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Tempting Isabel
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Details can be found in the
Author’s Note
at the end of
Tempting Isabel
. Until then, enjoy your journey through Book 1 and I’ll see ya after the HEA!

To Sara, Shiv, and VK, my
ever-guides
.

And to my two suns and moons, AC and KC, who have supported the writing of this series, day and night, night and day.

CHAPTER 1

H
ead down, Zachary
James held up his index finger and tapped his empty glass. “Another scotch please, José.”

“José’s gone for the night, Mr. James. I’m Angel.”

Zack lifted his gaze. The sensual rasp in the sweet rolling Castilian accent had come to his ears through dark lush lips. A spectacular Spanish beauty. But even she couldn’t hold his focus. Tonight his attentions were strictly geared to the highball glass in his hands.

“Nice to meet you, Angel. The
top-shelf
Dalton, please. On the rocks.”

“Of course, Mr. James. José told me—and he’d also said to take very special care of you.” Probably due to the hefty tips he’d thrown down since he’d gotten to the resort’s outdoor patio bar overlooking the beach and the bay. He inhaled the sea air coming in off the water thinking how the warm Vallarta breeze was no doubt better than his suite’s artificially chilled and recycled air stream. And the fact that his penthouse
mini-bar
didn’t come with someone to pour.

No. He rubbed his temples. No interest, not tonight.

He nodded his thanks as Angel poured the liquid amber. A soothing sound, scotch over crackling cubes of ice. It almost soothed his despondent mind, but not quite.

Then from the other direction, an obnoxious slurping sound met his ear. A new bar mate.
Perfect
. Zack clenched his jaw tight and consciously made no eye contact whatsoever with the other man who grabbed a bar stool to join Zack.

Without a “please,” the guy ordered a new drink from the buxom bartender who went down the way to grab a bottle of the
low-end
choice.

Meanwhile, the man stared at Zack. “Jet lag?” A thick Jersey accent, or was it Brooklyn?

“Jet lag’s an understatement,” Zack said, calling up a polite smile while hoping like hell that would be the first and last response he’d have to give the guy, or anyone for that matter, for the rest of the night.

He had landed in Puerto Vallarta from Bangkok via Abu Dhabi just before sunset, and now, as twilight swallowed the Bay of Banderas on the Pacific coast of Mexico, he intended to dwell on or drown out the resounding monotony that had hit him two days before on the far side of the world. And so far neither option, the dwelling nor the drowning, was working worth a damn.

“I’m Johnnie. Just got here for some much needed leisure in paradise, myself. And I’ll tell yaaa…” The guy paused with raised brows.

“Oh, uh…Zack.”
Shit.

“Cool, cool…well, I’ll tell ya Zack, those two prime specimens over there, the gorgeous redhead and her sumptuous blond friend, they’re jonesin’ hard for you, and if you don’t give ’em something, a smile with a wink or a round of shots, then I’m gonna have to. Those fine hot things are just too perfect a pair of pussy to let go to waste.”

Zack winced at the guy’s choice of words, then reluctantly expended the energy to look his interrupter in the face. The guy had to be in his early twenties, if that. Near the same age as his kid brother, Darren, who, Zack was proud to say, he’d all but raised himself. Shown him how to be a strong and respectful man, by the way. A damn good man.

This dipshit, though, was smug and cocky without merit. And that was fine, especially if it meant he’d take his arrogant ass out of Zack’s face and do what he was just threatening he’d do—go hit up the
ladies
at the end of the bar. Anyway, Zack hadn’t even noticed the supposed eyes on him, nor did he have any interest. He didn’t want to entertain, talk to, listen to, or deal with anyone, even if they were a “perfect pair of pussy.”

“Hadn’t noticed, man,” Zack said, then continued to glare at the kid to best communicate his desire for him to go the fuck away—with the girls or without them.

“I’ll take that as an official
go-head
,” the kid said, then nodded a thanks and goodbye as he slid off his barstool. Angel returned just then to pour the kid’s drink, and with no tip, no thanks, the kid took it and left.

Schmuck.

But maybe used to cheap assholes, Angel seemed unfazed by the kid’s rudeness, more confirmation as to why Zack was getting such attentive service.

“Good luck there,” she called to the kid, who threw a look over his shoulder as if to say, ‘No need, I got this,’ then continued down the length of the bar. The kid approached the two
ladies-in
-waiting with his chest puffed out, chin held high.

Hmm. This should be somewhat interesting, if not comical.
A slightly welcome break in that sudden and now lingering numbness that had hit him those two days ago.

Yeah, Zack had woken up that one morning alone, completely confused, and almost panicked—unlike the usually calm and confident Zachary James. In his haze he’d managed to dial the concierge to ask where the hell in the world he was, because he had no goddamn clue. Had the whirlwind of his fast and luxurious lifestyle finally caught up to him, spoiled him numb?

Who the fuck knew? But whatever the cause, it was affecting him physically. Even before the drinking marathon he’d begun on his jet from Abu Dhabi en route to Vallarta, his knotted gut and pounding head had caught him off guard. But his ailments rocked on and all Zack could think to do was drink more, numb the pain away. So he took another pull from his glass as he watched the kid make his move. Meanwhile, from his peripheral, he caught both gorgeous ladies beckoning Zack with searing eyes still.

Poor
kid.

“I’m glad someone’s making an effort,” Angel said as she propped her elbows up on the bar and leaned into Zack’s personal space with a bright smile and generous cleavage.

“Yeah, right. At least someone is…” He smiled graciously while keeping the
far-off
scene in view.

“Hey, this stuff’s my entertainment…and you, Mr. James, were frankly starting to bore me,” she said with a wink and a stroke across the top of his hand with her slender middle finger.

Zack only shook his head and gave her his most respectful,
thin-lined
smile. A gentle rejection. He didn’t want to be rude; she was nice. But again, he was just not in any mood for anyone.

“
Entiendo
,” she said with a single nod of her head. Then she topped off his scotch as if to say she really was cool with the
brush-off
, seemingly confident enough to take it, and then the two continued to watch the show down the way.

Too far to hear anything, he did make out a pen in the redhead’s hand. She put it to a napkin on the bar’s surface then handed it to the kid, motioning her pretty doll head back towards Zack. She was sending the kid back to where he’d come from.
Ouch.
And all the while her gaze maintained
sniper-like
focus on him, her original target.

Zack hid his smirk behind another pull from his scotch as the kid made the long, emasculating walk back down the bar.

“How’d it go?” Angel asked, absolutely
not
hiding her grin.

The young guy slapped the napkin on the bar top in front of Zack.

“It happens to the best of us,” Angel soothed. “Even to me,” she said, winking at Zack.

Zack let his lip curl as he met her gaze, fairly certain she’d never been turned down before. Likely not, she was factually hot.
But rejection builds character.
And who knew, maybe his usual spark would reignite a few drinks down the line and by the end of her shift, he’d be game. Fuck he hoped so, because he was getting worried.

The kid rolled his eyes at Zack. “Guess it’s your lucky night, dude. Your lucky fucking night…”

Luck?
Zack cleared his throat and faced the kid. “I don’t believe in luck, man.”

“Whatever, dude, call it what you want.” The kid slid the napkin—with its
hand-written
message—toward Zack. “Whatever the fuck you wanna call it, man, but this is for you.”

Zack grimaced, sighed and grabbed the napkin.
Bring your drink and your fine ass to the hot tub. Ten minutes. J&T.
He shook his head and fisted the napkin in his hand while not missing the kid’s glare from his peripheral.

“Dude, what the fuck’s your deal? Why aren’t you all over this? Are you fuckin’ gay?”

“No man, I’m straight…but tired. Business meetings in three countries in two days…jet lag, like you said.” The kid was entertaining, to say the least.

“Whatever, I just really resent lucky fucks like you.”

Right.
That word again. A burn rocketed up him as he took his next sip of scotch to keep his cool.

Luck.
Fuck luck.
He didn’t take that accusation lightly. Never had. Zack James worked his goddamn ass off to get where he was. He and he alone had earned his fortune, his success. And he’d be damned if he had to hear this little prick insinuate otherwise. Like this kid knew him at all. Like he knew anything about anything. “Johnnie, right?”

“Yeah, it’s Johnnie. My father’s—”

“Look, Johnnie, I don’t really care who your father is. Like I said before, I don’t believe in luck. Luck has not a goddamn thing to do with anything, not a goddamn thing to do with me.”

“Okay dude, okay…fine. But even still, it’s fucked up to take this”—he held up the napkin—“for granted, while us regular guys have to sweat and suck to get one
semi-decent
piece of pussy.”

Angel flinched then glared at the kid, a scowl forming on her
magazine-cover
face.

Zack shook his head. “Have some respect, man.”
Jesus.
Not in front of a lady.

Now it wasn’t like Zack hadn’t used such derogatory terms before to refer to a woman. In context, it’s just a part of how guys talk. But shit, not in front of a woman, classy or otherwise. There’s a line.

Johnnie was red in the face, shifting his eyes like a kid in trouble. “Sorry lady,” he muttered to Angel, then returned to Zack. “But whatever, dude. Those bitches gave me no respect, sending me back like a fucking messenger boy.”
So, not apologizing then.
“No, they don’t deserve my respect or my attention. Stupid cunts.” He mumbled the last bit under his breath, then tapped his empty glass and lifted his eyebrows at Angel.

Whoa.
Piece of pussy. Bitches. Cunts?
Then the little prick with the
big-man
talk demands another drink from Angel? The incensed woman stood in front of them, generous chest heaving—she seemed just about ready to crack a bottle over the kid’s head.

A disgust, raw and real, swelled in Zack’s stomach, up into his chest, then to his already pounding head. Because beyond being in awe of his favorite woman on Earth, his mother, Zack loved and respected women. In general. He appreciated them; their strength, their spirit, their fight, their ability to juggle everything and then some, and…

…hell yes, their beauty. He loved the female form in all its splendor, including and especially their velvet folds and the sleek juncture in the divine center.

Not a cunt. Silken petals of pure perfection.

And, in all honesty in the past, he’d maybe enjoyed and taken for granted a few too many women. But he’d always treated the women he’d been with well, pleased them no doubt, and had given them his respect; from female associates in his business dealings to exotic dancers and every type of woman in between.

But this little prick! The kid was an embarrassment to men everywhere. Zack hoped he’d never sounded remotely like him, drunk or sober. This asshole had no appreciation or respect, no finesse, no class, no goddamn clue. And just in case, for any time Zack hadn’t shown enough respect to a lady, and on behalf of Angel and his mother and for other men—real men who knew better, just like Zack knew better—Zack wanted to shove his
now-empty
scotch glass so far up this guy’s ass that it reached his eye sockets. It just might provide him a clearer perspective—Johnnie needed to see through a very different lens that women were far more than the combination of their goddamn parts, or holes, as it were.

But Zack was in Mexico for two reasons, and neither of those reasons would be served from a Mexican jail cell—which he foresaw being thrown into if he did what he wanted to do to this dickhead, no matter the clout he had in Vallarta and in that resort from his years of loyal patronage. The international vacation haven of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico was still Mexico, after all.

No. Instead, he’d play to the kid’s sore spot.

“Hey, you know…you may be right, man. I mean, why the hell not?” Maybe if he could skip the small talk with the two hungry and determined ladies and sink himself into their delectable and welcoming bodies—give them the pleasure they so clearly sought— maybe that would be his jumpstart back to his usual, electrically charged existence?

Zack slid off his stool, pulled a big bill from his wallet for Angel, then kissed her hand in thanks for her service and company, albeit
short-lived
. “Maybe some other time? I’m here for several weeks yet,” he said and smiled, turning his prior rejection into a possibility. Then Zack, feeling bad for leaving poor Angel cold, and for leaving her alone with the little dickhead to his left, swept his arm wide across the bar and ‘accidentally’ knocked his unfinished scotch onto the kid’s lap.

“Sorry man. Probably gonna wanna go and change your pants now.” And without looking back, he took himself and his newfound motivation to the far end of the bar. He wouldn’t meet the two ladies at the hot tub per their written request, but rather, like a gentleman, he’d escort the two sexually assertive women to his penthouse suite for a nightcap. And would go from there.

But as he strode over to the eager ladies while Little Johnnie’s glare pierced the back of his head, he couldn’t ignore what his gut already knew. True satisfaction wouldn’t be had this way. No, it would end the same way it started. With him on empty.

The hard question––what
would
fulfill him?

What the hell
would?

BOOK: Tempting Isabel (Paradise South #1)

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