Page 14 of The VIP Package

Here’s where I’m sort of an asshole.

My personal yacht sits anchored in the resort’s marina. With my Jaguar garaged on the next largest island, we could reach the airport in roughly ninety minutes. There’s also the possibility of reaching it via private plane from the airstrip here on the island, but that’s not an option I’ll consider.

Even with the yacht, there’s a chance we could make it in time. I might have to pull a few strings to delay the departure of Camille’s scheduled flight, and tugging some more would get her escorted through security and straight to the front of the boarding line.

All of that’s possible for a man of my considerable means.

So why don’t I offer those options?

“You okay?” She peers up at my face. “You got sort of a funny look all of a sudden.”

“I’m quite all right.” I stand and pluck an upturned water glass from the adjacent table. “May I offer you some ice water? Wine, perhaps?”

“I’m good.” Camille picks up her drink pouch. “Enjoying my Capri Sun for now.” Wrapping those perfect, pink lips around the straw, she hollows her cheeks and sucks.

I know she’s not trying to be seductive. For God’s sake, what man in his right mind would be turned on by a woman fellating a juice box?

But my dick has a mind of its own. It likes the display very much.

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “Can I get you anything else?”

Camille releases the straw and sits back with a hand on her belly. “No, thank you, I’m stuffed. You seriously saved my life.”

“Don’t mention it.” There’s a squeeze in my chest that feels like my supply of oxygen has been cut off. “Well then. Shall we find you a place to rest for the night? We can sort out your departure in the morning.”

“Hey.” Her hand darts out to capture my wrist before I get up from the table. Hazel eyes search mine, and the pinch in my chest starts to loosen. “Seriously, thanks. I probably didn’t make the best first impression, but you’ve been incredibly kind.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“But I do.” Her delicate fingers graze the back of my hand. “As you probably gathered, the last thirty-six hours have been a challenge. I haven’t exactly been myself.”

“Who have you been?” The question slips out before I can think, and Camille laughs.

“Fair point,” she says. “If I were my own therapist, I’d probably observe that nothing I’ve done in the last day wasn’t already in my nature. That an inciting incident may have triggered more extreme behaviors, but I’ve done nothing outside my moral code or innate personality, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You sound like a very good therapist.”

Her eyes spark to life and she smiles. “I like to think so. I work very hard at it. Continuing education, advanced training, always striving to be the very best I can be for the sake of my patients.” Some of the light fades from her eyes. “Then again, what sort of therapist can’t see that her own relationship sucks balls?”

I shouldn’t ask. It’s none of my business. There’s no reason to invest in this woman’s personal trauma. “Was he unfaithful?”

“No, nothing like that.” She sighs and draws back her hand, and it’s irritating how much I miss her touch. “Ours was never a deeply passionate connection.”

“How unfortunate.”

“That’s the thing, though. I thought it was a point in our favor. That if we didn’t plant ourselves on the shifting sands of lust and fallible human emotion, we’d have a stronger base for long-term commitment.”

“Okay.” Is she trying to convince herself or me? “So you got bored?”

Camille shakes her head, sipping her juice pouch some more. “Not even that. I guess I tried to convince myself that was enough. That I didn’t need a guy who bent me over the kitchen table because I had a partner whosetthe table and made lovely dinners.” She frowns. “When he came home for dinner, I mean. Hayden works a lot.” She fiddles with the tiny white straw, her gaze shifting off toward the sea. “I guess we could have gone on like that for a long time—forever, maybe—except he broached the idea of marriage.”

I’m not sure I’m tracking this story. “So you dated a man who worked hard and provided and even—on occasion—cooked dinner? Then he asked for your hand in marriage?” He doesn’t sound like a terrible person.

Quite frankly, he sounds like me.

“I’m not telling this very well.” Camille bites her lip. “Hayden didn’t get down on one knee and profess his love with a ring in one hand and a can of Pringles in the other as doves perched on his shoulder and Whitney Houston’sI Will Always Love Youplayed on a boombox beside him.”

“That’s what you wanted?”

---