Quinn.
Pictures came to her, one after the other, of the most beautiful man she'd ever set eyes on--blue eyes, dark hair, and a gorgeous chest--along with a vague memory of the two of them walking across the beach to her cottage, where she put her arms around his neck and--
Oh God.
I kissed him!
She bolted upright, eyes wide as the memory of a perfect--and shockingly hot--kiss suddenly hit her as clear as day. The delicious taste of his mouth, wonderfully sweet and fiercely possessive all at once. How he'd gripped her hips and pulled her closer, so close that she'd gasped at the pleasure of being pressed up against such hard, hot muscles. She'd never experienced such an intense, sexy kiss before, one that she'd never ever wanted to end.
But had it ended? Or had their kiss turned into so much more?
She'd been skinny-dipping when he'd found her, but the rest of it was a little too vague for her peace of mind right now.
She might have been considering getting a little bit wild last night...but this was way too wild, even for her.
Holding her breath, she looked down at her thighs and closed her eyes as she slid her hand up her hip under her dress to feel for her underwear.
Oh no. I'm not wearing any.
No, no, no.
Scanning the room for clues, she jumped from the bed. Her head throbbed and the room swayed. She grabbed ahold of the bedpost for stability. She never drank much, and a hangover was not something she was used to dealing with. Nor did she want to deal with it.
Following a trail of sand into the living room, she tried to put the pieces of last night together. She touched her hair, which was a sticky, sandy mess, just like her dress. She had nothing on beneath her dress. But she didn't have any recollection of his body over hers or his hands on her skin.
Shelley looked at her hands, the memory of his firm chest against her palms finally resurfacing. Surely if they had gone to bed together, she'd have some memory of more than one incredible kiss and her hands brushing briefly over hard muscle. Something told her that making love with Quinn was something no woman could ever possibly forget. Not when one look, one touch, one kiss had been enough to melt her insides.
No amount of champagne could have made Shelley forget her breathless awareness to him. She'd never felt anything like it before, a wanting that had instantly taken her over right from the first moment she'd set eyes on him. Wanting that shook her even now with its intensity as she replayed the previous night with greater and greater clarity by the minute.
She opened the front door and inhaled the chilly sea air. Too bright. Shading her eyes, she crossed the deep porch and sat down on one of the rocking chairs beside the small painted table. When she'd arrived at the cottage, she'd imagined having breakfast at this table, but food didn't sound at all appetizing right now.
Her eyes finally landed on a bottle of Motrin, a carafe of orange juice, and an envelope with her phone lying on top of it.
She picked up the bulky envelope, peeked inside, and felt her cheeks heat up as she withdrew her thong. Her hand instinctively covered her face, and she didn't know if she should laugh or cry. She was almost afraid to read the accompanying note...
Solo honeymooner,
Thought you might want these--especially the Motrin. I found your favorite scrap of lace in the sand again and didn't want to chance it getting lost. Enjoy the beautiful day, and don't worry--apart from our one kiss, I was a perfect gentleman when I tucked you in.
Q.R.
With a shaky hand, and feeling relieved, she set the note on the table. But when she started to head inside to take the Motrin, she realized he'd also brought back her empty champagne bottle and left it for her at the other side of the door. He'd placed a candle in the neck of the bottle, melting it around the edges to secure it in place.
She was touched by his simple, lovely gift--and so grateful that he'd made sure to let her know that he'd been a perfect gentleman. Even if a part of her suddenly couldn't help but wish he hadn't been quite so much of a gentleman. With a huge smile on her face, she downed the Motrin, then immediately texted Taryn.
I might be reconsidering my island fling options.
Her phone rang a second later, as she'd known it would.
"Something happened last night, didn't it? Tell me everything!"
Shelley told Taryn about Quinn finding her skinny-dipping, their walk back to the cottage, and how they'd shared one seriously hot kiss.
But instead of whooping for joy the way Shelley had expected her to, Taryn asked, "Did you see a wedding ring?" Her cousin had clearly gone into protective mode.
Shelley knew she never would have hit on a married man in a million years. "No."
"And you really don't think he tried anything last night?"
"Nothing I wasn't begging him for." Perhaps embarrassment should have swept over her at the memory of the way she'd thrown herself back into Quinn's arms in front of the cottage. But Quinn had been simply irresistible in the cove in the moonlight. And she wouldn't give up her memory of the kiss they'd shared for anything in the world.
"Congratulations, Shelley." Her cousin laughed, clearly delighted now. "You are finally turning into a normal girl."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Just that you're so freaking picky when it comes to guys; it's nice to see you easing up a little. I say go for it. Be safe, use condoms, and all that, but the beauty of having an island fling is that you're away from everyone. No one will ever know about it, and your parents can't judge him if they don't know him. I mean, if you had a tryst anywhere near home, God only knows what Sheila and Margo would let slip if they found out, right?"
Sheila Lavington and Margo Burland were two women they'd gone to school with. Both had married for money, keeping in the same social realm as their parents. They'd given up everything in their lives other than attending charity events. Shelley didn't even want to contemplate their snooty looks if they found out she'd been skinny-dipping. Shelley was supposed to be bred of the same cloth as the Lavingtons and the Burlands, and God forbid she do anything so frivolous.
Shelley glanced down at her lacy minidress, her sandy feet, and remembering her thong, still outside on the table with the champagne bottle and note, said, "We're so not cut from the same cloth." The thought made her giddy with delight. Although not anywhere near as giddy as Quinn's kiss had made her feel.
"Forget them," Taryn said. "The big question is, what's your plan for the hunky guy who ran into the water to save you?"
Suddenly she remembered what he'd said to her right before they'd sat down on the sand outside her cottage: Next time we kiss, I want to make sure you remember it.
A wicked thrill rocked through her at the memory of his sexy promise. "Well, if he's as gorgeous in the light of day as he was beneath a full moon, if I do end up seeing him again, I just might let things take their natural course." And let him make good on his promise to her. "Even though I don't know how long he's here, or his last name, or anything."
"All the better," Taryn insisted. "Remember, island flings don't need to be complicated. The less info revealed the better."
"You're really good at this, T. If I were you, I wouldn't let your brothers get wind of your affinity for quickie affairs."
Taryn groaned. "Can you imagine? I'd be locked in a chastity belt and put in a high tower. It's surprising that they don't sit on my doorstep and guard me."
"Well, at least they care. You could be like me and live a life where your family is totally disinterested in anything you do."
"Oh, come on. Give them some credit--your parents are really good at chastising you when you go against their social graces. Which is pretty much all the time." Taryn was laughing, but when Shelley didn't join her, she stopped and added, "Hey, I'm family, and you know I love you."
"My parents do, too, in their own weird way, I'm sure," Shelley said, even though sometimes she wondered if that was really true. "Anyway, I'll let you know. Thanks for
being there for me to bounce this off of."
"You mean to brag to, don't you? Shelley Walters has never needed permission for a darn thing in her entire life, and you and I both know having an island fling with a hot guy you met while skinny-dipping is no different."
Shelley grinned. "I should be worried about how well you know me. Gloat, gloat, gloat."
After they ended the call, Shelley showered and dressed, feeling a little lighter on her feet. The Motrin had finally kicked in, and her talk with Taryn had not only diminished any embarrassment that might have come, but helped make her feel excited about the possibility of being even naughtier during her vacation.
She didn't need approval for an island fling, but she did need the extra bolster of confidence, given that the sexy man whom she had tried to seduce had already seen her naked. Not to mention that she'd never actually had a fling and she wasn't sure she'd be capable of pulling off something so intimate that was meant to be, well, meaningless.
Still...she wasn't against trying. Especially with Quinn.
An hour later, she was one hundred percent again as she strolled down the beach toward the main resort buildings to see about breakfast. The beach by her cottage was empty, save for a few gulls feeding on unlucky fish, but the closer she got to the resort, the more people milled about.
When she had first chosen the Rockwell Resort for her trip, she'd had a little niggling worry that she might not like staying in such a fancy resort. She had been raised to hobnob with the best of them, but she didn't like the pretentious act that so many wealthy people wore like banners. The Rockwell Resort boasted an expansive private beach, and it was one of the few resorts that had a significant number of online reviews. It was the only resort where the reviews spoke of the intimate feeling of the resort and the friendliness and efficiency of the staff, in addition to the exquisite location and amenities. In the end, it was the reviews that had sold her on visiting the property.
The resort was very impressive, with a patio on the beach meeting a sweeping stairway that led to a terrace, where guests were enjoying breakfast at glass-topped tables. She stopped to admire the view of the two tiered pools farther up the property to the right and the surrounding gardens bursting with colorful blooms and verdant plants. The main building stood just beyond, with one wing running adjacent to the terrace, the other built at a ninety-degree angle behind the pools.
When she'd first seen the size of the resort, the pools, the beach cabanas, yachts, sailboats, and other amenities, she'd worried that maybe she'd made a mistake. The last thing she wanted was to take a vacation in a place that would feel more comfortable for her parents than for her. But from the moment she'd walked in the front doors, she was warmly welcomed with smiles and small talk from the friendly staff, and by the time she was done checking in and had been escorted to her cottage by a sweet concierge, she'd known she'd made the right choice.
She turned away from the resort to take in the view of the bay one more time before heading up for breakfast. It was a lovely morning, clear and crisp, without a cloud in the sky.
"Chugger!"
She turned at the sharp command and noticed the fluffy golden retriever she'd seen last night bounding toward her. The exotic honey-blonde was pushing the old man in the wheelchair in the same direction.
Shelley crouched to pet the puppy, who was full of wet kisses for her.
"I'm so sorry," the woman said as she brought the wheelchair to a stop. "He usually doesn't run off like that."
"That's okay. I love dogs." Shelley smiled, admiring the woman's lovely Mediterranean accent. Greek ancestry was her guess.
The older gentleman in the wheelchair patted his thighs, as he'd done the evening before, calling Chugger up for another kiss. "You're a good boy, aren't you?"
The man's eyes were dark, reminding Shelley of the coffee beans she worked with on a daily basis at her cafe. The top of his head was balding, the hair on the sides silver, as was his beard, while his salt-and-pepper mustache and thick black eyebrows clung to younger years. His brows angled up at the edges, reminding Shelley of Sean Connery and giving him an even more serious look. Fine lines mapped his forehead and defined his eyes, while deep grooves ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth. Dressed in a crisp white dress shirt and dark trousers, he was remarkably handsome for a man of his age, which Shelley guessed to be somewhere in the neighborhood of his early eighties.
"Are you staying at the resort?" the woman asked. She was tall and slim, with a regal but friendly face.
Shelley wondered how the woman managed to push the wheelchair through the thick sand so easily. Was she his granddaughter? Young trophy wife?
"Yes," Shelley replied. "I'm staying in the honeymoon cottage."
The old man shifted in his chair, and the woman settled a hand on his shoulder as she asked, "You're on your honeymoon?"
"Actually, I'm not married. I'm on a solo honeymoon." She tried to sound as if it was something people did every day. "This trip was a gift to myself."
The old man's hand stilled on the dog's neck as he lifted serious eyes to Shelley. His gaze was careful and assessing, as if he was considering how what she'd said about taking a solo honeymoon fit with her image. But then, just that quickly, he turned his attention back to petting the dog.
Shelley stiffened, realizing just how quickly she'd been dismissed.
"Now, that sounds like a fun idea," the woman said with a warm smile that instantly put Shelley at ease again. "I'm Didi Kostas, Mr. Rockwell's private nurse."
Mr. Rockwell? Shelley hadn't expected to meet--or rather, be alternately ignored, then scrutinized, then dismissed by--Mr. Rockwell. She'd read about him online when she was researching the property and knew that Chandler Rockwell III was a very impressive man. He'd taken over the family business after graduating from Harvard Law and had dedicated himself to it ever since.
Shelley tried not to act surprised or impressed. After all, she hated when people connected the dots between her name and her own wealthy family.
"I'm Shelley Walters. It's nice to meet you." Shelley dropped her eyes to Mr. Rockwell, hoping to introduce herself to him as well, but he didn't deign to look her way again.
"It's a pleasure meeting you, Shelley," Didi said. "Well, we'd better get going. Mr. Rockwell has a meeting this morning." When she patted his shoulder, he finally--and somewhat reluctantly--met Shelley's gaze again and offered her a curt nod before they headed off.
Shelley watched them for a moment, then turned back to take one last look at the bay before tending to her growling stomach, wondering how such a standoffish man ran such a warm and friendly resort.
Warm and friendly.
Her mind traveled back to thoughts of Quinn. She'd felt warm in his arms last night. Safe and warm. And wanton.
She smiled as the word unexpectedly passed through her mind. She'd never thought herself the wanton type before. Not until last night when every inch of her had been vibrating with desire as Quinn's mouth devoured hers and his hands possessed her like he never wanted to let her go.
Did he live on the island? Or was he here on a vacation? Or on business? She had so many questions and nothing but time on her hands for the next week.
She headed toward the resort, hoping to run into the man she couldn't forget.
Mysterious, sexy Quinn.
Chapter Four
QUINN STOOD IN his grandfather's massive office in Chandler's private wing of the resort, flanked by Trent and their brother Derek as they waited for their grandfather to arrive for their meeting. Ethan, their youngest and quietest brother, was looking out the window at the beach.
Quinn had been unable to get the image of Shelley playing in the waves, the sinful feel of her mouth against his, or the sexy sound of her gasp of pleasure as he'd dragged her closer in the heat of passion, out of his mind since last night. No matter how hard he'd tried to immerse himself in work after arriving back at his suite, his mind had continually drifted to her. He'd never
had difficulty focusing on work before, and he hadn't known what to do with the energy--or the desire--meeting Shelley had instilled in him. He couldn't exactly go for another run, and he couldn't focus on work, so he'd ended up taking a cold shower, then lying in bed...still thinking of Shelley.
And still wanting her, just as fiercely as he had when she'd been in his arms.
He'd finally fallen asleep a little after four, and he'd awakened again soon after with the sound of her laughter playing through his memory and the sweet taste of her still on his tongue. But it was her smile, and the way her eyes had radiated happiness like beacons in the night, that had brought him down to her cottage at the ungodly hour of six in the morning to deliver a hangover remedy.
He'd been compelled to also leave her with a reminder of him that wouldn't be easily forgotten. Because he sure as hell hadn't been able to forget her.
He'd grabbed the candle and a pack of matches, and he'd sat on her porch while he'd made the champagne bottle into a candleholder just like he and his siblings had done when they were kids, under the watchful eyes of their mother. It had taken twenty minutes, but he hadn't minded a second of it. It was such a strange feeling, wanting to do something like that instead of picking up where he'd left off with his work the night before like he normally would have.
Now, though they were about to meet with their grandfather and it was sure to be a tense meeting, he was surprised by the smile on his face from just thinking about Shelley. Unfortunately, in a few minutes he'd need to push those thoughts away and focus completely on the issue at hand, whatever the hell that was. Yet again he wished his grandfather had been less cagey about why he'd needed to have Quinn and his four siblings back on the island today for this meeting.
Quinn eyed the bandage on Derek's forearm. The most adventurous of them all, Derek was an adrenaline junkie at heart. His love of risk came second only to his love of creating things with his hands. Derek was a custom builder and stonemason and ran a very successful business in Boston. He'd gone on a caving expedition with a group of his buddies last week, and one of his spring-loaded camming devices failed. He'd caught the sharp edge of the wall with his forearm, leaving a four-inch gash that had to be stitched up.