Page 9 of Return to the Island

8

Tack

“Abby, I told you I’m not playing this here,” I snapped, gripping her wrist and pulling her to me. I was pissed. Juliet was here, and she hadn’t come to see me. She’d checked in, and I’d been told she went down to the pool, but I didn’t see her. Three bourbons and my head was spinning. I decided I needed a dip to cool off. Abby followed me. Just like she followed me to St. Croix.

The Goodwins were lifelong family friends. As blue blood as the Corbins, our families settled Virginia centuries ago. Abby liked to think we were destined for one another, betrothed in the cradle and all that historical crap. I knew better. While we’d been playmates as children, forced together by our parents and the same social circle, Abby and I were nothing alike. She was a socialite. She wanted a large ring, a big wedding, and an expense account for doing nothing. That made her no good, in my book. Fucking her was out of the question. But it didn’t prevent her from being a decoration on my arm when my investors insisted I bring a date to entertain their wives. It also sent her the wrong message.

“Friends,” I reminded her almost every single time I called on her services to escort me.

“Friends,” she agreed, but her eyes told me otherwise. It’s one of the reasons I did not invite her on this trip. It’s one of the reasons she followed me.

“You might need a friend,” she had said when she arrived unannounced and checked into a room near mine. She’d been here almost a week, and twice she’d tried to convince me to take her to bed—no strings attached. It’s as if she sensed the only person I wanted tied to me was going to be at the resort. Only that person was avoiding me.

Abby’s nails dug into my skin, and she stepped closer to me.

“Damn it, Abby. Don’t play like this.”

“Who is she?” Abby asked, as I searched over her shoulders and around the edge of the pool deck, concerned Juliet might actually be a witness to Abby’s flirting.

“Who?” I snapped my attention back to her brown eyes.

“The girl you’re looking for. Who is she? Who do you want? I can be her for you.”

Aw, Abby, I thought. You could never be my Mouse.

“It doesn’t work like that,” I said, releasing her wrist and taking the offered towel.

“It can.” I looked away as I dried myself off, rubbing the towel down my chest and along my arms.

“They’re going to have to hose off this pool deck when you’re finished,” she teased.

“Why?” I scoffed.

“Because every woman just creamed herself watching you exit that pool and then rub your body with that towel.”

“Don’t be crass, Abby,” I bit, as her eyes raked my body. Her comment was something I’d definitely say, but directed at me, knowing Juliet could be one of the women present, made me uneasy. I scanned the pool deck again, noting someone opening the iron security gate and exiting the area. She wore a large brimmed sun hat, despite the evening hour, and a conservative yellow bikini with a mini-scrap of material tied at her waist. I’d recognize that walk anywhere, as I’d followed her through jungle trails and steep climbs visualizing that body beneath mine.

“Shit,” I murmured, wrapping the towel around my waist and brushing past Abby. I briskly dodged around the haphazard lounge chairs, making my way to the pool gate.

“Mouse!” I called out when a tap came on my shoulder.

“The Mouse Trap, actually.” A man with overly styled hair, deep set eyes and a smile of puffy lips stood behind me. He was a head shorter than me, and his extended hand hinted he’d said something to me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—“

“Miller James. With The Mouse Trap, one of the not-for-profit organizations selected for your Humanity competition.” He paused, looking in the direction of Juliet. “And might I add, you do.” His eyes returned to me, roamed my body, and then he spoke again. “Yes, you do.”

“Pardon me?” I asked, still not introducing myself.

“Miller,” he repeated. “I’m her partner.” And his head nodded in the direction of a disappearing Juliet.

+ +

“What the fuck?” I barked, pacing my office the following evening. Dinner was in an hour. She’d been here a full day, and I hadn’t run into her again. The feeling was all too familiar to the times she’d disappear on the island. Those were the moments I believed I’d dreamed her. I thought I’d made her up for my own nefarious reasons. She always came back to me, though, until the one time she promised she’d find me and didn’t.

Branson sat on the couch, arm extended along the back. “Look, you need to calm down. She’s here. You know it’s her.”

“Then why do I have so many doubts? She hasn’t come to me, and now I’m concerned I’ve made another mistake.” Maybe she really didn’t want to ever see me again. Maybe the girl on the island had been a figment of my imagination, a dream girl. No, dammit. It was her, I was positive; she was still the same no matter where we were, and her partner, as he introduced himself, seemed to know who I was in relation to her.