Chapter 8
Camille
I've lost count of how many times Alexander and I have had sex over the past three days. The project has consumed our days—selecting materials, reviewing lighting plans, coordinating with vendors—but our nights (and occasional office hours) have become a different kind of work entirely.
The lines between professional and personal have blurred beyond recognition, and I've stopped pretending to myself that I can keep them separate.
What started as a catastrophic interview has somehow morphed into the most intensive design project of my career.
.. and the most intense sexual experience of my life.
Right now, I'm hunched over a scale model of the resort's main restaurant, adjusting tiny furniture pieces with tweezers.
Alexander stands across the table, reviewing supply chain updates on his tablet.
My body hums with a pleasant soreness that reminds me of last night—of his hands pinning my wrists above my head, of his voice in my ear telling me exactly where he wanted me.
"The limestone shipment arrived early," he says without looking up. "And the custom light fixtures for the lobby cleared customs yesterday."
"That puts us almost a week ahead of schedule," I reply, carefully placing a miniature banquette against the model's wall. When I glance up, I catch him watching me, that intense green gaze making my skin flush. It's still unnerving how quickly he can affect me with just a look.
"Your redesign of the construction sequence saved us considerable time." His voice carries that matter-of-fact tone he uses when delivering facts rather than compliments. "The team's implementation has been efficient."
Coming from Alexander Kingsley, this is practically effusive praise. I try not to look too pleased as I straighten up, smoothing my blouse with hands that still tremble slightly whenever he's near.
"The craftsmen have been incredible to work with," I say. "They understood the vision immediately."
"They understood your vision," he corrects, setting his tablet down. "Don't deflect credit, Camille. It's unattractive."
I bite my lip against a smile. Even his criticisms somehow feel like compliments now.
He walks around the table, stopping beside me, close enough that I can feel his heat but not quite touching. "The textural contrasts you've created between the handwoven elements and the polished stone will be striking. It's exactly the feel I wanted for this property.”
My chest warms with pride. This isn't just sex talking. Alexander doesn't hand out professional praise unless it's earned.
"Thank you," I say simply, resisting the urge to lean into him.
He reaches past me to adjust one of the model pieces, his arm brushing mine. "We've covered substantial ground faster than anticipated. At this rate, we could finalize the interior plans before returning to New York."
I nod, trying to ignore the strange pang in my chest at the mention of returning to New York.
Of course this arrangement has an expiration date.
The project will be completed, and we'll go back to our separate lives—him to his billionaire empire, me to my small design firm with its much less glamorous clients.
"I've arranged something for this evening," he says, interrupting my thoughts. "A sunset catamaran sail."
I look up at him, surprised. "Really?"
"It’s for research," he explains, his expression giving nothing away. "I need to know which company to recommend to our high-end clientele. The experience needs to be impeccable."
"Oh." I try to hide my disappointment. Of course it's just business. "That makes sense."
His finger traces a small circle on the table, just inches from my hand. "The boat leaves at 5:30. Wear something comfortable. And bring a light jacket—it gets cooler on the water after sunset."
"Should I prepare anything? Any specific aspects of the experience you want me to evaluate?" I ask, slipping back into professional mode.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Just be ready to tell me if it meets Kingsley standards."
He turns away, moving toward the door with that confident stride that somehow makes even walking look authoritative. At the threshold, he pauses, glancing back. "I'll meet you at the marina. Don't be late."
And then he's gone, leaving me staring after him, heart hammering in my chest.
Is this a date? Or just another work assignment? With Alexander, the lines are impossible to draw.
I spend an embarrassing amount of time in my suite trying to decide what to wear.
"Comfortable" could mean anything. My professional wardrobe isn't exactly filled with sailing attire, and I certainly didn't pack for romantic evenings on the water when I was frantically throwing clothes into my suitcase.
After discarding half a dozen options across my bed, I settle on a breezy blue sundress that brings out my eyes, pairing it with flat sandals that won't slip on a wet deck. I let my hair down from its usual work-appropriate style, the Caribbean humidity instantly transforming it into beachy waves.
As I reapply my makeup, I can't help but laugh at myself in the mirror. "It's research, Camille," I say aloud. "Not a date. Stop acting like a teenager."
But there's no denying the flutter in my stomach as I grab a light cardigan and my phone. Whatever Alexander wants to call it, the prospect of watching the sunset with him—away from contracts and material samples and construction timelines—fills me with nervous excitement.
The walk to the marina takes me along a winding path through lush tropical gardens.
The evening air is warm against my skin, carrying the scent of flowers and salt water.
I spot Alexander before he sees me—tall and commanding even in more casual clothes, speaking with a man who must be the boat captain.
He's wearing crisp linen pants and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing those forearms that have become an unexpected obsession of mine.
The setting sun gilds his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the slight silver at his temples.
My steps falter momentarily as desire pools low in my belly.
This is ridiculous. I've had this man in every way possible over the past three days.
I've tasted every inch of him, felt him inside me, cried out in the dark as he sent waves of pleasure through me.
Yet somehow, seeing him like this—outlined against the golden evening sky, waiting for me—feels more intimate than anything we've done in bed.
When he turns and spots me, his expression shifts almost imperceptibly—a slight softening around the eyes, a subtle parting of the lips. Anyone else might miss it, but I've learned to read the micro-expressions that breach his careful control.
"There you are," he says as I approach, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that makes me feel both exposed and appreciated. "Right on time."
"I’d never keep you waiting," I reply, and then feel stupid for saying it that way.
Don’t be so damn eager, Camille.
His hand brushes the small of my back as he guides me toward the gleaming white catamaran bobbing gently in the water. "The captain assures me this will be the perfect evening for a sail," he says, his voice low near my ear. "Clear skies, gentle breeze."
I nod, too aware of his touch to form coherent thoughts. The captain welcomes us aboard with a wide smile, explaining safety procedures and the evening's route while we listen with polite attention.
As we cast off, moving away from the dock into the open water, I can't help but wonder what tonight might bring. With Alexander Kingsley, I've learned to expect the unexpected—and to crave whatever comes next.
As the catamaran slices through turquoise water, the twin hulls create a gentle rocking rhythm. I stand at the bow, hair whipping around my face as we pick up speed, the late afternoon sun warming my skin. Alexander stands behind me, not touching me but close enough that I can feel him there.
This definitely doesn't feel like research. This feels like something I'd imagined in girlhood dreams about romance—the kind of fantasy I'd long since abandoned for more practical aspirations.
"First time on a catamaran?" The captain's voice carries over the sound of water and wind. He's a sun-weathered local named Roger with laugh lines etched deep around his eyes and an easy smile that suggests he genuinely loves his job.
"Yes, sir," I call back, unable to keep the delight from my voice.
"Then you're in for a treat, Ms. Montclair." He gestures toward the horizon. "We'll head out to that point, then circle back as the sun sets. Best view in Antigua."
Alexander moves beside me, his arm brushing against mine. "Roger’s company comes highly recommended."
"Better than those tourist traps," Roger laughs, adjusting the sail with practiced ease. "Mr. Kingsley asked for authentic, and authentic is what you'll get."
I glance at Alexander, wondering when he found time to research sailing companies and make these arrangements. The thought that he put personal effort into planning this evening sends a warm flutter through my chest.
As we settle into the sail, Roger points out landmarks and shares bits of island history. Alexander listens with the same focused attention he gives to business meetings, occasionally asking questions that reveal he's genuinely interested, not just being polite.
"I've prepared a little something below deck," Roger announces after we've been sailing for about half an hour. "Feel free to help yourselves whenever you're ready."
Alexander guides me to the netted lounge area at the front of the boat where Roger has laid out what can only be described as a feast—a wooden board overflowing with cheeses, tropical fruits, and fresh seafood, accompanied by an ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne.
"This is incredible," I say as Alexander pours two glasses of champagne.