Page 2 of High Stakes (The Morrison Brothers #2)

Everything could go wrong.

That's what I keep telling myself as our private jet begins its descent toward Saint Lucia. A whole week alone with Michael Morrison in a tropical paradise? I must have lost my mind when I agreed to this.

I sneak a glance at him across the aisle.

He's sleeping, really sleeping, his usually stern face relaxed in a way I've never seen before.

The permanent furrow between his brows has smoothed out, making him look younger, less intimidating.

More like the man I catch glimpses of when he thinks no one is watching.

"Miss Carter?" The flight attendant's voice startles me. "We'll be landing in about fifteen minutes."

"Thank you," I whisper, not wanting to wake Michael. He needs this rest desperately, though he'd rather die than admit it.

When the doctor’s office called me directly after Michael's appointment, I knew something was wrong.

"Make sure he follows these orders," the doctor had said. "His heart can't take the stress he's putting it under." The worry in his voice had sent a chill through me. The thought of anything happening to Michael...

I shake my head, banishing the thought. That's why we're here. To prevent anything from happening. But is that really all this is? A professional obligation? The way my heart races when he looks at me suggests otherwise.

Michael stirs, his eyes fluttering open. "We're landing," I say, my voice sounding too high to my own ears.

He straightens, immediately reaching for his phone. "Any messages?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Vacation, remember? Doctor's orders."

"We haven't technically started the vacation yet," he argues, that familiar stubborn set returning to his jaw.

"Nice try." I hold out my hand. "Phone, please."

"Elena—"

"Michael." I match his tone exactly. "Your phone. Now."

We stare at each other, a silent battle of wills that feels like it contains so much more than just an argument about a phone. Finally, something shifts in his eyes, frustration and what might almost be respect, and he hands it over.

"Thank you." I tuck it into my bag alongside his laptop, which I'd confiscated before we even boarded. "I'll keep them safe."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asks.

I smile innocently. "I don't know what you mean."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Having power over the big bad boss?"

"Maybe a little," I admit. "It's for your own good."

"That's what my mother used to say when she made me eat vegetables."

It's such a rare personal detail that I'm momentarily speechless. He never talks about his family, except for occasional mentions of his brothers. I want to ask more, to dig deeper into the mystery that is Michael Morrison, but the plane touches down with a gentle bump, and the moment vanishes.

The air is thick with humidity and the scent of tropical flowers, so different from the crisp air conditioning of our New York offices. Michael removes his suit jacket immediately, and I try not to stare at how his white shirt clings to his broad shoulders.

A sleek black car waits for us on the tarmac, and the driver greets us with a warm smile.

"Welcome to Saint Lucia, Mr. Morrison, Miss Carter. I'll be taking you to your villa."

Villa. Not hotel rooms. I shoot Michael a questioning look.

"It was all they had available," he says, not meeting my eyes. "Don't worry, it has multiple bedrooms."

The driver loads our luggage while Michael holds the car door open for me. Such a simple gesture, but it makes my cheeks warm in a way that has nothing to do with the Caribbean heat.

As we drive along winding coastal roads, I try to focus on the breathtaking scenery rather than Michael's proximity. The island is lush and green, with mountains rising dramatically from the sea. Every turn reveals another postcard-worthy view of turquoise water against verdant hills.

"It's beautiful," I murmur, almost to myself.

"Yes," Michael agrees, and when I turn, I find him looking not at the scenery but at me.

I quickly avert my gaze, my heart pounding. This is exactly what I was afraid of. The office provides structure, boundaries. Here, with the romantic setting and distance from our normal roles, those boundaries feel increasingly fragile.

The villa, when we arrive, takes my breath away. Perched on a cliff overlooking the Caribbean Sea, it's a masterpiece of modern design blended with tropical aesthetics. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the spectacular view, while a private infinity pool seems to merge with the ocean beyond.

"This is..." I struggle to find words.

"Acceptable?" Michael suggests with a hint of amusement.

I laugh. "A bit more than acceptable, I'd say."

The interior is just as impressive. Open and airy, with natural materials and elegant furnishings. The main living area flows onto a spacious terrace, and hallways lead to what I assume are the bedrooms.

"Your rooms are this way," says the villa manager, a friendly local woman who introduces herself as Josephine. "Mr. Morrison, you have the master suite on the east wing. Miss Carter, yours is in the west wing."

Maximum distance between us. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Josephine shows us around the property, explaining the amenities and services available. There's a private chef who can prepare meals upon request, a hot tub on a lower terrace, and direct access to a small, secluded beach.

"The refrigerator and bar are also fully stocked," she concludes. "Is there anything else you need?"

"I think we're fine, thank you," I say when Michael doesn't respond. He's been staring out at the ocean, seemingly lost in thought.

After Josephine leaves, an awkward silence falls between us. This is the moment when, at the office, one of us would bring up work—a meeting to discuss, a contract to review. But that safety net has now been removed.

"So," I say finally, "what would you like to do first? Swimming? Exploring the island? There's supposed to be a beautiful hiking trail nearby."

Michael turns to me, "What I'd like," he says slowly, "is a drink. Care to join me?"

I hesitate. Alcohol might not be the best idea when I'm already struggling to maintain professional distance. But then again, this isn't a normal business trip. The doctor ordered relaxation, and Michael needs to unwind.

"One drink," I agree. "But then we should probably unpack and settle in."

He moves to the bar and examines the selection. "What's your poison?"

"Surprise me," I say, immediately regretting my choice of words. Too flirtatious, too inviting.

He selects a bottle and pours two glasses of amber liquid. "Aged rum," he explains, handing me one. "When in Rome, or in this case, the Caribbean."

"To relaxation," he adds, raising his glass.

"To your health," I counter.

The rum warms my throat and loosens some of the tension in my shoulders. The view before us is spectacular. The late afternoon sun casting golden light across the water, the gentle sound of waves below.

"You know," Michael says after a while, "I haven't been on a real vacation since college."

I turn to him, surprised by the admission. "Really? Not even a weekend getaway?"

He shakes his head. "There was always something more important to do. A deal to close, a competitor to outmaneuver."

"That's..." I search for a diplomatic word, "dedicated."

"Obsessive," he corrects with a self-deprecating smile. "At least, that's what my brothers tell me."

Another rare personal detail. I can't help but push a little further. "Tell me about them, your brothers."

"There are four of us. I'm the second oldest. Ethan is the eldest. He's ex-military, lives like a hermit out in the mountains now. Works as a blacksmith, if you can believe it."

"A blacksmith? Really?"

Michael nods. "Traditional forging, modern welding, custom metalwork. He's incredibly talented. Then there's David, the athlete. Professional quarterback until his injury. And Jack's the baby of the family, rodeo rider, always on the move."

"You're all so different," I observe.

"We are," he agrees. "But we're still close, in our way." He pauses, swirling the rum in his glass. "Our father died when we were young. Our mother raised us on her own, working multiple jobs to keep us afloat. She taught us to look out for each other."

I've worked for Michael for six months, and this is the most personal conversation we've ever had. "She sounds like an amazing woman."

"She was." His voice drops slightly. "We lost her five years ago."

"I'm sorry," I say softly, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his arm.

He shrugs, his armor visibly sliding back into place. "It is what it is. What about you? Any siblings?"

"Just me," I reply. "Only child of two academic parents. They're professors at Cornell."

"That explains a lot."

"What does that mean?" I ask, feigning offense.

His lips curl into that rare, genuine smile that always makes me clench my thighs. "Your vocabulary. Your organization skills. The way you correct my grammar when you think I won't notice."

I laugh, surprised he's caught me doing that. "I thought I was being subtle."

"Not subtle enough."

I clear my throat and set down my empty glass. "I should probably unpack."

"Right." He blinks, the moment breaking. "Dinner at seven? I'll ask the chef to prepare something."

"That sounds perfect." I back away, needing distance to clear my head. "I might take a shower first, wash off the travel fatigue."

As I retreat to my room, I can feel his eyes following me. This is going to be a very long week if I can't get my feelings under control.

My room is beautiful. Airy and light, with its own terrace overlooking the sea.

The bed is enormous, dressed in crisp white linens that look impossibly inviting after the long flight.

But it's the bathroom that makes me gasp: a huge space with a freestanding tub positioned before a window with ocean views, and a shower enclosure big enough for two.

Not that I should be thinking about that.

I unpack quickly, hanging my clothes in the spacious closet.

Looking at my selections now, I question my choices.

Did I pack too many sundresses? Are my swimsuits too revealing?

I'd selected everything in a rush, trying not to overthink, but now I wonder if I've subconsciously chosen outfits designed to catch Michael's attention.

The shower helps clear my head, the cool water washing away the stickiness of travel. I dress in a simple blue sundress that brings out my eyes, add a touch of makeup, and leave my hair loose around my shoulders instead of in its usual office-appropriate bun.

When I emerge onto the terrace at seven, the sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in spectacular shades of orange and pink.

Michael is already there, leaning against the railing, a fresh drink in his hand.

He's changed into linen pants and a light blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms rarely seen in the office where he's always formally dressed.

"You look..." he starts as soon as he notices me, then seems to reconsider his words. "Different. Outside the office."

"Good different or bad different?" I ask before I can stop myself.

His eyes travel over me slowly, deliberately. "Definitely good."

The chef chooses that moment to appear, saving me from having to formulate a response when my brain seems to have short-circuited.

Dinner is served on the terrace—fresh seafood, tropical fruits, and local specialties I've never tried before. The food is delicious, but I'm barely tasting it, too aware of Michael across the table.