A/N: There are some Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con elements in this chapter.
July 5. Pacey had been in St. Thomas going on five days. As per his usual docked routine, slightly different than when the yacht was at sea, he woke to his early alarm and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee he desperately needed, and whip up some pancake batter. It wasn't long before members of the crew also made their way to the kitchen for coffee and pancakes.
"Man, oh man, Pacey… that Irish stew you made on Tuesday night," said Eric, groaning appreciatively and kissing his fingers. "So good. Best I've ever had."
Smiling at the compliment, he nodded. Eric Hoskins was the chief engineer on board, and was usually very generous with compliments and words of encouragement for everyone in the crew. Pacey partly attributed the high morale among the staff to him, despite the long hours and tiring work. "Thank you."
"So, how were the fireworks last night?" asked Kathryn Collier, the junior stewardess.
"They were great," Pacey replied, referring to the display over on St. Croix. He'd gone with the Moore family on a two-hour ferry ride that departed Charlotte Amalie at eight o'clock in the morning. They spent all day on the island, crowded with revelers celebrating the Independence Day holiday. As there was no ferry at night, when the fireworks ended, they all boarded a helicopter for the twenty-minute ride back to St. Thomas. "Quite a spectacle. You should've gone to see them."
"Nah." She shook her head and took a sip of her coffee. "I'd rather spend a rare day off doing nothing but sleep."
The rest of the crew sitting around the large island mumbled in agreement. As the clock neared six a.m., one by one they departed the kitchen to start their day. Pacey then set about making sure the kitchen was spotless before Chef Mao arrived to start his work for the day. On the counter, the chef had left out today's menu and the list of ingredients they would need, which he usually did the night before. When they were docked and the family staying in accommodations on land, there was rarely a meal to prepare other than for the crew. Today was going to be different.
Apparently, James would be having lunch on the yacht with Amanda and two guests, Mr. and Mrs. Snyder. The Moore family were also checking out of the Bolongo Bay Beach Villas this morning and would be spending the night back aboard the yacht with the intention of finding different accommodations for the weekend. Pacey knew Melanie's birthday was on Saturday, and that the family was planning a big shindig.
After making a quick stop by his room, where he grabbed his wallet and cell phone, Pacey left the yacht and made his daily trip to the market. Each morning, Mary, a local woman with skin the color of melted chocolate, dressed in oversized T-shirts and black spandex tights, would sing out "Good morning to you" as he came through the doors of the market. She would then stick by his side, helping with his grocery list, telling him what was good that day and suggesting how to cook the exotic fruits and vegetables. Today was no different.
It was almost eight o'clock when he walked back out the market doors and into the Caribbean sunshine, wheeling a small wire cart full of produce. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and called his girlfriend.
"Hi, sweetheart," she answered.
"Hey, Jo," he said with a smile.
"Pacey, I was just thinking about you," she gushed into the phone. He could feel the joy in her voice.
"And what were you thinking about?"
"I was thinking about two nights ago," she said, lowering her voice.
He swore he could see her blushing through the phone. "Ah, yeah, that was a good night," he grinned, the memories washing over him.
"I love the way you love me, Pace, even from a thousand miles away."
"Nuh-uh. You were the one loving me, if I recall…"
She started giggling into the phone. "I can't wait until you come home, Pacey. So, how was your Fourth of July?"
He then proceeded to regale her with his day spent on St. Croix. "How about you?" he asked when his tale had finished.
"Well, I had to work last night. I did get out of having to work the restaurant, as you know, but I still had to go in to my other job. Bodie cooked on the grill, and Jack and Jen and Andie and Will came over with Mrs. Ryan and Mr. McPhee. Gretchen came over, too, which was nice. She asked after you and said to tell you hello from her. So, that was my afternoon. I did get to stand out in the Shell station parking lot with Will Krudski and watch the fireworks. So, you know, exciting," she snorted.
His stomach clenched and his jaw tightened. While he was glad Will was there with her, he still didn't like the idea of her working at a gas station late at night. "That Scotty Farrell hasn't come around, has he?"
"No, Pacey. He hasn't."
"I'm honestly thinking of making one quick trip to Capeside when I get back just to kick his ass. I know where he lives on Marsh View Road."
"Pacey…"
"I'm serious, Jo. He's got some nerve. The jackass is obviously begging for a throat punch."
"God, I should never have told you. You can't afford to get in trouble. Besides, I'm pretty sure the possible threat that you would do exactly that or worse is what's keeping the guy from coming around. Anyway, enough about him. Tell me about what you've got planned for the day?"
He pushed thoughts of Scott Farrell from his mind and filled her in on his day so far, including Mary at the market, and the plans to serve a fancy lunch to Mr. and Mrs. Moore and their guests. "I think you can rent sailboats here for a decent price. Oh, did you know they have a regatta here every year? Too bad I missed it. Oh, well. I'm still dying to get out on the water on a vessel that isn't a yacht, you know what I mean? I think I have Chef Mao almost convinced to trust me enough with his life to go sailing with me."
She sighed into the phone. "You sound very happy, Pace."
He took a deep breath of salty air, and smiled. "That's 'cause I am happy, Jo."
"Should I be worried that you'll love your Caribbean life so much that you'll change your mind about coming to Boston at the end of the summer?"
He chuckled and shook his head at the ridiculous notion. "Ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough, to keep me from gettin' to you, babe," he crooned into the phone. "Or, well, I guess ocean in this case," he added as an afterthought in his natural voice.
Joey laughed. "Since when do you listen to Marvin Gaye?"
"Mao loves Motown," he explained with a shrug. "Especially when he's cooking."
"I miss you so much, Pacey."
He heard the longing in her voice. "I miss you, too, sweetheart. I can't wait to be home and see you every day. I can't wait to sleep in my own bed."
"Oh, no. To heck with that. You're not sleeping in your own bed for a long time. You'll be sleeping in my bed, mister. What's with this your own bed, nonsense?"
He shook his head with a smile. "Have you forgotten you'll be in a dorm room by that point, Miss Potter, and will most likely have a roommate? Anyway, you should lower your voice. You don't want any guests to overhear the scandalous way you speak to the former cook. You don't want to be obnoxious."
"Obnoxious? A bed and breakfast is all about families. How do you think babies get made?" she teased.
Pacey laughed. "Naughty girl. You're trouble with a capital T. We're not having babies yet, Potter."
"I love that you said 'yet.' You really are the perfect boyfriend, aren't you?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "You're one of those rare boys who always knows the perfect thing to say. I'd always heard those men existed, but I never really believed it before you. Anyway, no, of course we're not having babies yet, but we can practice."
"I'm all for that, Jo."
"Lots of practice. For the next several years."
"Sign me up."
She giggled, and then sighed heavily. "Well, I have to go get ready for work," she said with a groan.
Thoughts of Leery's Fresh Fish filled his mind. "So, uh, have you talked to Dawson at all?"
"No. Unless he's going to own up to his actions and apologize for them, then I have nothing to say. I mean, I get that I haven't exactly been approachable and I've rebuffed him the few times he's tried to initiate conversation, but you'd think he'd make more of an effort to clear the air or whatever. He may not even want to. Maybe he just wants to go out to California and start his new life and forget all about us."
"Hmm. Yeah, maybe." But something told Pacey that was far from likely.
"Anyway, I gotta go."
"All right, baby. I love you."
"I love you too, Pace. I'll call you when I get home later tonight."
"Okay, Jo. I look forward to it. Bye."
It didn't take long for him to reach the yacht club marina after that.
"I come bearing gifts," Pacey announced as he wheeled the wire cart around the corner of the kitchen island.
Mao lifted his eyes, but not his head, as he stared from across the room. "Did you bring me string beans? I need the string beans."
Pacey shook his head, a smile curving his lips. And people thought he was the grumpy one in the morning. "Yes, they're in here."
The kitchen on board Tabitha's Secret was professional, state-of-the-art, and clinical, all white and stainless steel, with the exception of the large wood-topped island in the middle of the room. Chef Mao's brand-new menu had knocked the socks off the yacht's crankiest of food critics. And he was currently prepping for that menu while chopping celery at the wooden block.
"Why are you so happy this morning?" Mao asked.
Pacey stopped the cart beside him. "It's a beautiful morning. Isn't that reason enough for me to be happy?"
Mao gave him a curious look. "I can see you enjoyed yourself over on St. Croix with Miss Melanie yesterday."
He didn't care what Mao might think—he felt good, damn it. And he knew it had everything to do with the sunshine and salty air and the beautiful woman he'd just been speaking to on the phone. "Chef, you know very well that I am head over heels in love with a goddess by the name of Josephine Potter."
"Hmm."
"Anyway, I brought you every ripe vegetable I could find this morning. And…" He pulled one of two stainless steel pots out of the oven. "I have two different soups we can offer the crew today."
"Soup?" Mao finally stopped what he was doing enough to pay attention. "When did you make soup?"
"Late last night when I got back. Well, I guess technically it was the wee hours of the morning. I felt inspired." Not to mention sexually frustrated. When he'd called Joey yesterday morning from St. Croix, she'd kicked up his fantasies of her to a ridiculous level when she disclosed that she was naked in the bathtub while talking to him on the phone. He then had to walk around all day with the Moores trying to get his thoughts and urges under control. The moment he was back on board the yacht and down in his room, he'd whacked off to ease the tension. Still frustrated, he then went to the kitchen and started chopping.
The chef put down his knife and grabbed a spoon out of the cylindrical holder. He removed the plastic wrap and dipped it inside, scooping up a mouthful. Before he tasted it, Pacey said, "Potato and asparagus. It should still be warm."
Mao's surprised look was a little unnerving. Pacey wasn't exactly a rookie at this point—he had come aboard with some modicum of talent, at least James had thought so, and he was a fast learner. But the chef's surprise turned into a smile. "This is great."
"Like I said, inspired."
Mao reached for another spoon and headed to the steel pot that contained the second soup.
"White bean and pancetta."
Chef Mao took another spoonful. "Are you sure this does not have anything to do with Melanie?"
"I enjoy Melanie's company. That's where it ends, chef."
Mao studied the soup instead of making eye contact. "Looks like you two are getting to know each other very well, and this one—" he swallowed and pointed with his spoon to the pot "—is even better."
Pacey beamed. About the soup, not about the topic of Melanie Thompson. "Thank you, chef. She and I are friends, kind of, I guess. It's… it's not a big deal. I don't even think about it."
Mao threw the dirty spoons into the deep sink. "If you were single, you would not have stood a chance against Melanie's charm, I am sure." He wiped his hands on his white chef's coat. MAO JINGCHEN, EXECUTIVE CHEF was embroidered in black across his left pec.
"Yeah, maybe. But I maintain that she looks like my older sister, Amy. I don't know what the Oedipus Complex equivalent is for sisters, but I can promise you I do not have that."
"Gentlemen." Jessica Moore wandered into the kitchen, her wide smile and cute blond ponytail a huge contrast to the grim reaper on her black T-shirt.
James walked in behind her, buttoned up in a dress shirt and tie. "Good morning, chef. Pacey? How are you?"
"I'm good."
"Pacey has been up all night making soup," Mao said, the suspicion in his voice apparent. "He felt inspired."
Jessica peeked inside the metal pots. "What're we having for lunch later? God, I'm starving."
"Imagine that," her father said with a grin, as he poured himself a cup of coffee, then settled his back against the counter. "My daughter is hungry. You just had breakfast at the hotel an hour ago."
"It was a bowl of cereal, big whoop." She turned her sweetest smile on Pacey. "Can you make me some of your pancakes?"
He chuckled. "Sure." He opened the fridge and removed the leftover batter from earlier while she sat herself on a stool at the island.
James took a taste of the white bean and pancetta. "This soup is off the charts. I think we should serve this as an appetizer at lunch with the Snyders. They own Palm Point Resort up in Smith Bay, another contender," he said to Mao, and then switched his attention. "Pacey. I'm very impressed. Any particular reason for your inspiration?"
Remembering the reason that the soup came into existence, a rush of heat spread through his body and settled in his groin. He clenched his fists, trying to stop the blood flowing from his brain to his dick.
"I wondered the same thing when he waltzed in here whistling and smiling," Mao said.
"I know that look. Young love." James snapped his fingers in front of Pacey's face, bringing him back to the conversation. "Did you get to talk to your girlfriend this morning?"
He threw a pointed look in Mao's direction. "As a matter of fact, I did."
The chef conceded, raising his hands in defeat.
Later that afternoon, Pacey sat down on a beach chair on the sun deck. He'd managed to cover his chest, arms, and legs with sunscreen when Melanie appeared in shorts and a bikini top. "Hey. You want help with your back?"
He lowered his sunglasses to peer up at her. "Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks."
After he moved forward in the beach chair, she sat down behind him and took the tube of sunscreen from him. She smeared lotion on his back, and spread it over his tanned skin starting at his shoulder blades and moving down to the base of his spine. He was struck with a sense of déjà vu.
He remembered the way Joey put suntan lotion on his back when they were in Key West; the summery smell, the warmth of her hand. He remembered when she lay beside him on the sand. He remembered how she ran hand in hand with him into the waves. He remembered how they'd return to the True Love at the end of the day, where she'd enjoy sitting atop him, straddling his clothed hips.
He remembered his hands around her hips as he held her close and thrust his erection feverishly upwards as fast as he could go, over and over again. He remembered watching her face fill up with an ecstasy she had never felt before. He remembered her cries of passion, and the feeling that he would never tire of hearing her, of watching her. She was so responsive to him even then, before he'd been able to touch her sensitive flesh, long before their bodies ever met skin to skin.
At some point, Melanie had finished with the sunscreen and had moved over to the beach chair next to his, but he was only vaguely aware. He lay back against the beach chair, his eyes closed, daydreaming, wishing Joey were there on the yacht with him. Melanie began talking about her birthday, her parents—her mother, her father, and her stepmother—but his head was full of the woman he loved, and he was only half paying attention to what she was saying.
July 6. The weather in St. Thomas was said to be nearly perfect. The average year-round temperature was eighty-five degrees. It sometimes reached the nineties, with humidity, in the summer, and went as low as the seventies in the winter. The water temperature was about eighty degrees year-round. Light easterly winds usually made the heat more tolerable than one would think.
The narrow winding streets of Charlotte Amalie reflected the city's past. Architecturally not much had changed since pirates dropped anchor in the harbor, slave traders engaged in their sale of human cargo, and Danish plantation owners exported sugar cane, which they called white gold. The character of the town had been maintained in its old churches, fortification, and government houses. Dronningens Gade was the main shopping street in Charlotte Amalie. Many of the shops were located in old warehouses left over from the days when the town became known as "the emporium of the West Indies." For Charlotte Amalie had once been a port of such size that many warehouses were required to handle the inventories that flowed through her harbor.
At least this was its history as told by Melanie Thompson, who was sitting in the front seat of the rental car next to Pacey on this early Friday afternoon. Her father and stepmother had flown to the island from Boston to celebrate her birthday this weekend, and they were currently occupying the back seat. Like all visitors, they were keen to experience the beauty and excitement of the bustling hillside city.
During the drive, Pacey entertained the couple with anecdotes from his life at sea aboard the yacht as well as his various land excursions.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Melanie's father suddenly asked.
Good question, Pacey thought. No, he didn't have any idea what he was doing. But he was doing it anyway. When in doubt, he usually just plowed ahead and hoped for the best.
"You're driving on the wrong side of the road," Melanie's father then pointed out.
Pacey glanced in the rearview mirror at the man he'd just picked up from the airport. He sat rigidly in the back seat of the rented Toyota, his jowls just beginning to go soft, his silver hair thick and precisely styled, his skin preternaturally tan and his eyes framed with the sort of creases that implied he squinted a lot, presumably at people he didn't approve of. Pacey had no doubt that he soon would fall into that category.
"People drive on the left side of the road in St. Thomas," he explained.
"St. Thomas is part of the United States," Craig Thompson argued. "Why don't they drive on the right?"
"I don't know."
"This an American car. The steering wheel is on the left."
"Yeah." Pacey was having a hard enough time getting used to the left-sided driving. He didn't need Mr. Thompson undermining his concentration by badgering him with questions.
"Perhaps you should have arranged for a local to pick us up at the airport," Craig chided.
"Dad, my friend Paul says the cabs on the island are way overpriced. By renting the car for the week, we've saved a lot of money."
Pacey couldn't help but scoff at Melanie's comment. He seriously doubted saving money was a huge concern for these people.
"In the meantime, we might wind up in a head-on collision."
"I'm on the right side of the road. Uh, the left side," Pacey corrected himself. Even with cool air blasting from the vents, he felt dampness gathering at his nape. Craig exuded not a single drop of perspiration, despite wearing a linen blazer over his polo shirt. July in St. Thomas—it was hot on the other side of the windshield. Craig Thompson apparently didn't sweat, though. He was obviously a chilly man.
Pacey wished Melanie hadn't insisted on him coming along on this outing to collect her father and his wife. When she'd mentioned her idea of using him as their chauffeur, he'd been daydreaming of a naked Joey Potter, sliding her hand in provocative ways over his chest while simultaneously kissing his neck and stroking his shin with her toes. He had been having great fun with his girlfriend in that moment, inside his head anyway, and he hadn't been thinking clearly when Melanie asked. So, he'd said, "Sure."
Now he was kicking himself.
The van behind him was tailgating so closely Pacey could practically see the pores on the driver's nose in his rearview mirror. Steep hills rose to one side of the road and a turquoise sea spread along the other side. He was in alien territory, surrounded by palm trees and brilliant crimson flowers, squat stucco houses and sprawling, cliff-hugging mansions. Cars, jitneys, and small buses kept coming at him on the narrow, winding road—and they were on his right. The entire experience was disorienting.
Adding to his tension was a goat ambling along the asphalt no more than a hundred feet ahead.
"Oh, my God!" Lisa Thompson shrieked from the passenger side of the back seat, where she'd spent the entire time since they'd buckled their seat belts thumbing through guidebooks and plotting shopping expeditions. At thirty-two, Craig's second wife was twenty-five years younger than her husband and had been a beauty-contest winner. She was very beautiful, and although Mr. Thompson seemed enamored of her, after four years of marriage, she appeared to have tired of the man—but not his money. "It's a goat!"
Pacey tapped on the brakes to slow down and prayed that the driver behind him wouldn't rear-end them. A fender bender would not be an auspicious way to start his foray into island driving.
"We should get a picture of the goat," Lisa declared.
"Can you pull over, Pacey?" Melanie asked.
"No."
"Where's the camera? Do you have one in front?" Lisa said. "I don't have one with me back here."
"It's in the trunk," Melanie told her as Pacey slowed even more as he drew within a few yards of the animal.
"My first St. Thomas goat, and I don't have a camera," the woman wailed.
My first St. Thomas headache, and I don't have an aspirin, Pacey thought. During a brief lull in the opposite lane's traffic, he swerved around the goat, which glanced up from its grazing. Thin and brown, its jaw pumping and its black eyes piercing, it gave him a contemptuous look, as if to say, This is paradise, pal. Mellow out.
Pacey wished he could. If only Craig Thompson wasn't occupying the seat directly behind him and Lisa Thompson wasn't next to the man, her light brown hair as flawlessly arranged as her husband's. If only Melanie Thompson, the young woman Pacey had recently become sort-of friends with, wasn't squawking about the camera in the trunk. He would love to mellow out, but at the moment, the thought of leaping out of the car, slamming the door on the entire Thompson family and joining the goat in a nice little snack of roadside grass held an odd appeal.
He promised himself he would mellow out as soon as they arrived at Palm Point, the seaside resort where James Moore was staying with his family while the man held business meetings and provided his wife and daughter with a vacation on the beach. Until they reached their destination, Pacey was going to have to fight his natural inclination to steer onto the other side of the road, and he was going to grit his teeth at being cooped up inside a sedan with Melanie's parents.
James Moore had given directions that would allow Pacey to avoid Charlotte Amalie on the thirty-minute drive from the airport. He'd neglected to mention that avoiding the bustling capital city of St. Thomas required them to drive straight up the side of a mountain. If Pacey had thought the road leading away from the airport had been narrow, he'd been mistaken.
The road up the mountain, a barely paved trail of twists and switchbacks and thirty-degree inclines, lacking shoulders and railings, but not lacking the occasional goat, would have been alarming if Pacey had been behind the wheel of the trusty Witter wagon—and driving on the right side. In this alien environment, with lush, unfamiliar foliage—palms and ferns, shrubs with vivid puffball-shaped pink flowers and erotically red blossoms scattered across their branches, viny ground cover and ghostly moss dripping from branches—he felt totally out of his depth.
Craig Thompson sat rigidly behind him, his scowl eloquently communicating that he, too, believed Pacey was out of his depth.
"So, Melanie tells us you're from Cape Cod," the man said.
"Yes, sir. Capeside."
"And your last name is Witter?" he asked curiously, his brows furrowing. "Why does that sound familiar?"
Pacey cringed inwardly, shrugged his shoulders, and hoped the name wouldn't ring any bells.
"We've summered on the Cape many times over the years, haven't we, hun?"
"Yes, Dad."
"James tells me there's a golf course not too far from the resort," Mr. Thompson said. "Too bad I didn't bring my clubs."
"I'm sure you can rent clubs, sir," Pacey replied.
"Do you golf, Mr. Witter?"
He suppressed the inclination to laugh. "Only mini-golf."
"Perhaps we'll golf a round together," Craig suggested, a dry smile whispering across his lips. "Real golf, that is. I could teach you a few pointers. Although God only knows what kind of equipment this golf course will be renting."
Lisa piped up. "Craig, it'll be too hot to golf. You'll have a heatstroke."
"I will not," he retorted, as if he alone determined whether or not he would be afflicted.
"Well, if you boys want to golf and get sunstroke, that's your business. Melanie and I will be strolling the streets of Charlotte Amalie. We should get Amanda and Jessica to come with us. The guidebooks list all these wonderful shops…"
Craig shared a knowing grin with Pacey in the rearview mirror. "Angels tremble when these two are set loose in a shopping center."
"It's not just shopping," Lisa informed her husband. "It's duty-free shopping. Bottles of Absolut at prices you wouldn't believe."
Craig Thompson glanced at her. "Really?" he asked, eagerness underlining his tone. "Absolut?"
"Absolut, Stolichnaya, all the big names, darling. You can restock the bar while we're down here."
"I can restock the bar at home."
"Not at these prices."
Mr. Thompson gave Pacey another conspiratorial grin. "Women," he muttered. "They think we can save a lot of money by spending a fortune on airfare to fly to some island with duty-free shops. We could have bought vodka at the duty-free shop at the airport and skipped the trip."
Too bad you didn't come up with that idea sooner, Pacey thought, annoyed. A weary dog, part Lab and part a dozen other breeds, slouched across the road. Either Melanie didn't think dogs were as photogenic as goats, or she was too busy planning shopping excursions with her stepmother to have noticed the poor mongrel. Its tongue lolled to one side and its eyes looked sad. If Pacey weren't in an air-conditioned car, his tongue might be hanging out of his mouth, too.
Around another hairpin turn, and they started down a decline. "Oh, my God!" Mrs. Thompson shrieked. "There's no railing! Slow down, Pacey!"
"I'm only going ten miles an hour," he assured her. Yes, the road was steep, and no, there wasn't a railing, but he wasn't going to steer them over the edge. He'd had his driver's license for over two years now and had never been in an accident. Of course, he'd never driven on the left side of the road, either.
They'd get to Palm Point Resort soon. According to Mr. Moore's directions, it was only a couple of miles down Smith Bay Road, a scenic route that skirted mountains and dropped sharply to some of the most tranquil, turquoise water Pacey had ever seen. Let the Thompsons visit the shops in Charlotte Amalie by themselves, he thought. Let them stock up on enough liquor to keep them swilling martinis until they left this world for the next. While they were oohing and ahhing over the discounts on Stolichnaya and Absolut, Pacey would be lying on one of the inviting sandy beaches that fringed the Caribbean Sea, daydreaming of Joey and wishing she were there with him instead. In his dream world, they'd race on the sand, plunge into the water, and then sprint back up to their room inside the resort for a quickie before he had to report to the kitchen on Tabitha's Secret for his cooking duties.
If only life was all wish fulfillment.
He cruised past the gated entry to a hotel, then another… and then he spotted the sign for Palm Point Resort. He turned onto the drive, which was appropriately lined with towering royal palms, and maneuvered over the speed bumps. He passed a parking lot and a series of tennis courts surrounded by green chain-link fences, then followed the drive as it zigzagged down the hill toward the ocean. White stucco buildings dotted the road, their ocean-facing facades marked by vaguely Spanish-looking wrought-iron balconies.
Pacey imagined sitting on a balcony with Joey, both of them flushed and sated after making love. They could be sipping drinks—beer for him, nothing with Absolut or Stolichnaya in it—and watching as the sun slid down toward that breathtakingly blue sea, totally wrapped up in each other and not sparing anyone else a single thought.
"Here we go," he announced, parking in front of the building that contained the suite Mr. and Mrs. Thompson would be staying in. Pacey's mood brightened a little. He'd found the place without incident or accident. In ten minutes, he'd be in his own room, unpacking, and then ready to take a walk on the beach by himself.
"It doesn't look like much," Mrs. Thompson said with a sniff.
"Oh, Lisa," Melanie scolded. "It looks lovely. And the suites are very nice. We all checked in earlier and had absolutely no complaints."
It looked fine to Pacey. The stucco was freshly painted, the gardens surrounding the building well-tended. When he opened the car door, the air that hit him was heavy with heat and thick with the scent of those red flowers.
"Hibiscus," Melanie answered his unasked question. She threw open her door, climbed out and circled the car to him. "I just love the smell of hibiscus. Isn't this beautiful?" she gushed, as if to nullify her stepmother's disparagement of the place.
"I suppose it's nice enough, but I'm sure it'll improve vastly if James decides to buy the place and install one of his restaurants here," Craig Thompson commented.
"As soon as I get to my room, I'm changing and going to the beach," Pacey said to Melanie.
She gazed up at him, her golden hair in a ponytail and her eyes a shade of green that seemed to sparkle when she smiled, and that smile was, in a word, gorgeous. "We'll have to help my dad and Lisa get settled first," she told him.
"They're adults. I'm sure they can get settled in without my help."
"I really appreciate you agreeing to stay here at the hotel with us," she added. "I know it's not what you wanted."
A ripple of resentment passed through him, impeding his evolution to mellowness, and he clenched his jaw. Spending the weekend at this luxury resort was definitely not what he wanted. He'd wanted to stay on the boat with the rest of the crew, with Mao. The Moores had insisted he join them at Palm Point for the weekend, and they even rented him his own car to take the fifteen-minute drive back and forth to the yacht club marina every day. Knowing he was technically their employee, and he didn't really have much of a choice, he agreed.
He didn't have to like it, though.
Unlocking the trunk, he gazed at the array of luggage Melanie's parents had brought. A folding garment bag, a large pullman, a midsize pullman, a tennis tote containing racquets and fresh cans of balls, and two carry-ons—all in a matching tapestry pattern—belonged to Craig and Lisa Thompson. Given the option, Craig probably would have brought his golf clubs, too—and he probably kept them in a golf bag with the same quaint tapestry pattern. Lisa had also packed an enormous wheeled, leather-trimmed suitcase for herself, as well as an ergonomically designed shoulder tote.
Pacey had fit everything he needed into one modest duffel, much smaller than the one containing all his belongings back onboard Tabitha's Secret.
He knew that as the young man of the party, and also as the hired help, he'd be the one hauling all the luggage inside. He pulled out Lisa's wheeled suitcase and their garment bag. "I'll get the rest in the next round," he promised the Thompsons, who had finally emerged from the air-conditioned car into the broiling Caribbean afternoon.
"The suite is air-conditioned, isn't it?" Lisa Thompson asked anxiously.
"Of course, it is." Melanie grabbed the ergonomic shoulder bag, handed her stepmother one of the carry-ons and her father the other, then stepped aside so Pacey could close the trunk. Why she didn't close it herself—she had two free hands, after all—he couldn't guess, unless it was to prove to her parents that the new guy James had hired was properly chivalrous.
Feeling like a packhorse, he lugged the bags along the walk to the stairway and up to the second floor, the wheeled bag thumping as it hit each riser. Melanie and her father and stepmother trailed him like baby ducklings following a mother duck. Sweat slicked his face and dampened the collar of his T-shirt as he trudged along the open-air corridor to the door marked two-one-four. He balanced the luggage on the concrete floor, then dug into the pockets of his khaki shorts and pulled out the key James had given him. It slid easily into the lock. Smiling, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open.
When Pacey returned with the last of their luggage, he stepped back into the suite to find that Melanie had disappeared. "You can bring the bags in here," he heard her stepmother call out.
He carried the luggage through the suite and into the bedroom, and found Mrs. Thompson in there alone. He glanced around the room. "Where's Mr. Thompson?"
"Oh, he went in search of James, or maybe a bar to have a drink or three." She lit a cigarette while he set the bags down on the floor. "So, you're Melanie's special friend on this vacation, huh?"
Special friend? "Uh… I'm not sure what you mean by that. I'm just the prep cook on Mr. Moore's yacht. I mean, Melanie's nice. We're getting along well. There's not much else to it." He shrugged.
Lisa eyed him up and down. "Mm-hmm. Well, I can't say I'm surprised. Melanie has a history of" —she gestured with her lit cigarette in the air— "fraternizing with the help."
"Well, I can assure you that there is no fraternizing going on, Mrs. Thompson."
"Ugh. Call me Lisa. Please."
"Okay."
"So, why not, Pacey?"
He stared at her a moment. "Why not what?"
"Why no fraternizing?" She moved to open French doors to the balcony. "You're surrounded by a tropical paradise on any given day. Melanie is a beautiful girl. And you're just her type."
"She is," he said, and cleared his throat. "But I'm not available, and she knows that."
Lisa turned sharply to look at him, her mouth curving into a smile. "You got a girlfriend back home?" She paused. "Boyfriend?"
"Girlfriend. Her name is Joey. We've been together for a year."
"How old are you, Pacey?"
"Eighteen."
"Eighteen? I thought you were older. You seem older."
"Well, I'm not."
"Aren't you a little young to be settling down?"
His brows furrowed. "I don't know exactly how settled we are at the moment, as I'm down here working for the summer and she's back home, but we are moving to Boston—"
"But you are together? And it's serious? You're committed?"
"Yeah, definitely."
"That's all I meant by settling. A shame, really."
He had no idea what to say to that.
"You must be feeling awful lonely spending so much time away from her."
A nervous feeling swirled in his gut. He didn't even know this woman. Why was she getting so personal? "It, uh, hasn't been easy."
"Put that big one on the bed," she then instructed, pointing to one of the bags and seemingly dropping the subject of his relationship. As he started to lift the particularly heavy bag onto the bed, she hurried over to him. "Here let me help you with that."
"No, it's okay, I got it," he grunted, lowering the bag to the king-sized mattress as she reached out to help.
Lisa touched his flexing bicep and ran her hand slowly down his arm, and his skin shivered in response as he let go of the bag on the mattress. Her hand then circled his forearm, feeling the girth of it. "You're quite... big."
Startled, Pacey moved away from her and froze, staring in shock. An alarm bell rang inside his head.
She smirked at him provocatively. "Mmm. And I bet you're rock hard all over."
The woman's predatory gaze swept over his handsome features and down the length of his body. Her gaze lingered at his crotch. He stood motionless. His feet were like concrete, his mouth dry and his mind becoming a triggered mess.
"I can think of a few ways to cure your loneliness, Pacey. It's the very least I could do for you, since you've been so… helpful."
He was speechless, unable to find any words.
"You're bad at this." Lisa smirked again. "What's the matter, haven't you ever been propositioned by an older woman before?"
Pacey's heart lurched in protest as a familiar sick feeling curdled in his stomach. His face burned, but an icy feeling sent shivers down his spine.
"Do you feel it?" she said, moving towards him. "The desire welling inside you? Starting in your belly and wandering downward?" Her voice had lowered to a deep, seductive purr.
Something was welling inside him, all right, and it felt like vomit. "I think I should be going," he managed to get out past the tightness in his throat, and then turned around and hurried out of the suite.
Not wanting to stick around, Pacey walked fast to the parking lot, got back in the rental car, and left the resort property. Back on Smith Bay Road, he took the short six-mile drive along the coastline to St. Thomas Yacht Club. Once back onboard Tabitha's Secret, he hurried down to his compartment and shut himself away, collapsing on his twin-sized bed.
A poison now crawled through his veins, weakening his mind, and unwanted images burst through. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to remember her. He didn't want to remember her smile or the way her blue eyes danced when she laughed or the softness of her skin when he touched her. He didn't want to remember her in that way. He didn't want to see his hands on her breasts. He didn't want to hear her voice in his ear. He didn't want to recall every single conversation they'd ever had. He didn't want to remember her sprawled on her bed in her red kimono, smiling so purely as she untied the sash. He didn't want to remember himself looking at her with soulful eyes, begging her without words, to love him. He didn't want to remember himself sitting on her bed, wanting to believe her so badly.
For the longest time, he'd laid the blame entirely on himself. He'd been the pursuer, the aggressor. He'd used tactics that, now looking back, he recognized as manipulative and selfish, and thinking of his own actions made him sick. When shit hit the fan, he gladly took the blame, believing that she never would've done such a thing and put herself in such a compromised position if he hadn't seduced her.
The thought alone now made him cringe with embarrassment. In what world could a fifteen-year-old boy seduce a grown woman? The very idea was laughable.
Now Pacey thought he was finally starting to see things more clearly. He had been at the age when practically all he could think about were his hormones, and she had walked into the video store, saw he was a teenager, flirted salaciously despite his age, and then asked to rent The Graduate. He thought of the circumstances that brought her to Capeside in the first place. Newly divorced from an abusive, dysfunctional stockbroker, she'd moved to his small town from New York City in need of a change.
Looking back, he didn't know how he'd convinced himself that Tamara's feelings for him were genuine, that the care she felt for him ran any deeper than surface level, than mere flirtation. His only explanation was that he was young and stupid, love-starved and desperate for affection.
"She used you for her own gratification," Joey had told him once.
He hadn't wanted to believe her at the time, but of course she'd been right. But what adult woman would choose a teenage virgin for gratification? He didn't know what the hell he was doing at the time. Tamara would've had much better luck in the sack dating an experienced man her own age. He now realized that she hadn't embarked on the relationship for his sake, to do him any favors, or because she felt any sort of real attachment to him. Instead, she thought of her own need, and this led to an impetuous coming together at the ruins that most likely served to satisfy a thirty-five-year-old woman's appetite for getting some retaliation against her ex-husband.
"What she did was a crime. She knew it was a crime, and she did it anyway."
Statutory rape was the crime he knew Joey had been referring to. He'd refused to allow himself to go there, to even entertain the idea. He'd never thought of himself as the victim. Maybe because he didn't want to. Maybe because he'd been a victim of his parents' abuse and neglect for most of his childhood and adolescence, that he couldn't bear to see his relationship with Tamara as anything remotely abusive.
"All you know about sex is from a woman twice your age who should be in jail for what she did to you. That's not nice, Pacey. She used you and took advantage of your immaturity and inexperience."
"I know Ms. Jacobs meant a lot to you, but your first time should've been special. It should've been with someone your own age, someone you truly loved and who loved you back the same way."
Again, Joey had been right.
When he thought back to his first sexual experience, he didn't see that cabin in the Vermont ski lodge and the face of the woman he loved more than anything in this world. He didn't see that bed and breakfast in Capeside and the face of a girl who'd made him feel worthy and loved for the first time in his life. Instead, an image of sweating outdoors and humping a woman old enough to be his mother stuck in his mind.
At that moment, he knew Tamara had only been thinking of herself, taking out her anger and deep hurt on a boy who'd foolishly thought the experience was his great introduction to that mystery of grown up love.
Lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, Pacey's vision blurred with unshed tears.
"Eighteen? I thought you were older. You seem older."
His father had taken his self-esteem and self-worth at a young age. Living in that house with his parents had taken his idealism. And Tamara had stolen his innocence, though he had gratefully, and now regretfully, offered that gift at the time. All he had been through had severely impacted his youth, and when compared to his friends, it seemed as though he sometimes viewed the world with a wizened experience beyond his years.
But he was still young, and the joy of his young life was that he was in love.
His love for Joey was deep and intense. She was wonderful and beautiful and she was all his. Yet his love wasn't possessive or infantile. It was unselfish and undemanding; he wanted to lighten whatever burdens they shared instead of adding to them. His love for her was the foundation on which he could build his future life.
And she loved him. Her love wrapped around his heart like sunshine on a cloudy day. Even if Joey didn't say the words, her love showed through in every action and look that she gave him. But she did say the words. She spoke them all the time. He could hear the words now.
Every time their bodies connected, it was as if their intimate union was cementing their commitment to each other, and every time they fell even deeper in love. Joey whispered it to him in the darkness, whispered it against his skin as they moved feverishly against each other, whispered it again and again. "I love you, I love you, I love you." Like a gift. Like a promise.
He would clutch at her and sigh and whisper it right back. "I love you, I love you, I love you." Like a promise. Like a vow. A vow he would never break.
Pacey sat up on the edge of the bed. That Mrs. Thompson had sure put him in a fucking predicament. How could he stay up at the resort with them all now, knowing that woman was up there hanging about? But what would he say to Mr. Moore if the man wanted to know why he was refusing to do as they'd asked?
He could say he'd rather stay on the boat, but there was honestly nothing to do on the yacht when they were docked. He only had to prepare one meal for the crew, and then there was nothing else to confine him there as far as work was concerned. If James wanted him off the boat and at the resort, he couldn't very well decline. He'd tried that on Grand Cayman, and it was pointless to try it now.
He didn't want to have the conversation. He didn't want to explain anything. He certainly didn't want to talk about his past. It truly seemed as though James not only liked him, but respected him, and Pacey could already tell that he would feel incredibly disappointed if he were to lose that respect for any reason. The thought alone made him sick to his stomach. He couldn't tell his new boss what happened. It would just cause a shitstorm of epic proportions. He was just as sure that Lisa Thompson would vehemently deny it, and maybe even claim the opposite, then he would no doubt be tossed out on his ass.
Despite the churning in his stomach, he felt a pang of hunger. Glancing at the clock, Pacey saw it was almost five, and left his room. As he neared the kitchen, the sounds of Motown filled the air, and he quickly realized Mao was singing. He walked into the room to see the chef moving around, bopping his head and singing along with the Temptations. The chef patted him affectionately on the cheek and then handed him his apron. Pacey felt the sick feeling start to dissipate. As he got to work, snacking as he prepped, his heart was full, and he decided that Thompson woman could just fuck off. He would carry on like normal and do whatever James and Mao wanted him to do because there was no way he was going to risk this.