Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation)

“Cut, define, and tone in six weeks? Your client’s aggressive.”

“That’s why I need you. You specialize in aggressive.”

The phone’s speaker carried the sound of a long, forceful exhale. Her cheeks heated at the humiliation of being discussed like an unappealing project, but at the same time, her lips tingled as if the gust of air he’d released from deep in his chest had breezed over them. Pathetic or not, this phone call was the most action she’d gotten in…forever.

“Age? Injuries? I have to assume there’s a reason an athlete with the talent to warrant your representation has let his training lapse.”

“Twenty-three, no injuries, and she’s not an athlete. Her name is Quinn Sheridan, and she’s preparing for a movie role—”

“Oh hell no, Eddie.” The voice now held an indignant note. “Not an actress. Anything but an actress.”

Heat burned her face for a whole different reason. Anger. How dare this self-righteous jackass reject her, based on her career choice?

Eddie sent her a sharp look, held up a hand, and closed it like a mouth to send her the universal sign for “shut it.” “My hour of need,” he reiterated into the speaker.

“Fine.” The brusque word practically slapped her. “But this is way more than an hour of need, and my time comes at a cost.” Then he proceeded to name a figure that stole her breath. Before she could find her voice and utter a flat-out rejection, he added, “Plus expenses.”

“Done,” Eddie said. “Half up front, and half at the end, provided she’s camera-ready from every angle by the time you’re finished with her. Where do you want to do this?”

“The Playground at Paradise Bay,” he responded, naming one of the priciest, most exclusive destinations in the Caribbean. “I’ve used them in the past for this type of thing, so I know the resort offers everything we need, including unparalleled privacy. They have excellent facilities, their chefs can accommodate my customized menus, and I can keep your client focused on her goal in such a contained environment.”

Holy crap. A hefty chunk of her Lena Xavier paycheck was disappearing before her eyes, and she hadn’t earned a penny of it yet. But she needed to, because private drug treatment facilities like Foundations carried a hefty price tag, and thanks to some bad financial decisions on her parents’ part, they weren’t in a position to help cover the cost of Callum’s rehab. It was all on her. Every penny.

“Reserve one of the villas,” McLean went on, squandering even more of her money without hesitation. “One with a workout room included.”

“My assistant will send you the reservation confirmation and your flight information by the end of the day,” Eddie replied. “Anything else?”

She lowered her forehead to her knees and waited for a lightheaded feeling to pass.

“Yeah. Convey this to your client…”

The note of steel in the words had her straightening, and staring at the phone.

“I have a zero bullshit policy,” he went on. “I won’t tolerate diva behavior from some neurotic, narcissistic actress who expects everyone to cater to her bottomless ego. Tell her to leave the entourage at home. I’m taking her on, not her boyfriend, her girlfriend, her mother, or her spiritual advisor. For six weeks, I’m in charge. I expect her to obey instructions and adhere to the program. No exceptions, no excuses, or no deal.”

“Uh…” Eddie had the grace to wince. “Did you get that, Quinn?”

She hauled herself to her feet—toned or not, she could damn well stand up for herself—and strode to his desk until she was close enough to brace her palms on the cool glass, and leaned toward the phone. “Every word,” she said in her best ice-bitch voice. “Luckily, neither my neurosis nor my narcissism interferes with my hearing. Tell Mr. McLean I’ll see him in Paradise Bay.”

Chapter Two

Luke McLean stepped onto the patio of the Paradise Bar—The Playground’s version of casual lounging—and scanned the tanned bodies in beachwear soaking in some final rays of sunlight before the first drinks of the evening. This was his one night to himself before he spent six weeks whipping a spoiled starlet into shape, and he planned to enjoy it.

A group of women in tiny bikinis walked by, enveloping him in the scent of coconut, and the pull of lingering gazes. Yeah, he’d definitely enjoy tonight. But despite the generous display of sun-kissed skin all around him, nobody really caught his eye, except… His attention snagged on a woman perched on one of the stools at the bar, chatting with the bartender. She sat in profile to him, but even in this sea of beauty, she stood out.

It wasn’t the waves of Scandinavian-blond hair tumbling to her shoulders, or wide-set eyes lit with a seductive sparkle. No, he corrected as she tipped her head to the side, and those eyes strayed his way. Challenge. They sparked with challenge. And while he appreciated a good challenge more than most, the inherent provocation wasn’t what captured his attention. It also wasn’t the cock-teasing curves set off to perfection by a miniscule white bikini—though plenty of other guys on the terrace noticed them.

It was her mouth that enslaved him. A soft, pink cupid bow perpetually turned up at one corner in a wicked little smile. A hint that suggested this angel had a devilish side, and the irony of it amused the hell out of her.

While he watched, she took a sip of her drink. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and then her tongue took a leisurely pass along her damp lips. First the top, then the bottom. By the time her mouth settled into the Mona Lisa smile again, his balls throbbed hard enough to make him curse under his breath. He wanted to see her swallow and lick her lips like that again—just like that—after he jacked himself off in her sinful mouth. Oblivious to the havoc she wreaked mere feet away, she batted her eyes at the bartender, and laughed at something he said.

That laugh. Low. Throaty. Completely uncensored and obscenely sexy. Around the bar, heads turned, and a bunch of Wall Street ballers in board shorts and brand new tans wondered in silent unison if she made an equally sultry sound when she came. A totally unwarranted, but shockingly strong surge of possessiveness raged through him. Anthropologists might label it a primitive remnant from a time when the appropriate response to competition for the most desirable female involved thumping his chest, roaring, and intimidating all others away with a show of strength and dominance. Then he’d claim his prize, right there in the sand, with her blond hair roped around his fist and his balls slapping her ass until the lush curves turned the same ripe pink as her lips. He imagined thrusting, and thrusting, and thrusting, so his lungs burned and his muscles screamed. Until she reared up, her body clenching and quivering around him, and cried out in gratitude, using that same husky voice.

The larger, more evolved part of his brain pointed out that if this beautiful stranger had the faintest idea what kind of rogue Neanderthal impulses had hijacked his thoughts, she’d slap him so fast his head would spin. If not literally slap him, then hit him with a restraining order. Possibly both.

Or maybe not. As if equally primitive receptors somewhere inside her picked up on the testosterone blasting off him like heat from a furnace, she turned and looked straight at him, and…

Damn.