ONE

Grace glared at the door, then down at her phone. Then back at the door. She shouldn’t be there. She shouldn’t be the one dealing with this. With him. But the hotel’s general manager was nowhere to be found, and if the man inside called the front desk one more time, Grace knew Carrie would quit.

“Mr. Donovan,” Grace called out as she knocked forcefully against the heavy door. When she heard no signs of life, she knocked again. Louder. Pressing her ear to the surface, she tried to pick out any sounds from inside. Given the frequency and volume of his phone calls over the past hour, Grace knew he was in there. Swiping past the messages from Carrie clogging up her phone, Grace was about to try the villa’s landline when she heard a crash followed by a muffled shout.

“Mr. Donovan. This is Grace Fitzgerald from the Seven Winds Resort,” she shouted through the door, digging out her master key. “Is everything alright, sir?” The only answer was a loud thud. “Sir, I understand you’re having an issue.” Though not one that warranted so much noise, she thought. Steeling herself, Grace continued, “Mr. Donovan, I’m coming in.”

Grace swiped her key and pushed open the door, stepping into the luxuriously understated living room of the Seven Winds Villa. Perched halfway up the island’s long-dormant volcano, the two-floor suite boasted some of the most breathtaking views in the Caribbean. With the primary living area on the top floor and the lower-level bedrooms opening up to the sprawling patio below, guests were surrounded by well-appointed luxury in all of the many rooms. The sterility of the suite’s more high-tech amenities was softened by a palette of whites and creams and sky blues, thick area rugs, and lush flower arrangements. The expansive wall of windows on the far side of the living room was broken up by a series of French doors, all of them currently open, the white linen curtains blowing in the breeze, the warm azure of the ocean visible between each shift and sway.

Looking around, Grace confirmed that nothing was glaringly wrong, at least not on the main floor. From her position in the living room, she could see the kitchen was empty. As was the dining area, if she didn’t count the abandoned coffee cups and rocks glasses weighing down the enormous glass table.

Taking a second glance, Grace registered that the villa’s sole occupant had left a wide array of debris scattered across most of the available surfaces. More cups and a few plates of discarded food were stacked on the coffee table bracketed by the living room sofas. Grace scowled as she noticed thick drops of coffee splattered across the pristine white fabric of one. A laptop was open, its screen black, abandoned on the corner of a side table. As she made her way over to close its lid, Grace’s foot connected with something on the floor. Whatever it was rolled away, only coming to a halt when it encountered a throw pillow left carelessly near one window.

Grace scowled as she retrieved the bottle from the floor. Glenrothes 1970. The five-thousand-dollar bottle of Scotch was completely empty. Perhaps you should make sure he isn’t in the pool. Face down. On that morbid thought, she raced to the terrace beyond the French doors and checked the infinity pool on the patio below. Empty. Thank God.

At the same time, a loud crack split the air beneath her. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Grace dropped the forgotten bottle and ran down to the lower level. Whatever she’d expected to find on the ground floor of the resort’s most expensive villa, this wasn’t it.

There, sprawled on the ground, eyes closed, lips skewed in an off-kilter smile, wearing nothing more than a wrinkled pair of shorts, was Mark Donovan, co-founder and CEO of D&A International. Sinfully handsome, wildly successful, obscenely wealthy, unerringly cocky, undeniably brilliant, famously flirtatious. And, Grace was horrified to realize, unconscious and sporting a wicked cut above one eyebrow.

“Oh, no, no.” Grace rushed towards him and crouched over Mr. Donovan’s  motionless form, her hands fluttering just above his face. Get a grip, Grace. Check to see if he’s breathing, check to make sure nothing is blocking his airways. She focused with a deep breath and shifted her brain to autopilot, running through the CPR procedures all hotel staff were required to know.

Grace’s pulse calmed substantially when she saw Mr. Donovan’s chest rise in a steady, heavy breath. Definitely not dead. Thank the good Lord. Grace tipped her head back in relief. Skimming her fingers across his forehead, she gingerly checked the cut to make sure nothing was lodged in it. The blood had stopped, a dark red trickle disappearing into the ashy-brown eyebrow that arched defiantly even then. Running an assessing glance across his head and body, Grace confirmed that other than the bruise blossoming beneath the cut, Mark appeared to be perfectly fine. Though unconscious.

An incoherent mumble broke free of his lips, followed by a muffled snore. Grace amended that last part. Not unconscious. Asleep.

Slumping back, Grace rearranged herself so she could sit more comfortably on the floor, her eyes fixed on her unwitting patient. Mark was stretched out and motionless, giving Grace an unparalleled view of his starkly beautiful face and meticulously sculpted body. His dark blond hair was a mess, chunks of thick strands stuck up on end where he must have repeatedly raked his fingers through it. His eyes were closed and Grace’s gaze wandered across the sharp ridges of his cheekbones and refined slope of his nose, both of which drew her attention down toward his wide, generous mouth, his lips parted, soft puffs of air brushing the strong, supple lines on every exhale.

Determined to ignore her sudden impulse to taste those lips, Grace shifted her eyes away. But she only got as far as the tanned skin of his neck, Mark’s pulse kicking with a regular rhythm at the base, just above the wide stretch of his collarbone. Refusing to stare, Grace attempted to focus on something innocuous. Like her cuticles, or the weave the carpet. Or the inviting water of the pool outside. But a particularly deep inhale dragged her back, this time her attention landing on the long planes of his broad chest, light wisps of blond hair dusting the hard curves that came to an abrupt halt against the repetitive ridges of his abdomen.

Grace, you need to stop staring. Seriously. Stop staring!

But Grace’s eyes had a mind of their own. She could hardly blame them. As Mark breathed, the play of the muscles across his stomach and sides was hypotonic, the slopes and dips elegantly formed, exquisitely defined. Grace’s mouth formed an ‘O’ as she tracked his torso to where it tapered into sharp angles before stretching beneath the waistband of his shorts. Of its own volition, Grace’s tongue slipped across her lower lip as she caught the hint of dark ink dancing across the shadow of one hipbone.

God help her, he was beautiful. Every delicious detail all the more enticing at that precise moment because his eyes weren’t flashing in distain. And his voice wasn’t dripping with irritation. Mark Donovan, silent and still, was perfect.

Awake and entitled? Not so much.

“Typically, I expect a woman to buy me one drink, at least, before she gets to enjoy such an up-close and personal view.”   

Grace squeaked in surprise and tried to scramble back, but Mark anchored one of her wrists in a warm, inflexible grasp.

“You had an accident. I found you on the floor. I was making sure you weren’t injured.”

Confusion, then recollection flashed in the deep indigo of his eyes. Pressing his free hand to the bump on his forehead, he cocked his lips into a crooked grin. “From what I can tell, my injuries are up here. Not”—he nodded in the direction of his crotch—“down there.”

“Just being thorough.” Tugging herself free, Grace pushed off the floor and stood above his still-prone form. After a second’s hesitation, she reached her hand out to him. “Do you need help getting up?”

For a large man who’d been completely immobile just moments before, Mark pulled himself up in one surprisingly fluid motion, his weight never coming to rest against Grace’s hand despite having wrapped it in one of his. Grace expected Mark to let go once he was upright. Instead, he threaded his long fingers between her much smaller ones. Which was a good thing, she supposed, because only a few seconds later he stumbled, his eyes narrowing in pain, a groan low but audible.

Grace’s frown went from irritation to alarm. “Mr. Donovan. Mark. You need to sit down. Come.” She guided him to the nearby loveseat set between two sets of patio doors. Mark followed without protest and dropped with a grunt as soon as they were close enough. Releasing another squeal, Grace followed, a jumble of limbs as Mark dragged her down with him.

Grace pulled her fingers from his and watched the furrows on his forehead fade as Mark took long, slow breaths, his lids closed, his head resting against the back of the sofa. Angling herself so that she could watch his face, Grace rested a hand on his bare shoulder and bit the inside of her cheek to stop her fingers from sinking into the banded muscle.

“Mark?”

“Hmmmm….” Mark didn’t bothering opening his eyes.

“Mark.” Grace gave him a gentle shake. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“What happened?”

“How you ended up on the floor.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.” Obviously. Grace was starting to worry the damage went deeper than a bump on the head. “What else would I be talking about?”

“I thought you might be referring to the thorough once-over you were giving me.”

“Oh, for the love of….” Grace gritted her teeth and hauled back the frustration building in her throat. Because it was unprofessional. And because he was right. She had been studying him. Thoroughly. Grace could feel the embarrassing truth singed pink across the tops of her cheeks.

Brilliant blue flashed under Mark’s lids as one corner of his lips lifted. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, Ms. Fitzgerald. It was surprisingly gratifying. I felt like a prize racehorse. Or a very rare painting.”

A dark chuckle rumbled in Mark’s chest when Grace jumped up from the loveseat. But he was quick, and Grace actually growled in annoyance when Mark hauled her back down again.

Looking pointedly at where his hand held hers, Grace tried to pull free. “Mr. Donovan. I appreciate that you’re a very valued guest here at the Seven Winds. And that our mission is to ensure that every guest is completely satisfied during their stay. But that in no way extends to holding staff hostage. So, if you’ll excuse me….” Grace arched an eyebrow and waited for Mark to let her go. But all he did was raise one insolent brow back. The one not darkened with blood.

“That might be, Ms. Fitzgerald. But I think you’ll find that you are the one who came into my room. And since you decided to interrupt my solitude against my wishes, I think it’s only fair that I get to keep you for a while. Against yours.”

“Against your wishes?” This time Grace’s voice was tight. “That knock to the head must have done more damage than I thought, because you seem to have forgotten that you’ve been harassing my front desk staff all morning, calling over and over again. And that I came here because you were on the verge of causing a very nice young woman to have a mental breakdown.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Mark huffed.

“You must be f—” Grace hauled herself back before she swore in front of—no, at—one of the hotel’s most important guests. Inhaling slowly, she continued, her tone calm, steely. “Mr. Donovan. We don’t need to discuss the finer points of your conversation with Carrie. Instead, why don’t we address the reason you were so disgruntled? Perhaps there’s something I can help you with?”

Something that doesn’t involve shoving your shirt down your throat. If you were wearing a shirt. God damn it, why aren’t you wearing a shirt?

Grace, stop staring!   

Grace wasn’t sure which emotion was winning the battle for top billing on her face. The irritatingly compelling attraction she felt for this infuriating man. Or her determination to do her job and address whatever inane issue had Mark Donovan’s exceptionally well-cut shorts in a bunch. She really hoped it was the second one.

Mark considered her for a moment, something dark and fleeting in his eyes, before he adopted an expression of casual amusement. “As it happens, Ms. Fitzgerald, despite your implication, my issue wasn’t with…what did you say her name was? Carrie? No”—he gave his head a small shake—“she was doing a perfectly acceptable job. All things considered.”

Grace winced at his use of ‘acceptable,’ but ignored it. “All things considered?”

“Yes.” Her hand still captured in his, Mark traced his thumb across the swell of her palm, his attention never wavering from Grace’s face. “Considering that neither she, nor you, were the ones I was trying to drive into a mental breakdown. As you so succinctly put it.”

Grace cocked her head in confusion. And dismissed the urge to curl her hand more tightly around his. 

Mark shifted on the sofa, his large, bare upper body lifting free of the deep cushions. “You weren’t the one I wanted here.” Grace flinched as a pang of disappointment flared, then mentally cursed herself for even caring. She definitely didn’t care.

Mark gave the sensitive inner surface of her hand another calming stroke. “But now that you’re here, Ms. Fitzgerald….” Mark looked at her expectantly, his question lingering.

“Grace,” she conceded.

Mark moved again, his knees coming to bracket one of Grace’s, the thin linen of her pants no barrier to the heat pouring off his thighs. “Now that you’re here, Grace, I find myself overjoyed that my intended victim wasn’t available.” 

Her mind skipping haphazardly, Grace found that she wasn’t actually interested in what—or who—had driven Mark to the brink. She was too preoccupied with the sunbaked glow of his shoulders, the intoxicating closeness of his body, the swell of pleasure creeping up from where his hand held hers. And the languid intent burning in his velvety blue eyes, the rich color disconcertingly similar to the bruise blossoming above his lid.

Clearing her throat, Grace clung to the distraction. “Are you going to tell me? How you ended up on the floor?”

Mark’s lips parted into a sheepish smile, but the interest in his eyes didn’t dim. “I had an unfortunate altercation with the patio door. Which I thought was open. Turns out it wasn’t. And I was just giving myself some time to come to terms with that fact.”

“On the floor. With your eyes shut.”

“I didn’t see you complaining. Grace.”

He said her name with slow precision, the lilt of his voice falling into a rough murmur.  A seductive call.

So this is what it feels like. The thought flitted through her mind. This is what it’s like to be the center of someone’s attention. To be the one wanted. To not be the one discarded, dismissed.

Grace wasn’t sure why she didn’t stop him. She saw it, the way he leaned towards her, steadily erasing the space between them. Her eyes stayed open, mesmerized by the latent fire flashing in his. She even felt it, the gentle breath that broke across her cheek before his lips grazed hers.

They stayed like that, frozen. Their mouths not quite touching, their gazes locked. Grace tried to say something, she was sure of it. That’s why her lips parted. Not to encourage Mark, not to let him in. She was about to tell him to back off. Absolutely.

But as soon as Mark felt her mouth open beneath his, he pressed in. One hand wrapping around her hip, the other curving around the side of her neck, Mark teased the inside of Grace’s mouth with his tongue, the leisurely sweep gentle but firm. On the second caress, Mark closed his eyes. On the third, so did Grace, her lips parting wider, her own tongue reaching out to welcome his.

He was delicious. Grace rested a hand on one of his legs, relishing the solid feel of him as she tasted his mouth. Warm and clean and a hint of spice. And….

Grace recognized the flavor lingering on Mark’s tongue at the same time she used her grip on his thigh to break their kiss. His hands still anchoring her, she didn’t get far. But Grace eased back enough to give him an appraising look.

“Are you drunk?”

Mark watched her lips form the question and had the audacity to laugh. “Maybe.”

Grace shifted, trying to put more space between them. But Mark’s grip was strong, and all Grace managed to do was wedge her hip more securely into his large hands.  

“Mr. Donovan, I’d like for you to let me go now.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

Mark’s lips twitched. “Sure sounded like one.”

“I was being polite.” Grace kept her attention trained on his eyes, even as he stayed focused on her mouth. Which was having the unfortunate effect of making her want to lick her lips.

“I appreciate your attempt at professionalism, Grace. But there’s no need to be polite. Not here. Not with me.”

Grace’s eye ticked. “I’m afraid I disagree, Mr. Donovan.” She worked to keep her voice steady. And chose to ignore the fact that her hand was still wrapped around his upper thigh. “I came here to ensure that we at the Seven Winds are being responsive to your needs. As a guest,” she enunciated carefully. “I only stayed because you appeared to be in distress. And I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

When Mark flashed his eyes up to hers, his lids were heavy. The look in them sent a flush racing down her neck and set something off balance deep inside her.

“Then let me concede, Grace, that you’ve done a stellar job so far. I appreciate your efforts, on behalf of the resort. That said”—Mark’s fingers threaded through the fine blonde hairs at the base of her skull, his hand tipping her closer—“I don’t think you’re done quite yet.”

“No.” Grace intended it to come out as a statement. Instead it sounded like a question.

“No.” Mark shook his head, his nose brushing the tip of hers. “I think you need to stay a little longer. Make sure all of my faculties are in place. That my coordination hasn’t been affected. By my accident.”

Or by the excessive amount of alcohol you drank, Grace wanted to retort. But Mark beat her to it, the tug of his mouth erasing her words and thoughts. All except one.

God, it feels good to be wanted, to be wanted by this man. So very good.   

In a matter of seconds, Grace was following the tug of Mark’s hands, settling herself on his lap, her thighs straddling his, her fingers laced through his disheveled hair, each tug and pull of her own hands adding to its glorious disarray. His determination was too much, or hers simply not enough. Either way, Grace let herself fall into Mark’s embrace, her mouth melding with his, her tongue coaxing his into fervent, greedy strokes. He was cocky, arrogant, demanding, and far too pleased with himself. But as a hum of exhilaration tickled the back of Grace’s throat, she allowed that he was also a brilliant kisser. Skillful, ardent, and, yes, demanding. But in a way that tempted her to curl her toes and sink down into him as deeply as she could.

Mark wanted that, too. His hands were no longer patient, their movement no longer lazy. As Grace felt his desire harden into undeniable thickness between their legs, Mark’s arms tightened around her waist and his fingers danced with avid strokes against her back. For every track he made down her spine, Grace leaned closer. For every touch he dragged up to the base of her neck, she could feel the muscles of his chest flex beneath her breasts.

As the minutes passed, Grace began to regret her wardrobe choice. Under Mark’s sensual sweeps and powerful grip, her temperature was spiking and the silk of her blouse was no longer soft, only stifling.   

“Off.”

Grace felt a tug at the placket of her shirt and thought for a second the rough command had been hers. But dragging her mouth from Mark’s, she looked down to see his fingers trembling as he began to loosen the buttons of her blouse.

Grace wrapped Mark’s hand with hers, stilling it as their hazy gazes met and held.

“Off,” Mark repeated. This time a question danced around the demand in his eyes.

Her chest moving rapidly under their combined touch, Grace stopped, considered. From her perch on his lap, she stared down at Mark. Paragon of men. Archetype of entitled assholes. Yet, as he kept his face lifted, the severely beautiful lines free of guile or hollow charm, Grace thought she glimpsed something more lurking behind his stunning surface. Something that he was giving her the chance to lure out into the bright light of day. A piece of himself that was peeking through lust-filled eyes and confessing a secret. A need. One that Grace thought might be mirrored in her own.

An intrinsic longing.

The basic want. To be wanted.

That flare, the recognition of what his eyes were telling her, what the flush of her skin answered in return. It was enough to bring Grace to the edge of indecision, enough to push her right over into madness.

Slipping her hands beneath his, Grace linked her fingers around the top button, her tongue slipping out in concentration, the pink tip wetting her bottom lip. Mark groaned and his hips surged up, his erection an exquisite friction against the sensitive apex of her thighs.  

“Ahhh.” Mark swallowed Grace’s murmur as his hands became frantic, one dragging her mouth to his, the other tugging her shirt free from her waistband.

“Off.” His voice guttural, Mark’s vocabulary had dwindled to almost nothing as his body tensed beneath hers. “Take it all off.”

And, God help her, Grace was going to. Was starting to. When her work phone split their insulated cocoon apart with a shrill ring. 

“Ignore it,” Mark ground out, his hands biting into her sides.

“I….” Grace tipped her head back, eyes closed, as she tried to calm her erratic breathing. “I can’t.” Slowly slipping the top button back into place, Grace pushed herself off his lap. Mark reflexively tightened his grip but let his hands fall as he caught the mixture of longing and frustration on Grace’s face.

“That ring, that’s the emergency line. From the front desk. Marcus, my boss. He’s….” Grace stopped shy of revealing that the hotel’s general manager was MIA. “I’m responsible for handling any emergencies that arise at the moment. I can’t ignore that call. I’m sorry.” And she was. Truly. Grace couldn’t decide which was more surprising: how sorry she was to be prying herself off this virtual stranger’s lap, or the fact that she’d felt more at home there than should have been remotely possible. 

Ignoring his pensive expression, Grace answered her phone just before the call rolled into voicemail.

On the other end, Carrie was almost frantic. Grace could hear the cause of it in the background, a woman’s piercing shouts echoing across the hotel’s lobby. The faster Carrie talked and the louder the woman screamed, the more rapidly Grace pulled herself together. Pants straightened, shirt tucked in. Shoes on, hair smooth. Assuring Carrie she’d be there as soon as she could, Grace hung up and turned to Mark.

“Mrs. Avery, your business partner’s wife. She’s here. And apparently Mr. Avery wasn’t expecting her. Her name isn’t on the reservation, so we can’t just give her a key. I have to go, sort it out.”

The arousal in Mark’s expression gave way to surprise, then something that looked very much like alarm.

“Yes.” His response was abrupt, all irritation at the interruption gone. “I’m positive Jack isn’t expecting her. You need to go.” Mark watched her stand there for a moment, a darkness collecting in his face. “Immediately.”

“Well, yes. That’s the general idea,” Grace shot back. Mr. Donovan had returned. Commanding. Dour. And irritating beyond all belief. “I’m—”

Grace stopped when Mark pulled her phone from her hand and typed something before handing it back. “Call Jack.” He pointed at her phone. “Tell him who’s here. Now.”

She bristled under his order, a potent mix of anger and shame rising as she thought about how she’d been straddling him—practically riding him—just seconds ago. And now he was commanding her like she was there simply to do his bidding, every hint of vulnerability and openness wiped away by the harshness of his voice.

Grace was preparing a retort. Something witty, cutting, she was sure. But in those few seconds while she tried to think of one, Mark disappeared through the open door of the master suite.

Calling on her remaining ounce of pride, Grace started a dismissive goodbye but was cut off again.

“Now, Ms. Fitzgerald,” was Mark’s sharp, disembodied response.

Mark Fucking Donovan, Grace fumed as she ran up the stairs, eager to escape the villa, is the world’s original asshole, Grace. No different from the rest, from the other one. Don’t you forget it.