sister go from sexy, sassy reporter extraordinaire to an ain’t-getting-no-lovin’, ain’t-getting-no-nuthin’ recluse.” Erin exhaled audibly before adding in a voice that sounded a little too foreboding for Claire’s comfort, “You don’t have to go to their office. They’ll come to you.”
“What do you say we quit with the cock fights and get on with the picks, guys?” Shelley Lawrence breezed through Ecstasy Island’s administration area door and into the first-floor meeting room. Thick, yellow client informational packets rested in the crook of the healing resort manager’s arm.
Chris Cavanaugh tossed back the coffee in his Styrofoam cup in preparation of being called up front for first pick from the incoming, all-female client batch. A requisite week—time intended for regrouping and relaxing—had passed since the previous batch of women left. The way the bullshit tall tales and ensuing laughter and groans from the men seated at the tables around him came to an abrupt end, he wasn’t the only one anxious to get back to work. He got along fine with most of the guys who called the private island home. Still, things got boring fast when the odds were a dozen males for every female, as was the case during their off week.
Shelley lined the packets up on the ledge built into the front wall. Photos of past clients interacting with the staff during far more enjoyable gatherings covered the wall above the ledge. Wall-mounted TVs dominated the corners.
Leaving over a dozen women to stare out from the photo taped to each packet, Shelley turned around. She met Chris’s eyes briefly, her smile as painfully tight-looking as her blond ponytail, and then glanced away. “Nic, you’re up first.”
Say what? The coffee cup compressed in Chris’s hand. Speculation filtered through the room as every eye in the place outside of Shelley’s zeroed in on him.
Coming to his feet two tables away, Niccolo Lombardi sent him a “take that, shithead” grin. “’Bout damned time.”
Irritation speared through Chris, but he didn’t bother to voice it. Nic was one of those guys who didn’t care what others thought. Not even Treah Baldwin, Ecstasy’s owner, since Nic figured he was too hot of a commodity to lose. According to Nic, his self-proclaimed Italian Stallion good looks were all it took to get a woman interested and his equally self-proclaimed godlike skills in bed were all it took to have her forgetting whatever fears resulted in her coming to the resort to beg for his touch.
Keeping his expression neutral, Chris waited for the group of men to gather at the front of the room and Shelley to return to the back of the building. Tossing the smashed coffee cup into a nearby wastebasket, he headed for the admin door.
“Going to piss and moan to big brother?” Nic goaded from behind him. “Seems to me there isn’t anything to piss and moan about. Can’t hardly blame a guy for not wanting a murderer heading up his team.”
Irritation turned to a fierce clenching in Chris’s gut. Slowly, he met Nic’s smirk. Punching the dickhead in his too-pretty face was his first instinct. Since meeting his taunt with violence would make him look guilty as hell, he refrained.
Wearing a smirk of his own, he asked quietly, “What do you think you know?”
“Enough. More than enough, cazzo.” Nic clapped a hand to Chris’s shoulder. “Let me know when you’ve got my cabin cleaned out.”
Like hell he would. Knocking Nic’s hand away, Chris pushed through the admin door. Irritation rekindled only to quickly become panic.
Fuck. How could Nic have found out?
Quickening his steps, he moved down the short hallway to Shelley’s office. The resort had been converted from a turn-of-the-century bed-and-breakfast and rental cabins when Treah bought the place and the accompanying five-mile-around island eight years before. All but Shelley’s office and cabin, that is. Both retained the original pastel hues and vintage furnishings that typically matched her personality.
Today, her mood wasn’t coming off so cheerful. She sat at a rosewood rolltop desk, attention fixed on her laptop screen and posture stiff. “What’s going on, Shell?”
Her gaze flicked to his, brown eyes narrowed. “I’m just the messenger around here. Whatever it’s about, Treah wants to see you.”
“Before or after I stand in a damned line to get the bottom of the barrel?” Technically, it didn’t matter to him which woman he spent the next three weeks with. It was simply a matter of principle that, as the resort’s head healing coach, he got the choice cabin and first pick from the monthly clientele. So long as he was being technical, technically it wasn’t Nic being given first pick of the women that was champing at Chris’s ass. Not after that damned taunt.
“Now,” Shelley responded tersely.
They’d been friends as long as they’d been coworkers. Any other day Chris would have asked what crawled up her ass to put her in such a pissy mood. Today, thanks to Nic the Dick, he was feeling rather pissy himself. “All right. Thanks.”
Not expecting a reply, he continued down the hall to where a large receptionist area opened up. The space was decorated in the same cool shades of blue, green, and brown, with natural wood trim, as the remainder of the resort. The occupant of the space, Gwen Davis, Treah’s sleep-in personal assistant, was anything but cool in a tiny black skirt and an equally tiny siren-red top.
Christian values had been instilled throughout Chris’s youth. Hard-knock ones had been forced down his throat during his time in detainment. Both resulted in him making his fair share of vows. Thou shall not covet thy brother’s woman wasn’t one of them. Since Treah wasn’t his real brother and Chris didn’t want Gwen beyond the occasional look, he took advantage of the fact she stood with her back to him, stuffing folders into a three-high row of cabinets, and let the toned, tanned legs extending from the hem of her skirt to her spiked black heels work their soothing magic on his nerves.
Only, damn, the view didn’t even touch his anxiety. “Hey, Gwen.”
Brushing two-toned strands of blond and brown over her shoulder, she turned to flash a shiny red welcoming smile. “Morning, Chris.” She pointed in the direction of Treah’s adjoining office. “He’s expecting you.”
“Great. Thanks.” With a parting nod, he went to Treah’s closed door. Worry and anger mounted as he shoved it open with the flat of his palm. Treah was the only one on the island who knew Chris’s past. While Treah wasn’t his real brother, he was as close to family as Chris had these days and he couldn’t see the other man selling him out.
Unless he’d caught some major hell for employing an ex-criminal in a business that centered on human interaction and ultimate trust.
Nah. He couldn’t see him doing it even then. Still, his heart pounded like a jackhammer as he stepped inside the office and closed the door.
Treah didn’t look up. Between the lack of acknowledgment and the way he sat at his desk—the fingers of one hand speared into his short, black hair while the others gripped the edge of the folder laid out on the desktop—something was definitely up. Even from ten feet away, Chris could feel the tension rolling off his body.
Since losing his brother, Chris’s one-time best friend, to a cellmate’s rage seven years ago, Treah didn’t sweat the small stuff. Whatever was up, it had to be bad.
Chris moved to the edge of the desk, attempting to get a look at the folder’s contents and see if they revolved around him. All he
