MASON (Billionaire Bastards, Book One) Page 6

  I’ve made a promise to myself that no man will ever have the power to destroy me the way my father hurt Mom. Maybe that’s why I regard Mason and his business partners with a feeling of fear that borders on panic.

  “Your bags have been delivered to your room,” Mason says. He hands me a key card—lucky room number seven—and nods toward the long hall. “Once you’ve settled in, order room service. We’ll go over your work this evening after dinner.”

  My heart sinks a little at the dismissal. Did I actually expect Mason to take me out for a meal? I quickly shake clear thoughts of a romantic candlelight dinner on the beach, or an ocean-side cruise. We’re not trapped in a Nicholas Sparks novel.

  “Your expenses will be charged to the room,” Mason says, stiffly.

  Lucas winks. “Within reason. Careful not to rack that bill up.”

  My hackles rise at the assumption, but again, I don’t say anything. It’s clear Mason’s partners have no use for me. Which is fine. I’m not exactly psyched to hang out with them either, based on first impressions.

  “Shall I order anything for you?” I say to Mason.

  Holden tsks.

  My cheeks burn with humiliation—the question sounded far more intimate than I intended, and it’s too late to take it back. Obviously I need to get better at setting professional boundaries.

  “I’ll be joining my business partners for dinner,” Mason says, leaving no room for discussion. Not that I know what there is left to discuss. Any newfound confidence discovered on the flight to Maui has slowly begun to seep from my pores, leaving me with a sense of vulnerability and aching tension in my belly.

  “I’ll ring you when I return,” Mason says. His eyes land on the stack of folders tucked to my chest. “We’ll discuss the rest of your notes then.”

  Right. The notes.

  Mason hasn’t given me one whiff of hope that this trip is anything more than a working retreat, and yet, I cling to the notion that he’ll change his mind. His earlier words echo back at me, reinforcing the very clear lines he’s drawn in the sand—yesterday’s indiscretion must never happen again. I get it.

  I cast a longing glance at the pool, then another at Mason’s retreating form. The lightweight slacks mold to his butt and thighs, derailing my good intentions to keep my thoughts professional.

  Okay fine. No touching. Mason has complete jurisdiction over that.

  But he has no control my personal thoughts.

  A lump forms in the base of my throat. For that matter, neither do I.

  Chapter 11

  I was right about the king-sized bed.

  It takes up at least half of my suite, commanding attention with its lush bedding and oversized pillows. Rich wood accents bring immediate warmth to the cream-colored carpets and sheer curtains. A cobble stone path lined with vibrant flowers leads from the generous patio door at the far end of the room, to the public pool area and a hot tub, partially covered by a brick wall and sweeping palm trees.

  I stretch out of the bed and rub my stomach, digesting the last of a thick Hawaiian turkey burger and a platter of potato crisps dipped in a spicy mayonnaise sauce.

  I’ve been waiting for Mason to call up to my room or knock on the door, but no such thing has happened. Can he still possibly be at dinner or has he decided not to come by to go over my notes after all?

  My foot twitches, kicking aside the stack of folders. The paperwork slides off the edge of the bed, and onto the floor. I lean over the mattress and start gathering the notes with a groan. It will take hours to assemble these files back to normal. My brain is already mush. I’ve become a walking encyclopedia on Daylight Holdings—I can recite statistics, read projections, cite indications of market trends. My Excel spreadsheet is an actual thing of beauty.

  Will it be enough?

  I finish gathering the paperwork and toss the whole stack onto the table.

  Tension spider webs up my spine as the minutes tick by.

  Keeping me waiting again. Mason seems to like to show me just how little I mean in so many ways.

  I reach behind to massage the knot at the base of my neck, but I’m still wound up like a jack in the box. My gaze drifts to the patio door, and through it, I again spot the empty hot tub.

  Fuck it. I’m taking a break.

  In the spa-like bathroom, I dig through the suitcase Mason packed, and pull out two bathing suits—a one piece with enough cut-outs it’s basically a bikini, and an actual bikini that’s little more than two pieces of cloth and some string. I hold them both up to the mirror, indecision causing my eyebrows to pinch together. I consider Skyping Renee, but I already know which suit she’d choose.

  I climb out of my skirt and drape it over the shower rod, then carefully unbutton my blouse. A cool breeze from the air conditioner whispers across my skin. The fine hair on my arms stands up straight. I shimmy into the skimpy bathing suit and reach behind my neck to tie up the straps. The small triangle of black barely covers my crotch, and I’m one jarring move away from exposing my nipples. I slide into one of the plush white robes that hang off the back of the bathroom door, tie it tight, and pocket my key card.

  I walk barefoot through the lobby and enter the pool area from the back, weaving through the umbrellas and lawn chairs that polka dot the deck. The sun has long since slipped behind the horizon, but the air remains warm and humid. My hair sticks to the base of my neck.

  A beach ball lands at my feet, but before I can kick it aside, a tanned lifeguard scoops it off the deck and lobs it into the water. A young girl—maybe ten—giggles when the resulting splash gives her an unexpected face wash.

  I continue to watch their interaction from the hot tub, where I slip out of the robe, and dip my foot in the bubbling warm water. The tension begins to drain from my body, leaking from my pores in a steady drip drip drip.

  When I’m waist deep, I sit on one of the underwater ledges, nestling my back up against one of the powerful jets that forces water into the tub. The pressure pounds between my shoulder blades, working out the knots and kinks after the long flight.

  God. It’s been forever since I’ve sat in a hot tub, maybe freshman year at college, and even then, just once.

  As the warm water cascades over me, I allow my thoughts to trickle back in time. Jared’s hands clumsily paw at my breasts, fondling the nipples until they have no choice but to go hard. I push his hand away, and he inches closer to trail his tongue down the side of my neck. It’s wet. Slimy. I shiver with revulsion, fighting back tears of frustration when his hand slips between my thighs. There’s no tingle of anticipation, no yearning for his touch. This time when I push him away, he stops groping. Stops whining. Stops everything altogether.

  I’ve only seen Jared once since that night, his arm slung around a girl at the movie theatre, the sharp V of her sweater exposing her cleavage and the lace edges of a sheer black bra. I thought I’d miss him, but he wasn’t the first man to break my heart.

  My father did plenty of damage in that arena.

  He was in a class by himself.

  I shift to a different position, and find a new jet. This one pulses against my lower back. Lifting onto my toes, I position the spray so that it beats against my buttocks, igniting the burn left over from Mason’s heavy hand. I lean forward slightly, and the jet shoots between my thighs, pounding against my bikini bottoms. I think of Mason, and my pussy tightens and clenches.

  Sweat beads across my forehead. My face feels flush.

  “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” an unfamiliar voice says, startling me.

  I move so abruptly it’s almost painful, and land on the underwater bench with enough force to make me wince.

  I squint through half-lidded lashes at a thin young man, a bit boyish despite his wrinkles and laugh lines, staring at me with mild amusement.

  “Yes it is,” I say, smiling a little.

  “That feels nice, doesn’t it?” he asks.

  At my slow nod, he raises his cocktail glass in mock cheer. A m
essenger bag is slung over his shoulder, the strap tight against his surprisingly fit chest. I’d peg him early forties, but I’m usually shit with ages.

  “Such a shame Mason couldn’t join you.”

  My throat goes raw, and tiny pinpricks of alarm spring up all over my skin. I slink lower into the water, covering more of my skin, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and alone with this stranger who clearly knows more about me than I know about him. I scan the perimeter, but amid the blooming Birds of Paradise and thick jasmine bushes, we’re away from prying eyes. Beneath the swirling water, I clench my hand into a fist. “Do you know Mr. Wood?”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Mr. Wood. Charming.” He tilts his head and regards me with puppy dog eyes. “Doesn’t everyone know Mason?” He licks his lips. “Actually, Mason and I go way back. I’m with the New York Times.” I can actually feel the color drain from my cheeks. “My name’s Buck Andrews.” He extends his hand. “I saw you and Mason in the lobby earlier, but thought I’d let him settle before knocking on his door.”

  “In Maui for a holiday?” I say, unsure how to feel. But the Times is the paper of record, so maybe he’s legit.

  “On the clock,” he says, with a wink that makes my skin crawl. “But I suspect you understand. Unless…” He leans in close. “You wouldn’t happen to be the new lady in Mason’s life?”

  His eyes gleam with the hope of catching a scoop. I won’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but I’m also reluctant to admit I’m nothing more than Mason’s personal assistant. Some girls might wear the title like a badge of honor. I have my eyes on a much more meaningful prize.

  “Mason is here on a corporate retreat,” I say, hoping that will be enough to cut short any further discussion. “And I’m not at liberty to discuss anything connected to Daylight Holdings.” Which also includes any information about myself.

  I glance over at the pool, and to my room on the other side. I could make a run for it, but hurrying away makes it look like I have something to hide. Last thing I need is a tenacious reporter knowing where I sleep.

  “Oh, I know,” he says, cheerfully. “This is my favorite gig of the year. An all expenses paid trip to Hawaii, hanging around the pool, surrounded by pretty ladies.” His attention is drawn by a girl in a red bikini, stretched out on a towel in the middle of the grassy courtyard.

  My eyebrow lifts. “An annual gathering of the Daylight Holdings CEOs is newsworthy?”

  For Star Magazine maybe, but it’s a bit of a stretch for a respectable paper like The Times.

  “Everything about the company is,” he says, smiling. His face goes somber. “Though certainly even more so when that annual retreat lands on the anniversary of the tragic school shooting that killed…” He pauses. “You do know about that, right?”

  Damn it. Another gaping hole in my research. A massive one. Although I’d read enough to know of how the incident affected Mason and his partners, I didn’t make the connection with the date.

  Today’s date.

  Twenty-eight teens, slaughtered, before the gunman shot the teacher, and then turned the rifle on himself.

  “But the retreat itself is nothing new,” I say, trying to regain my footing in the conversation, but feeling out of my depth. “So why come to Hawaii? Are you working on an article about hedge funds?”

  I know about enough of them to fill in any blanks in his story—though I doubt he’d care for a woeful tale about the companies that refused to hire me as a day trader. If not for my new position at Daylight Holdings, I’d consider pitching him a feminist-charged piece on misogyny in the workplace. Sure to get me axed.

  He shrugs. “Not exactly.” He glances over at the pool where a few people are gathered around the bar. One of the men waves at Buck, which he acknowledges with a slight lift of his chin. “You’ll run into a few of us over the next couple of days. The partners are known to unveil new business strategies, or sometimes even make a major trade during the retreat.” Another wave from the bar, this time by a pretty blonde I recognize as a news anchor from New York. “We’re all just trying to avoid being scooped—so this retreat has become traditional. It ends up being more of a party.”

  And slightly manipulative on Mason’s part.

  From what I’ve already learned about Daylight Holdings, the partners have built a successful business model by remaining mysterious, recluse, and strategic.

  The media flocks to this resort practically salivating for a big story, which ensures the major players are too distracted by what’s happening with Daylight Holdings to care about the competition. Clever.

  Buck takes a business card out from shirt pocket and slides it next to the hot tub. “My cell is listed,” he says, leaning close. “In case there’s anything you’d ever like to discuss.”

  My chest constricts. I push the card away and press my lips together in a thin smile. “I’m afraid you’ll need to find another angle for your story. I’m not interested.”

  He climbs out of the hot tub and slips on his sandals, leaving the card on the pavement. “Keep it,” he says. “You just never know.”

  Chapter 12

  I tuck the business card into the pocket of my robe with the intent to toss it later, and sneak through the bushes to take the long route back to my room. Buck may have been easily dissuaded, but the other reporters in that group might be hungrier, or worse, more desperate, for a story. I’m not about to become the center of a media scrum.

  A quick shower to freshen up and erase the scent of chlorine from my pruned skin, and I’ll be ready to tackle more of the evening’s work.

  I weave through tourists checking in, and slip past the front desk through to the hallway. Gathering my hair in one fist, I pull it to the side and squeeze out the excess water. The air shifts—tenses—and I know before I even look up that Mason is hovering outside my suite. Our eyes connect, and fuck me if steam isn’t blowing from his ears. He’s pissed.

  His eyes are hard, cold. The set of his jaw is rigid. I tighten the robe around me to ease the chill that slips beneath the collar and causes me to shiver. “Hey,” I say, tentative. “Is everything alright?”

  “I saw you.”

  My voice catches. “In the hot tub?” Unease settles in my chest. Is he upset about me being in there for a few short minutes? “I was waiting for you, but you never called or came by the room. I just took a short break to refresh before my next push. It is a tropical paradise, after all. Right?” I try and take the edge off with a smile.

  “You have no business talking to that man,” he replies frostily.

  “Which man? That guy in the hot tub? He came over to me.”

  He rakes his hand through his hair. “This is a business trip, Miss Landers and I expect you to be professional. Flirting will not be tolerated.”

  Anger thrums through me. “Flirting?” My first instinct is to apologize, but it’s quickly quashed by the realization that he has no right to question anything I do. I’m not a slave. I don’t work round the clock. So what if I took a few minutes to unwind? Dock my fucking pay.

  It all sounds logical in my mind, but I don’t say those things aloud. “Before you cast further judgment—”

  Mason cuts me off with a choppy wave toward my robe. “You’re practically naked,” he says. “If that’s what you consider professional, Miss Landers, perhaps I’ve given you too much leeway here.”

  Now I’m pissed. “You bought me the damn bikini,” I say, spitting with rage. “You know full well this isn’t the kind of bathing suit I’d wear, but you bought it anyway. If you didn’t want me to put it on, why the hell did you buy it in the first place?”

  I bracket my hands on my hips and the robe falls open.

  Mason’s eyes burn into my skin, lingering on the swell of my breasts. My erect nipples poke through the thin lycra that is wet and almost sheer. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

  “I’d advise you to watch your tone,” he says.

  I bite back a sarcastic rep
ly that would all but secure my fate with Daylight Holdings. My body vibrates with anger and frustration, but I know better than to erupt. It’s obvious Mason is boiling hot over nothing.

  “That guy wasn’t hitting on me,” I say. I take out the business card and turn it over in my palm, pointing to Buck’s name. “He’s a reporter with the New York Times.”

  Mason’s face turns crimson now. He snatches the card from my hand and crumples it into a ball. He leans in close. “Never,” he says, through grit teeth. “Under any circumstance, talk to reporters.

  My stomach twists into knots. “I didn’t say anything to him!”

  “But you should have known not to talk to him at all.” His voice is low, ominous.

  “Okay.” A pause and then. “Okay.” A tremor of restless anticipation rocks me to the core. My voice softens to barely a whisper. “What happens now?”

  Wicked intent flashes behind his eyes, and I know even without confirmation what comes next.

  Chapter 13

  In one smooth motion, Mason uses his keycard to unlock his suite. He tugs me inside, in the process jerking open my robe to reveal the goose bumps that form ridges along my skin. A shiver rolls up and down my spine.

  His eyes darken. “Take it off,” he says, gruffly.

  I want to refuse, or at least be the kind of girl who wants to refuse.

  But I’m not.

  The truth is I’m relieved.

  No, I’m beyond relieved.

  I’m ecstatic that it’s happening again. I’m soaking wet for it and nothing’s even really occurred yet.

  I slide the robe off my shoulders and it drops to the floor, leaving me near naked in the center of the large, dimly lit room. Thick curtains are drawn against the windows, and burgundy and gold bedding drapes across a bed that looks impossibly bigger than a king-size.