Honeymoon

Chapter 111

NORA STROLLED OUT to her private terrace in the afternoon sun, wearing nothing but a pale blue bikini bottom and a brilliant smile. She sipped from a bottle of Evian, then pressed it against her cheek. She’d yet to tire of the view of the Baie Longue beach and its glowing white sand, the way it seemed to melt into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. She couldn’t have designed it any better herself.

La Samanna on the island of St. Martin had a well-deserved reputation as an exclusive hideaway resort. Nora was employing the hideaway part. During the day, behind her Chanel sunglasses, she was a rich socialite lounging by the pool. And at night—well, the way she and Jordan had been heating up the bedroom, dinner was always courtesy of room service.

In fact, on some days, like honeymooners, they never left their villa. Thankfully, La Samanna also had a great room-service menu for breakfast and lunch.

“Darling, do you want the Duval-Leroy or the Dom Pérignon today?” Jordan called from the bedroom.

Decisions, decisions…

“You pick for us, honey,” said Nora.

Jordan Mauch, Dallas real-estate tycoon, was a born decision maker. The one that had made him the most money was recognizing Scottsdale, Arizona, as the next West Palm Beach before anyone else did. His latest decision involved his personal life. What a good move to hire Nora Sinclair to decorate my new house just outside Austin and then reward her with a little trip to the Caribbean.

He called to her again from inside the bedroom, the lunch order placed. “Darling, do you realize that you’re not exactly dressed out there?”

Nora replied, tongue in cheek, “I’m just trying to even out my tan lines.” She listened to him laugh. “Besides, this is the French side of the island, honey,” she said.

Earlier in the week, she and Jordan had driven up past Grand Case, over to the nude beach at Orient Bay. Were it up to Nora, she would’ve stripped and made herself at home. Not Jordan. Nothing doing. That was one local custom he had no intention of partaking in. Nora didn’t even try to talk him into it. She’d already come to learn that very rich men with overseas accounts never want to take their clothes off in public. No doubt it has something to do with shielding their assets.

Nora went back inside the villa and slipped into one of the resort’s fluffy white robes. It felt cozy against her skin. She climbed into bed with Jordan and snuggled up against his broad chest.

There was just one problem.

She couldn’t get John O’Hara out of her head. His smell, his taste, the way he seemed to get inside her head better than any man she’d ever been with.

And it made her angry. She didn’t want these thoughts, she didn’t want to be in the arms of someone else, Jordan Mauch or anyone, and be thinking about O’Hara. It hurt too much. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t fall in love.

“Earth to Nora…,” Jordan said.

She snapped out of her faraway gaze. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I was just thinking how perfect everything is.”

He smiled. “Just another day in paradise.”

They shared a kiss, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. Lunch had arrived.

Jordan climbed out of bed and pulled open the door. “Thank you,” he said as the room-service attendants wheeled in their large serving table. They were wearing the usual Docksides and shorts, with linen shirts and large straw hats.

Suddenly, off came the hats.

“Hello, Nora. I told you we’d meet again,” said O’Hara.

“Don’t you dare talk to her!” snapped Susan. She drew her gun and took perfect aim at Nora on the bed. “You’re busted, you bitch!”

Then she turned to Jordan Mauch. “And you… you’re the luckiest man alive.”