He is denying us both, and that simple fact both pisses me off and turns me on.
I gather self-control around me like a cloak, then lift an eyebrow. “Playing games, Mr. Stark?”
“Absolutely,” he says with a wicked grin. “And just in case you’ve forgotten, I don’t play if I can’t win.”
“Really?” I say, enjoying myself. “And what’s the prize?”
He steps closer, still not touching me, but so close that I can hear my own heartbeat echoing against the hard breadth of his chest. “You are.”
My heart flutters in my chest. Even now—even married—he makes me feel as deliciously alive as I did the first time he touched me. “In that case,” I whisper, the words thick with the weight of truth, “you’ve already won.”
He reaches out and strokes my cheek so gently I’m not sure that I can truly distinguish his touch from the breeze. “Yes,” he says. “I have.”
He twines his fingers with mine, then starts to lead me across the sandy beach toward a boardwalk.
“At least tell me where we’re going.”
“Back,” he says.
I start to say that I had already figured that much out. We are on a secluded beach, in a remote part of Mexico that I can’t pronounce and couldn’t ever find again. After deciding to skip the wedding drama and elope, we’d left LA in one of Damien’s private jets. We’d left it at a fair-sized airport with Damien’s regular pilot, Grayson, who I presume has taken it back to the States. Damien and I had been chauffeured across the airport in a Jeep, then boarded a small, single-engine prop plane with only two seats and a tiny cargo area. Damien himself had taken us the rest of the way.
Damien explained the switch in aircraft by telling me that the runway where we were going couldn’t accommodate a jet. As it turns out, “runway” was a bit of an exaggeration. The landing strip was little more than a length of packed dirt. I’d been terrified that I would die before we arrived and could take our vows. Damien had been exhilarated.
And while I might have preferred a plane with more than one engine and some asphalt to land on, I wouldn’t have traded the look on Damien’s face for anything. Not the joy I saw as he maneuvered the craft, nor the pride and expectation when we deplaned, climbed into a waiting Jeep, and drove the short distance to the remote—and utterly spectacular—resort.
The property is small, with fewer than ten guests at any time. It caters exclusively to couples looking for a romantic retreat, and from what I’ve seen so far, the owners know their business well. For although our personal concierge told me that the resort is fully booked, neither Damien nor I have seen any sign of the other four couples. Instead, it is as if we are alone on this remote stretch of beach—or as alone as one can be with a staff that caters to your every whim.
I’d seen a map of the property upon arrival last night, and the overall area of the resort resembles a hand. It is set on a remote section of beachfront with five peninsulas that protrude like fingers. Each bungalow occupies its own peninsula, giving it both privacy and a stunning ocean view from three sides.
Though we’d arrived after dark, I’d been impressed from the first moment I saw the resort. But when I stepped into our bungalow and saw the three-sided ocean view revealed by walls and walls of glass, my breath caught in my throat. It was like standing on the deck of a boat with miles of pitch-black ocean stretching toward forever, broken only by the moonlight dancing on the curl of the waves.
Our bungalow is the farthest from the main building, which houses the staff offices, a spa, and a restaurant that rarely has patrons but does a huge business in room service. Even without the breathtaking view, the bungalow is stunning. It features a luxurious bedroom dominated by a huge bed covered in bright pillows of pink and turquoise. A remote control operates a set of blackout blinds that drop the room into complete darkness. Since I see no reason to block the view at night or during the day, I don’t expect that Damien or I will make much use of that technology.
As for the rest of the place, there is a fully stocked, state-of-the-art kitchen, a living room that features an indoor-outdoor fireplace, and a covered patio with a huge two-person lounge chair from which to enjoy both the view and the ocean breeze.
“Do you own this?” I’d asked Damien after we’d arrived and I’d had time to catch my breath. He’d smiled, but then surprised me by shaking his head.
“I almost bought it years ago when it was stumbling,” he said. “I ended up giving the owners a loan to help them get past a hump, do some upgrades, and rebrand the place as an exclusive—and very upscale—getaway destination.”
“They succeeded in spades,” I said.
“Yes, they did,” he said. I heard the note of pride in his voice and looked at him curiously. “This property has been in the same family for over three generations. There’s a history here, not to mention the kind of work ethic that would have found a way to make the property viable. I just pushed the process along. I didn’t want to alter what the family had built, but I did want to make sure that what they’d established would continue to flourish.”
I nodded, remembering what he’d once told me about a small gourmet wine and cheese company. He’d loved the product and had wanted to help the company, so much so that he had partnered with them, letting them run autonomously, but with the full weight and resources of Stark International behind them. It had been a mistake. Suddenly, the small local company that had been praised in the press was vilified, with critics claiming it was actually big business pretending to be small and family-owned. Damien had pulled his resources and sold Stark International’s share back to the owners, but the damage was done, and it had taken many years for that company to recover.
Now, as we approach our bungalow, Damien draws me close. “There was another reason, too,” he says.
I frown, trying to follow his train of thought. “For not buying the resort, you mean?”
He nods. “I wanted a place to come when I needed to be completely alone. No work. No obligations. A respite.”
“Like now,” I tease.
“Like now.”
I pause on the path, then hook my arms around his neck and rise up onto my tiptoes. “In case it escaped your attention, you’re not alone.”
“But I am,” he says.
I open my mouth to say something light in response, but then stop. I can see by his face that he is serious.