Understanding dawns. “You want me to get pregnant on purpose?”
“You don’t think this kind of shit happens all the time? You won’t be the first gold digger to take advantage of one of these rich assholes.” Raquel jabs the air between us with her fingers. “This is our chance to be comfortable. For life. To keep this place running the way Mom and Dad intended. Are you going to rob us of that chance?”
My breath catches. “No.”
2
Lincoln
I’m extremely annoyed.
I have no time for an island vacation.
There is work to do back in New York. There is always work. Do my business partners honestly expect me to lounge around and drink mojitos for a week when I could spend that time conquering the world?
The limousine driver materializes outside my door and opens it, stepping back, chest puffed up. Careful to avoid brushing against the man, I slide a folded hundred-dollar bill into his hand. “Thank you, sir,” he says, bounding off to retrieve my single piece of luggage from the trunk. Only slightly curious about my accommodations, I turn to survey the property I was advised to buy for my brief time on this godforsaken island.
My personal real estate agent handled the sale, but if I recall his excited chatter over the phone, the property includes fourteen bedrooms, thirteen full baths, a movie theater, tennis courts, indoor pool, an outdoor pool and a helipad.
Not bad, I suppose.
When I’m done with this hellish week in paradise, I’ll offer it to my overseas investors as a vacation getaway or simply sell it. Doesn’t matter to me either way.
Nothing matters to you but money.
Was it always like that?
I ignore the sharp jab in my throat and stride toward the house, intending to unpack my laptop as soon as I’m inside. During the flight, I was emailed about an opportunity to invest in a new water purification technology out of Germany and the deal should be done by now. Already I’m behind and I’ve only been on “vacation” for less than five minutes.
Throwing open the door of the house, a series of tasteful lighting warms to a glow, an ocean breeze rifling from the other side of the expansive mansion space to ruffle my hair. A sunset fills every window, giving the air a pinkish-orange tinge. Ahead in the high-ceilinged living room, long white curtains waft up and down, a fire crackles in the marble fireplace.
Just like my penthouse back in Manhattan, it’s quiet.
Empty.
Exactly how I like it.
Again, there is a twitch of discomfort in my throat, but I clear it and hang up my overcoat on the convenient rack. Behind me, the limousine driver sets down my suitcase and closes the door without a sound. When I would have kept walking, I’m brought up short by a note on the entry table. My name is written in script on the front, so I pick it up and read the contents, my irritation already flaming higher when I see it’s from my business partners.
Last week, they came into my office—mid-conference call with Japan—and demanded I take some time off. You’re working too hard. You’re making us look bad, they said.
I let them think their cajoling is what convinced me.
I might have even convinced myself.
But the truth is, my birthday was last week. I’m thirty-four.
The same age at which my father died.
Just like him, I have only my money to keep me warm.
But unlike him, I am not neglecting a family.
My professional drive harms no one. That is the difference between me and him.
So why is it getting harder and harder to tell us apart?
Shaking off my troubling thoughts, I scan the contents of the note.
Dear Linc,
It only took ten years, but we finally got you to take a vacation.
After all the money you’ve made us, we wanted to make it a memorable one.
What do you buy for the man who has everything?
After a lot of thought, we think we found the perfect gift.
She’s legal, clean, on the pill—and she’s yours for the week.
Enjoy.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, positive they’re joking.
My business partners might be morally corrupt bastards—it’s what makes them such good hedge fund operators—but they know I don’t participate in their kind of extracurricular activities. I keep to myself. Women are nothing but needy distractions and I resent distractions. They’ve known this about me for years. There is no way they would procure me a woman as a gift. Unless they think a vacation will loosen me up into behaving differently. Wanting things I don’t normally want. If so, they’re dead wrong.
A muffled knock comes from the kitchen followed by some indiscernible muttering.
Feminine muttering.
Jesus Christ, they really did purchase me a woman.
Now I have to waste precious minutes getting rid of her.
I toss away the note and drag a hand down my face, moving briskly in the direction of the kitchen. I open the door, the command to please leave already poised on the tip of my tongue—