* * *
Jack woke up slowly, eyes fluttering as he stretched. The sun was beating through the windows, and he groaned, rolling back onto his stomach with a grimace. Jesus, why hadn’t he closed the blinds last night?
Groaning he laid there for a few moments, caught in that half asleep in-between place that felt like heaven. A bird cried out, the sound echoing, and in the distance, he heard a rush of waves buffeting the beach.
Voices on the wind.
A motorboat accelerating.
Motorboat?
Jack’s eyes flew open. He turned to the side. Saw the empty pillow. A strand of blond hair. His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply and yanked his head back the other way.
He was in Belize. In Donovan’s room.
He thought of the night before. Of the dock, slick with rain. Of her body open and ready for him. Over and over again. How many times had he had her? Listened to her come for him?
Holy hell he was hard with the memory of it and, Christ, his mark was still on her.
He glanced down at himself, at the place on his lower hip where he’d once sported an intricate D in her honor. The tattoo was long gone. Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch when he’d had it removed and though he didn’t regret it, he was surprised she’d kept hers.
Jack was out of bed in a shot, striding through the guest house. “Donovan,” he growled, already hungry for more. But there was nothing. Only silence. What the hell?
He thought of the boat and voices and relaxed a bit, realizing that she must be down at the docks with Roger and Mary. Rubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin, Jack glanced around, noticing a piece of paper on the counter in the kitchen.
It was pale pink and a frown fell over his face as he scooped it up. There was no mistaking Donovan’s neat handwriting, and as he unfolded the note her subtle scent filled the air. Déjà vu washed over him, along with a wave of anger.
A fucking note? Again?
He knew what it was going to say before he read it, and for a moment, he considered crumpling the damn thing and tossing it. The moment passed and Jack read the note. Just like before.
Jack,
I’ve decided to head back early and let you stay here until the time is up. I didn’t wake you because I knew it would be awkward and I didn’t feel up to a scene. Last night was amazing, I want you to know that, but it can’t happen again. I meant it when I said only one night. I wish you well, Jack. You have a bright future and deserve to be happy. I only ask that you keep these last few days under your hat. I need for this stay between the two of us. I can’t chance the press getting hold of the
story. I hope you understand.
D
With a savage growl, Jack crumpled the paper and strode out of the house, uncaring that his feet were bare or that he was as naked as the day he was born. He was going to kill her.
Another fucking note?
By the time he reached the dock, his anger was black and the scowl that sat on his features harsh. But there was no one there to see it, because the place was deserted. He shaded his eyes and gazed out over the water, but already she was lost to him.
“Not for long,” he muttered, eyes falling away from the sea. He swore a blue streak and turned toward the guest house, but only took a few steps before he spied something in the water near shore. He hopped off the dock and his feet kicked up spray near the edge. When he reached the spot, he grabbed up the remnants of Donovan’s panties. The ones he’d ripped off her the night before.
He clutched them in his hand, a rage he’d not felt in a long time taking hold. She must think he was a fucking idiot. No way was he playing this game with her. Not again.
A ruthless grin took the place of his scowl and a new idea took hold. Jack was done playing by her rules. It was about time Donovan James learned what it felt like to lose.
***
Twenty four hours later, Jack was back in Florida. Grace had already vacated his beach house and that was probably for the best, because his anger was just as strong, and if anyone deserved a taste of it, it was his sister. He’d called ahead to give fair warning, and he wasn’t surprised to find the place deserted.
He tossed his bag toward the general area of his bedroom and was just fixing himself a stiff scotch when there was a soft rap at his back door. He considered not answering the damn thing—it’s not as if he was expecting anyone—but then he heard another knock and the distinct sound of the door squeaking open.
What the hell? Jack figured it was either a Simon or a thief and since he was pretty sure it wasn’t a thief, he continued fixing his drink.