Chapter 5
FIVE
Callie definitely preferred Thomas to the male strippers.
She’d seen a number of the performers up close—really close, since the resort had given them prime seats in Club Carnal—so she was in an enviable position to judge.
Yes, their muscles bulged. Yes, their chests were as smooth as that silky passion fruit crème anglaise she’d had with dessert.
Yes, they could thrust their hips with startling vigor, at an impressive frequency, and without any signs of tiring, not even after pretending to be dance-loving, clothing-averse firefighters for several impressive, athletic minutes.
And yes, maybe that Clark Kent-esque one with the glasses and the tearaway shirt and bowtie—not to mention the gleaming, tree-trunk thighs—would have turned her crank a week ago.
But Clark Kent didn’t freeze in place and stop speaking mid-word when he first saw her dressed for the evening.
He didn’t tell her she looked like an queen in her goddess dress and gladiator sandals, or marvel at how she’d tamed her hair into a twist. He didn’t listen to every word she said at dinner as if she were an oracle predicting the fate of humanity.
He didn’t drop his fork on the floor when she smiled at him.
Clark Kent didn’t check to make sure she was comfortable seeing the strip show before it began. He didn’t sit beside her during that strip show without any evidence of discomfort or attempts to reaffirm his heterosexuality.
Clark Kent was hot, no doubt about it, but his glasses didn’t make him look like an ancient history professor who’d prompt a stampede of hungry admirers to return to college, or perhaps a lit professor whose handsome, gentle face would inspire a thousand sonnets, all composed during class.
And his suit didn’t skim the slim, strong lines of his frame in a way that made her want to explore such gorgeous, unfamiliar terrain in detail, in privacy, and in totality. While naked.
So she didn’t want Clark Kent. She wanted Thomas. More than she’d ever imagined she could.
When the club DJ played the first slow song after the end of the strip show, Thomas stood. He reached out a hand and invited Callie to dance with him. And when she accepted, he folded her into his arms and cradled her like a priceless artifact made of glass.
They were swaying to Morcheeba, one of the group’s older tracks, the gentle, seductive warmth of Skye Edwards’s voice a partner in the dance. Callie looped her arms around Thomas’s neck, the better to draw him close. Preferably, as close as her next breath. And his hands…
Oh, goodness. One of them was braced, firm and warm, on her back. Supporting her. Guiding her away from other oblivious couples and the tables edging the dance floor.
But the other hand…it was playing at the nape of her neck. Stroking. Kneading softly. Tracing the fine wisps of hair that had escaped her updo.
She was on the verge of combustion, despite a hazy awareness of the cameras filming their every move.
As the song continued, he nearly tripped over a speaker wire, and his sway slowed to a near stop. But he nudged her away from that same wire, and those gentle, talented hands of his didn’t falter for a moment.
She got it. Finally, she got it.
When Thomas concentrated on something, on someone, the rest of his world disappeared.
At the library, that meant she worked alone, even as she worked beside him.
On the ferry to Parrot Cay, that meant he was paying so much attention to her, he nearly fell overboard.
Here, in her arms, it meant he was so focused on holding her that he forgot to watch his feet, or even move them.
He wanted her. This strong, sweet, protective man who’d made her laugh dozens of times during dinner and couldn’t seem to do anything in a hurry.
She sincerely hoped that applied to foreplay too.
When the music faded, he spoke into her ear. “It’s getting late. Do you want to go back to our room?”
Oh, yes. She really did.
He held her hand as they said good night to the crew. All the way to the elevator, all the way down the hall to their door. But when they got inside their room, he gave her fingers a squeeze and let them go.
He beamed that sweet, affectionate smile her way. “May I take a shower first?”
To her shock, he gathered what he needed and shut the bathroom doors behind him. The sound of running water began moments later.
He’d left her with no kiss. No loaded glances. No seductive invitation to join him in the shower.
Had she misunderstood everything? Mistaken on-camera flirtation and the affectionate gestures of a friend for something different?
She was still standing there frozen, just inside the room, when he emerged from the bathroom minutes later, dressed in a thin white tee and drawstring pajama bottoms.
“Your turn.” He smiled at her again. “We have a tour scheduled early in the morning, so we should get some sleep. You must be exhausted.” Then he flipped back the covers on his side of the bed and climbed inside, turning so his back was to her and his voice was muffled when he spoke again.
“Thank you for a truly wonderful day, Callie. One of the best I’ve ever had. ”
She’d hoped for a truly wonderful night too. One of the best she’d ever had.
But it appeared that wasn’t going to happen, so she choked out a pro forma but honest reply. “Same here.”
In a sudden, embarrassed hurry, she kicked off her shoes, grabbed a nightgown from her suitcase, walked to the bathroom, and closed the doors behind her. The dress she hung on a hook to prevent wrinkles. The bra and panties she kicked to the corner.
A quick shower washed away the glowy goddess makeup she’d applied earlier that evening and the grime inevitable after a day of travel. The body jets pummeled her skin until she felt raw, and even the soft towels provided by the hotel abraded her oversensitive flesh.
Her hair unraveled after the removal of a few strategic bobby pins, falling around her shoulders. The simple shift nightgown floated over her head, and there she was in the mirror.
Not an queen.
Just Callie. Confused and worried, with dark circles under her eyes and a furrow pinched between her brows.
She braced herself before opening the bathroom door. But just like the previous night, only her bedside lamp was illuminated, Thomas had turned his back to her, and he wasn’t moving or speaking.
Asleep or feigning it.
It didn’t really matter which. Even if he was faking, she clearly didn’t have the ovaries to press him on it.
So instead of whispering his name, as she’d done the previous night, she simply climbed into the empty side of the bed, turned out her light, and resigned herself to another restless night in which Thomas remained simultaneously too close and too far.
* * *
Gladys was listing the afternoon’s itinerary, her voice rising above the sound of the boat’s engine and the splash of waves against its two hulls.
“Upon our arrival on Renaissance Island, we’ll immediately take a private tour of the grounds and facilities.
Then, after we check in, you two will go parasailing, followed by dinner at Seaside Steaks restaurant. After dinner, you have tickets to—”
Callie nodded automatically, her mind elsewhere.
Just minutes ago, they’d completed a very risqué tour of Thongs—which had included an illuminating stop at the very special adult toy store on the island—and boarded a catamaran ferry to the third and final island they’d visit.
Renaissance Island. The entire reason she’d applied to Island Match.
Under a cloudless sky, the boat was skimming over the water, full of laughing tourists and amiable crew members. The sun’s reflection off the whitecaps seared into her retinas, and the breeze tempered the heat of a summer day off the coast of Florida.
Somewhere over the horizon, their destination waited.
She should be excited. Carefree. Marking every word Gladys said with strict attention.
But Callie had already reviewed the schedule that morning. She didn’t really need to listen. Which was convenient, since she wasn’t listening. Couldn’t listen. Not with Thomas so near and her mind so cluttered.
He stood behind her, his butt propped against the wooden rail, his arms looped around her waist and her body tucked into the curve of his. It seemed to be a protective position, as if he were attempting to ensure she didn’t get jostled and tumble overboard.
Which, to be honest, she found sort of hilarious. If anyone was going to fall off the boat and into the ridiculously blue water, he was the most likely candidate. No question about it.
Still, she appreciated the gesture. And since that ridiculously blue water matched his eyes exactly, she was also experiencing a pleasant sense of vindication. She snapped a quick picture of the water to send Cowan and Irene later that day.
“Look at me for a moment,” she whispered to Thomas.
He did, and she snapped a photo of his eyes.
Uh-huh. Perfect match.
Gladys paused. “Did you hear that last bit, Callie?”
Nope. “Yup.”
That fleeting moment of victory past, her worries crept back into her thoughts.
By the time she surfaced and took conscious stock of her surroundings once more, Gladys had finished talking and gone elsewhere.
So had the hair and makeup woman. Other than the camera operators and boom mic guy, Callie and Thomas were alone at the rail.
He was turning her in his arms and nudging her chin upwards with a single, careful fingertip. He studied her face, his high forehead creased with worry.
“Are you okay?” The words were a quiet murmur, pitched too low for the mic. “You seem…not entirely present.”
Well, of all people, he would know how that felt.
She too kept her voice quiet. “Was it obvious I wasn’t listening?”
“Not really. Other than when you took your pictures, I don’t think Gladys noticed.” Those startling blue eyes searched hers. “You made all the right responses, but you didn’t sound like yourself. What’s going on?”