I sweep my gaze over her rosy cheeks. “Sure is.”
Marcus points out various points of interest. The tennis courts, the spa, the small but elegant casino where I lost five grand the last time I’d come. This is the perfect place to relax without worrying about your face being splashed on every newspaper in the country. And considering I promised my agent I’d lay low, I couldn’t have picked a better atmosphere to do that in.
We finally reach our destination—a pale yellow bungalow nestled between majestic fronds, picturesque and private. The little house stands on a stretch of clean white sand, steps away from the ocean. Last time I was here, I left all the windows open at night, and the sound of the waves lapping against the shore lulled me to sleep.
“This is beautiful,” Maggie confesses as we step into the large spacious room. Holtridge and the golf cart have discreetly left us to our own devices.
A billowing white canopy hangs from the ceiling and drapes over the frame of the big mahogany bed. On the blue bedspread sits a wicker basket filled with fragrant soaps, papaya shampoos, face towels and other welcome items.
I drop Maggie’s overnight bag on the polished floor. “You should see the hot tub.”
“Hot tub?”
“Follow me.”
I lead her to the glass doors across the room and point.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says as her gaze follows my outstretched finger. The four-person hot tub, skillfully built under a cluster of palm trees and surrounded by boulders, gives it the appearance of a natural rock pool.
“What do you say we get into our suits and hop in?”
“I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
“Don’t worry, when I asked the manager to leave a change of clothes for me, I made sure to request a few bikinis too. Go take your pick.”
“How’d you pull all this together so quickly?”
I shrug. “I’m Ben Barrett, remember?”
As Maggie drifts over to the tall oak armoire, I walk toward the nightstand and reach for the telephone. “I’m going to make a quick call while you get changed.”
I dial my agent’s number and wait. From the corner of my eye I see Maggie grab one of the bathing suits off a hanger and—is she actually going into the bathroom to change? Christ. Like I haven’t already seen her naked a dozen times.
“Fuck, Ben, where are you now?” Stu demands without saying hello.
“The Bahamas,” I reply.
“Wonderful. Absolutely frickin’ wonderful for you. It warms my heart that you’re sunbathing on a beach while I’m working my ass off here.”
“I thought you convinced the media I wasn’t abducted.”
“I did, but they still think you’re up to something fishy. The prostitute angle is old news. So is the elopement with the mysterious hotel chick. Now the consensus is that you’re shacked up with another married broad.”
“I was never shacked up with a married broad before.”
“Of course not.”
My jaw tightens. Stu has been my agent for nine years and counting, and the man seriously doesn’t have faith in me?
“There have been a few positive developments, though,” Stu says, his tone all business now.
“Yeah, like what?”
“Two high-budget screenplays landed on my desk, and the studio contacted me about a sequel for McLeod’s Revenge.”
“Are you joking? McLeod’s Revenge Two? The guy already got his damn revenge, what more is he after?”
“Who cares? It’s money in our pockets.”
Is it possible to loathe one little phrase this badly? I’m so sick of talking about money. What happened to artistic expression? Thought-provoking, quality scripts? Challenging roles?
“Oh, and Alan Goodrich wants to meet with you.”
I almost drop the phone. “What?”
“He called to set up an appointment.”
“Business or personal?”
“He didn’t say. But, seeing as you were screwing his wife, I doubt he wants to meet up so he can offer you a part in his new World War Two epic.”
“Goodbye, Stu.”
I hang up the phone before I say something I’ll regret. My insides churn with the slow boil of injustice I’ve swallowed back for months now. If I wanted to, I could phone up all the major media outlets and set the record straight about Gretchen, the inheritance and the reasons behind the whole goddamn mess.
But I don’t want to.
Let the world think what they want of me. Let them say whatever they feel like saying about me. My private matters aren’t anybody’s business but my own.
“You okay?”
Maggie’s soft voice brings me back to the present. She stands at the bathroom door, a towel wrapped around her waist and tucked under her breasts.
“I’m fine. Just checking in with my agent.”
“Did I hear you talking about a movie sequel? That sounds cool.”
I stride toward the armoire and rummage around until I find a pair of swim trunks. The staff has also supplied me with a stack of clean clothing. Jeans, T-shirts, boxers, even a crisp black tuxedo draped on one of the hangers. The tux gives me an idea, which I store in the back of my brain as I quickly peel off my shirt.