Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance by Savannah Rose (best ereader for pdf and epub .TXT) 📗

symbols. Way too off the grid for me, though. Even though he'd had it wired for electricity, plumbing, all the luxuries he'd need, there was something about being so far removed from civilized society that made me uneasy. Reverse agoraphobia, perhaps.

How funny would it be if I'd been beached on that guy's slice of paradise?

I picked myself up from the sand, having to take it slow and easy. I may have sustained not one, but two god damn concussions, and the slightest move to vertical made me dizzy.

I held out my arms like a tightrope walker, until the vertigo dissipated. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.

The smell was atrocious. The sky so dark, I couldn't see where the plume was coming from. No little orange glow anywhere in the tree lines. Nothing to light my way, no beacon to follow. I was all alone, who knew how many miles away from civilization, and I had sand in my pants.

That's why I hated the beach. Well, one of the reasons why I hated the beach. Doesn't matter how careful you are, how many precautions you take, you're always going to wind up with gritty little granules wedged into sensitive, hidden orifices. Along with the beer I was going to have, eventually, I was also going to have a shower. A jacuzzi. Hot tub and champagne.

It all awaited me. Rescue was in my reach. All I needed to do was to find out where this fire was coming from.

Trouble was, I didn't know how.

I chose to keep walking, thinking that if the smell got stronger, I'd be on the right track. If it got weaker, I'd simply turn around and follow my nose. Follow my nose to paradise.

That'd be a great song title, I thought, and grinned. I was careful to only grin on one side of my face. I'd better not get a god damn infection because of that. See? See why removing oneself from the amenities of a municipality is an inherently bad idea?

It would be okay, though. Everything always worked out for me. I was, quite clearly, one of the few, the proud, the blessed. This little adventure of mine would make for great news fodder, too. It may even give some heart to the faceless Petersen & Stiller corporation. Renowned chief executive officer survives horrific boat incident. Oh, how endearing that would be to the public. Not that I cared.

I did wonder, though, if the mysterious Sofia would have to be explained. Atlantic Charter had been paid to keep their mouths shut, so no problemo there. I'd told Phyllis to scrub the contract with Jericho Armored, and all their videos and surveillance footage that may show Sofia en route to my office was boxed and tucked away by this time, so I had that base covered.

Peter and Robin Dumbass would never jeopardize their padded bank accounts by reneging on their non-disclosure agreements, and by God, they had done a decent job of keeping Sofia in a delightfully compromising position until I could get to her.

Unfortunately, I never really got to her. Not in the biblical sense, anyway.

I wanted to just brush that aside, say 'well, her loss', and move on. My obsessive compulsions weren't going to make that easy. I knew me, and knew my not knowing would grind my nerves for quite possibly, eternity.

Sticking with tradition, there was nothing, no one, that ever got the better of me. In this case, however, senorita loca threatened to forever haunt me. And while that was a great romantic notion, I didn't do romance. I did power. I did control.

“Too bad you never did her,” chided a little voice inside my head.

I put my hands on either side of my skull. Oh, how it hurt.

“Shut up,” I said to the voice, and kept shuffling along the shore.

Chapter Thirteen

MADDOX

It could have been five minutes, it could have been five hours. I was so god damn exhausted, and thirsty, and hungry, I didn't have any true sense of time.

My sense of smell, however, was completely intact. The whiff of the campfire became more pronounced, more pungent. Closer.

Excellent. Excellent, and of course. This was me, Maddox Petersen. Son of Johnathan Petersen III, one of the most insanely successful business moguls on this planet or any other. Success was not only expected, it was guaranteed.

The shoreline ended here, butting up against a high, craggy cliff which was blanketed in thick moss and shrubs. The glow of the flames licked just beside the outcropping of foliage, tucked away from the elements in its own little alcove. A perfect place to camp, if you were into that sort of thing.

My steps were quicker, despite my fatigue. I thought about what sort of people I'd find here. If they were survivalists doing a dress rehearsal for the promised end of times, a honeymooning couple, a gang of corporate assholes forced to participate in a particularly savage team-building session. The poor bastards.

Maybe there would be luxury tents, or better yet, cabanas. Mosquito-netted beds, wine, fruits, bread, and meat. Oooh, how about steak. Steak would be great. Tri-tip, T-bone, sirloin, anything. Shit, I'd settle for a hot dog at this point.

There wasn't any steak. No tents, cabanas, not even a sleeping bag. Nothing. Just a little fire, the tips of its flames crackling and popping into tiny orange embers, then drifting and disappearing into the sky.

“Hello..?” I asked, even thought that was fairly stupid. That's what everybody does in the movies, right before the ax-murderer pops out of the closet and decapitates somebody. “Hello?” I asked again.

An ember popped in sudden response, exploding into a burst of orange sparks.

“Hey, so who's here, huh?” I said with a more authoritative tone, standing up straighter and posturing myself for whoever may be watching.

It didn't matter who