, as well as geographically knowledgeable, and I hoped they could help Juliet find additional resources and gain political understanding of segregated groups. When she reached the dark-haired, Native American-looking man near the windows, I had to step forward.
She twisted in my direction, her head tilting over her shoulder. I’d kissed that exposed shoulder blade the last time I took her, bent over a large tree trunk, slamming into warm heat to fill her. My dick was solid from the memory. I’d been struggling since the moment she entered the room. If I’d only known then that was the last time I’d feel her, have her, I’d never have let her leave my sight. Her eyes raked over my suit-clad body before flipping up to mine. Without thought, my knuckles traced down the length of her sun-kissed arm.
“Colton Edwin, may I present to you Juliet Montmore?”
I looked up to Colton for his reaction, ignoring Juliet’s stare. He and I had come to an agreement of friendship when I learned our family’s history with each other.
“The Juliet,” I enunciated. Colton’s dark brows rose in surprise.
See asshole, I wanted to say, she is real.
“Such a pleasure to meet you,” the stunned Colton shook her hand, holding on a bit too long for my comfort. He was doing it on purpose, sensing my displeasure. I eventually reached out and pressed at his arm to release her.
“I’m sorry. I seem to be at a disadvantage. Do I know you?” she addressed Colton. I spoke for him.
“Colton Edwin was on my restoration team,” I offered. We hadn’t even said hello yet, and this was the first address I’d given her. This wasn’t going how I’d envisioned.
She finally looked directly at me, those violet eyes piercing me to my soul and making my palms sweat.
“Don’t you mean your sabbatical team?” There was a nip to her question—an insinuation. Her remark prompted me to introduce myself, as if we’d never met. In some ways, I wasn’t certain I recognized the woman before me.
“Terrence Jackson Corbin the fourth,” I offered, extending a hand to shake hers. “But you can call me Tack.” The k-sound snapped as I returned her glare and winked.
“That’s because he can be a prick,” Colton hissed under his breath, but smiled at Juliet.
“Juliet Monte. I no longer go by Montmore. That name doesn’t exist for me.” The edge in her voice took on new meaning, and we stared at one another, our hands still holding tight, but the distance between us was longer than the miles between the islands and the mainland.
Dinner was called to service and I sat at the head of the table. Juliet was escorted to sit to my right, and I made certain her friend Miller was at the opposite end of the table near Abby. As the salad was served, introductions returned anew, each organization sharing tales of their adventures in not-for-profit work.
“So,” Miller spoke up from his end of the table. “Have you met my beautiful Juliet before? You seem familiar with one another.” I cringed at him calling her his. She was mine.
“We haven’t met before,” Juliet spoke up immediately. “I’ve never met Terrence Jackson Corbin the fourth.” I noticed her clutching her butter knife, holding it upward as her wrist braced against the table. She slowly reached up and scratched at her neck, eying Miller with a death glare.
“I see you still aren’t afraid to wield a knife.” I murmured in a voice low enough for only her to hear. Her head whipped to face me, her eyes flaming. I’d seen that look before—the same night she pulled a knife on me. Ignoring me, she turned back to her plate. A strange tension surrounded us and I didn’t like it. This wasn’t the reunion I wanted.
“Mouse Trap, right?” Tom Cross asked. “That’s an unusual name for a jewelry company.” Juliet seemed to be waiting for her partner to speak, who appeared a bit star-struck with the bearded business man across the table from him. She finally answered herself.
“Well, it is a bit unconventional sounding, but it has personal meaning. It’s based on the fact that many women are trapped in a situation they can’t get out of or don’t seem to know other options exist out there for them. Our hope is that jewelry design and sales will give them some income and the ability to discover avenues outside their difficult situations.”
I’d already extensively researched her organization. Her website explained the details of her personal struggle being a woman without much means. She found education to be her avenue toward success. When a difficult situation propelled her off course, she had limited choices without money. She felt trapped. A thought struck me, and the long list of questions I wanted to ask her grew.
When dinner arrived, I put up my hand to her plate before it was set on the table.
“She doesn’t like rice. Take it back and remove it from the plate.” The table fell silent at my demand, and I looked up to find several eyes staring at me, one set of which was Juliet. Her brows pinched and her eyes softened.
“You remember...” Her voice drifted off in question.
“Everything,” I whispered. Her eyes shifted away from me again. Each time she looked away, I felt the loss and my irritation grew.
Dinner conversation resumed as plates were passed, but my concentration was scattered. She seemed so distant from me, even sitting a foot away. I wanted to clear the table of dishes and feast between her thighs despite the other guests, reminding her who I was to her. I wanted to do anything that would break this cold war happening between us.
“You own this resort,” Gordon stated, stuffing green beans in his mouth. Somehow the discussion had shifted to me. “Redemption Resort seems a bit ominous for a vacation spot.”
I sat back in my seat, tapping a finger over my lips as I looked at him, eying his greased-back, gray hair.
“I sought redemption once. I ran out of time to prove myself, so this resort became the first of many promises to rebuild things.” I paused. The weight of Juliet’s stare pressed on me, but I didn’t look at her. “I repaired many of the buildings on this very island after the last hurricane.”
“Calliope? I remember that one. Two years ago, correct?” Gordon added. He glanced at me by lifting his head to look through his glasses.
“The very one,” I smugly answered, proud of my accomplishments. Three resorts repaired. This one built. The village market restored.
“Calliope Industries? You named your company after a hurricane?” Juliet’s softened tone startled me. Her eyes were caught briefly by mine before she shifted them down to her plate, where her fork pushed around her food.
“Yes.”
“Why?” Her head shot up to look directly at me.
“Because the night of that hurricane changed everything for me.” The tension between us grew heavier, pressing down like the wind and the rain we raced to escape that night. The night the two of us sought refuge in a cave, and she made love to me.
I love you, rang through my head, only her current voice didn’t match the desperate tone of that night.
Gordon guffawed. “I’ve heard of your adventures during that hurricane season. Camping on the beach. Hiding in a cave. Traipsing the jungle.”
“Something like that,” I replied, knowing the rumors of my months in hiding made it sound like an adventure instead of banishment. My lips curled slowly as I nodded. In many ways, it had been an adventure, one I wish I could get back. My finger traced my lips as I glanced over at Juliet. Her eyes caught sight of something at my wrist. Without removing my eyes from her, I slipped the green band tucked against my watch upward. Her eyes widened before her brows pinched. She returned to pushing her food around on her plate. The chasm between us deepened.
“Do you not like your dinner?” I asked, harsher than I intended, leaning forward. Why the fuck wasn’t she eating? She looked too thin.
Liquid-filled eyes met mine.
“I think I might have had too much sun and heat today. I find I’m suddenly not feeling well.” She swiped at her cheek, holding her hand against her pinked skin for emphasis. “If you’ll please excuse me.”
She stood abruptly, and I stood as well.
“Mouse,” I whispered, but she’d already turned away from me. She swiped at her cheek a second time. Holding up a hand to prevent Miller from following her, she exited the private dining room.