As I rush back toward my suite, I wonder what I did in a past life to deserve this karmic punishment. Whatever it was, it must have been truly terrible. Because the universe seems determined to make sure I can't spend more than five minutes in Alexander Kingsley's presence without humiliating myself in some new and creative way.
And I have an entire week of this to look forward to.
Chapter 4
Alexander
Icheck my watch as I wait for Camille to return. The memory of her standing in front of me, shirt soaked through, nipples visible against the thin fabric, threatens to distract me. I push it away. This is business, not pleasure, and that’s a boundary I’m not going to cross.
Michael returns to finish the tour with Camille but I tell him he’s not needed. He nods and heads back in the direction he came from.
Camille rounds the corner, steps faltering slightly when she sees me. She’s changed into a blue blouse that brings out the color in her eyes. It suits her. Everything about her is perfectly put together—every hair in place, her clothing adjusted just so. I find myself wondering what it would take to unravel her.
"I apologize for the delay," she says.
I push off the wall I've been leaning against. "Ready to continue?"
She nods, clutching her tablet to her chest like a shield. I notice she does this when she's nervous—uses objects as barriers between us. It's both amusing and... intriguing.
I hired her because she's talented. That's what I tell myself. Her portfolio showed vision that the other candidates lacked—a boldness tempered by practicality. But I'm not immune to the other factors: her wide blue eyes, the way she chews her bottom lip when she's thinking, the flush that creeps up her neck when she gets flustered.
That disastrous interview should have been the end of it. Any other applicant would have been dismissed without a second thought. But when I looked deeper into her designs later that evening, I couldn't get them—or her—out of my head. The way she recovered from each mortifying moment showed a resilience I respect. And when she spoke about design, everything else fell away. Her passion became undeniable.
"I've been thinking about your comment on the public spaces," she says as we walk, her voice steadier now. "I'd like to propose using local materials wherever possible. Antigua has amazing artisans working with stone and wood that would bring authenticity while maintaining luxury."
"Show me," I say, stepping closer than necessary as she pulls up reference images on her tablet.
Her scent hits me—something light and spicy. I could easily lean in, brush my lips against her exposed neck. I shouldn't be thinking about her this way. She's working for me. Not to mention, she’s young enough to be my daughter.
Yet I can't help but test her boundaries, pushing her slightly off balance. It's a dangerous game, but I enjoy playing it.
"These are preliminary ideas only," she cautions, swiping through images. Her hand trembles slightly when my arm brushes hers. "I'd want to meet with local craftspeople before finalizing anything."
"I anticipated that and I've arranged for several to visit the property tomorrow." I watch her face light up, enjoying her transparent excitement. Most people I deal with hide their emotions behind polished veneers. Her expressiveness is refreshing.
"That's perfect," she breathes, making another note on her tablet.
We continue through the property, discussing her vision for each space. I find myself watching her more than the surroundings—the way she gestures when she's excited, the thoughtful tilt of her head when considering a problem, the graceful movement of her hands as she sketches quick ideas on her tablet.
I intentionally stand close throughout the afternoon—close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in her throat when I lean in to examine something she's drawn. It's a subtle power play, and I'm fully aware of what I'm doing.
What I don't anticipate is how her proximity affects me in return. The soft catch in her breath. The heat radiating from her skin. The way her eyes dilate slightly when they meet mine. I’ve been around beautiful women my whole life but something about this one is catching me off guard.
By late afternoon, we've covered most of the property, and I've seen enough to know my instincts about her were correct. She has exactly the skills this project needs—along with the attention to the smallest details that elevate an experience from good to extraordinary.
"I have some calls to make," I tell her as the sun begins to set. "Feel free to continue exploring.”
She nods, already making additional notes, her focus absolute.
Two hours later, I'm walking through the main building, checking on the day's progress, when I hear her voice coming from what will eventually be the resort's signature restaurant.
"No, the fixture needs to be centered exactly—see the marking?" She sounds firm but patient. "The ceiling design won't work otherwise."
I pause in the doorway, watching without announcing my presence. She's standing beside an electrician on a ladder, pointing up at a partially installed lighting fixture. Even from here, I can see the man isn't looking where she's pointing. His gaze keeps dropping to her neckline, lingering too long as she talks.
Something hot and possessive flares in my chest. My jaw tightens.
"Like this?" the electrician asks, obviously deliberately misunderstanding so she'll have to explain again.
