Collateral Damage

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One night in paradise, a quick exit, a surprise baby, and a lie that grows. You’ve Got Mail meets Knocked Up 

A parade of well-oiled bodies walked along the sugar fine sand of Saline Beach on the French Caribbean Island of St. Barts.  

A brief hint of color moving against a pastel sea drew Jack Brewster’s notice. A woman strolling along the edge of the surf wore a red bikini as if she were daring someone to ask her to remove it on the predominantly nude beach. She was in good company. Jack, who wore a beach towel slung low around his waist, observed the action from afar, having not wanted to display his assets freely either.

Red bikini’s long blond hair whipped around her body in gentle billows as her toes made a trail in the pristine, sparkling sand. There were other women on the beach, who looked at Jack in open invitation as they suggestively rubbed coconut oil on their bare breasts paying particular attention to their nipples.  Not in the mood for the kind of woman who touched herself in public, Jack’s full attention fell to the woman who covered herself with the little red bikini. If he could have anyone on this beach or this island for that matter, he’d choose her. 

As lascivious thoughts about that little red bikini coursed through his brain, her eyes fell on him.  She’d caught him looking. There was a hint of a smile. She offered it to him, then turned her back and looked in the direction of the numerous sail boats, which lingered in the emerald green water, their white sails bright against the azure sky.  He wondered if she belonged to one of the boats or was just a tourist like himself. Was she with someone? Was she on her honeymoon?  Was her sated groom back in their hotel room sleeping off a night of passion?

Jack created red bikini’s story as if he knew her.  If she were his, he'd never let her out of his sight. At that moment, she leaned forward and picked a shell off the sand. At the sight of her lush ass, Jack's heart skipped a beat, and he was glad for the towel draping his suddenly attentive ‘assets’. After a long moment, 

Jack unfolded himself and stood, brushing sand away from his legs. It was time to see how close he could get to that little red bikini. She had a good lead on him, and it would take some effort on his part to catch up, but she looked worthy of the effort. As if she knew she was being pursued, the woman stepped around a large outcropping of rocks and disappeared. By the time Jack made it around the rocks and caught a glimpse of the red bikini, she was riding away on a bicycle.

Jack had another week on the island before he needed to leave, which meant he had a lot of time to find her. And didn’t he deserve a little relaxation after learning everything there was to know about rum production? He’d acted more like a Dom Pérignon monk in the last six months than one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet.

Besides, thanks to the markings on red bikini’s getaway vehicle, he knew where to start looking. 

***  

Ella Martin sat on a barstool and watched the ocean break gently against the rocks as the sun began to set towards the west. She had four days left of her vacation before she returned home and settled in for the last vestiges of winter. Working usually seven days a week led to deep burnout, which could only be soothed by tropical sun in the middle of winter. 

For the last three days, she’d laid on the beach, read novels, and drank exotic fruit juices mixed with large quantities of rum that came with little paper umbrellas and pineapple wedges.

Next year, she would try to stretch her week to ten days, but it wouldn’t be easy. Her work was her life and even being gone for a week would take a serious dent out of her profits. Alicia was a great assistant and quite capable. But the truth of it was, when Ella was away from her shop, profits dipped.

After her second Mojito, Ella ordered an appetizer of shrimp and tropical salsa off the bar menu. It had been harder this year to relax. The usual sun and surf hadn’t quite curbed the edgy longing she felt. She supposed it was a kind of torture to come to a place like St. Barts as a single woman.  Just once, she’d like to make this trip with a little promise of sex. How long had it been since she’d practiced what she preached at her little shop? A year and a half? Yes, it had really been that long since a man had held her in his arms and made love to her.

She hadn’t given up on the idea. In fact, she’d been optimistic and packed condoms and a “Lover’s Kit” from her very own shop…. just in case.

In case of what? In case of mind blowing, screaming multiple orgasm sex of course!  

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. Sure, there was a little part of her that longed to be seduced and treated like a drunk virgin on prom night, but her bark was bigger than her bite when it came to sexual prowess. Ella, quite frankly, needed a man. However, she wasn’t the kind of woman who would have sex just for the satisfaction of the action. She needed that all too elusive brain, body and spirit connection.  

On days like this she wished she weren’t such a prude.

Resigned to her current nun-like status, she placed her linen napkin in her lap and reached for a fork. At least she could satisfy her appetite for spicy food.

The elegantly arranged shrimp on the plate that had been placed before her was so fresh she could still taste the saltwater on its perfectly firm flesh. A drop of pineapple juice sated with lime, salt and a splash of habanero lingered on her lower lip after the first bite. Her tongue caught it before it could slip away. Ah, delicious…  

In that exact moment she knew she was being watched. Before she could turn and glance at the stranger who had taken the barstool next to her, she heard his voice, perfectly accented French, speaking to the bartender. He was, she realized, no stranger at all.  She'd seen him that morning at Saline Beach. He'd stood out to her because aside from her red bikini he was the only other non-nude on the beach. She wondered at the time what he’d of thought if she'd strolled up to him and pointed out that obvious fact. Instead, she’d lost her nerve and escaped on her hotel bicycle.

“Bonjour. Ca va?” he asked, smiling at her with recognition. Close up, he looked more formidable. Long lashes framed dark green eyes deeper than the ocean that lay only a few feet beyond them. Blue-black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail contrasting with a gauzy white linen shirt, unbuttoned to mid-chest and displaying a nice smattering of dark chest hair. The translucent fabric caught in the warm breeze and moved like waves over his tanned skin.   

Touching her napkin to her lips, she replied. “Bien, et vous?” With that statement she had reached her full and unimpressive mastery of the French language.

“Jacque,” he said, extending his hand.

Taking it in her own, Ella felt that touch as it raced through every nerve ending in her body. As her fantasies took hold, and she pictured the man naked, packing the condoms and the sex kit no longer seemed like a foolish idea.

“Ella,” she said and added, “Je n’parle pas de francais.”  She’d learned that being able to tell people you couldn’t speak French also came in handy.

“I speak a petite amount, English,” he said, the smile breaking across his face. It made the hard lines soften as his lashes gracefully dropped in a manner so sensual, so delicate, that Ella found herself mesmerized.

“Saline Beach,” he said enthusiastically and winked. “Rouge bikini.”

“Yes, I was in my red bikini.” 

“Tu avais l'air sexy.”

Ella blushed as scarlet as her bikini. She didn’t need a translator to know he’d just complimented her. Smiling lasciviously, he pointed to her drink.

“It’s a Mojito,” she replied. “It’s good, bien.”

“Bacardi cent cinquante et un?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head, to which he pointed to a bottle of Bacardi 151. Understanding, she said, “Bacardi 151?  I don’t know what’s in my drink, just rum, some mint and lime.”

Jacque pointed to himself and said, “Fabricant de boissons alcoolisées pour Bacardi. I work for Bacardi.”

Just then the bartender arrived, and Jacque ordered them each a Mojito made with some kind of exotic rum. There was a long string of French words Ella couldn’t understand, but as she watched the bartender make their drinks, he did so with rum that came from an ornate bottle on the top shelf of the bar. For the rest of the evening, her glass never went past half full before it was replaced by another full Mojito made with the ornate bottled rum.  At first sip, she’d been able to tell the difference. It was a completely different drink. Much smoother, much stronger. Such rapt attention to the liquor led to two very interesting consequences for Ella. First, she could never be exactly sure how many drinks she’d consumed.

For a woman who was always in control, this was something new. Second, her grasp of the French language seemed to improve with the more she drank.

They talked about St. Barts and all the places they’d each been. Jacque asked her where she was from and she said, “United States.”

“J’adore Americans,” he replied lustfully and they laughed harder.

The sun, which had been uncomfortably bright in the sky when Jacque had originally sat next to her, quickly faded to a deep blush of magenta as Ella and Jacque chatted in a mix of English and French. Fueled by high proof rum, everything they said to each other was incredibly funny. Ella had no objections when Jacque’s arm encircled the back of her chair and then landed lightly on her bare, suntanned knee. And when, sometime later, he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, she leaned into him, enjoying his crisp citrus scent.

When the bar closed, they walked hand in hand through the restaurant. They continued to a path that would take them either together toward her room or apart to destinations unknown. 

Making his decision clear, Jacque pulled her into the shadows of the tall tropical plants and kissed her. His lips were soft and warm on hers, the teasing brush of a cool petal against bare skin. Leaning into the kiss, her need to touch and be touched pushed away any lingering shyness. Following her lead, his lips became more demanding, opening so that his tongue could taste her.  Returning the favor, she leaned into him, her body aligning with his as she tasted his sweet mouth. 

"Where is your room?” he asked, in almost perfect English.

“This way,” she said, taking his hand in hers and leading him through the tangle of lush, dark jungle toward a long row of rooms which faced the ocean. This man, this solid, beautiful specimen that sent little spikes of electricity along her skin with merely a look, trailed willingly behind her.  

Pausing to find her key, she looked up and found Jacque smiling down at her. Her smile faltered a little as reality sunk in. If they crossed the threshold, there would be no turning back.

She pushed the door open to her obscenely expensive guest room, which was completely decorated in white. The floors, furniture, walls, shutters, tongue and groove ceiling, and last, but not least, the linen on the whitewashed four poster bed dominated the space in monochromatic elegance. The only color was from a bouquet of red and pink ginger blossoms that she’d purchased earlier in the day.

Once the door was closed, Jacque pulled Ella to him, dipping his head to kiss her.    

After a moment, she said, “Wait just a second, I promise, just a second…I want this to be perfect.” 

A perplexed Jacque reluctantly released her as she stepped away from him.

Eyes on him, she tossed off her thin black chiffon wrap, picked up a box of matches and began lighting candles throughout the room.  Jacque watched predatorily from the sidelines, his green eyes iridescent in the candlelight. She opened the doors to the private balcony, allowing the sound of the ocean and the tropical breeze entry into the bedroom.  Tossing off her shoes, she then took off her watch and large silver bracelets, placing them on top of the dresser as she casually drew a box of condoms from one of the drawers. Her bare feet padded lightly on the wood floor as she made her way back to Jacque, who opened his arms in invitation.

The candlelight made dreamy shadows on the walls, while splashes of color from the bouquet of ginger blossoms swayed in the warm wind perfuming the heady air.

Jacque didn’t speak, he didn’t ask for permission. He simply took her in his arms, lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed. She fell back against the soft pillows and watched as he stood next to her and unbuttoned the last few buttons on his linen shirt. 

Despite the fact he’d been modest at the beach, he wore nothing under his Bermuda shorts, which he tossed off next. Ella bit her lip as she took in every detail of his well-muscled body.  Each tanned inch of him was beautiful. Her eyes lingered on the impressive erection that gently swayed with each little motion he made closing the distance to her. He was going to feel so good…