TWENTY

Mark had made Grace dinner.

Okay, he’d told the hotel’s head chef what he wanted for dinner and he’d made it. But that was only because Mark was hopeless in the kitchen and he didn’t want to ruin what otherwise promised to be a wonderful night.

Mark scanned the dining room of the villa, doing one last check to make sure everything was ready.

Almost three weeks had gone by since the morning he and Grace had had mind-blowing sex in her office. Eighteen full days and Mark still had to repress a shiver and talk his dick down every time he remembered the way Grace had taken him into her mouth, her body. Not that all the times since hadn’t been amazing, just that Mark was certain that something had changed that day.

The little seed of hope that had borrowed deep the night he’d told her about this father: it had taken root that morning, the fine fingers tangling themselves around everything he’d thought was important when he’d returned to the island and had given a gentle but unmistakable tug, pulling something loose, something he’d never allowed himself to feel, bringing it to the surface. He knew she must have seen it in his eyes. The words had gotten lodged tight in his throat, but some piece of his brain had been fearless, letting everything he felt for Grace flood his eyes.

She hadn’t run away. It would have been painful on so many levels if she had. Disentangling their limbs, their jobs, their lives.

But she’d stayed. And as they’d waited, breaths slowing, thoughts returning, Mark had felt an answering emotion in Grace’s lips as she’d brushed them against his cheek, a reflection of his silent revelation in her eyes.

Checking for the sixth time that the champagne was chilled, Mark silently chided himself, marveling at how unrecognizable his life had become.

The second he’d opened his eyes so many months ago and seen Grace staring down at him with a mix of irritated concern and reluctant interest, Mark had known she would be a problem. Not a problem to fix. Or the kind you swept under the rug or hid at the back of the closet. No. To him, she was the perfect type of problem.

Her determination and strength, her intelligence and consideration, her sharp wit and even sharper tongue. The way she looked at him like she wanted to smack him upside the head but didn’t hide how much pleasure she took from his presence, his body, or how much she enjoyed bringing pleasure to his.     

Grace was the type of woman Mark had avoided his entire life. The kind who took as much as she gave, who refused to back down when things got hard. Shit, especially when things got hard. Mark knew she could decimate him with a determined glare just as easily as she could cause his stomach to flip and his dick to throb with one of her slow, delectable smiles.

Grace was the type of woman that made Mark want to plan a romantic dinner with a ridiculous amount of candles and a never-ending supply of champagne and a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign displayed proudly on the door.

More importantly, Grace was the type of woman that made Mark want to pause, to relax, to forget the need to plot and plan, to take a deep breath, then another, to let himself finally enjoy the life he’d built for himself.

Mark tipped his head back and laughed. No. Grace wasn’t the type of woman. She was the woman. Full stop. End of sentence.

Was she a problem? Oh, definitely, Mark thought as he checked to make sure the last details were in place. But over the past month and a half he’d realized she was also the solution.

Mark stepped back and surveyed the main floor of the villa. He’d had a few porters help him shift the large dining room table out of the way and set up a tiny cafe table, two chairs easily in reach of each other, white linen flowing to the floor, a cluster of orchids tucked between the wine glasses, the vase of the creamy blossoms low so that it wouldn’t block his view of the woman across from him.

Then there were the lanterns.

That was the part he was particularly proud of. Mark had coerced Jo into lending him a truck-full of lanterns and now they were spread across the entire first floor of the villa. Not a single lamp was on. Instead, the room was lit solely by candles, the flicker soft and seductive.

The French doors were open, the echo of the waves crashing against the beach drifting in with the evening breeze.

Every time Mark caught the hint of steak au poivre wafting in from the kitchen his mouth watered a bit more. He couldn’t help but smile knowing that Tessa’s freshly baked chocolate torte was for dessert, assuming he and Grace could keep their hands off each other that long.

Mark was ready. Excited. Nervous.

And Grace was late.

Mark pulled out his phone and was about to give her a ring when he heard footsteps on the steps behind him.

Shit, his heart was racing. Mark wanted this night to be perfect, memorable. The night he gave voice to the words that had been tiptoeing through his head for weeks. The night he laid his heart bare to Grace and hoped—so desperately it frightened him—that she’d do the same.

Later, Mark would say his nerves had distracted him. That he’d been so focused on checking the table one last time, smoothing down his tie, pushing her champagne flute precisely into place, that he hadn’t been paying attention.

Later, Mark would tell Jack that he’d been right. That Mark had fucked up. That if he hadn’t been so self-absorbed he would have seen it coming. Later, Mark would tell Jack that he should’ve taken his friend’s advice more seriously. That he should’ve realized that it was inevitable. That the second it felt like things were really, truly coming together for the first time in his life, was exactly the moment they’d come spectacularly apart.

Later, Mark would feel the blood drain from his face, his pulse racing even while he wasn’t sure his heart had resumed beating. The feeling would be gone from his hands, his fingers stiff from being locked tight, deep purple crescents pushed into his palms where his nails had bitten deep.

Aftereffects, the paramedics would call it. Shock.

But at that moment, Mark felt nothing except his tongue stutter and halt around the words he’d started to say. Heard nothing other than the whir of disbelief rushing through his ears. And saw nothing but the person—unexpected, unwelcome, unwanted—standing in front of him.  

 

***

 

Shit, shit, shit.

Grace was late. She should have been back to the villa forty-five minutes ago. But Sonya had called up to say that the contractors had cracked a pipe and water was flooding two treatments rooms in the spa, so she’d had to get into it with the foreman over the phone after sending Tristan down to make sure the main got shut off.

Grace had been about to lock up her office when Peter had popped in, passing along paperwork from the restaurant renovation. And she’d been on the verge of shouting at Carrie, poor woman, when she had caught Grace in the hall to let her know that Tessa’s temporary accommodations were all sorted for when she returned in a few days.

Grace didn’t want to deal with any of it. She wanted to race back to her room, strip off her work dress, slip into something far sexier, brush her hair into the long, soft waves she knew Mark loved to touch, to grip, pull, and skip up the stairs to meet him, her smile serene, her face in no way revealing just how nervous—how excited—she was about the evening he’d planned.

So when Grace saw a message from Mark pop up on her phone she felt awful. She was hurrying, she really was. She didn’t want him to think she’d forgotten. She was swiping the text open, about to tell him that she was literally running to her golf cart, when his message stopped her short.

I can’t do this. Am leaving. You were right. This was never going to work.

Grace stared at her phone, the words not making sense no matter how many times she read them. She squeezed her fingers around her phone, hoping it would stop them from shaking. It didn’t. Not when the next message came through.

I’ll let you know when I’ve left the villa. Won’t be long. Stay away until I’ve gone. Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.

“What! What?” Grace couldn’t find the words. She stared at the screen, anger, astonishment, and heartbreak whipping through her at a threatening rate.

“Everything okay, Ms. Fitzgerald?”

Grace looked up to see Craig, the head of hotel security, approaching.

“Yes, Craig,” she managed to say. “Everything’s fine.”

“Good.” He nodded once even as his eyes dropped down to where her knuckles were white against her phone.

“Great,” Grace muttered, stepping to the side so he could get by. But the large man mirrored her, stopping right in front of her. Grace scooted to the other side of the hall, but the older man blocked her again.

“Craig?”

“Ms. Fitzgerald?”

“What are you doing?”

“Following Mr. Donovan’s instructions.”

Grace wanted to curse and shove him out of the way, but she refrained, settling for a glare. “And what, exactly, are Mr. Donovan’s instructions?”

“To keep you here.”

“To keep me….” Her anger was rapidly drowning under bewilderment and the excruciating inability to breathe. Grace felt tears sting the corners of her eyes and she blinked rapidly.

“No.” There was only the slightest wobble in her voice. She tried to skirt around Craig, but he shot out his hand, his thick arm cutting off the route in front of her.

“Yes.”

“Craig.” Grace glared at him and hoped that he couldn’t see the tears threatening to spill over, her eyes one confused blink away from letting them loose. “You are the head of hotel security. My hotel security. You can’t keep me here.”

“I can and I will.”

“I’m your boss.”

“And he’s yours,” Craig responded with a simple shrug, and Grace repressed the urge to drive the pointed toe of her shoe into his shin. Especially since it was Mark she really wanted to kick. Those words sounded exactly like him, even as they were coming out of Craig’s mouth.

At that realization the panic in her chest tilted, gravitating towards the man hastily packing up in the villa. Grace didn’t know what was going on. No fucking clue. But one thing she knew for certain was that Mark Donovan never backed away from a fight. Even as chills gripped her at the thought that he was running away from her, from them, Grace knew with absolute certainty that, whatever else, Mark never hesitated when it came to being an asshole.

If Mark was leaving, he wouldn’t be afraid to tell Grace to her face. If Mark was going to shatter everything they’d worked so hard for, had fought for, he wouldn’t hide the blow from her.

He could be an asshole. But he wasn’t a coward.

Whatever had happened in the past several hours, whatever reason Mark had for keeping her away, Grace knew he hadn’t lied to her. Not when he’d promised that she was in, when he’d sworn he wouldn’t let her go. Grace had gotten to him, had gotten through to him. She had slipped beneath the lonely surface he worked so hard to conceal from others and had forced him to scoot over, to make a spot for her where they could curl up together. Warm. Taken care of. Loved.

This? Whatever the fuck this was, it wasn’t Mark. He was done pushing her out. Grace knew it. Had known it after he’d told her about his family and his tattoo. Had known it the next morning when they’d made love in her office. And had known it during every look, every conversation, every gentle touch and erotic moment since. 

Something else was going on and she had no intention of waiting around until Mark told her what it was.

Grace wasn’t going to be pushed aside, told to stay away. She absolutely refused to be locked out. Especially since she knew with sudden and startling clarity that there was no going back. She was his. Mark was hers. And she was going to do everything possible to make sure that never changed.

Mark never backed down from a fight. But neither did Grace.

Forcing herself calm, Grace squared her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest. “Craig, what exactly did Mr. Donovan say?”

“He said that you were headed to the villa and he needed time. That I was to keep you here until he was done.”

“Done with what, exactly?”

Craig frowned, unimpressed by her line of questioning. “Didn’t say.”

“So that was the sum total of your conversation? You didn’t ask why the owner of the hotel was demanding that you keep the general manager of the hotel away from her home?”

“Umm….” Craig had the decency to look uncomfortable, even if the crease of his forehead told Grace that he didn’t think it was any of his business.

Grace dismissed his non-answer. “When you spoke with him, did it sound like anything was wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“It is a simple question, Craig,” Grace retorted, her patience stretching dangerously thin. “You are the head of our security. Surely you can tell when someone sounds off, when there are signs that something might be wrong?”

Craig tensed, and Grace didn’t miss the flicker in his jaw. She stepped forward and stretched up on her toes, bringing her eyes as close to his as possible. “You know something.”

“I know I need to follow Mr. Donovan’s instructions.”

“Not good enough, Craig,” Grace countered. “What else did he say?”

Craig closed his eyes and grumbled, the words indistinguishable.

“Say that again,” Grace insisted.

His shoulders sinking in defeat, Craig gave Grace a resigned look before he repeated, “Mr. Donovan said I had to keep you away from the villa. Or I’d be fired.”

“Anything else?” Grace’s question came out strained.

“No.” Craig shook his head. “He didn’t say thing else. But….” He looked at her, uncertainty waring with self-preservation.

“What?” Grace wanted to shake him.

“Someone was shouting in the background.”

Grace sucked in a breath. “Who, who was shouting? Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“No.” Craig’s jaw tightened. “Nothing specific. But, whoever it was, he was really fucking mad.”

Shit, shit, shit.       

“Go.” Grace pointed down the hall. “Tristan, Mr. Hurst, is at the spa. Get him and bring him up to the Seven Winds Villa as fast as possible.”

If the person in the villa was who she thought it was, she didn’t want Mark dealing with him alone. What good did he possibly think it would do, keeping her away? Mark needed her. And Tristan too, if she’d guessed correctly.  

“Ms. Fitzgerald.” Craig was shaking his head, obviously torn between Mark’s instruction and her command.

“Now, Craig, or I swear to God I won’t save your job once this shit-show is sorted. Because one way or another, I’m going up to that villa. So either get on board with this plan or go pack your office.”

Grace was around him and halfway down the hall before he’d managed to turn around, his mouth hanging open, his eyes bugged out in confusion.

“Feet. Moving,” Grace barked, before she slipped off her heels and dashed towards the front drive, ignoring the curious looks of guests and the worry sloshing in her stomach.