Page 3 of High Stakes (The Morrison Brothers #2)

I can't stop staring at her. Elena has always been beautiful, but here, with her hair loose around her shoulders and that blue dress making her eyes look like the Caribbean Sea itself, she's breathtaking. The office fluorescents never did her justice. Sunset glow is her natural habitat.

"How's your mahi-mahi?" I ask, desperate for something to say that doesn't involve telling her how badly I want to kiss her right now.

"Delicious." She takes another bite, closing her eyes briefly in appreciation. The small sound of pleasure she makes sends heat straight into my cock, "I've never had it prepared like this before."

"The chef mentioned it was a local recipe. Something about lime and coconut marinade." I'm babbling, which is ridiculous.

I don't babble. I give concise, articulate presentations to boardrooms full of intimidating executives without breaking a sweat. Yet here I am, fumbling for words like a teenager.

"You should try mine," she offers, holding out her fork with a piece of fish.

I hesitate only briefly before leaning forward and accepting the bite. The gesture is strangely intimate, her feeding me across the table. The flavors explode on my tongue, but I'm more focused on the way she watches my mouth as I chew.

"Good?" she asks.

"Very," I reply.

Her cheeks flush slightly, and she takes a quick sip of her wine.

The sun has nearly disappeared now, the sky deepening to purple.

Staff members appear silently to light tiki torches and candles around the terrace, casting everything in a warm, flickering glow.

It's painfully romantic, and I wonder if Elena is thinking the same thing.

"So," she says finally, "what's on the agenda for tomorrow?"

"Agenda?" I raise an eyebrow. "I thought we were supposed to be relaxing. Isn't that what you keep reminding me?"

"Relaxing doesn't mean doing nothing," she counters. "We could go snorkeling, or hiking, or explore the local market. The villa manager mentioned there's a waterfall not far from here."

I take a sip of my wine, considering. "Snorkeling sounds good. I haven't done that since..." I try to remember the last time I did anything purely for enjoyment. "A long time."

"Snorkeling it is, then." She smiles. "Fair warning though, I've never done it before, so you might have to teach me."

The thought of guiding Elena through the water, her body close to mine as I show her how to use the equipment, is almost too much to bear.

"I'm sure you'll pick it up quickly," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "You always do."

She tilts her head. "What does that mean?"

"Just that you're a fast learner." I shrug. "It's one of the things I appreciate about you professionally."

"Professionally," she repeats, something unreadable crossing her face. "Right."

I've said something wrong, but I'm not sure what. We've established this pattern over months. Flirting at the edges of propriety but always pulling back with reminders of our professional relationship. It's a safety valve, a way to release the pressure without risking explosion.

But here, with no office around us, those boundaries feel increasingly arbitrary. Is she my employee on this trip, or something else? My doctor-mandated caretaker? My friend?

"Elena," I begin, not sure what I'm going to say next.

"Would you like dessert?" the chef interrupts, appearing at my elbow. "I've prepared a passion fruit mousse with local rum sauce."

Elena seems to smile at the interruption. "That sounds wonderful."

The dessert is incredible, but I barely taste it. My mind keeps replaying that tiny flicker of disappointment on Elena's face when I mentioned appreciating her professionally. Does she want more? Have I been misreading our interactions all these months?

More importantly, what do I want? The answer comes immediately.

I want her. Not just physically, though God knows I've had enough dreams about that to last a lifetime. I want her laughter, her sharp mind, her unflinching ability to stand up to me when everyone else cowers. I want the way she makes me feel less alone in a room full of people.

But I can't have her. She's my employee, I'm her boss, and the power imbalance makes anything between us ethically questionable at best. I've built my company on ruthless ambition and cutthroat strategy, but I do have some principles.

Taking advantage of an employee crosses a line I've never been willing to cross.

Even if sometimes, in moments like this, with candlelight dancing across her face and the sound of waves crashing below us, it feels like the line was drawn in sand at low tide.

"Michael?" Her voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Are you okay? You look... intense."

I force a smile. "Just thinking about tomorrow."

"Snorkeling," she reminds me. "No work thoughts allowed."

"No work thoughts," I agree, raising my glass. "To a productive day of complete unproductivity."

She laughs, the sound carrying on the warm night air. "Only you could make relaxation sound like a business strategy."

"Everything's a strategy if you approach it correctly."

"Even this?" she asks, her eyes meeting mine with unexpected directness. "Is this trip a strategy?"

I could deflect, make a joke, retreat to safer ground. But something about the night air and the isolation of this place makes me recklessly honest.

"Not initially," I admit. "It was a medical necessity. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad you're here with me."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Michael—"

"I know," I cut her off, suddenly afraid of what she might say. "Professional boundaries. You don't need to remind me."

"Actually," she says quietly, "I was going to say I'm glad to be here too."

Oh.

The chef reappears to clear our plates, breaking the moment. Elena uses the interruption to stand, smoothing her dress.

"I think I'll take a walk on the beach before bed," she says. "Clear my head."

"Would you like company?" The words are out before I can stop them.

She hesitates, and I prepare myself for rejection. Instead, she nods. "I'd like that."

Ten minutes later, we're walking barefoot along the private beach beneath our villa. The sand is still warm from the day's heat, and the moon casts a silver path across the dark water. Elena has wrapped a light shawl around her shoulders against the gentle evening breeze.

The only sounds are the waves and the distant music of night insects. It's peaceful in a way I haven't experienced in years. Decades, maybe.

"Your doctor was right," Elena says finally. "This place is good for you."

"Oh? How can you tell?"

She glances at me. "You're different here. Less... guarded."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Definitely good." She stops walking, turning to face the ocean. "You know, for the first three weeks I worked for you, I was terrified every time you called me into your office."

I frown. "Why?"

"Your reputation preceded you." She looks up at me. "The ruthless CEO who chews up assistants and spits them out. Five assistants in six months before me, all claiming you were impossible to work for."

"I have high standards," I shoot back.

"You do," she agrees. "But that's not why they quit."

"No?"

She shakes her head. "They quit because you never let them see the real you.

You're all harsh demands and cold efficiency on the surface, which is intimidating enough.

But then there are these moments, like when you sent flowers to Janet in accounting when her mother was sick, or when you stayed late helping the janitorial staff clean up after the holiday party when you thought everyone had gone home, that show there's someone else underneath.

Someone who cares. The disconnect is jarring. "

I'm stunned into silence. I didn't realize she'd been watching me so closely, or that she'd witnessed those private moments I thought no one had seen.

"Why didn't you quit?" I ask finally.

She smiles. "Because I saw through you faster than the others. And because..." She hesitates. "I liked the challenge of figuring out which version was real."

"And? What's your conclusion?"

"Still researching," she says with a teasing lilt. "But I have my theories."

I take a step closer to her, drawn by some force I can't resist. "Care to share those theories?"

"I think," she whispers, "that the real Michael Morrison is someone who built walls so high to protect himself that he sometimes forgets how to lower them. I think he's brilliant and driven, but also lonely. I think he cares more deeply than he wants anyone to know."

Her words strike too close to home, leaving me feeling exposed. Vulnerable. I don't do vulnerable. I do power plays and strategic negotiations. This, standing on a moonlit beach with a woman who sees too much, is uncharted territory.

"That's quite a theory," I manage, my voice louder than intended.

"Am I wrong?" she challenges.