Bad Business / Under His Obsession

CHAPTER FIVE

Ryan

WHEN I ENTER the bar that evening, after another call to the nursing home, my burning eyes seek out Grace in the crowd. Wearing a simple denim dress that cups her delicious figure, she’s sipping a colourful cocktail and talking to the French couple that arrived at Lailai today. Laughing and carefree, her face alight with animation, she shifts something in my chest. A cold hard block of concrete there throughout my call to my grandmother’s nurses. Just the sight of her makes me feel lighter somehow, dragging a small indulgent smile to my mouth.

I take a deep breath, trying to dissolve the gnawing and ever-present worry, despite the staff’s reassuring prognosis. But I can’t seem to shake the deep-seated kernel of dread that wants to sprout and expand.

What if I lose her? My grandma.

Despite the distraction of delightful and lovely Grace, that haunting vulnerable place exposed near the surface like an open wound coils my muscles tight and presses on my temples with sickening pressure.

I break out in a fine sheen of sweat.

I’m seventeen again. Terrified for my grandma, who has just suffered her first stroke. Alone in the frigid dark. A homeless boy in a man’s body.

The panic makes me latch onto Grace, a foreign, almost overwhelming urge to get her alone taking hold. Her company will crush the worst of the trepidation and impotence eating me alive. It happened on the beach last night and again this morning, her sometimes hard-won smile, her grit and sense of humour an anaesthetic.

And I crave that numbness with every daily reminder of my grandmother’s frailty, even though I know not to trust another soul for my happiness.

Been there done that with my absent parents.

I prowl to the bar, wound tight, every nerve ending vibrating. I could play my owner’s card. Clear the bar of everyone but Grace and me. Touch her freely, watch her eyes glaze with passion, splay her out on the table under the stars and pound us both to oblivion until my troubles exhaust themselves. Instead, I signal Charlie, the barman, for my usual, which he produces with a speed that pleases the businessman in me, and that’s where I hang my pinballing thoughts.

Business.

The resort is perfectly placed to be the next Dempsey success. Some minor refurbishments to the communal areas, installation of Jacuzzis and plunge pools near the spa, a designated nightclub and some specialised rooms for the voyeurs and other kink-lovers and it will be good to go. A second call, to my assistant, confirmed that work can commence as soon as the current guests vacate. I take a drag of my beer, waiting in vain for the rush of satisfaction.

Thinking about catering to people’s kinks draws my stare back to Grace. She’s still laughing with the French couple, but she can’t stop looking my way any more than I can clear her from my head.

But focussing on her is better than dissecting my thoughts. She makes a delectable conundrum. She looks classy, almost regal. When she lets go of her reserve, she’s gutsy and determined, but beneath the surface there’s a passionate goddess, candid and dauntless.

Who knew the hesitant woman who baulked at a drink with a stranger would enjoy watching me jerk off in the shower? How spectacularly uninhibited she was on the beach earlier… And how stupidly unprepared I was.

I spin my beer bottle on the bar, my fingertips against the cool glass—which is slick with condensation—the only part of me not on fire. Would she enjoy being watched, or having others watch her orgasm, the way she’d watched me? As if it fascinated her… As if her honest desires shocked the hell out of both of us.

Need roars through my blood. Here, away from the reality I managed to dodge in our conversation this morning, we can indulge in pleasure. Just what Dempsey resorts sell. But the idea of her at one of my establishments, her openness and fearless abandon, turns my stomach inside out, that possessive urge peaking once more.

What the hell…? I blame sexual frustration.

I’m still staring, trying to keep the alien feelings from my expression. The French couple smile in greeting before moving to the small dance floor, which is open to the gardens and lit by thousands of sparkling lights wound among the rough sawn timber rafters of the roof.

Grace cocks her head, her pretty eyes searching my face as if equipped with X-ray vision. ‘Why don’t you join me?’ She taps the stool next to hers in invitation.

She sees it, the turmoil I battle.

‘What are you drinking?’ I ask, sliding onto the seat. ‘It’s making my teeth ache.’ The purple cocktail is garnished with slices of star fruit and a perfect frangipani bloom. I lean my upper body close enough to detect her light floral scent and take an indulgent deep breath, which goes some way to calming the storm in me. ‘You smell fantastic, by the way.’

She laughs, offers that little smile—half hesitant, half sexy temptress—that makes my blood pound and renders me hard. There’s a very satisfactory way to banish my demons and have Grace all to myself. Then I remember I need to confess my true identity. Dammit—for the first time in years I wish my life were as simple as the beach bum I’ve been acting like since I arrived on the island.

Acting…? Try hiding.

‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘While you were teaching paddleboarding, I spent the afternoon back at the spa. I had the most relaxing aromatherapy massage.’

Irrational jealousy grips me, my mind whirring to remember if we have any male staff working at the spa. Then Grace clinks her glass against the neck of my bottle. ‘Cheers. This is the house cocktail. A Beachcomber.’

‘Sláinte,’ I say, taking a long refreshing swallow of my beer, resting my arm next to hers on the bar so our skin brushes and her pupils dilate. I could be making her relax in other ways, ways that would help me forget my woes for a while.

Her perceptive stare raises the hairs at the back of my neck. There’s an inquiry coming. I see it in the set of her mouth against the tip of the paper straw in her drink.

‘You seem troubled tonight—is everything okay?’ Her voice is low, soothing, her compassion creating what feels like a safe space for any confession I might have.

A dangerous feeling.

My first instinct is to reject her caring side. I stopped myself relying on others years ago, learning those bitter lessons every time my grandma’s door slammed closed on my retreating mother. That’s why her concern over my grazed ankle made me uncomfortable.

I could lie, assure her everything is fine, but there’s something about her that I like. A lot I like, actually. She’s real and honest…smart and charming. And now we’ve crossed that line into a physical connection we’re trapped on the island until our flights home. I can risk giving her a few breadcrumbs.

‘I’m fine. Just distracted,’ I say. ‘My grandmother, the one I told you lives in London, is unwell. I’ve just finished talking to her on the phone.’

‘Oh, Ryan, I’m sorry to hear that,’ she murmurs with understanding. ‘Is it serious?’ Her hushed voice wraps warmth around me, when I hadn’t realised I was cold.

I swallow, look away, not ready to confirm something so definitive, even to myself.

‘She had a stroke a year ago, which left her weak down one side. It’s not her first stroke. She has diabetes. But she’s been fine, until recently.’ A small, unbidden grin tugs at my mouth when I think about the powerhouse of a woman who raised me solo after my grandfather died not long after I came to live with them. ‘Her mind is still sharp, and fortunately her memory was unaffected.’ I chuckle, shaking my head. ‘I’m in my thirties, but she still has enough gumption to lecture me on wearing sunscreen and remind me that she’d like a visit when I’m next home in London.’

I wince, guilt lashing me. The promise came easily—she’s all the family I have. The only person to truly care about me, unconditionally. The only person to never let me down.

Why am I still here? I could leave tonight…first thing in the morning…any time I want, my private jet on standby at the airfield on the main island.

‘Well, that’s a positive,’ says Grace, ‘She sounds like a formidable lady—you’d best do as she says.’

We share a smile, my throat thick with memories and ghosts and what-ifs.

‘So what changed recently?’ she asks.

‘She’s developed a chest infection.’ I sigh, spilling more details than I thought I’d share at Grace’s gentle probing. ‘She’s on antibiotics. Oxygen.’ I curl my fingers into a fist, the exposed feeling back. ‘It’s… I hate feeling helpless.’

Grace nods, her warm hand settling on my arm, her touch a comfort I didn’t know I needed. ‘It must be hard being so far away. But I’m sure she’s in good hands.’

I take a swill of beer to stop myself blurting my darkest fears. She’s so easy to talk to, opening me up when I’m normally a closed book.

A big part of me, the part my grandmother picked up and nurtured after my mother left, wants to jump on the first flight home and see with my own eyes that she’s as well as she claims on the phone, to ensure she’s receiving the best of care, even though I know she is, because I ensure it. And the other part—the part I bury deep inside—wants to pretend, to deny the ever-present knowledge that if anything happens to my grandmother I’ll be truly alone.

My chest aches again, the pain reminiscent of so many times in my past.

I glance around for a distraction. Then I wish I hadn’t. The place is wall-to-wall doting couples. Yeah, they all look loved up for now, but what happens when times get hard, when inevitably people lie and cheat and hurt each other? How many of these newly-weds will clutter up the divorce courts in years to come and how many children will be casualties of their parents’ disappointed expectations and changes of heart?

I must make some sort of snort of disgust.

Grace follows my line of sight. ‘What? You don’t approve of PDA?’ She watches the French couple smooch on the dance floor, a dreamy look on her face.

‘I have nothing against PDA, I just—’

‘I know you don’t “do” relationships,’ she says, quoting me. ‘But you must see how romance is good for business in a place like this. You know, they’re getting married here in a couple of days.’ She inclines her head towards the dancing French couple. ‘How perfect is that?’

When I don’t comment, because I’ve clamped my jaw shut, she swivels on her stool, returning her undivided attention my way.

‘I’m sorry.’ She smiles. ‘I don’t mean to rant—I have happily married parents as role models, and, according to my sister, romance novels are an antidote to all the crap in the world…’ She trails off, perhaps at the look on my face.

I grit my teeth. What can I say? That I don’t believe in the bullshit people call love? That I hate what people do in the name of something that’s supposed to be hearts and roses and for ever? People like my parents.

‘Did you get hurt…’ she asks ‘…by a woman?’ At her hesitant question, all the sparkle dims from her eyes, replaced by a pained expression as if she were said fictional woman witnessing the fallout of her heartbreaking actions.

I hold in my skeptical snort. I don’t want to insult her; she clearly believes in all this happily ever after bullshit. But the truth is, I’ve never risked my heart in a romantic way, so I have no idea what she’s talking about.

‘Don’t look so sad,’ I say, swigging my beer and looking away from the compassion in her eyes, as if she truly cares that my heart might lie in tatters. ‘Nothing like that—I just don’t do feels or rings or romance. Never have.’ Spoken aloud to this woman, with her deep well of empathy and her optimistic outlook, the words seem small, beneath me, irrelevant. Perhaps simply because she’s under my skin in a way I’ve never experienced.

I decide on a dollop of truth.

‘I didn’t have happily married parents as role models—my father cheated on his wife with my mother and then returned to his family when he discovered she was pregnant with me. I’m afraid I’m a cynical bastard.’

The empathy in her eyes scrapes at my skin, exposing the root of my trust issues.

Abandonment.

No doubt the doc here knows all about ways to screw up the human psyche the way my mother deserting me to chase after my father screwed me up. Good thing she’s an anaesthetist, not a shrink, or I’d have to watch what I let slip.

‘I’m not sad… I thought you might be grieving and I guess I can’t help helping people—occupational overspill, I’m afraid. And something you said…you know, earlier…’ She flushes, her skin that pretty pink that tells me she’s remembering this morning. ‘I realised this must be quite a difficult place to work if your heart was broken.’ She tilts her head in the direction of the dance floor where several couples have joined the French in slow-dancing to some sappy love song.

I swallow, breathe a little easier. ‘Well, thanks for your concern, but I guess I just don’t believe in love. Half of these couples won’t last. Hopefully it will be before they procreate and bring another life into their mess.’ I watch her eyes round, astonishment flickering in their depths telling me she very much does believe. I grit my teeth and ponder saying more. I’ve been as clear as possible about my expectations, but I know from experience that some women see my stance on commitment as some sort of personal challenge…

I contemplate wrapping things up early, going back to London to spend time with Grandma. Most of my business with the experienced and competent team here can be conducted over video call. But…

My body plunges back into that dark and cold place of uncertainty, chills chasing away the warmth of a tropical evening. It’s not just unfinished business with Grace holding me back. Going home may confirm things I can’t bear to be true.

Incredulity hovers in Grace’s small smile. ‘You’ve never been in love?’

I shake my head, the pain lurking under my ribs since I hung up the phone returning with a vengeance. I take another drag from my beer. ‘Nope, but don’t feel sorry for me—I do all right with the ladies.’ I wink, trying to steer us back to casual sexy banter. Back to numbness.

Of course she sees through me, her eyebrows raised in question.

I sigh. It seems Grace and I are going for absolute honesty. ‘I can’t imagine giving anyone that kind of power. It seems unnecessary in this day and age. Have you been in love?’ I say to divert the spotlight.

Now why did I ask that? I don’t want to know. It’s irrelevant. And I can guess the answer. Her dreamy expression alone tells me she’s a romantic.

My question dissolves her small frown, and she takes cover herself behind an elaborate swirl of her cocktail. ‘Just once.’ She pauses. ‘I’ve not long been through a break up. And…well…’ she swallows hard ‘…I was the one who ended it.’ The pallor returns to her cheeks, her eyes taking on a haunted look that speaks of her guilt and concern for her ex.

Compassionate Grace, with her should and shouldn’t, likes to do the right thing. She cares, about people, their needs and wants. It’s who she is. Breaking someone’s heart must have taken some serious soul-searching. I grow restless in my seat. I want to drag her out of here and kiss her so hard, we forget everything but what happens when we’re together.

‘I’d hate to think that my ex would abandon relationships altogether because of my change of heart. I guess I was extrapolating.’ She looks up from her drink, her eyes shining.

My heart thuds with foreboding. What kind of man would Grace throw away? What did her ex feel, loving this woman? Was the risk worth the heartbreak she’s worried she inflicted?

The block in my chest twists and turns, the burn making me wince.

This is why I prefer simple.

‘See, my way is easier,’ I say. ‘If you avoid all the feels and rings and romance, you avoid all that messy stuff.’ I’m trying to lighten the mood, predominantly for myself, because otherwise I’ll have to probe those tender places she’s exposed simply by looking hard enough, but then I catch her expression and sober. She’s devastated to be the cause of someone’s pain—she worried about my grazed ankle, for fuck’s sake.

‘Of course, you still care about him.’ It’s a statement, one that sees me sucking another swallow from my beer bottle to counter the acidic taste in my throat. What the hell? I haven’t even had sex with her and I’m…jealous. I’m never jealous. This all-consuming Grace obsession needs dealing with, before it grows out of control. Hopefully I’ll be less enslaved once we exhaust this chemistry we have brewing.

She fiddles with the straw in her cocktail. ‘Yes, of course I care. He’s not a bad person—we just wanted different things in the end.’

‘I can’t imagine you with a bad person. You’re too smart for bullshitters.’ Which begs the question, what is she doing messing around with me, the ultimate playboy, as the press would have her believe?

My stomach turns and I slide my unfinished beer onto the bar. She doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know my reputation or how I make my livelihood, because I’ve been evasive.

She offers a small sad smile I want to kiss away. My fingers curl into my palm. I can’t believe I’m probing her past regrets instead of convincing her single really is the best medicine. ‘So why did you break things off with this good man? Wasn’t what you had with him real?’ I ask, a metallic taste in my mouth. I can’t imagine Grace leaving when the going got tough, not with her wide vein of determination…

Not like some. Selfish people who only think about themselves. People who commit to having a child only to abandon them when it no longer suits.

I try to relax. Now isn’t the time to dwell on my parents. And her answer, her reason, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t care, but I’ve never met anyone like her before and I’ve no idea what to do with the relentless way she fills my head, my blood, makes me as unsettled as I am infatuated.