Tycoon's Unexpected Caribbean Fling
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Ella Hayes
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Is she the missing piece… that could fix his damaged heart? Billionaire Joel Larsson is no stranger to the spotlight. But when his engagement implodes, all Joel wants is to get away. Cue a solo trip to a private Caribbean island! Yet, when he comes face-to-face with Emilie Clayton — Joel's far-too-beautiful personal chef — things get complicated… Joel may be tempted to open the door to a fling with Emilie — but is he strong enough to keep his heart locked away?
CHAPTER ONE
EMILIE CLAYTON WRIGGLED her sandy toes and inspected her legs. They were turning a lovely shade of golden brown. She hitched her sarong a little higher and inspected the skin above her knees. That part was tanning nicely too, but exactly how it was happening was a mystery.
Maybe she’d been catching the sun during her daily walks from the cottage to the house. Not on the path that wove through the gumbo limbo trees, where the sunlight splashed chaotically on to the giant, hand-shaped leaves of the under storey, but rather, on the long upward climb to the rear entrance of the luxury residence where there was no shade at all.
The sun always felt warm on her bare calves as she made her way up the pale granite steps, so that would probably explain it, although, the motor launch was another possibility. She always wore shorts when she was going over to Tortola for provisions and she never sat under the canopy.
She rearranged the sarong over her legs and looked up, gazing at the jewel-bright sea and the distant, hazy green hills of the neighbouring Caribbean islands. It didn’t matter anyway. However it was happening, the deepening colour on her legs was completely accidental because there’d been no time for sunbathing since she’d arrived on Buck Island.
For the past three weeks she’d been flat out in the kitchen, creating exotic dishes to satisfy the exacting clientele. Breakfasts had to consist of a freshly prepared buffet with hot and cold options, lunches had to be light and exquisite, and dinners had to match anything that her former boss, celebrated chef Michel Lefevre, could have produced in his famous London restaurant Le Perroquet. Initially, she’d been nervous, not because she lacked the culinary skills, but because she’d been doing everything herself and she wasn’t used to that. She was used to Tom being there, working around her, anticipating her every move. He’d always had her back in the kitchen, and out of it, until... Her insides twisted sharply. Tom! Four months had passed since he’d ripped her world apart, but it still hurt because it wasn’t just Tom, it was everything that went with him...
She hugged her knees in tight, pushing the thoughts away, listening to the rustling palms and the lapping waves and the comical kazoo-like call of a passing seabird. The thing was, in spite of her nerves, she had prevailed—more than prevailed if the compliments in the visitors’ book were anything to go by, so that was something!
She pushed herself up, brushing off her sarong and tightening it around her waist. Of course, having Melinda there had made a world of difference. With her wide, white smile and her easy, maternal manner, Melinda’s lilting voice and wicked sense of humour had helped to keep her calm, even on the night when the twelve guests, between them, had ordered six different mains.
She walked towards the water’s edge, feeling a smile unfolding inside. Melinda and her husband, Erris, were so much more than housekeeper and site manager. They were her neighbours—their cottage was five minutes’ walk from her own—but in just three weeks they’d also become dear friends, showing her the ropes, looking after her. They were warm, family-orientated people. Their son, Anton, ran his own SUV hire place in Road Town and was also the most sought-after car mechanic on Tortola. In his spare time, he was a Moko Jumbie stilt-dancing trainer, teaching youngsters as well as performing himself with his troupe. Melinda had shown her videos. Crazy dance moves, fantastic costumes. Her mind had been blown! Anton’s sister, Kesney, ran her own soap-making business using locally harvested sea salt. Kesney and her husband, Will, were expecting their first baby and Melinda and Erris were bursting with excitement. Buck Island was only a short hop from Tortola, but it was clear that they missed being around their loved ones.
Maybe that was why Melinda mothered her at every opportunity, why she’d frogmarched her out of the kitchen that morning telling her to take some time off before she collapsed with exhaustion. At least, that was what her eyes had been saying. What had come out of her mouth was, ‘Get out from under my feet—I’ve got to get things ready for Mr Larsson.’
Time off! For a moment she zoned out, enjoying the warm slosh of the water around her feet, then she looked along the beach. At the far end, a cluster of boulders lazed in the shallows as if they’d tumbled drunkenly down the hill on which the sleek, modern residence stood. Until today she’d only had time to explore the forty-acre island in snatches, but now she was free for a couple of hours. That was plenty of time to walk right round the island without hurrying!
She started walking, absently pulling her swim-dampened hair forwards and twisting it into a rope. Larsson sounded like a Swedish name, she thought. Scandinavian anyway. According to Melinda, he’d taken the whole place for three weeks and he hadn’t invited any guests. Weird! But Melinda said that it happened sometimes, that it was pointless trying to fathom the whims of the rich and privileged. Still, a six-bedroomed luxury residence on a private island seemed excessive for one person, and as for her own role as chef...
She stopped to watch a big brown pelican skimming over the water with lazy flaps of its wings. Beyond it, in the distance, a catamaran was speeding along, one hull rising into the air. She walked on, pushing loose strands of salt-sticky hair away from her face. Catering for one person was going to leave her seriously underemployed! Perfect if she’d wanted to have time on her hands, but the whole point of taking this crazy contract had been to keep herself busy, too busy to think about what was happening on the other side of the world, with Tom.
And Rachel...
She clamped her lips together, walking faster. Tom and Rachel! Imagining them together... Choosing paint colours, buying stuff, making plans. Nesting! She felt a sob rising in her throat, felt her feet turning to clay. She looked down, swallowing hard. Breathe! Barely an hour into her afternoon off and Tom was in her head with her best friend, Rachel. So-called! This was what happened when she had nothing to do! Three busy weeks had left her no time for thinking, not even at night because she’d been out like a light as soon as her head had hit the pillow, but now it was open season. With time on her hands she was going to be a sitting duck and that wasn’t what she’d signed up for! Admittedly, the job description had stated that she’d be catering for up to twelve guests at any one time, but in her wildest imaginings she hadn’t thought she’d be catering for one guest for three whole weeks! Why, oh, why wasn’t lonely Larsson bringing eleven hungry friends? Would it have been too much to ask? Now, because of him, she was going to be twiddling her thumbs, stewing in her own juices and that was absolutely the last thing...
A sudden metallic clank stopped her mid-stride. She looked up, felt her breath catching. A sports catamaran was nosing its way on to the beach a few metres away. There was a hearty splash and then a tall, fair-haired man wearing orange swim shorts and a life vest appeared from behind the sail and began hauling the vessel up on to the sand.
She licked her lips, tasting salt. An odd bristling sensation was taking her over, pulsing through her veins. Buck Island was a private island with private beaches. It wasn’t a free-for-all! It wasn’t there for the random parking of boats—or catamarans for that matter—by any Tom, Dick or Harry who happened to be passing. Larsson wouldn’t be happy, that was for sure. He’d booked a private island presumably because he wanted to be private. There was only one thing for it: she would have to give this fellow his marching orders!
She checked her sarong, then advanced towards the gleaming catamaran and the man who was now tugging at a rope which was attached to something at the top of the mast. She took a deep breath. ‘Excuse me, but this is a private beach!’
No reaction.
She sucked in another lungful of air. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. The sail was flapping, probably drowning her out. She moved nearer, taking in the swell of his biceps, the tattoo line running down the length of his inner arm and the smattering of stubble around his jaw, which was fair, just like his thick, deliciously tousled hair. She ran her tongue over her lower lip. It was tempting just to stand and watch him... Stop! Seconds ago she’d been choking back tears over Tom and now she was ogling the beach trespasser! What was wrong with her? She swallowed hard. The stranger was, irrefutably, the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on, but that was incidental. He was still trespassing. She steadied her feet, cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Excuse me...?’
This time his shoulders jerked and then the rope slipped cleanly through his hands. For a beat he seemed to freeze, then he caught it again and turned round. Cool blue-grey eyes fastened on hers. ‘Hello, yes?’
She sank her teeth into her lower lip. Maybe opening with a simple hello or a jaunty Ahoy, sailor! would have been better, but it was too late now. The rather confrontational Excuse me? was out there and clearly the fair-haired stranger was needled. Although, to his credit, he looked as if he was trying to hide it. Something about his mouth, a tiny upward movement in one corner, didn’t quite match his steely gaze.
She moistened her lips. Michel Lefevre had been the master of steely gazes, so she wasn’t fazed although, unaccountably, her fingers seemed to have drifted to the halter strap of her swimsuit. She dropped her hand, shifting her stance, praying that the warmth she could feel in her cheeks wasn’t visible from where he was standing. ‘I’m sorry for shouting, but you didn’t hear me the first time...’
The tension in his face seemed to melt a little, the lines around his eyes smoothing themselves out, and suddenly all the words she’d been going to say were dissolving on her tongue. He might have looked arrogant as he’d dragged the catamaran on to the beach, but there was something discernibly lost about him, something behind his eyes that seemed to call for a softer approach.
She gave a little shrug. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘It’s fine.’ He glanced at the mast. ‘The sail’s noisy...it can be hard to hear...’ His fingers toyed with the rope and then he was looking at her again, a glimmer of confusion behind his eyes. ‘So... Who are you?’
The tables seemed to have been turned. Somehow, she was the one having to explain herself and, under his steady gaze, she couldn’t even think of how to reclaim the advantage. She pressed her lips together, hooking a windblown lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I’m Emilie.’
‘Right.’ Even more confusion in his eyes. ‘And you’re here to...?’
This definitely wasn’t playing out the way she’d intended. Suddenly her mouth was dry and there was an odd fluttering sensation in her belly. Somehow the stranger with the foreign accent and the body of a Viking god was dismantling her bravado piece by piece...
Viking?
Intent blue-grey eyes... Thick fair hair, longer on top... Inky line running all the way down his muscular arm to the wristband of his expensive, branded watch... Swedish accent! Oh, God! How could she have been so stupid? The man she’d nearly ordered off the beach was lonely Larsson.
Joel Larsson suddenly realised that he was holding his breath, the way he did when he was testing a program. That moment...pressing the final key...wondering if the firewall would crumble or kick in as it should... But computers were an easy hack compared to deciphering the myriad expressions playing across Emilie’s face. It had been a simple enough question he’d asked, yet she seemed to be struggling. He licked his lips. ‘Emilie...?’
She blinked, then her expression was softening, rearranging itself around the warmest, loveliest smile he’d ever seen. ‘I’m here to welcome you to Buck Island!’
He felt his mouth falling open and closed it again quickly. ‘But—’
‘You are Mr. Larsson?’ Smiling had warmed her eyes—hazel eyes—making them sparkle.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He hadn’t been expecting a welcome party; he hadn’t been expecting anyone, except for the cheery guy who had met him at the airport and taken him to the boat hire place. Erris—that was what he’d said his name was—said he did the fetching and carrying, maintenance and suchlike. Erris had taken charge of his luggage, assuring him that he’d find it in his room when he arrived. A maintenance guy was one thing, but now there was an ‘Emilie’ greeting him on the beach, wearing a fetching swimsuit and a sarong. Surely Nils wouldn’t have—No! Even in full-throttle best man mode Nils wouldn’t have pulled a stunt like that. Still, the fact remained: there was a beautiful girl standing in front of him, waiting for him to say something. He took a breath, stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Please! Call me Joel.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Joel.’ She shook his hand quickly, then stepped back, a minute flare of uncertainty in her eyes.
He checked himself. Was his shock manifesting as unfriendliness? Did she think he’d been ignoring her before...? He hadn’t. It was just that the sail had been obscuring his view of the beach as he’d come in and, since he hadn’t been expecting to see anyone, he hadn’t looked about. He’d just got on with the business of pulling the boat up on to the sand, lost in his own head and in the mechanics of what he was doing. And now her eyes were cloudy and maybe it was his fault.
Damn! If only he’d paid more attention to what Nils had said, then he might have had an inkling of who Emilie was and what was going on, but he hadn’t exactly been in the best headspace of late. It was entirely possible that minor details could have sailed right over his head. He searched his memory, could almost feel Nils’s hand on his back.
‘You’ll love Buck Island, Joel. It’s paradise! You’ll be able to sail every day, chill out...get your head straight again... And you’ll have the whole place to yourself. I’ve made sure of that! It’s the best cancelled wedding present I could think of.’
Relief washed over him. At least he hadn’t lost his mind completely. There were no crossed wires; Nils had definitely said that he’d have the whole place to himself. So in that case, where did Emilie fit in? And how could she possibly have known that he’d be landing on this beach at exactly this moment when he’d only decided five minutes ago that he was probably too jetlagged to sail for the whole afternoon and ought to come in before he did something stupid, like capsize. He held in a sigh. It seemed that he was drowning regardless, not that he intended to let it show. She might have blindsided him, but he still had his pride.
He unzipped his life vest and shrugged it off, shooting her a covert glance. Her swimsuit was low cut, the full swell of her breasts hard to ignore. She was hard to ignore—period—because for some reason she wasn’t leaving and that meant that he was going to have to make conversation, at least until he could figure out what the hell was going on. He stepped towards the boat, glancing at the mast. ‘Do you sail, Emilie?’
‘No.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘I’ve never...’
For some reason, her words trailed away. At the lower edge of his vision, he could see her toe sketching a line in the sand. He raked his teeth over his lower lip, trying to stop his eyes mapping out the ample curve of her hips and her breasts. ‘So—’ he shifted on his feet, clearing his throat so that his voice would actually work ‘—what do you do?’
‘I...erm...’ She folded her arms across her chest, eyes holding his for a long second, and then suddenly a tiny spark ignited in their depths. ‘Oh! You mean here...what do I do here? On the island?’
He nodded.
She smiled hesitantly. ‘I’m the chef.’
Chef?
‘Breakfast... Lunch... Dinner...’ Her smile seemed to be fading. ‘Afternoon tea...?’ Her eyes were widening. ‘Anything you want...’
‘Cool—’ he rubbed the back of his neck ‘—I mean, thanks.’ He forced out a smile, then turned to the boat, mechanically liberating the mainsail. His chest felt tight. His pulse was bounding. Kristus! This was exactly why he needed not to be with people! He was morose and churlish, and...lost. He hadn’t been anticipating a chef and he hadn’t been quick enough to hide it, and now he’d made Emilie feel uncomfortable which was the last thing he’d meant to do. It wasn’t her fault. He was the one who hadn’t read the brochure Nils had given him. He’d just assumed... Skit!
He hefted the sail on to the sand, laying it out ready for folding. Nils had done a nice thing, a very generous thing, but it was suddenly looking as if his private island escape wasn’t going to be that private after all. A sharp ache dug him in the ribs. After everything he’d been through with Astrid, he wanted to be alone, needed to be alone to process his thoughts. He was perfectly able to make his own breakfast, lunch and dinner. He didn’t want, or need, a personal chef!
A sudden gust tore the sail from his hands, carrying it scuttling, crablike, up the beach. He sprinted after it, slipping and scuffling in the soft sand until he was right there, sinking to his knees, laying a hand on it, then somehow Emilie was there beside him, on her knees too, grabbing at the flapping clew, her long, dark hair lifting, billowing around her face, revealing her smooth neck, a tiny gold cuff on the rim of her left ear. For half a beat her eyes held his and in that instant the wind gusted again, carrying the sail off beyond his reach. He rocked back on his heels. ‘Skit!’
‘If that was my fault, I’m sorry.’ She was panting slightly, taming her hair with her hands, twisting it into a rope. ‘I was trying to help!’
If she was sorry, then why was there a smile hovering at the corners of her lovely mouth? He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t your fault. I wasn’t holding it properly.’
Her eyes widened. ‘We can try again...?’
It was hard not to get lost in the sweet planes of her face, in the smooth arc of her dark eyebrows. Those eyes... He pushed a hand through his hair. She was the chef he didn’t need, a distraction he didn’t need, but when it came to runaway sails, two people were better than one. He rubbed the sand off his hands. ‘We’ll have to, because if it gets into the trees, it could get ripped.’ He glanced at the sail, barely ten metres away, undulating softly in the breeze. ‘Just grab whatever you can okay, and—’ it was hard not to stare at her mouth ‘—thanks.’
Amusement twinkled in her eyes. ‘Don’t thank me yet. It could all go Pete Tong.’
‘Pete Tong?’
‘It means wrong.’ She grinned. ‘It’s like rhyming slang.’
‘Pete Tong! I get it.’ He held in a smile. ‘Right... Let’s go!’ He launched himself at the sail, catching the tack, making sure that he had it in both hands before looking up. Emilie was fighting with the other corner, bending over it, giving him a bird’s eye view of her smooth, full breasts and the dusky hollow of her cleavage. He swallowed hard. Looking was wrong, but it was impossible to tear his eyes away, impossible to stop them wandering over her hips and her narrow waist. She was curvy, like an hourglass, not at all like Astrid—
‘I’ve got the pointy bit under control!’
Flushed cheeks, lustrous eyes. She looked so ridiculously triumphant that, for a moment, he forgot everything. He felt a smile coming and it wasn’t a tight smile, or a forced smile, but the real deal. ‘Great! Keep tight hold, okay, and...for future reference, it’s not called the pointy bit. It’s called the clew.’ He pressed his lips together, watching her face, counting down in his head...
She inspected the piece of sail in her hands and then she looked up, her cheeks lifting into a smile. ‘You mean I’ve actually got a clue? That’d be a first!’
He laughed. ‘Never grows old.’
So that was lonely Larsson! Emilie walked back the way she’d come, pleased to be putting some distance between herself and the delectable man who’d sailed on to the beach right under her nose. She clenched her teeth, resisting the urge to grind them. What had got into her? She’d marched right up to Buck Island’s newest guest, full of self-righteous indignation, intending to send him on his way. As if she’d even had the right to do such a thing! Thank God she’d realised who he was in the nick of time. And if Joel Larsson hadn’t quite bought into her whole welcome routine, then at least he’d had the good grace not to say anything.
She chewed her lip. Why couldn’t he have arrived on the motor launch with Erris, with luggage, and wearing actual clothes like all the other guests had done? Instead, he’d sailed in on a breeze, out of the blue, and from the moment he’d turned around and fixed his eyes on hers, the sand beneath her feet might just as well have been quicksand. And when he’d taken off his life vest, revealing his broad, smooth chest and those delectable V-shaped muscles arrowing into his bright orange board shorts, God help her, it had been impossible to concentrate on a single word he was saying.
She stopped, suddenly compelled to look back. There was no tall, muscular figure on the beach now, but the catamaran seemed to be further away from the water than it had been when she’d left. He must have dragged it towards the palm trees before heading up to the house, the house that ought to have been filled with twelve people, not one.
She closed her eyes, picturing his... Blue-grey, more blue than grey when the sun struck his irises at just the right angle, and a warm, glinting blue when he’d smiled. Why was he alone, a man like that? It didn’t make sense. And why had he seemed so surprised when she’d told him she was the chef? Admittedly, a swimsuit and sarong didn’t exactly scream Cook, but even so, his reaction had suggested that he wasn’t expecting a chef at all. Bizarre! Who would book an exclusive island escape and not know what they were paying for?
She dropped down on to the sand, sliding her toes into its warm, deep softness. Joel Larsson! Cool as a glacier, but with the sail in his hands she’d seen mischief flaring in his eyes. A lighter side. The way his eyebrows had quirked.
‘Never grows old.’
His chuckle had been deep and throaty. Genuine. It had been a nice surprise...his laughter...hers... The way they’d laughed together, melting all the ice.
‘It’s C-L-E-W,’ he’d explained afterwards, ‘not C-L-U-E.’
And then he’d talked her through the whole anatomy of the mainsail as they’d folded it up—head and foot and tack and clew—but she hadn’t minded. Talking had discharged a little of the static she’d felt crackling between them every time their eyes had locked for longer than a moment or two. Static! She hadn’t felt anything like that for a long time. It was unsettling.
She scooped up a handful of sand, letting it fall streaming through her fist. Being attracted to Joel wasn’t a crime—he was gorgeous—but he was also a guest on the island. Even if she’d been the type to consider a little holiday romance, which she wasn’t, dallying with a guest was completely out of the question. It wasn’t a stipulation of her contract; it was simple professionalism—and the last time she’d checked she still was a professional, even if she no longer had a restaurant, or a partner, or a best friend...
She swallowed hard. That was what she’d been turning over in her head before Joel appeared. All the things she’d lost: all those years with Tom, all that time... And she’d been worrying that if she wasn’t run off her feet, if she wasn’t too busy to think, then those memories and thoughts would torment her. As the catamaran had touched the beach, she’d been simmering with all that hurt and anger and it had bubbled up inside her, sent her marching up to Joel, because in that moment, letting those feelings breach the surface, doing something with them, even if it was only ordering a trespasser off the beach, had seemed better than pushing them back down. But Joel was innocent. He wasn’t the problem.
She closed her eyes, listening to the waves spilling on to the shore. If only she could view the prospect of having time to herself more positively. After all, this was paradise island! Green and golden, and turquoise. Warm and peaceful, and... Lonely. Her stomach clenched, then churned slowly. Before she’d even met him, she’d christened Joel ‘Lonely Larsson’, but maybe that said more about her than it did about him. He might well have come to the island by himself because he liked solitude, whereas she never had. For her, solitude meant loneliness. It meant being the odd one out. It meant being unwanted...
She trailed her fingers through the sand. It was how she’d felt at home, growing up. Her older twin sisters had always been locked together in a way that had excluded her. The seven-year gap that separated her from them hadn’t helped... She bit her lips together. It was obvious that she hadn’t been planned. Her friends had all had siblings who were closer in age, siblings they could hang out with even if they didn’t always get along. She’d asked her parents about it once and they’d said that of course she’d been planned, then they’d laughed, said that she was the evidence of a healthy relationship. That had definitely been too much information, even if, on reflection, it was true.
Her parents were one of those couples who’d always seemed to live in one another’s pockets. They’d been on parent–teacher committees together—chair and vice-chair. They’d been members of the same hiking club. They liked the same food, the same bands, the same movies, and, now that they lived in Abu Dhabi, they were golf partners and bridge partners.
Pairs! Partners! That was what she’d known, growing up. It could have moulded her differently, made her fiercely independent, but it hadn’t. Instead, it had given her a map to follow. And she’d followed that map religiously, hadn’t she? Attaching herself to anyone who gave her the time of day. Always needing a best friend. Safety in numbers, better together—those were the pillars she’d clung to. It was why what had happened between Tom and Rachel felt like the ultimate betrayal.
She stabbed her fingers hard into the sand, recoiling as a something sharp pricked her fingertip. She felt around it, excavating. It had to be a conch! These islands were famous for them. She’d read that conches were signifiers of optimism, courage and hope, all things she desperately needed! She freed it, brushing the sand off. It was lovely. Pale and ridged on the outside with little spurs sticking out, curving upwards. She turned it over, dipping her fingertip into the smooth, pink space that was once the creature’s doorway. A doorway to optimism, courage and hope...? She closed her fist around it, felt the spikes impaling her palm.
‘We need to talk...’
She swallowed hard. At least she wasn’t crying. Tom’s voice, in her head, saying those words, usually tore her heart in two, but now, for some reason, she was thinking about the shell and the solitary creature that had lived inside it. She opened her hand. The little soft-bodied creature had built itself quite a fortress. She chewed her lip. Maybe she should do the same. She’d started going out with Tom when she was seventeen. She’d never stood on her own two feet, steering her own course. Perhaps Joel Larsson’s solitude was a blessing! With a dramatically reduced workload for the next three weeks, she could use the time to reset...to try find out who she was, who she could be... She’d have time to grow her own shell and learn how to be alone. Not lonely, but alone and happy!
She scrambled to her feet, clasping the little shell tightly. For a dizzying moment, Joel’s steady blue-grey gaze filled her head, but she pushed it away. She liked Joel, but she couldn’t allow herself to think of him in a romantic way. She was done with men, done with love. It was time to put herself in the centre.
