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  Pool Man

  By Sabrina York

  Text Copyright Sabrina York 2015

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-941497-07-4

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  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Suzi

  Edited by: Carrie Jackson

  Cover Art: Wicked Smart Designs

  Pool Man

  By Sabrina York

  Paige Barber needs a vacation. She can’t resist her best friend’s offer of a remote vacation home on a private Caribbean island. Jimmy, the sexy pool boy, is part and parcel with the offer. But recently dumped Paige has no intention of taking advantage of that amenity…until she sets eyes on Jimmy. He’s not a boy at all, but the sexiest man Paige has ever met.

  She thinks it will be easy returning to the real world after an utterly wanton and sensuous week in the arms of a hot, hard, perfect man. But it’s not. It’s not easy at all.

  Pool Man

  By Sabrina York

  Part One: Paige

  Chapter One

  The cab careened around a hairpin turn and barreled up a steep hill. I frantically clutched at the tiny strap attached to the roof, the only thing keeping me from tumbling to a horrific death in the great chasm below. It was a mercy to call this thing I was riding in a cab. More like a cross between a Vietnamese tuk-tuk and a golf cart on steroids, it seemed out of place on a glamorous Caribbean island frequented by obscenely rich and infamous celebrities, but there you have it. When the single-prop death trap had landed at the tiny airport, this was what had been there to meet me next to the shack they called a terminal.

  I’d handed the driver, a wisp of a man wearing stained cargo shorts and flip-flops, the strip of paper Marlee had given me, with the address of the vacation getaway she was loaning me for a week. He’d squinted at the address—she had execrable handwriting—then nodded and gave me a gap-toothed smile, nodding like a bobblehead doll. In fact, he smiled and nodded at everything I said. But he seemed to understand. He strapped my bags into the open boot and ushered me inside. And then took off for the hinterlands as if the hounds of hell were on our tail.

  So much for laid-back island ennui.

  The driver slammed on his brakes and I, perforce, pitched forward, nearly bumping my head on the bar inexplicably positioned precisely at head level. The tuk-tuk puttered idly, spewing diesel, as a herd of goats meandered across the road.

  I took this moment of silence to peel the damp linen of my shirt from my chest. Marlee had promised a luxurious week relaxing in an elegant villa overlooking the sparkling waters of a half-moon bay. I would be tended to, hand and foot, by her pool boy, Jimmy. She hadn’t mentioned the heat. Or the humidity. Which was…humid. And hot.

  I glanced out at the panorama to my right and the breath caught in my throat. Well hell. It was damn beautiful. The sea, stretching out forever, was almost emerald with froths of white where it kissed the shore. And the sky above was a soothing blue and tufted with fat clouds. I could see villas, speckled here and there along the curve of the hill, but other than those whimsical structures, nothing. I could have been all alone on Mount Olympus. But for the goats.

  A breeze wafted by, cooling my sweaty skin, and I sighed.

  I needed this. I needed a week away from the insanity of my life. To sketch out my book, of course, but I also needed privacy, absolute privacy, to lick my wounds.

  Marlee was right. This would be perfect.

  The last of the goats crossed the rutted track with an irritable maaa and the tuk-tuk roared into action again. The driver, let’s call him Lucifer, caught me unawares and I had to scrabble like mad for the slender strap. I ended up clutching the head-banger instead—with both hands. It seemed far sturdier after all.

  Marlee really should have warned me about the maniacal cab driver. You would think people this rich could afford to hire a sane person to shuttle them around on their island. But really, other than to and from the laughable airport, there was nowhere much to go. No “town” to speak of. No bars or hotels or resorts. Just isolated villas and pool boys.

  This island was for one thing only: retreat.

  The isolation might have freaked me out a little, being a city girl—Los Angeles born and bred—as I am. But it was only for a week. And I wouldn’t be totally alone. There would be Jimmy.

  I snorted to myself as I recalled Marlee’s lurid exhortations. He was tall and dark and oh so playful, she said. He would see to my every need, she said. And then she winked. My every need. Apparently he would not only wait on me hand and foot, he was ready, willing and able to take care of all the parts in between.

  What a pity I was not in the mood to take advantage of Marlee’s largess. And not only because Jimmy, apparently, had no ambition in life other than, ahem, cleaning Marlee’s pool. But that debacle with Harlan had left me raw.

  Why? I have no idea. It wasn’t as though I loved him. I certainly hadn’t expected it to last forever. He was a rock star for fuck’s sake. Nothing lasted forever with them. I of all people should know that.

  It wasn’t as though I’d started to think—to think—about a future with him. About marriage, maybe. Babies.

  It wasn’t as though I’d let that long-buried dream bubble up to the surface…only to be speared by the sharp rod of reality. To burst, deflate and sink back deep.

  It was a stupid dream. As an only child I’d always fantasized about a large, raucous family. As an adult, that dream had translated into the occasional fantasy of children. And lots of them.

  Well, I had them. Children. Lots of them.

  I called them my employees.

  And, on occasion, I traveled to the other side of the planet to escape them for a week.

  It was enough, my life. My business, my associates, my clients. My cat.

  It was plenty.

  And I didn’t need Harlan—

  Lucifer rounded another hellish bend and veered into a circular driveway flanked by palm trees and flowering bushes and then screeched to a violent halt. I lunged forward. Instinctively, my grip tightened.

  I righted myself, shook off the unsettling effects of this jarring journey and glanced at the house. Shit. The mansion. My mouth fell open. I knew Marlee was a superstar, but her down-to-earth demeanor had not prepared me for this. It sprawled. Sprawled. There was no other word for it. Two wings fanned out to embrace the neatly manicured lawn. Bright, wide windows, festooned with plantation shutters, marched across the façade. The only interruption was the intricately carved double front door, seated at the center of the villa. A whimsical cupola perched on the roof. It was charming and, at the same time, breathtaking.

  Still, all I could think about was diving into the pool.

  I scraped back my hair, a riot of curls thanks to the moisture in the air, and plucked at my pits as Lucifer released my luggage from its bondage and carried it up the flagstone walk. I was impressed that he managed it all in one trip. I winced as he balanced everything precariously as he opened the door. My makeup bag teetered and worse, my briefcase—carrying my laptop, my life—which he had looped carelessly over his shoulder, slipped.

  I lunged forward to grab it but he just smiled and nodded and wouldn’t let me help. But that’s my stuff, I wanted to wail. But I didn’t.

  This week was not for control-freaking out. This week was for chillin’ like a villain.

  I needed to remember that.

  He deposited my treasures in the gleaming marble foyer of Marlee’s mansion and turned to smile at me and nod some more. I delved into my travel wallet—wrapped securely around my waist—but when I peeled off several limp twenties, his
eyes widened and with a horrified expression, he held out his palm and shook his head.

  He dug in his pocket and handed me a moist card on which was printed, Call for Return to Airport and a number. He smiled and nodded, yet again, and then hopped back into his evil tuk-tuk, started it up with a grating howl, and jetted away, around the pond at the center of the driveway and back down the steep hill in a roiling swirl of dust.

  I didn’t realize until Lucifer disappeared from view just how nervous I’d been on that insane ride. I unclenched my teeth—and other body parts that needed unclenching—and let my shoulders droop. It was hot. I was hungry and damn, I really wanted to dive into Marlee’s pool. I’d been dreaming about this since my flight left home.

  As gorgeous as this place was, it was a hell of a long way from LA.

  Something teased the tendrils at the back of my neck. Something absolutely dreamy.

  Ah. I nearly collapsed as I realized what that delicious sensation was.

  Air-conditioning.

  Wafting at me through the open door.

  Heaven.

  I stepped inside and closed the door, nudging my pile of luggage out of the way with my foot. My skin rippled as the cool air engulfed me. The foyer was spacious and bright and opened to a living room on one side and what looked like a study on the other. Through the hall, like a straight arrow, I could see into the kitchen and, beyond that, the sparkling water of Marlee’s pool. My mouth watered.

  I riffled in the small bag and pulled out my bikini. It wasn’t something I would ever wear in my real world—publicists didn’t wear floss as a general rule. But I’d seen it in a shop on the way to my pedicure, as I’d prepared for my Caribbean getaway, and fallen in love.

  I didn’t bother to wait. I stripped down, peeling off my sweat-soaked blouse and bra as well as the jeans no one had warned me not to bring, and slipped into a little slice of heaven. A very little slice of heaven.

  I turned to the full-length mirror in the foyer—how like Marlee to have one there—and studied my reflection. I nearly winced and took the damn thing off. It barely covered anything. But then I reminded myself. Hey, I was on vacation. And there was no one here but me and the pool boy. And he’d probably seen Marlee in less.

  So fuck it.

  Leaving my clothes in a pile on the floor, I made a beeline for the pool.

  And froze.

  There was a man standing in the kitchen, gaping at me. A man. Not a boy.

  And hell, was he gorgeous. He was tall and broad and had a shock of dark curls framing his tanned face. His features were sculpted perfection, high cheekbones, a strong, square chin and a long blade of a nose. His eyes were a chocolate brown and framed with dark lashes, magnified through his black horn-rimmed glasses.

  I don’t know about you, but black horned-rimmed glasses on a hunky man has always turned me on.

  He wore an apron emblazoned with the words Stud Chef over a black tee. I thought the apron was awfully cute, especially on such a manly man. The biceps bulging from the tight sleeves of his tee didn’t hurt. And he had a spatula in his hand. Another thing I’ve always found very attractive in a man.

  Stud Chef seemed to sum it all up perfectly.

  As beautiful as he was, he didn’t seem very bright. He stared at me, slack-jawed. A muscle worked in his cheek. He swallowed. Stammered. A burble of nonsense.

  Yeah. Not too bright.

  This had to be Jimmy.

  Just as Marlee had described him.

  “I’m Paige,” I said breezily, padding past him toward the pool. The glimmering water was tantalizing. I desperately needed a dip. “I’m going for a swim. Can you put my bags in a room?” I glanced at him and jabbed a thumb behind me. “They’re in the hall.”

  “I…ah…” Again, with the flapping lips. They were beautiful lips, though. “Um. Sure?”

  “Awesome.”

  Yeah. He was a gorgeous piece of manflesh, Marlee’s pool boy. But a fairly dim bulb.

  Which was a pity. Because physically, he was perfect. Physically, he made me drool a little in my mouth.

  Okay. A lot.

  But to really attract me, I needed a guy who was smart. And funny and playful. If he could not be a douchenozzle, that would be nice too.

  But for me, lack of smarts was a deal killer. As cute as they were, sexy glasses couldn’t cover up stupid.

  I passed the marble island in the middle of the airy kitchen, which opened to a charming breakfast nook. Something nasty hit my olfactory process. I wrinkled my nose and glanced at the pan on the stove.

  “Your eggs are burning.” Charring, actually.

  He flinched and tore his eyes from me and stared down at the pan, as though he couldn’t quite grasp the import of what I’d said.

  Awesome. He couldn’t cook either.

  What a pity.

  It would probably be PB&J for me all week. Assuming Marlee had stocked my staples.

  Speaking of staples… “Could you bring me a drink?” I shot a look at Jimmy, who was gaping at me—at my ass if one were being precise. “Something fruity and cool? It’s been a hell of a day.”

  He nodded but didn’t move. Didn’t leap into action as a good pool boy should.

  Ah, Marlee. She was known for her taste in boys. Jimmy did not disappoint. On any count.

  “I prefer clear alcohol. Gin or vodka or tequila.”

  He blinked. Damn. His lashes were long. “Um. A lime m-margarita?” His voice was low and languid, a silky shimmer soothing my soul. Absolutely enthralling. Except for the stutter. And maybe even then.

  “Perfect.” With a sigh, I opened the slider, only wincing slightly as the blast furnace hit me. The pool was so close. So close I could taste it.

  And, without so much as a glance back at Marlee’s plaything, I dove in.

  By the time he brought me my drink, I was floating on an inflatable raft I’d rescued from the pool deck, and staring up at the bluer-than-blue sky. Though it was midmorning, I didn’t feel guilty drinking so early in the day because I’d been traveling for hours. Besides, it was five p.m. somewhere.

  I paddled over to the side of the pool as Jimmy knelt to hand me my drink, a long, tall mint-green margarita in a beading glass. I tried not to sneak a glance up the gap in his shorts but couldn’t resist. The muscles of his thighs bunched as he balanced. I noticed the bulge tenting his shorts. And while the realization sent a thrill straight to my womanly parts, I ignored it.

  I wasn’t here to jump on Marlee’s pool boy. I was here to work on my book. I needed to be thinking about that, not studying the wiry dark hairs on his muscled legs and thinking about how they would feel twined around mine as he thrust—

  Damn.

  I took a sip. Tart lime with a hint of sweet and a generous bite of tequila flooded my mouth. Delicious.

  “Ahem.” He hadn’t moved. He peered down at me through those adorable glasses. “Are you…hungry?” he asked. Again, that voice. It sent shivers over my skin.

  Hungry?

  Perhaps.

  But I couldn’t bear to move. Not just yet. This was far too heavenly.

  This, floating in the pool, drinking a margarita and not worrying about shit.

  “Maybe later?”

  “Um. Okay.” He looked like he wanted to ask another question, but wasn’t sure how to put the words together.

  I blinked at him expectantly.

  The moment hung between us.

  His tongue peeped out to dab his lips and I found myself staring.

  They probably tasted amazing.

  I could see now why Marlee came here every chance she got. Why she rushed to this island between breaks in her recording schedule and whenever she had an empty spot on her touring calendar.

  But I didn’t want to think about Marlee. I certainly didn’t want to think about Marlee with Jimmy.

  I probably shouldn’t even be thinking about me with Jimmy. He was too distracting by far. And I had a book to write.

  “That is all,”
I said, waggling my fingers at him, shooing him back to his burnt eggs. I needed some privacy. I needed to focus.

  His mouth gaped open again—really, not a good look. He cleared his throat and stood, glancing back at the house, and then at me. And then, when I was about to shoo him again, he nodded and trudged back inside.

  I took another sip of my drink—it really was perfection—then leaned back on the plastic pillow and closed my eyes. And floated.

  I had to force myself to think about my book. A certain face kept creeping into my mind. Visions of the two of us, Jimmy and me, curled together in a bed somewhere, intruded relentlessly.

  But my vacation was only a week long. When I returned home I would be flung back into the endless round of interviews and meetings and idiotic soirees. If I was going to get the bones of this project down, it had to be now.

  My book would be a gritty, down-and-dirty tell-all on the rock-and-roll industry. Loosely based on my life, but definitely fiction. I wouldn’t be dropping any names, or I’d have to go into the witness relocation program. Not to mention, if I published it under my own name, I would be drummed out of the business. So I was playing around with pen names as well.

  The hero—or antihero—was a rocker who heartlessly seduces an innocent, charming, beautiful publicist into a scorching affair, makes her think this could be it before dumping her on her ass in a very public and humiliating venue. That he bore a striking resemblance to Harlan Rivers was merely a coincidence.

  He would pay, of course. Oh, would he. It gave me great delight to plot his imminent demise. I hadn’t decided yet if I would kill him. But he was definitely getting herpes.

  As fun as that was, I kept getting distracted. Every time Jimmy happened to pass by one of the wide open windows, my attention would snap to him. He had lost the apron. And, may I say, he looked mouthwateringly delicious in shorts and a tee shirt. That he appeared to be bedazzled by the sight of me working on my tan in that ridiculous bikini didn’t hurt my ego one iota.

  So he wasn’t a rocket scientist. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.