Prologue
Trick’s breath ran over Rachel’s lips. “Two months in the lap of luxury. How will you ever survive?”
She laughed and fended off his hundredth kiss. The airline wasn’t going to hold the plane for her, and they were standing in public at the gate. He’d bought an airline ticket just so he could walk her all the way to the plane’s jetway.
She straightened his tie. Trick really knew how to wear a suit. “The Viña del Mar Resort might be the height of luxury for a guest, but I’ll be working nonstop. That’s what they do to interns at those exotic resorts. I hear it’s nearly a mile from the administrative offices to the restaurant where I’ll be spending most of my time.”
“So, I guess you didn’t pack your Louboutins?” He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
She pulled back further, though his arms tightened around her waist. “Of course, I did. Even in Santiago, Chile, style counts. Dress for the job you want, right?” God, let his cologne, a deep woody scent, seep into her clothes. He smelled so delicious, and even though she desperately wanted this internship opportunity, suddenly, the thought of leaving him made her heart hurt. She’d packed two of his T-shirts just to sleep in them.
He finally released her when the airline attendant sidled up to them. “Final boarding call,” she whispered and then winked.
Trick let out a low groan and released her. “Okay, Future Mrs. Masters. Go to your fancy resort and leave us working class—”
“I’d hardly call an investment firm working class, but don’t worry. Two months will fly by and then you can continue to sweep me off my feet when I return.”
“We’re eloping, by the way.”
“Oh, really?” She cocked her head. Four nights ago, he’d slipped a two-carat, custom-set, Tiffany diamond on her ring finger. She glanced down at the sparkle, winking up at her in the harsh airport light.
“Condition of you leaving me for sixty whole days … and nights.”
Her stomach fluttered when his eyes crinkled. Being married to this man would be heaven, so why not as soon as possible? “Okay, I will.”
“Really?” He pulled her closer to him, pressed her body flush to his once more.
Three months ago, she’d not known Trick Masters existed. Now? She couldn’t imagine her life without him.
“The day I get back,” she said quickly. Why not? They’d only known each other for a little while, but when you know, you know, right?
His mouth retook hers. A loud female ahem brought them back to their senses. He broke the kiss and smiled over at the flight attendant. “She just said ‘yes’, so, ya know …”
He lifted her hand, kissed the ring he’d placed on Rachel’s hand, and stepped backward. “Okay, if I must …”
Rachel pecked him on the lips one final time, turned to the gate, and joined the last stragglers as they shuffled to the jetway.
When she glanced back, he still stood there, hands stuffed into those custom trouser pockets, jacket stretching across those broad shoulders. He looked every inch the king who’d just conquered a new land. She was more than happy to be conquered, captured, and devoured by him.
He lifted his chin. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, Rachel Grant. Don’t let those island men flirt too heavily.”
Her hand flew to her chest. “Who, me? Flirt?” God, please let these two months fly by. She’d never even look at anyone else. She had a perfect man waiting for her at home.
1
Three Years Later
“Blend in more? Just how does a cocktail waitress do that?” Rachel shifted and her baby toe screamed in pain. For ten minutes, she'd stood in her manager's office, feet aching, listening to this crap while her tables remained unmanned. “Are you accusing me of something specific, Mr. Jergenson?” She crossed her arms, an unwise, defiant move, but this “chat” was ridiculous.
“The other waitresses have implied your banter with the customers is suggestive. There's flirting, and then there's … well, they've complained that you lure—”
“Lure?” She choked back a scoff.
A little harmless chit-chat wasn’t exactly seduction material, and who else would she talk to if not her customers? The cocktail waitress clique had frozen her out from day one, all because one of their husband’s hands had found their way to her ass as she’d served his table. He’d deserved that beer she’d poured in his lap. Ever since, the female servers had treated her with poorly-disguised hostility.
“Our patrons like my service. Our guests ask for my tables. I thought you'd be pleased. In fact, I was hoping to talk with you about picking up another shift or two.”
“And have the other girls complain more?” He stood as if signaling the meeting was over. “Thanks, Rachel. I know this is uncomfortable. The men at Talman's are used to getting what they want, but let's make sure they know you're not on the menu, too.” He winked.
Un-fricking-believable.
As she fought her way through business suits and raucous laughter to the waitress station at the bar, the insinuations her manager and the other girls had lobbed at her stuck to her skin like an irritating rash. She didn't prostitute herself for tips. How dare he suggest it. She wasn't on anyone's “menu.” So what if a few patrons had asked her out? Big effing deal. She'd turned them all down, even that super-hot Wall Street guy all the other waitresses “oohed” and “aahed” over like teenagers last week. She knew her boundaries.
“Hey, Gabe. You got those drinks for me?”
The bartender gave her a quick chin lift.
As she waited for him to finish her cocktail order, she fished her phone from her apron pocket to see if Jay had returned her call. He hadn't. Shocker. She had another new idea to launch a business they could work together and get them both out of their financial rut, but only if he'd finally pick up the dang phone. Jay would never get very far ahead by working on an oil rig, and she'd never finish her hospitality management degree by waitressing.
“Order up, Rachel.” Gabe nodded at the row of martinis he'd set on her tray. “You outdid yourself with this suggestion.”
“Thanks. They look great.” She adjusted a sprig of lavender on one of the martinis du jour she'd “invented” with Gabe's help.
“Same Red Hat ladies this week?”
“They do love their surprise cocktails of the day.” She lifted the tray. “Guaranteed thirty percent tip.”
“Interesting indeed.”
Her heart jumped into her throat at the sound of that voice. She set the tray down on the bar just in time. His voice was rougher, deeper than she recalled, but there was no mistaking who that rumble belonged to. She slowly turned and blinked a few times. Trick Masters. The floor underneath her threatened to give way, and she stepped back, crashing into the pass-through door.
Jesus, he still looked good. But, then again, he always had.
“Rachel Grant. As I live and breathe.” He reached around and grasped the side of her tray to prevent the three lavender martinis from crashing to the floor.