Not that I dress to impress, because in my line of work, people are trying to impress me, but for some reason I wasn’t happy with my current outfit and desperately wanted to change. When I’d selected my clothes before my flight, the white, flowy skirt and wide-strapped blue halter top seemed acceptable. With four-inch cork wedge sandals and some chunky jewelry, I was beachy casual but also professional.

I was in French Polynesia, on the island of Moorea in Tahiti, the definition of tropical; a pantsuit or pencil skirt and nylons were out of the question, especially in this heat. But this was also the nicest hotel I’d ever stayed in, and I’ve stayed in some real posh places. Everything was top of the line, spotless and impressive. I didn’t need to count the threads to know that the sheets were going to feel like silk against my skin, or to read the price of the booze in the minibar to know that there wasn’t going to be a thing in there under fifty dollars, or more likely a hundred. This place was paradise for plutocrats, and for the next week and a half, I got to live like a magnate as well.

I jumped into the lavish stone and smoked-glass shower and washed off the smell of airplane from my skin, subsequently, and to my dismay, also washing off the smell of my tryst. I closed my eyes under the pulsing water, my hair neatly tucked up under a plastic shower cap so that I didn’t have to waste time drying it. I’m pretty sure I was already going to be late for my meet-and-greet with Mr. McAllister.

Washing my body, I let my soapy hand wend its way down my torso, dipping two fingers between my legs. He’d made me touch myself. No man had ever ordered me to do that before. No man had ever watched me do that before. Sure, from time to time when the need hit me, I’d take care of myself in the middle of the night. I had packed my battery-operated boyfriend on this trip, and he sat dutifully in my suitcase waiting to be called upon when needed. But I’d never touched myself in front of a man, never had him guide me, order me, and then blatantly taste me, reveling in my flavor as he licked himself clean of my wetness. Who was that man in the “broom closet”? Would I see him again? Did I want to?

I rubbed decadent little circles around my clit at the memory of his touch, of his lips, his hands, his . . . before I knew it I was a panting and wanton mess, biting my lip as my second orgasm for the day overhauled my body and made me cry out while the warm water pelted my skin into supple butter.

Within fifteen minutes I was dressed, with freshly applied makeup and a new outfit. This time it was a sexy but professional short-sleeved wrap dress, with a black, white and turquoise floral print. My mother had said it aged me when I’d worn it to our family reunion this past summer. She’d said it made me look close to forty-five and not the youthful thirty-two I actually was. But then this was coming from the woman who at forty-nine (yes, you got that right, my mother was only two years older than my ex-boyfriend) still walked out of the house wearing denim miniskirts and spaghetti-strap tank tops that showed off her bra strap and sometimes even the lace on the cups. I took one final glance at myself in the big floor-to-ceiling mirror, pinched my cheeks, slathered on some peachy lip balm and was out the door

The well-groomed grounds toward the main hotel area were pristine. Freshly cut grass, ponds and streams, although manmade, looked as though they’d been put there by Mother Nature. Palm trees and vegetation galore quilted the property, while the chirp and warble of tropical birds filled the balmy afternoon air. Besides the main hotel, which looked fairly standard, all the outbuildings were stylized in the traditional French Polynesian fashion, with domed roofs and evenly spaced posts supporting the beams. I would have to ask Mr. McAllister if the rooftops were thatched with the traditional sugarcane leaves, or if they’d decided to go with something a little more modern.

I had no idea what to expect with Mr. McAllister. I’d tried researching him online before I came but couldn’t really find much, and no picture. He was a billionaire, I knew that, but as far as how he’d made his fortune and what other things or properties he owned, I didn’t know. I’d mentioned him to Xavier when I’d been initially booked to go and review the hotel, and he hadn’t even heard of Tate McAllister, let alone The Windward Hibiscus Hotel. But when we’d Googled the place, both of our eyes had nearly popped out of their sockets.

If I were to guess, I would say he was an older gentleman, possibly a recluse, having made his money through various lucrative real estate investments over the years. Only to buy this hotel late in life and choose to run it while spending the rest of his days living the dream in the heart of paradise. White hair, tanned skin, possibly a little looser around his neck, maybe some wrinkles and spots on his hands from spending too much time in the sun. Undoubtedly, he was probably smart as a whip, maybe a bit old school. But was he kind? Generous? Now that he’d made his billions did he just sit on them on an island paradise and bark orders at his staff, or was he a philanthropic man giving back to society? I had no idea if there was a Mrs. McAllister, or children; Wikipedia had given me zilch. So, even though everyone was going to be bending over backwards to try to impress me, I still wanted to make a good impression. Especially if I was being granted the opportunity to meet with the owner himself, something not even Xavier Rollins or Wikipedia had managed to do.

I was wearing the same cork wedges as before and tread carefully up the path toward the main hotel again. Janessa at the front desk had given me instructions to get to Mr. McAllister’s office. I took the elevator up to the top floor then made my way to the solid teak door with the bronze engraving that said “McAllister” in a no-nonsense bold font.

There was no receptionist or secretary out front, so all I could do was knock, hoping that I wasn’t disturbing him from a nap or taking his pills. I teetered back and forth on my heels, my stomach doing a series of somersaults as I heard the tread of heavy footsteps on the other side of the door. The knob jiggled, the door opened, and I looked up. The afternoon sun was glaring in from behind him, casting his body into a shadowy glow, but I couldn’t mistake that smell, tropical but manly with just a hint of minty freshness, that warrior frame, that orbital pull as if he were the moon and I the tides. It was him.

“Uh . . . ” we both said.

I blinked a couple of times. I hadn’t realized how dark the hallway was until the light from outside stabbed me in the retinas. “I’m, uh . . . I’m here to see Mr. McAllister. Is . . . is that your boss? Your father?”

Oh, shit, had I just slept with the owner’s son?

His lip twitched for a second. “No. Not my boss or my father.”

“Well, is he here? I have an appointment. I’m . . . ” I swallowed. Damn it, I was going to have to tell him my name.

He fucking works here, you nit, of course he can find out your name. You’re staying in the presidential villa, the whole entire hotel staff knows who you are.

“I’m . . . I’m Parker Ryan from The Decadent Traveler Magazine.”

Now it was his turn to appear flustered. No, I’m going to say he was beyond flustered. The man was downright stupefied. “You’re a woman?” he managed to finally say.

“What gave it away?” I snorted. “Does Mr. McAllister prefer to do interviews with men?”

Shaking his head, he opened the door wide and invited me inside with a sweep of his arm. His office was a continuation of the opulence outside, not a stapler or picture frame out of place: white leather couches, chrome desk, all set to the backdrop of wall-to-wall floor-to-ceiling windows, nothing but the blue Pacific sparkling like millions of diamonds for as far as the eye could see. He wandered over to the big glass and chrome desk, hesitated for just a moment, hovering his butt over the leather desk chair before letting out a big exhale and finally taking a seat. He gestured for me to take a seat on the opposite side of the desk. I did so, crossing my legs and watching as his eyes followed, lingering on my exposed calf and, when the fabric parted at the slit, the bottom of my thigh.

“So, is Mr. McAllister busy? Did he send you to answer my questions and show me around instead?”

He pursed those sexy lips of his in thought for a second before he gave almost an indiscernible nod and pushed himself back up to standing, extending a big hand across the desk at me. I stared at his fingers; those fingers had been inside me. He’d licked those fingers clean of me. A need for more of those fingers hit me in the gut (and lower) like a roundhouse kick.

Slowly, I leaned up and took his hand. A sudden jolt of electricity ran from his hand to mine, and I fought the urge to pull away from the shock. He must have felt it, too, because his green eyes lit up and amusement tilted his lips.

“Hi, Miss Ryan. I’m Tate McAllister . . . owner of The Windward Hibiscus Hotel, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintence.”

My mouth dropped open like a guppy’s. Holy crap. I’d just slept with the owner!

“You’re Tate McAllister?” I squeaked. “But you’re . . . you’re . . . ”

“Young? Attractive? The man you assumed was a concierge and ordered to fuck you in a broom closet less than an hour ago?”

My tongue was sandpaper.

His lips turned up into another wickedly sexy grin. “I am the owner, yes. But I will admit that you’re not the only one who is surprised here. I had assumed by your name that you were a man, and I have planned a series of activities for you during your stay that I am now re-thinking.”

My feminist back instantly went ramrod-straight. What kind of activities had he planned for a man that as a woman I would be unfit to do? Bikini contest judge? Jock-strap tester? Mustache trimming competition?

I gave him my best steely stare. “And what activities had you planned for Mr. Parker Ryan?”

He managed a sheepish smile and looked down at his lap for a moment. “Well, deep sea fishing, a sunrise hike to the top of the mountain, spear fishing, scuba diving, skydiving, parasailing . . . ”

My eyes narrowed in on him. “Insert feminist rant here,” I said snidely. “I can do every one of those things.”

He struggled to hide another smile. “I’m sure you can. Have you ever been scuba diving before? Fishing?”

“Well, no, but . . . ” Shit, he had me there. “I-it can’t be that difficult.”

“It’s not. I’ll teach you.”

I shifted in my seat and felt my thighs glide across each other. So that’s where all the moisture in my mouth had gone. Damn it. Suddenly images of Tate and I out on a boat, him shirtless and standing behind me, helping me reel in a big . . . crap, what fish were out here? Salmon? Bass? Marlin? Helping me reel in a big marlin, his arms around mine as we grunted and groaned with the strain of hauling our catch on board. I licked my lips and re-crossed my legs, hoping to God that my pebbled nipples weren’t visible through my dress, because they sure as hell ached.

“Okay.”

“However, I would also like to schedule you for some more pampering things as well, now that I know you’re a woman, a hard-working woman, no less. I’ll book you in for a few massages, scrubs, facials, manicure and pedicure. Do you do yoga? Pilates? Meditate? We have it all. Private or group classes. Whatever your heart desires, we have it.”

Whatever my heart desires? What did my heart desire? I knew what my body desired. What my body craved, and that was more of Tate McAllister. Hard, sex god, Tate McAllister.

I just continued to nod like a bobble-head on the dash of a car. His one dimple winked at me again as he smiled and chatted, and his eyes gleamed with all kinds of mischief and promise. The not-so-distant memory of the way his hands, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his . . . felt on my skin, inside me, had my eyes glazing over and my pulse picking up speed.

“You okay?” he asked. “Miss Ryan?”

I shook my head and blinked. “Oh, uh, yeah, sorry. Jet lag.”

He nodded once. “Would you like to postpone things until tomorrow? You’re welcome to return to your villa and sleep.”

“No, no. I’m fine, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to start off by interviewing you first. And then we can do a tour and discuss the next week or so.”

“You’d like to start off with interviewing me? How about discussing what just happened downstairs, now that we’re no longer just John and Jane Doe. We’re going to be spending an awful lot of time together over the next ten days. Best to clear the air, don’t you think?”

I let out a big exhale, avoiding his penetrating stare and instead choosing to look behind him out into the endless ocean. The sky was a brilliant blue, while the sea was more of a deep and alluring cobalt, swirling like a marble with hints of turquoise and green and darker patches where there was reef and shallows. He was living in paradise, living the dream.

Finally, I let my eyes drift back to his. He was waiting for me. Patiently waiting for me to collect my thoughts, my nerves and whatever else was plaguing me. Was he always this patient?

“I’m coming off a harsh breakup. My ex left a message on my phone, and I listened to it in the shuttle. I was in a terrible mood when I walked into the hotel and wanted to make it better. I can’t be the first person to use someone else, use sex as a way to lift spirits or make themselves feel better. You could have said ‘No.’ ” I shot him my best challenging glare, but he met it with another amused and confident smirk, his eyes continuing to twinkle.

“But I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Silence. Awkward, awkward silence. Well, awkward for me. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Jesus, you could cut the sexual tension in the room with a knife. The A/C was humming in the corner, but I was still rather warm, my face was flushed, and I’m pretty sure my chest and neck were rosy, nearly as red as the beautiful single hibiscus he had in a short glass vase in the corner of his desk.

I swallowed again. “Look, it was a one-time thing, okay? Quick and dirty sex with a stranger was all. Just because we’re no longer strangers doesn’t mean it has to get weird. You helped me out of a funk, and from what I can remember, you seemed to enjoy yourself as well.”

“I did,” he said smugly. “More than I’ve enjoyed myself in a very long time.”

Crap.

“Yes, well, be that as it may, it can’t happen again. I’m here for work. You’re the owner. It was a one-time thing.”

“One-time thing, eh?” Eh? Was he Canadian? I’d have to ask him. Wikipedia had been useless.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Quick and dirty sex with a stranger?”

Why was he repeating everything I’d just said?

“Yes.” I nodded again. “Quick and dirty. But it’s not happening again. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to start the interview, get down to business.”

He cocked his head ever so slightly. “Get down to business . . . ”

Okay, now he was just starting to piss me off, repeating me like a flippin’ mynah bird or some petulant toddler.

I let out an exasperated sigh. This man was incorrigible. “Let’s begin then, shall we?” I asked, opening my shoulder bag and whipping out my digital recorder and notebook.

Tate smiled wide and leaned back in his chair, an ankle rested on his knee, and he tucked his hands behind his head. “Ask away, lady.”

“Okay.” I swallowed. “So, how did you come to own The Windward Hibiscus?”

“I bought it a few years back. It was a rundown three-star hotel that I bought for a steal, and I’ve spent the last six years turning it into one of the most elite and coveted resorts in the Pacific. The billionaires’ haven, as it’s been nicknamed.”

I nodded. “And how have you come to have such wealth? How were you able to come up with the capital to pay for the place?” I watched as his eyebrow twitched half an inch on his forehead, and I found myself suddenly backpedaling. “I—I’m sorry if this question seems a tad intrusive. It’s just that nobody knows who you are. Nobody knows anything about you, how you’ve come to own one of the most exclusive resorts in the world. I mean, you don’t even have a picture or biography on Wikipedia. And this is my job. It’s why you brought me here. To interview you and review the resort.” Crap, I just had this feeling he was going to be one of those “off the record” bozos.

This time, his grin stretched nearly clear across his face. It reached his eyes, and the corners crinkled, making him not only handsome as hell, but also adorable. “And I’d like to keep it that way, if I may?”

I looked down into my lap. Normally, I was much more confident than this. He was flustering me. I was so off my game.

“Off the record?” he asked taking pity on me.

Fuck!

My head snapped up. That amused smirk was still on his face. He was enjoying this little dance far too much. I nodded. Even if the world didn’t get to know, I wanted to know.

“Fine. Off the record.”

My answer seemed to suffice so with a curt nod he started. “I inherited my starter money. My father left us when I was small, and my uncle, my mother’s brother, stepped in and was the male father-figure in my life. He never married, never had any children. If I were to guess now, I’d say he was gay, just based on a few puzzle pieces I’ve put together over the years, but he never came out to anyone. He was successful in real estate, and when he died, he left everything to me. After taxes, my inheritance was just shy of five million dollars. I paid off my mother’s house and bills, set her up comfortably, then invested the rest. A few years later, I found out that my father had died. Apparently, as shitty as he was a father, he was just that shrewd of a businessman . . . ”

His lips twisted wryly as if weighing the next thing he was going to say. “And a philanderer. I have three half-siblings spread across the world. He left his fortune, which was rather substantial, to the four of us. He never raised any of us. Knocked our mothers up and left a few years later, so I guess it was his way of ‘making amends.’ I received around ten million from his estate. And I’ve only met one sibling so far, but he received the same amount. I’m assuming the other two inherited something as well. I’m still trying to find them.”

Wow. Parker simply nodded, her mouth agape but encouraging him to continue.

He did. “Combined with my investments, some shares I’d purchased and lucrative business decisions, I was able to buy The Hibiscus, with a small loan from the bank as well, of course.”

She finally found her voice again and decided to ask one her burning questions. “And why did you decide to turn it into an elite resort?”

“Because I like my privacy, and I respect when others do as well. Our security rivals the Pentagon. Everyone, if they wish, can check in under an alias. Every whim, fancy and proclivity is seen to. Men can bring their mistresses here and never worry about being found out. Women can bring their boy-toys and leave the fear of being discovered at the airport. We are discreet, private and full-service.”

“But all of that comes for a price,” I said, perhaps a bit too rashly. That comment about mistresses had ruffled my feathers something fierce, and I was suddenly looking at Tate McAllister with less fucky eyes and more screw-you eyes. I bet he had mistresses up the wazoo.

“Of course.” He shrugged. “Luxury, privacy, discretion, nothing worth having is free in this day and age.”

“So, what about your personal life? Wife? Ex-wife? Girlfriends? Children?” Based on what had transpired in the soundproof room not an hour ago, I sincerely hoped that my first and third questions were going to be a hard “NO.” I couldn’t imagine being “the other woman.”

He shook his head. “No. There’s been no time.” There was a sadness to his smile, but he quickly quelled it and flashed me another super sexy one with straight white teeth. That expression seemed to live on him. “That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the companionship of women. I just don’t have anyone special in my life. No wife. No ex-wife. No girlfriend. No children.” His head tilted to the side, and he suddenly reminded me of a curious puppy. “What about you?”

I shook my head. “What about me?”

“Husband? Ex-husband? Boyfriend? Children?”

What the hell? We weren’t here to interview me. This was not a back-and-forth thing. I was the one asking the questions, not him. But somehow I knew by the way he was looking at me, by the curve of his mouth, that he wasn’t going to take a head shake or “No” for an answer. That if I wanted more answers, I’d have to give him something.

I shook my head again. “No. I’ve never been married. No boyfriend.” That one still hurt. “I told you I’m coming off a bad breakup. And no children.” That one was like a punch to the gut.

He barely nodded as he stood up from behind the desk and sauntered his big gladiator frame around to the front, perching on the corner just a foot or so away from me. I had to look up to see his face and nearly swallowed my tongue when I did. The man was smoldering, green eyes with flecks of gold twinkling, full of mischief and dirty secrets. Oh, Mr. McAllister, I’m sure you have loads of dirty little secrets. That’s when I noticed a couple of blond hairs on the shoulder of his white dress shirt. I hadn’t noticed them before, but from where he was sitting now, the sun hit him just right and illuminated them like strands of gold.

A taste of panic rifled through my body. I wasn’t blonde, he wasn’t blond, and they were much too long to be his anyway. Maybe four or five inches long. A woman’s?

“Hmmm,” he finally said. His sounds of amusement affected me far more than he could ever realize. I loved the little rumbling noise he made at the back of this throat. It was primitive and wild. “So, anything else you’d like to ask me, on or off the record, Miss Ryan?”

I ran my tongue between the seam of my lips again before putting my pen between my teeth and lightly biting down in thought. “I don’t think so, at least not for now. Perhaps a quick tour?”

Tate extended his hand, and at first, I wasn’t sure why. Did he expect us to hold hands and wander around the resort? Another handshake? But he was offering to help me to my feet. I’m such an idiot. I extended my hand, and that surge of electricity from earlier rushed through my body, making me practically convulse on the spot. Did he feel it, too? He had to. It was a shock, an actual shock. Like when you rub your socked feet along a carpet, touch something metal and then shuffle over and touch someone else.

He helped me to my feet, and I quickly pulled my hand back, even though my body was screaming at me not to. But my brain overthrew the battle, and I released his hand only to find it at the small of my back, ushering me out the door not a second later.

“Just this way, Miss Ryan. I’ll show you the pools, the grounds, the restaurants. And if we have time . . . the grotto. And then we have ‘reservations’ ”—he chuckled as if having reservations at his own restaurant was funny—“at the Tiki Lounge this evening.”

“We do?” I asked, following him to the bronze-doored elevator.

“Well, yes. It’s not very often I invite a journalist here to experience the lap of luxury and document their stay, let alone interview me. So, I figured the least I could do was give you what you’re after, an all-access pass . . . to me.”

The elevator doors parted, and he motioned for me to join him inside. I stepped forward like a robot. The words all-access, to me, quick and dirty rolled around in my head until they no longer even sounded like words. They were more of a chant, a mantra, an . . . order.