Island of Temptation

Chapter 1

Donovan McNair took a sip of his gin and tonic as he gazed around the ship's upper deck. The sun's warm kiss on his face was offset by the constant gentle sea breeze. He hadn't yet cracked the novel still nestled in his beach bag. He took another drink and sighed with melancholic pleasure. Perhaps in a bit he would take a swim in the Olympic-sized swimming pool several yards away. Right at that moment though he was content to people watch, forgetting for the moment the piles of legal briefs and files he'd left behind at his law practice. This was his well-deserved two-week vacation and he was going to enjoy this cruise, even if Marianne had bailed on him at the last minute. "Have you got a light?" A leggy beauty in a white bikini that left little to the imagination slid onto the deck chair next to his, holding out a cigarette as if it were a key to something wonderful, if only he had a light. He didn't. "Sorry, I don't smoke," he said, his face creasing in an apologetic smile. She stared at him a moment as if unable to process what he'd said while she waited, her cigarette still held out. He took note of the impossibly blonde hair, the breasts that seemed to defy gravity as they pointed vigorously toward him like overfull water balloons, the tan a dark golden he imagined would fade to leather brown as she aged. She too was giving him the once-over as she assessed what to do about her cigarette. Sliding out of the seat, she tossed her white-gold hair over her shoulder with a shrug and said, "Thanks anyway," as she moved away, her eye on another single man sitting by the edge of the pool. Donovan watched her, thinking of Marianne. He'd committed the cardinal sin of getting involved with someone at work, though at twenty-seven, he knew better. Marianne was a paralegal at the large Manhattan law firm where Donovan was an associate. She didn't work in the same department, but they'd met and gotten more than friendly at the company Christmas party the year before. A gorgeous tall brunette with a willowy figure and a sassy attitude, she'd caught his attention and held it by hook or by crook these past thirteen months. The relationship had always been turbulent—Marianne seemed to thrive on turmoil and angst. Donovan was less passionate, at least that's how Marianne described it. He didn't connect with her on a deep emotional level, she claimed, amidst a storm of tears. He was emotionally shut down, she liked to say. Things had been rocky between them the past few weeks and when he'd failed to send flowers on the anniversary of their first date, she'd announced she wasn't going with him on this Caribbean cruise—he obviously took her for granted and she was through with him.

Of course she'd been through with him three times before and somehow they'd always drifted back together. Donovan had been somewhat surprised to find his heart wasn't broken by her latest defection. He was more irritated with her bailing on a nonrefundable cruise packet for two than bereft at her leaving him. Maybe she was right—maybe he was emotionally immature and unable to connect. At least with her... "Right here, next to this handsome young man." A female smoke-gravelly voice pierced his reverie. He looked up to see a woman of indeterminate middle age with red hair of a color that didn't exist in nature. Her bulk was stuffed into a bathing suit at least a size too small, rolls of fat billowing at her belly and hips. The man with her sported his own sizable potbelly, nearly covering his bathing suit trunks, in contrast to his spindly legs and arms. He wore black socks with his sandals. "There's only one chair, Bea. What do you want me to do, kneel at your feet?" The man's voice was reedy, his tone annoyed. Donovan took his cue. "Please, take my seat. I was just leaving." He stood, draining his drink and grabbing his beach bag as the woman glared at her husband. "Are you sure?" she asked, putting a bejeweled hand on his forearm, the nails scraping his skin. "Arnie, get another chair," she ordered, not looking at her husband. "We wouldn't want to push you out of your seat." He looked down at the woman as he formed a polite denial and was taken aback by the stark pleading in her eyes. As he met her gaze, she ran a pale tongue over orange-painted lips and thrust her sagging but substantial bosom toward him. Donovan recoiled, pulling his arm from her grip as he forced his face into a polite smile. "No, no," he said firmly. "I was just going for a swim." He grabbed his towel and moved toward pool, feeling suddenly very alone.