BILLIONAIRE Island: Idyllic Mischief (4 page)

Sasha laughed. “Probably distracted by two women operating a vehicle without any controller protector
men
.” She was pumped and exhilarated by the outback journey, lurching around soot-belching buses and the zillion bicyclists, making the hairpin beach road even more perilous. It was obvious why she drove an old car, the suspension would be gone before the duty free. Indie watched as the hills gathered into steep jungle-covered pinnacles towards the interior. An Indian in a scarlet sari trimmed with gold sashayed along the road with a four foot high pile of wood on her head, balanced without the use of her arms. Sasha's house was in the ritzy neighborhood of Grand Bay on the northern tip. It had taken only an hour to drive from the southern tip of the island to the opposite end and soon she turned up a single track almost buried in a wild tangle of trees and brush that scratched spitefully at the car.

“I really ought to get this all cut back. So much to manage, so little time,” she said as she pressed down on a small fob and two tall iron-red painted metal gates swung regally apart on a huge circular garden with a sky blue pool in the middle surrounded by showers of pink, red and white flowers. Set back into the blossom covered foliage, a two story house with a long, covered veranda running the full length and full length French door windows from each of the many rooms.

“Wow, your home is absolutely stunning,” Indie whispered, truly impressed by the almost decadent beauty, relaxed and at home in the enveloping heat. The dogs, the little girls, the manservant all came hurtling out of the house to jump on them- the dogs on Indie, the girls on Sash and the boy on the bags. Sasha satisfied by her friend's awe, shooed everyone away, the girls back to the ayah and strode across the grass, leaving Indie to follow behind to the plush chairs on the veranda where the ice bucket was waiting.

“You must be parched after that long haul,” she said, popping the cork without spilling a drop. “I cannot believe you flew solo, I always, always take Valium for my flight.”

“It's just so, so- beautiful doesn't even cover it,” Indie said, sipping the blistering cold fizz.

“I know it's cool,” Sasha said nonchalant, “and wait 'til you see the beach- it's just at the end of the track. We get to use the private beach at the Trouville Hotel. Tolar is friends with the owner.”

“I can see why you never want to leave here.”

“Oh, I want to, not allowed to is the prob-, shit.” Her ease disappeared at the sound of commotion inside the house.

“Don't drag the fucking furniture across the floor when you clean,” the roar shook at the shimmering tranquil garden. “How many fucking times have I told you idiots the same fucking thing?” Sasha's husband, Tolar could shout loud enough to bring the house down around our ears and Indie couldn't stop from covering back inside herself with a quake of trepidation. Shit, she'd hoped he wasn't at home, away on business.

“Hallo Sweetie,” Sasha switched from meeting Indie's eyes with a glare of meaning she didn't comprehend, to smiling adorably at her giant husband. Indie could never get over the aberration of his height and how he dwarfed everything around him, making it seem child-size.

“Darling, I have told you to get the servants to work quietly. I don't like the noise of furniture being pulled about and I don't like them yapping out back.”

“It is their home out there, Sweetie, I can hardly tell them to 'shut it' when they're off-duty.”

“It's my home and they will fucking shut it or find another place to live,” Indie cringed as Tolar's booming voice shattered around the peaceful terrace. Sasha, nonchalant as ever, must have become accustomed to what was in fact his normal speaking voice. Tolar had only one gear when it came to speaking-shouting orders. “Oh, hallo Indie. You're here, are you?” He noticed her and bent all the way down to peck her cheek. His head was the size of an ogre, his mouth a gaping gash wide enough to gorge a shovel. The skinny Indian man with molasses eyes, strong enough to bear all of Indie's suitcases at once, barely reached Tolar's wide waist. Greeting over, he turned back to his wife. “Tell them Willy and Horst are coming for dinner so they know to make enough meat, they never cook enough fucking meat, idiot black religious fanatics.”

Indie's eyes widened, expecting a tirade from Sasha against the racial slur, seeing as she was half black herself. She acted as though she hadn't heard.

“That's okay, Indie and I are going out for dinner so you should have enough.”

“Darling, you aren't going out again,” Tolar announced, a touch of menace in his voice making Indie quiver again. She just could not settle into relax and loosen the tension when he was around.

“Of course we are, Sweetie,” Sasha smiled breezily up at him. “It's Indie's first night and I want to welcome her. We haven't seen each other for ages and I don't want to inflict Willy and Horst immediately.” Indie was about to say it was okay, she didn't mind, but the couple had locked eyes in silent battle, Sasha smiling sweeter than fields of sugar cane, Tolar roiling around within as though trying to reach a decision.

“Okay, you go tonight for Indie's arrival but tomorrow you stay home with me.” He turned and strode back into his house.

“Whatthefuck was that about?” Indie mouthed at Sasha.

She shrugged and looked back over her shoulder so Indie knew she didn't want to say anything because the walls obviously had ears. “Take a shower and rest up for an hour,” was all she said. “We'll leave at eight.”

Chapter Four

Indie was too super-stimulated from the long journey and a glowing new world to sleep, so she went for a swim and after a shower was completely reinvigorated. She slipped into the short black sheath of dress she'd bought at Liberty in London before leaving, an entire day's salary (a very good salary) for barely a yard of fabric. The value was all in the drape. The dress hovered miraculously on her curves, dipping in back with a deep swathe almost to her waist, while somehow cupping her untethered boobs in a sensuous lick of black silk jersey. The tiniest underwear so as not to ruin the effect with ridging around the middle and a screaming high pair of black silk peep-toe heels was all she needed to finish getting dressed.

“Wow.” Sasha threw open the door and strode into the room. “Great dress, we just need to get you a tan on those ghostly legs.” True, her skin was pallid as she hadn't been in any mood to hit the beach that summer.

“Wow yourself, girlfriend.” Sash was wearing a tight white dress that emphasized her statuesque height and set off her coffee cream smooth skin. Her ubiquitous four and a half inch heels made her an Amazonian Goddess and as usual, they managed to balance and complement each other perfectly. There could never be any competition between women so completely opposite in physique. They offered something for everyone. Occasionally some wanted everything, but that had only caused a problem once, and it was a long time ago.

Sasha strode past her husband and his friends, stationed on the terrace with drinks.

“Roxana is coming by with her girlfriends later,” Tolar shouted, trying to bait Sasha who ignored him and went straight to the car, parked behind two larger wagons.

“You're driving?” Indie said. “Are you des tonight?” Des was their abbreviation for designated driver.

“Don't worry about it, the cops are laid back here.”

Indie slipped in beside her, the dress just barely long enough to cover her ass, giving her a thrill at the secret exposure of inner thigh. “Who's Roxana?”

“I told you about her, after you, you know-like you. Same thing happened to her- her husband beat her up.” Sasha seemed more uncomfortable than Indie with the subject of violent husbands so Indie left it alone.

When the two women walked into the buzzy restaurant, there was a brief lull in the room as everyone took a gape before continuing with their dinner. Sasha stood at the hostess stand like Venus de Milo and in moments, a man appeared from within to greet her, taking her wrist in his hand, grazing the backs of his fingers across the side of her buttock as he kissed her cheek. She smiled happily as she received his adoration and Indie knew immediately what had kept her from the meeting in London.

“Patrice, this is my friend, Indie, I told you about. Indie, this is Patrice, he owns this joint.”

“Welcome Indie, you just arrived I believe.” He leaned forward for the customary French greeting.

“Hi Patrice, some joint,” Indie received his kiss kiss without the intimate hand clasp. He was older, maybe late forties, like Sasha liked them, but he was a stunningly well-built and handsome man, rugged, with a finger-tempting swish of blonde hair, tan and supremely at ease with himself. The hazel eyes dancing with delight at the presence of his amour only added to his charm.

“Busy tonight, do you have a table hidden somewhere for us?” Sasha said, coyly, knowing full well he had the best reserved for her.

He led them to a window table with candles and flowers on the white linen, laid with designer silverware and painted chargers. As soon as he'd pulled out each chair and settled them, a waiter was at the table bearing a tray with a pair of cocktails.

“Passion fruit margaritas,” Patrice said as he took the glasses from the silver tray and presented each with a flourish. “I will open the champagne immediately, Mademoiselle.”

“Thank you Patrice.” Sasha was positively on fire with the glow she was putting out. The whole room could tell in an instant what Indie had already guessed.

“Okay you, spill,” Indie said as soon as Patrice retreated to his duties as host. “What's going on between you and Olivier Martinez?”

“That's why we're here, I couldn't wait for you to meet him,” she whispered across the table. “Isn't he divine?”

“What's he doing calling you Mademoiselle? Does he know you're married?”

“Of course he knows. Everybody knows everything about everybody on the damn island. He's French, he doesn't care.”

“Tolar isn't French though. Does he care?”

“Fuck yes. He's got me tied to the house so tight now. He only let me out tonight 'cause he knows I have to keep an eye on you.”

“So I'm your cover story?”
Indie's eyes bulged at the stunning plates of hot crab positioned before them. The dinner was Michelin star amazing and the bill would be a fortune. She wasn't going to be able to keep up at this level for three months.

“Don't worry, Patrice won't charge us,” Sasha said, throwing back her cocktail and washing it down with champagne.

“I can't live off you and your lover for three months,” Indie hissed.

“Don't worry, I told you. Tolar won't even notice and anyways I need you here.”

“What for?”

“Back up.”

After dinner they moved to a pair of black leather stools at the long black glass bar and the music pumped up for late night dancing.

Sasha filled Indie in on how she'd fallen for Patrice when, bored out of her mind when Tolar was traveling, she sat at this very bar and ordered dinner three nights in a row and they got talking.

“One thing led to another thing then another and soon we were meeting almost every afternoon on his sailboat, away from the prying eyes. And I have to tell you it was the hottest freaking sex I have ever had in my life, the man is a maniac with his tongue. Come on let's dance.” The girlfriends had always enjoyed their reputation for dominating the dance floor with some girl action. They gave themselves over totally to the music and pumping out a sexual rhythm, twirling around each other with a few provocative moves that never failed to get onlooking guys stirring more than their martinis. A bunch of new arrivals flooded the floor and Indie found herself dancing with first one stubbled French hunk then another.
Hmm, easy to see what Sasha meant when she said everything here was gorgeous.

After a good hour of loosening up her body at long last, Indie was parched and moved back to the seat at the bar. Sasha was nowhere to be seen so she downed a glass of water and then the chilled fresh champagne the bartender magicked in front of her.

“Slow down. No one's gonna steal it.” A way too smart, deep French voice said right beside her ear. The closeness of his cheek and whisper of breath made her neck tingle. Who the hell did he think he was? She turned on her seat to face the real Oliver Martinez, no not the real one, but the same wide Gallic jaw and melting dark eyes, strong nose, slick black hair on a base of broad shoulders in a tight tee shirt, sizzling white in the dark nightclub. her inner thighs quivered and he looked down at her legs, bare all the way to the mound.
Jesus, I should have considered buying a less risque sliver of dress. I've got it all out on display like a vendor at the fruit market
.

“I'm thirsty actually. I've been dancing.”

“Well let me quench your thirst,” he said, leaning one arm on the bar and his torso a little too close to her cleavage that was rising and falling a little too rapidly, even if she had been dancing up a typhoon for an hour.

“Oh, no thanks,” Indie said. “I have to go find my friend.” Before he could dissuade her, she picked up the last dregs in the flute and moved out on the floor. Slithering her way into the middle of the throng to dance slowly, eyes closed, holding the glass in one hand like a shield. Her heart was still pounding from the fucking stunning face that kept rising up in her vision. He was so damn sexy and so damn sure of it.

She was not in the mood for fending off lotharios who wanted to score models and then compete with them. Men who loved themselves for their physique were a major drag to be around. You had to be constantly buoying up their egoic sense of themselves and Indie was there to relax, not make some island stud feel hot. The men on the dance floor swam up to dance beside her for a while, moving on when they realized she wasn't returning their lascivious stares and attempts to brush rub her. That was fine. Attention was good for her sore heart, anything more was too much.

Sasha was still completely vanished, taking another tour of the upstairs apartment no doubt as Patrice was also nowhere to be seen.

Indie made her way back to the bathroom, feeling blindfold in the totally black glass room lit by tiny yellow sconces buried into the wall like a medieval dungeon. She fixed her lipstick and slithered the sheath dress down over the curve of her hips, trying to get a smidge more coverage. And was wiggling away, admiring how the dress made her body look MTV hot, when the black glass reflection behind her shivered as the stall door was thrown open and
he
came out. The gorgeous alpha  did a double take and looked on fascinated at Indie's hands smoothing across her pelvic region.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Indie blurted, flaring red with embarrassment.

“Same as you, I guess. This is mans and woman’s washroom,” he said in that liquid gravel french accent. “We are not so uptights like Americans here.”

“Good for you.”
Yeah great, bozo. Do you usually get you what you're after by insulting a girl? Actually I bet you do.
He could probably get any girl he wanted.
Her discomfort wasn't backing down, thanks to the barely covered mound between her thighs, sparking off with eager tension at the guy's sheer sexual magnetism. “Excuse me.” She walked past, careful not to brush against him as he set his bulk without moving aside for her and left him gazing into the black mirror, sure he'd be there for an hour.

Back at the bar, another full flute was placed before her.

“I will get that one, Sebbo.” There he was again, edging his way between the crowd at the bar to stand pressed up close beside her, leaning over her, trapped on the high stool.

“Don't bother,” she said. “My friend knows the owner.”

“That's okay.” He nodded his instruction at the bartender. “I know the owner too.” Not like she does, Indie thought. “Who's your friend?” Indie told him, sure he wouldn't know her.

“Ah yeah, the wife of that big German?”

“Er yes, do you know her?”

“I've seen her water-ski, she's good. So how long are you staying in Mauritius?”

“I arrived today and my return flight is in three months.”
Fuck, I can hardly speak the way he's looking down at me, his mouth is barely inches from mine.
Th
e press of the crowd forced them closer and was making her so hot it was hard to draw a breath. The crush was making her heart pound, maybe she'd suddenly developed claustrophobia or something.

“That's a very long vacation,” he said. “Maybe we'll get to know each other better.”
In your dreams
.

“So what do you do?” Indie asked, wriggling on the stool pretending to adjust her dress to get some distance from him. He gazed down hungry with admiration at the shift of her shapely legs.

“I, er, work in a hotel,” he replied, still staring at the naked thighs with a satisfied grin.
Eyes up asshole.

“That must be interesting, meeting people, um, hard work?” Shit, she shouldn't have let him buy her drink. Hotel staff made almost no money. Her gorgeous hunk of busboy had just blown a day's wages for nothing.

“Hard work, yes, I don't know about interesting- people are always leaving. You didn't tell me your name yet.”

“No I didn't.” Indie gazed back into his plundering eyes, determined not to be swept off by the needy pulsing deep in her core. Yes, he was gorgeous and her heart was doing a tango in her chest from having him press just a little too close to her in the crush, but he was way too sure of himself and she was way too sore at men to feel like taking on a handful like- “You didn't tell me yours either.”

“You first.” Indie raised her eyebrows like; 'That's all you got?'

“Okay. Hi, Monsieur Mystery, I'm Indiana.” She reached her hand out for a formal introduction.

“Indie-Anna, like Polly-Anna?” He took her hand in both his large ones and the tango in her chest dipped a deep lunge.

“Yes, exactly like Pollyanna. Most people call me Indie, sometimes India, and can I have my hand back?” He had no idea how much she was about to be the Pollyanna.

“Sorry, I was getting comfortable holding on to it,” he said, dark eyes glistening. Uh-huh, way too sure of his power and that voice, the creamy French accent could read The Ten Commandments and make it sound dirty.

The press of people at the bar had thinned as the hour progressed around toward dawn. A hand touched her attentive new friend's ripped shoulder and he turned to engage in a rabble of furious conversation that her high school French was simply not up to. Jesusfreakingchrist was there a single person on this far-flung heaven that wasn't eye-popping delicious? The new arrival was a slightly smaller version of French candy, same taut muscles under tight tee only in a more compact package. Swept back light brown hair and exceptionally deep eyes of a color hovering around sea green. Indie had never seen two more divine hunks of man go at it and she was after all used to working with male models fairly regularly. Those primpers rarely engage in heated discussion or take the time to seduce a girl, they're too busy looking in the mirror. People outside the industry think it's a stereotype, but us girls joked about it all the time- there is something vastly unattractive about a man who can only love his reflection.