Her response enrages me further. Trust me, nothing can calm me down. Not even the world’s best Scotch. I almost lost my trusted assistant and want to get to the bottom of this.
Katrina is totally non-plussed. She rises, taking a graceful step toward her precious magazine. Impulsively, I shove her back onto the couch. She gasps.
“Jesus, Brandon. Is this anyway to treat your fiancée?”
“Just tell me what happened out there.” My voice is fiery.
She flings her head back and runs her fingers through her long wet platinum hair. “If you really want to know, I was just protecting you. That ungainly assistant of yours was insistent on seeing you at this ungodly hour, and I told her it wasn’t a wise idea. I tried to hold her back, but she tripped on the slippery deck and fell into the pool. A total accident.”
Leaving her insults aside and the fact that I did text Zoey to help me with my lines, I ask my fiancée why she didn’t help her when she saw she was obviously drowning. Katrina’s a strong swimmer.
“Darling, a combination of factors, but mostly, I thought that conniving little twit was just faking it. Just a clever maneuver to have me jump back into the pool so she could get me all wet again.”
“She almost drowned.” The frightening, unforgettable image of her unconscious body floating in the water flashes into my head.
“Actually, with her weight, I’m surprised she didn’t sink.”
I clench my fists by my sides so tightly I can feel my nails dig into my palms. It takes all my willpower not to slap her or fling her across the room. I may have a history with so-called bad girls, but Katrina keeps testing my limits. The rage I feel toward her disquiets me. Almost frightens me.
Breathing through my nose with my lips pressed tight, I try to control my temper. Silence. Tense silence. And then Katrina looks up at me. Her eyes flutter. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean that. I just really don’t like that girl. She’s everything I’m not.”
Unpretentious. Funny. Sassy. Caring. And she has an inviting body with soft, luscious curves that I find more attractive than Katrina’s razor-sharp edges and plastic enhancements. After several deep breaths, I calm down enough to retrieve Katrina’s tabloid. She snatches it from me and immediately goes back to scanning the pages.
“I’m going to call it a night,” I say stiffly, eager to get away from her and out of my wet clothes.
She looks up from the magazine and smiles. “No problem, darling. I have an early call in the morning. I’m going to head home shortly.”
Great. I need to sleep alone tonight or at least not with her. We still haven’t spent a night together since my hospital release.
Still seething, I head for my bedroom. I strip off my soaked clothes and then lope to the adjacent bathroom where I turn on a hot shower. The cascading water immediately warms me. But it does nothing to undo my stress. I’m wound up as tight as a spring. I beat myself off to release the tension that’s been rising in me like a fever. My rage toward my infuriating fiancée fuels my libido and my undeniable attraction to my indispensable assistant sets me off. I come powerfully and quickly. My first orgasm since my accident. It’s like my cock is saying: “Now what?” I don’t know. Stepping out of the shower, I gaze out the bathroom window, which offers me a perfect view of the guesthouse. The lights are out. At least I know Zoey is safely asleep.
Zoey
The sound of my phone alarm comes as a rude awakening. I hardly slept a wink. Tossing and turning, I couldn’t stop thinking about last night’s events.
Brandon Taylor saved my life. My real-life Kurt Kussler rescued me from drowning. Gave me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and carried me in his arms. I couldn’t stop reliving the feeling of his soft lips on mine, breathing life into me, his heartbeat singing in my ears, and being in his strong arms, mine wrapped around his neck, clinging to him. Never wanting to let go. Never wanting him to leave me.
Peeling one eye open after the other, my exhilaration gives way to the reality that today is just another humdrum day of being his overworked assistant and back at his beck and call. What happened last night was just a fluke thing. He did what any good Samaritan would do. Except Brandon Taylor isn’t any ordinary citizen. He’s my boss. TV’s highest paid actor. People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” And let’s get very real. He’s totally unavailable. He’s engaged to Katrina Moore, America’s It Girl. And they’re getting married on national TV.
Still tucked under my covers, I gaze up at the ceiling like I’m looking for answers. Fucking Katrina. Did she yank me into the pool or did I slip? While she did try to stop me from leaving, I can’t be sure. Pointing a finger at her is not going to pay off. The manipulative bitch will throw insults in my face and twist things so I look like some dumb-ass spaz who doesn’t know how to swim. In my head, I can hear her apologizing to Brandon in her kiss-up saccharine voice for not helping me while I was drowning. In my best impersonation of her, I mouth, “I’m sorry, Brandy-Poo. I had no clue.” And then, the lying bitch will make things all right by pulling down his fly…
My alarm rings again. Just in time to stop my imagination from going to repugnant X-rated places. It’s time to get up and down to business. Groggily, I lift myself to a sitting position and reach for my phone on my night table. I routinely go to my emails to check what’s on today’s agenda before getting dressed and heading off to Starbucks. Sure enough, there’s one from Brandon with “IMPORTANT” written in the subject line. My pulse quickening, I click on it and read it:
As soon as you’re up, meet me at the pool and be sure to wear a bathing suit.
Anxiety blasts through me. The pool is the last place I want to hang out with him. And I sure as hell don’t want to put on a bathing suit. I only own one—a one-piece I’ve had for years that covers up most of my imperfections. I’ve actually never worn it and dread putting it on. I email him back.
Do I really need to wear a bathing suit? I’d rather not.
I hit send and get an instant reply.
Yes. Get your ass to the pool now.
Fuck. Boss’s orders. He’s back to being an asshole.
When I get to the pool, he’s already in the water swimming laps—something he does daily while I go to Starbucks to fetch his must-have Grande iced coffee. He cuts through the water like a shark, each powerful stroke propelling him forward, the muscles of his tanned arms and back rhythmically contracting. On a breath, he catches sight of me and swims up to where I’m standing. His head rises from the water, his skin and hair glistening. Lifting his goggles atop of his head, he rests his beautiful arms along the edge, flexing those well-formed biceps. His thick-lashed violet eyes gleam into mine.
“Good morning,” I say, holding it together despite a flurry of flutters. “What’s on the agenda?”
“Jump in.”
My stomach twists. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Take off your robe and jump in. I assume you’re wearing a bathing suit.”
I nervously tug at the belt of my worn velour robe. “If you recall, I don’t swim.”
“That’s unacceptable. You’re a liability. Now, please take off your robe.”
Slowly, I shrug off my robe until it’s puddled at my feet. His eyes travel from my head to my toes, lingering on some places he has no right to be. While all my lady parts are hidden, I feel like I’m totally bared to him. Divulging every imperfection. A shiver runs up my spine while I tug on the edge of my tank suit to make sure it’s covering my big butt.
“You look good in a bathing suit. Now, let’s get you wet.”
I read more than I should into his words. A rush of hot tingles bombards me.
“I’m a little nervous.” Make that scared shitless. My fear of drowning is so great I don’t take baths, and when I was at that spa, I never stepped foot in the hot tub.