“What the hell were you thinking?” The words were out of Mark’s mouth before he’d even turned back to face her, stress and residual panic clipping the vowels short.

“I was thinking,” Grace replied, “that if this was it, if we were going to die, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be by that stupid machete. I’m not delusional. I know fire isn’t a great way to go. But hacked to death by Marcus Baker?” Grace shook her head emphatically, her disheveled hair cascading around her shoulders. “No way.”

She’d barely finished speaking before Mark had her anchored in his lap, his arms laced protectively around her, his face so close she had no choice but to meet him eye to eye.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he ground out.

“Wha—?”

“Why didn’t you stay away?”

Mark’s voice was pained, close to desperate, the anxiety of the past few hours crystal clear. Grace tried to bring her hands up to his face, wanted to sweep the hurt away with her touch, to reassure them both that they were fine, that it was over. But Mark’s grip on her was too tight and she couldn’t get her arms free. Grace kept her eyes trained on his as she brushed a gentle kiss across his lips, lingering a moment before she spoke.

“You know why, Mark.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” Grace repeated. “You do and you never should have asked me to stay away. I wanted to be here. I’ll always want to be here, Mark. To help you. To fight with you, beside you. Always.”

“He wanted to kill me, Grace.” Mark shook her slightly as he spoke, as if the gentle jostle would help the words slip behind her determination. “Marcus wanted to kill me, and the second you stepped foot into the villa, he wanted to kill you too. Of all the absolutely fucking awful times for you to completely ignore what I want.”

Mark was on the verge of shouting, his self-restraint one desperate breath away from shattering completely. Grace wasn’t about to let him fall apart. Not now.

“Mark.” She squirmed hard enough that he was forced to loosen his arms, and Grace quickly brought her palms to his cheeks. “I’m here.” She said it slowly, precisely. “I’m here. I’m fine.”

“Your head,” Mark interrupted, the concern in his face so sharp Grace couldn’t stand it.

“My head is fine,” she assured him. “I have a hard one, remember? It takes more than a bump to slow me down.”

“You were knocked unconscious, Grace.”

“And you had your hand sliced open by a lunatic.”

“It’s just a scratch.” Mark shrugged off her concern.

Grace slipped her fingers into his thick hair and forced him to look at her straight on. “I felt the blade go through your hand, Mark. Almost to the other side. I could feel it.” She stopped as a shudder gripped her. “I could feel it about to touch mine.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Grace,” Mark released on a deep exhale. “That’s exactly why I didn’t want you up here. Why I tried to keep you away.”

“With a text? Did you honestly think a text would keep me away?” Grace was just shy of shouting.

“It was two texts.”

“Mark….” Grace gave his hair a quick tug, her frustration escalating.

“And I sent Craig. What the fuck happened to Craig? He’s owed a firing.”

“No,” Grace pushed back. “He’s not. I’m not letting you fire him.”

“He was supposed to keep you away. I explicitly told him if he couldn’t keep you safe, he was fired.”

“And I told him that I’d fire him if he didn’t stop harassing me and start helping you ASAP.”

“That’s bullshit. I told him first.”

“Really?” Grace couldn’t hold back a burst of laughter. “Is that how it’s going to go? We go with your call cause you say it first, not mine even when it’s better?”

“Grace,” Mark groaned, and dragged her mouth down to his. The kiss was all desperation and salvation, a sparring of tongues, a worshiping of lips. It was relief and release. Begging and pleading.

They were both panting when they broke apart, the torment in Mark’s eyes replaced with wildness of a different sort.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Mark confessed against her still-parted lips. “I saw you step into the room and my heart literally seized. And then”—his eyes closed as if he couldn’t even bear seeing the memory of what had happened—“when you leapt for the lantern, Marcus went for you. I saw the blade reach you. I saw it, Grace,” Mark’s face was stark white as he replayed it in his mind. “I saw it skim your back just as you reached the candle. I’ll never forget it. Your hand against the glass of the lantern. That god-awful machete catching you across the back. Your head hitting the edge of the table. The flame setting the curtain on fire.

“I didn’t know the world could stop like that. That my heart could still beat and my blood still flow and my lungs still breathe even as every ounce of life vanished from my body in a single second. I swear I died, Grace. When you fell to the ground, utterly, painfully still. I couldn’t figure out how you were on the floor and I was still standing. Sound was coming out of my mouth, my body was moving, and I could see Marcus flailing at Tristan as he doused the fire, but I couldn’t fucking understand, Grace, how I was still standing and you…weren’t.”

Mark’s voice was scraped raw, and Grace didn’t miss how the surface of his eyes shone bright. She kissed him then. The corners of his eyes. The bridge of his nose. The grooves that fear had etched around his mouth. Grace kissed him, and Mark let her.

“I am so angry with you,” Mark whispered.

“I know,” Grace whispered back.

“I can’t,” he stumbled, his hands flexing around her, “I can’t do that again, Grace. I can’t watch you get hurt again. I can’t. I won’t.”

“Lucky for us that being attacked by machete is probably a once-in-a-lifetime deal, then, huh?” Grace wanted to lighten the mood, to ease some of his agitation. It didn’t work.

“Nothing about this is funny, Grace. Nothing.” Mark dug his fingers into her upper arms before pushing her gently against the sofa and standing up.

Grace watched him pace the carpet, his attention on his feet, his mouth moving even as no words came out. She was pulling herself up, about to join him, when he spoke.

“I have to leave.”

“I thought everything was taken care of for tonight.”

“Not the villa, Grace.” He was quiet. “The island. I’m leaving the Seven Winds. I’m going back to New York.”

“Wh—” Grace swung her legs around and dropped her feet to the floor. Her head didn’t appreciate the sudden movement and everything went blurry for a second. Grace grabbed the armrest to steady herself. “Why? For how long?”

Mark wouldn’t look at her, his attention focused on the scorched wall. “I’ll leave in the morning. I won’t be coming back.”

No, no, no. Grace couldn’t fight it. She was so tired. Her head hurt so much. Her heart, too. The tears came fast and furious this time, her ability to stop them gone. The lingering fear from Marcus’s attack was nothing in comparison to the one gripping her now.

“You can’t,” she managed to say, furiously brushing tears away. “You cannot just leave. Not now.”

“Don’t you see?” He was distraught, his words thick, misshapen. “I have to. I cannot stay here. I cannot stay with you.”

He was lying. He had to be lying. “You can, Mark. You can, you want to. Don’t for one second pretend you don’t.”

Mark turned and came to her, filling Grace’s vision with his large chest and bloodstained shirt, caging her with his hands against the back of the sofa. “What I want, Grace, is to keep you safe. To keep you as fucking far away from Max and his insanity as possible.”

Grace stared up at him, her cheeks wet, getting wetter. “What are you talking about?”

“Did you not hear him?” Mark’s desperation echoed in the enormous room. “Marcus,” he spit out, “just before you did your crazy dive across the room, he gave me a message from Max.”

“No”—Grace shook her head—“no, I didn’t hear him.”

“‘Uncle Max says hi.’ Those were his exact words.”

“Oh my God, Mark.”

“Do you get it now?” Mark grabbed her hands, his grip unbreakable. “Max sent Marcus here for me. Promised to take care of his debts on the island if Marcus passed on his little message.”

“To kill you?”

“Who the fuck knows,” Mark growled. “As insane as Max seems to be, I doubt he wants homicide for hire traced back to him. Which, believe me, with Marcus, it no doubt would. The guy is hardly a criminal mastermind. Assuming Marcus lived long enough to open his mouth. But whether he was just here to hurt me or kill me, it doesn’t fucking matter. Max sent him. He came and found not just me, but you too. You got hurt because of me, Grace. And it will not happen again, I will not let it.”

Grace could feel the tremors coursing through Mark where his fingers were locked around hers. Determination marked every line of his body even as guilt threatened to pull him under. To pull him away.

“This isn’t your fault, Mark.” Grace spoke carefully, making sure he heard each word. She pulled on her hands, not wanting to get free, wanting to bring him closer. Mark’s head lowered, his eyes unable to look away from the streaks running down her face. “None of this is your fault. Do you understand?”

“I can’t stay, Grace,” he finally said, every word pained.

“You can. You have to.”

Mark closed his eyes, shutting her out. “Why?”

“Simple. Because I want you to. Because I need you to.”

He leaned towards her then, his knees coming to rest between hers against the sofa. Grace tugged her hands again, trying to anchor him to her. His forehead was almost against her shoulder. His ear inches from her mouth. “I will not let you go, Mark. I don’t want this place, this life, without you. And I’m not leaving. So you don’t have a choice. You have to stay, here, with me.”

He tilted his head, just enough so that his lips touched her cheek, his groan soft against her face. When he pressed his mouth to her, Grace was sure he could taste the saltiness drying on her skin.

“If he hurts you, Grace…if anything happens to you….” He left his thoughts hanging, his dread stopping him from falling into her completely.

“Stay,” she answered. “Stay and make sure he doesn’t.” 

“Grace,” Mark whispered before dropping her hands and cupping her face in his, steadying her, protecting her from the violence of his kiss. His thumbs swiped away what was left of her tears as he worshiped her mouth. His tongue searched for hers, and Grace met it gladly, eager to welcome him, determined to keep him.

She would be the first to confess. Grace knew it then. She didn’t want to break the kiss, but Mark needed to hear it, and she needed to say it.

Grace pulled back an inch and waited for Mark to open his eyes, his head still angled above hers.

A pause, another breath. Several more beats of her heart. Then, “I love you.”

Mark didn’t blink. Didn’t turn away, didn’t hide. He just looked at her, eyes wide open, blue burning up her gray. When he stayed completely silent, utterly still, Grace cleared her throat.

“Umm, did you hear me? I love you.”

Slowly, oh so temptingly, his lips curled. “I heard you.” Mark flexed his fingers against her jaw, and Grace swore she felt possessiveness infuse his grip. Oh, he’d heard her.

Her admission, so short, so quiet, held infinite power, it seemed, because it had achieved the one thing logic and tears couldn’t: it made certain Mark would stay.

Grace smirked, lightness filling her. “Are you telling me that this entire time all I needed to do to get you to shut up was say three little words?”

 “On the contrary, Ms. Fitzgerald.” Mark chased her name with a kiss. “I think you’ll discover that now you’ve said it I’m going to keep harassing you until you say it again. And again. And again.”

“You are so fucking incorrigible.”

“Yes, but you love me.”

“I do.”

“Jesus, Grace.” Mark pulled her in for another kiss as he sank onto the sofa, pulling her across his lap. “I love you. So fucking much.”

Grace smiled against his stubble, even as she planted a gentle kiss against his cheek.

“I know.” She squealed when Mark squeezed tighter, his fingers spread wide across the fine planes of her back.

“You know?” Mark’s eyes flashed.

“Yes”—Grace beamed at him—“you put your hand between mine and a machete. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

“Don’t for one second think that you aren’t still in a world of trouble.”

“Oh, what are you going to do?” Grace taunted. “Spank me?”

Mark jerked beneath her, and a dark chuckle broke from his chest. “Maybe. But only if you ask nicely.”

“Asshole,” Grace murmured as she pressed her mouth against his.

“Always.” Mark’s retort melted under the push and pull of their lips, their breaths mingling, their kiss confessing the promises not yet made.

Grace sank against Mark’s chest, her hands wild in her hair, a sigh of absolute bliss escaping when he brought his hands down to her ass and squeezed, her hips rocking into his hard stomach in response. Grace felt one of Mark’s hands slip free and wrap in her hair, and she was on the verge of asking for more, demanding more, when something he’d said jumped out at her.

Grace pulled back abruptly. Mark scowled.

“Did you say that Marcus cut my back?” She was twisting around, trying to see over her shoulder, trying to figure out why the only pain that registered was in her head, when Mark steadied her with his hands.

“He did, but he missed.”

Grace was wiggling faster, unable to see anything, when Mark lifted up a handful of her hair. It looked unremarkable until Grace inspected it closer. Amongst the thick strands was an obvious gap. A section where at least six inches were missing.

“The blade caught your hair as you fell. Not your clothes or you. Just your hair.”   

“Shit.” Grace stared at where her hair had been hacked away before grimacing. “He always had such horrible aim.”

Mark swore, colorful curses peppering each kiss he gave her. “I’m starting to think that bump to the head knocked out what little sense you had left.”

“Hey.” Grace punched him lightly in the shoulder. “You have no room to talk, Mr. I-get-so-drunk-I-walk-into-doors. At least I had an excess of sense going into my head injury. You?” Grace tapped him gently on the head as she laughed. “Pretty sure you can’t afford to lose any more.”

“What I can’t afford to lose, Grace”—Mark’s smile faded as eyes melded with hers—“is you. Promise me you won’t do something that ridiculously stupid ever again.”

“Which part? The realizing something was wrong and you needed my help part? The coming-up-with-a-plan-so-we-didn’t-get-hacked-to-death part? Or the flying-heroically-through-the-air-and-distracting-Marcus-by-setting-the-villa-on-fire part? Because while at least one of those does sound ridiculous, I can assure you neither of them was stupid.”

“Grace.” Mark growled her name low, his eyes dark and serious even as she could see the corners of his mouth kick up. “I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I.” Catching one of his hands in hers, Grace twined their fingers together before dropping them to his lap and pressing them against the tattoo concealed beneath his clothes. “Partners, remember? You agreed. We do this together. Which means all of it. The good, the bad, and the crazy.”

“God”—Mark closed his eyes—“I hope there’s less crazy.”

“Me too. Though, since you’re so desperate for a promise, I do have one I can make.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Next time we plan a romantic night in, I’ll do the cooking. Far less chance of everything going up in flames.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Mark tipped them backwards, her head cradled in his uninjured hand, his damaged one still held in hers, their laughter mingling as Mark tickled Grace with his lips, his tongue, his teeth, her skin singing, his eyes closing just before they sank together in a tumble of limbs.    

 

***

 

Grace was getting used to it, the habit they’d developed. They’d fall asleep in her bed, but sometime in the night Mark would scoop her up and tuck them into his.

That night was no different. Turning to face him, Grace feathered her fingers lightly through Mark’s hair and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Housekeeping had already been through the villa to fix what they could. The living room had been cleaned up, the lanterns hauled away. The burned curtain taken down. The floor scrubbed, the wall washed. The puddles of champagne soaked up.

The sofas needed to be replaced. There was no point trying to get out all that blood.

In fact, Grace had decided she now had the perfect excuse to redecorate the entire villa. If Mark was so willing to spend money on the restaurant and the spa and staff housing, what harm could adding the villa to the list do?

Slowly, not wanting to wake him, Grace slid out from under Mark’s arm and got out of bed. Pulling on the button-down shirt, Grace smothered a laugh. After the first night she’d slept in Mark’s room, his dress shirt had re-appeared in her closet. She’d taken to wearing it every night. Mark hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he loved her in it. Grace couldn’t quite figure out which he liked best: her wearing it, or getting her out of it. Either way, Grace was happy to claim it as hers.

Glancing over her shoulder, Grace made sure Mark was still sleeping before sliding open the patio door. It was late, but the night air was warm. The stars were bright in the sky, the moon sending soft light down to dance between the swaying palms.

The island was quiet. Peaceful. Sinking down into one of the chaises, Grace pulled in a deep breath, thankful that the throbbing in her head had begun to subside and that she had no signs of a concussion.

“This seat taken?” Mark’s sleepy voice was quiet, just a murmur over the crash of the waves on the beach below them.

Grace smiled as he sank down beside her on the chaise.

“Trouble sleeping?”

“Hmm.” Grace shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Grace studied Mark in the moonlight. His hair was a mess, sticking out in odd places. His eyes weren’t open all the way, the lines of the pillow still molded to his cheek. The naked skin of his upper torso had bloomed with goosebumps in the light breeze, but she could feel the solid heat of him where his leg was pressed against hers.

He looked wonderfully disheveled. Utterly enticing. And exactly like home.  

“What happens now?”

Mark looped a hand around her ankles and tugged her legs into his lap. “Well,” he drawled, “I have it on good authority that some of Tessa’s chocolate torte is hanging out in the kitchen. I was thinking about grabbing us some.”

“That does sound delicious,” Grace agreed, “but not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Mark was still smiling, and Grace sent up a quick word of thanks that she was still there to see it. That they were still there at all.

“Max. You’re going to go after him, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Mark’s face became serious.

“But you’re staying.” It wasn’t a question; Grace wouldn’t allow it to be.

“I am. But I don’t have to leave the island to go after Max, Grace. I realize you doubted my abilities at one point”—he flashed a wry grin, but it vanished quickly—“but don’t for a second think that my reach doesn’t extend well beyond this island, regardless of where in the world I happen to be.”

Grace didn’t doubt it, certainly not as she heard the steel in his voice. “That part I don’t doubt one bit. But—”

“But?” Mark gave her legs a gentle push where they balanced on his lap.

“You will tell me, Mark, what you decide to do. No disappearing, no pretending, no shutting me out. Never again.”

“Never again,” he agreed, his hands a warm blanket against her skin.

“Because you remember what happens if you do?”

Mark frowned.

“The hotel becomes mine. And I might not send you away, Mark, but I will be damn sure that you do what I say.”

Mark looked at her, cataloguing the fierceness on her face, surprise filling his own, before he tipped his head back and laughed. And laughed.

“I’m not kidding, Mark.”

“I’m well aware of that, Grace.”

Tears were streaming down his face, and Grace swatted his chest. Mark moved fast, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm, tickling her with the vibrations of his laugher.

“Do we have a deal?”

“It’s the same deal, Grace, and it still stands.” He kissed her hand again before pulling her closer. “Besides, I can’t leave now. My new furniture is on its way.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was going to wait until morning to bring it up, given everything that’s happened. But, since you mention it”—Mark grinned at her mischievously—“I told Peter to put another desk in your office.”

Grace looked at him in mock horror and tried to conceal her smile as he laughed. “That’s not funny, Donovan.”

“Oh, but your face says otherwise, Fitzgerald.” Mark ducked as Grace batted a hand at him. “Doesn’t matter. Order’s already in. Desk arrives at the end of the week.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“And miss out on a single minute of your charming company? I absolutely would. Quite frankly, Grace, I think it is the best idea I’ve ever had.”

“Mark!” Grace slapped him against the chest. “You are not sharing my office. No way, no how. You own a huge resort and an entire apartment building. You can easily find somewhere else to work. I don’t want you in my office!”

“Grace, Grace, Grace.” Mark shook his head as he whispered into the curve of her neck. “No fun at all. Think about the perks you’re giving up.”

“Perks?” 

“Yes, perks,” Mark repeated, his un-bandaged hand snaking up her leg. “The witty banter. The improved scenery. The stimulating conversation.” Grace shivered when his fingers skimmed above her knee. “The lunch breaks.”

“I don’t take lunch breaks.” Grace had meant to use her sternest voice, but it was thinning rapidly, Mark’s hand wandering higher and higher. Blinking back a wave of arousal, Grace stopped his ascent, her hand around his wrist. “But I do suppose it confirms one thing. You, me, this. It’s a done deal.”

One hand still captured in her lap, Mark lifted his other and wrapped his long fingers around the back of her neck, drawing Grace forward until their foreheads touched. “You. Me. This. It’s a done deal.” His eyes never left hers; his voice never wavered. 

“Partners?”

“Partners.”

“You know what that means, right?” Grace was beaming, her chest infused with an overwhelming sense of well-being. Of happiness. Of love.

“No, Grace.” Mark placed a small kiss on the corner of her mouth, his tongue slipping out quickly, promising more. “Tell me.”

“It means you can’t fire me.”

Grace’s buoyant giggles bubbled up as Mark dropped the hand from her face and wrapped his arm around her back, crushing her to him in an enthusiastic hug, his chest shaking with laughter.

“The thought has never crossed my mind.”

“Never? Not once?”

Mark pulled back and smiled, adoration clear in every sharp, stunning line. “Like I said, Grace, I never want to do this without you.” 

“Mark?” Grace tightened her grip where his wrist still rested between her thighs. She pulled him higher, his forearm disappearing beneath the hem of her shirt.

“Grace?” His eyes were still locked with hers, and Grace relished the flash of pure possessiveness that accompanied their joint movement.

“I was thinking I want that chocolate now.”

“Really?” Mark brushed the question across the sensitive hollow beneath her ear at the same time his fingers brushed her lower down.

“Really,” Grace sighed, dipping her head to take his mouth. She had him. Mark Fucking Donovan. His attention, his heart, his commitment. And with his tongue stroking broadly across hers, his strength surrounding her, his fingers seeking her heat, Grace wanted the rest of him. All of him. Forever.     

“Mark,” she managed to get out between pants. “The chocolate.”

“Now?” he rumbled.

“Oh, definitely.” Grace gave him a quick bite at the base of the throat and took advantage of his distracted groan to jump up from the chaise. Mark was after her in a flash.

“Where are you going?”

“Seriously. That bump to the head. It really did a number on your attention span,” Grace teased as she retreated towards the villa. “Choc-o-late.” She licked her lips then gave them an exaggerated pop.

Mark stumbled. “And what are we going to do with the chocolate?”

“Oh”—Grace grinned at him, her fingers making fast work of her shirt buttons—“I’m sure we can come up with something.”