[Invitation to Eden 24.0] How to Tempt a Tycoon (9 page)

Andre gives me a tour of the eight thousand square foot villa—I suspect the whole wedding is going to take place here—constructed from what looks like local limestone combined with rich hardwood. The vaulted ceilings make the villa airy and natural and each of the five bedrooms are gorgeous, each with their own en suite bathroom. I pause in one bedroom and eye the four poster, king sized bed draped in billowing cotton. Believe it or not, my mind
does not
automatically imagine the kind of fun the posters of the bed could be used for, all I want to do is curl up on the enormous bed with the open window overlooking the infinity pool and private beach and catch up on some sleep before the boys arrive.

“Unless you have any questions, I’ll leave you to get settled.”

“Thank you.”

After Andre leaves, I head back to the bedroom, fully intent on crawling under the fluffy white duvet when I hear what sounds like a cart outside.  Andre’s already gone. I heard his cart leave. That must be Wade and Connor. When I go to open the door, it won’t budge. Strangely, there are no locks, no bolts, just a handle. I pull. Nothing. I push, thinking I’ve made the classic mistake of pulling on a push door.

Nothing.

That’s odd.

I try waving my bracelet at every shiny surface on or near the door but still nothing works. There’s a phone in the living room, right beside the immaculate white couch, however when I pick it up there is no dial tone. I click it a couple of times but there’s nothing. After following the cord, thinking it must be unplugged, I find it is plugged in, just not operating.

I locate my cell phone in my hand bag and turn it on but there is no service. Going outside onto the patio, I hold the phone up, as if my arm’s an antennae and the movement is going to increase reception.

Hmm. That doesn’t work either.

I search for an available Wi-Fi connection but no connection comes up. Don’t tell me this is one of those Wi-Fi-free resorts where guests are forced to give up connection to the world at large in order to relax. God, this is frustrating.

After trying the door once more without success, I go out to the patio and walk around the villa. A retaining wall cuts access from the front to the back so I backtrack to the beach and strike off in the direction—I think—of the castle. As I walk, I begin to notice something strange. There are no noises coming from the neighboring villas. No guests are splashing in the neighboring infinity pools, lounging on the deck chairs or hanging out on the beach. I stop and look back the way I came.

There is no one on the beach that way either.

Curiosity takes over and I walk up the path to one of the deserted-looking villas, calling, “Hello?”

The villa’s French doors are locked and no one answers. I try the same thing at the next villa and the next.

What the hell? Where are all the guests?

My flesh goes cold and clammy which makes my skin feel prickly in the heat. Did all of the guests get trapped at various airports because of the storm? I search the sky, having a hard time believing there ever was a storm based on the endless blue and the lack of clouds. The urge to pound on the doors and to scream and holler and run around like a lunatic overwhelm me and I find myself doubled over, forcing deep breaths into my lungs.

You’re being silly, Tessa, get a grip and then go back to the beach.

I make my way back down the path to the beach and follow the small bay around the promontory, certain the castle is just around the bend. All I have to do is get to the main beach access, alert guest services of the problems with my key and the lack of phone access at the villas and general desertedness of the villas, and the fact I feel like the only person on the whole entire island...

When I climb over the rocks at the headland, I do not find beach on the other side. There are only rocks and a sheer cliff leading up to the back of the castle. The cold clammy feeling on the surface of my skin seeps into my bones making me shiver. My gut starts to churn, mimicking the roiling spray of the water crashing against the rocks below.

I tilt my head way back in order to look up at the castle towering hundreds of feet above me and vertigo makes my head spin.

It’s okay, Tess. You just went the wrong way. Turn around. No big deal.

So why does it feel like a big deal? A big fucking deal?

Why do I feel like I’m trapped? Kidnapped? This sense of someone or something watching me and playing tricks on me?

I race back to the villa as if I’m being chased and by the time I get there, I’m dying of thirst. The villa is so cool and quiet and an image of that gorgeous, comfortable four-poster bed comes to mind. My problem is simple. I need sleep. This is obviously one of those situations where my brain is playing tricks on me simply because of overtiredness.

After finding a bottle of water in the well stock refrigerator, my nose alerts me to the aroma of food and on the table is not only a covered platter from room service, containing—I lift the still-warm cover—a delicious smelling white fish in a garlic, wine sauce, with jasmine rice and a garden salad, but a note from Andre.

My stomach snarls in response to the aromatic food and I realize I’m famished. I take a seat and dig in, pulling the handwritten note closer to read.

Dear Ms. Savage,

Flights have been grounded and your companion will not be arriving until tomorrow. I apologize that your bags will also not be arriving until then as well. If I may be of assistance, please press zero on the telephone.

Andre

I chastise myself aloud. “See Tess? If you’d just stayed put instead of freaking out, you’d have been here when Andre came by.”

Once my stomach is full and I’ve drunk a couple of glasses of crisp white wine from the completely stocked beer and wine fridge, I weave my way back toward the master bedroom, pausing at the hall to glance down the length of the foyer to the door. Should I try it? Maybe it works now.

Maybe it doesn’t.

No. I should just go to bed, I can barely keep my eyes open.

But I can’t go to bed. Not until I know. My steps falter as I head in the direction of the door, as if my feet really don’t want to take me there, don’t want me to know whether I’m still trapped. I pause before trying the door.

Don’t be silly! Try it.

I grab the handle and turn...but the door still doesn’t move. I push. I pull. I slam my body weight against it. I pound on the door, screaming, giving in to irrational exhaustion, until I collapse on the floor. My body is too limp to stand and I crawl—yes, crawl, not an image I’m particularly proud of, but it is what I do—down the hall toward the master suite.

I don’t even remember getting beneath the covers of the bed, I’m that tired.

I don’t know why I’m so troubled by the broken front door. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for everything. I mean, it’s not like I’m shipwrecked on a deserted island and I have to rely on nothing but my wits to survive.

I’m at a fucking five star resort with a stocked fridge, plenty of food and a cabinet full of expensive liquor. I have every amenity I could want, a Jacuzzi tub (four actually), an infinity pool, a beach, an incredible bed...

Mmm. I snuggle beneath the cool cotton.

Despite my exhaustion, sleep eludes me.

The one thing that is missing is freedom.

This bothers me. I’ve never cared about things. All I’ve ever cared about is my freedom. And without it, I’m lost and feel myself slipping, my body falling into a dark, scary abyss. I don’t like it.

I hear a noise, there’s someone at the door. The weird thing is, I don’t sit up. I don’t even wake up. I’m not scared. Why? I don’t know.

Maybe because it’s a dream.

Is it a dream?

By the shape of the shadow at the door, I know it’s a man standing there, watching me. Suddenly I’m out of my body, watching the scene play out before me. I’m a visitor in my own dream.

So weird.

Like watching a fuzzy, black and white movie, I observe myself, lying there, twisted between the sheets. My skin is pale and seems to glow from the moonlight winking in between the open drapes. I watch myself try to move, but the sheets restrict my legs and I moan. The sound draws the shadow closer, moving across the room to the side of the bed.

Who is he?

I can’t see his face.

His shoulders are broad, his chest is bare and he’s wearing drawstring trousers that ride low on his hips. His hair is dark and mussed. Not bed head, more like hair that’s had fingers threaded through it...in passion.  He stands by the side of the bed, watching me sleep.

Creepy? Sexy?

I don’t know, but I sure as hell wish my dream self would wake up.

I
t’s like my sleeping self hears my other self and writhes some more between the sheets, wanting to wake, but unable to. The spaghetti strap on my negligee—where’d the negligee come from?!—slips down my shoulder as I turn toward the intruder. The movement bares my breast like a gift unwrapped just for him.

It is not the shadow man who reaches for my nakedness. It’s me. I watch myself, at first thinking I’m about to cover my exposed breast, but soon realizing that’s not my sleeping-self’s intention. Not at all.

Sleeping Tessa fondles her breasts. She pinches her nipple. She sighs softly—a completely sensual sound—and arches into her own hand. She is not scared of this man. She is turned on.

For him.

By him.

By the way she reaches for him, it’s clear she wants him.

He stands completely still as her hands roam across his body; his chest, his stomach, dipping below the waistband of his trousers, like someone without sight, reading him with her fingertips. She does not push him away. Oh no. She tugs dreamily on that waistband, pulling him closer, making him kneel at her side. Finding his face, she gently caressed his cheek and his lips.

Kiss me.

The words are softly spoken.

I still can’t see the face of the man kneeling at the side of the bed, but I can see the way he touches dream-Tessa’s cheek and cups it tenderly. I watch closely as he bends to her, tasting her slowly and thoroughly, just like I tasted the expensive wine. Like Christophe taught me how to taste scotch.

He holds her face so he can turn her, kissing her cheek, her jaw, moving lower along the length of her neck.

Holy hell, it’s incredibly sensual.

I’m a voyeur watching my own secret sex tape.

Weird? Maybe. But so hot I don’t fucking care.

Lower and lower he goes until I find myself cheering him on. Urging him to get to the good stuff. Her naked nipple, for example.

Nipple!

Come on!

But the man takes his time—dammit! He kisses her shoulder, the hollow of her neck, just when I think he’s going down, he goes back up. Licking and tasting. Enjoying every little bit of her.

Tessa covers the hand that is holding her cheek and slides it around to her mouth, taking his index and middle fingers between her lips. The man lifts his head and by the way his head lolls back, he’s enjoying what she’s doing. A lot.

Withdrawing from her mouth, he trails wet fingers down her neck, following the path his lips took only a moment before and finally—thank God—he moves to her breasts.

She reacts to his damp touch as if he’s fingering her clit, not her nipples. Crying out and arching in ecstasy.

Fuck.

I want.

Why am I this detached observer? Dreaming about watching myself in a dream? I don’t want to
observe
, I want to
feel
, even if it is only a dream. I want his fingers, his lips, his gaze...

I want to experience what she is—what I am—dreaming about.

I will myself into dream-Tessa’s body but it doesn’t work.

Dammit!

I’m stuck watching some strange man knead and suck greedily at my breasts.  I’m trapped in this ethereal space as a witness not a participant in the scene before me.

Watching myself writhe beneath his touch, wriggling to tug up on the silk of my negligee, I recognize that I may not be an active participant, but my dream-self is acting
exactly
like my wakeful-self would; eager for his hand to slip between my legs, impatient for his fingers to fondle my clit, excited for his cock to fill me, stretch me, complete me. She is racing toward the heavenly sensation of starbursts and moonbeams that is the wonderful culmination of all of this; the beauty and satisfaction of an amazing orgasm.

So, I am not the least bit surprised, when dream-Tess takes hot-dude’s hand and pushes it past the bunched up silk to where her legs meet. I can empathize with how frustrated she must feel when her legs are caught between the twisted sheets and she’s unable to part them as much as she’d like.

I feel pulses of pleasure watching the two of them, their hands—one of top of the other—cupping her mound. I can imagine the heat they feel through her panties, and I suspect the heat is a wet one. Soaking wet and smoldering.

The man groans and crawls up onto the bed, tugging at the sheets, freeing her legs so that he can kneel between them. He’s in profile now and I try to make out his features but the moonlight is so bright that I still can’t tell who he is.

He could be anyone.

It is a dream after all.

I think.

I need you
, dream-Tessa says, moving the damp material of her panties to the side.
Please. I need you.

Yep. That’s me.

With one hand propped on the bed beside her hip, he leans over her and slides his other hand up the inside of her thigh, circling that part of her that is exposed. She tries to move her hips into the path of his touch, but he keeps avoiding the place she wants it most.

Please
, she begs.
Please
.

All in good time
. This is said so softly and so deeply, I almost can’t discern the words. But I know I’ve heard that voice before.

Oh God. Where?

The man lowers himself and kisses her in the places he has been caressing; the inside of her thighs, her hips, that deep crease where leg meet pelvis.