“When we arrive at your private villa, I’ll ask that you surrender your phones. Your accommodations will have telephone access; you’ll be given digital cameras for on-island use. The images will be checked before you return home for the protection of our other guests.”

“And if I give permission for some of your other guests to take my picture?”

Val grinned. “Release forms will be signed by all parties. You’ll find that most of my guests like to remain anonymous while they’re here. Celebrities such as you visit us often, but my team generally takes the only images of them here. We will be happy to take professional shots throughout your stay if you like.”

“I might feel naked without my phone,” Michael said.

“You’ll feel liberated,” Gabi told him. “It’s difficult to relax when your phone is buzzing every few minutes.”

Michael glanced at Meg. “Did you tell me about the phone thing?”

“I told Tony. He said he hated the idea but you’d taken to phone silence at least once before and returned from that vacation ready to work.”

The cart slowed to a stop in front of a private villa. “Here we are,” Val said.

Massive hibiscus plants of all colors bloomed along the path leading to the front door. Palms and ferns filled the space between the larger trees. Val knew the landscape well, he’d picked nearly every plant species himself when he’d first commissioned their planting. He wanted to inspire tranquility, give the air fragrance, and camouflage the other villas nearby.

“The pictures don’t do this justice,” Meg said under her breath.

“Thank you, Miss Rosenthal.”

The slight smile on her lips fell. Val couldn’t help but think her compliment wasn’t meant for his ears.

Gabi opened both doors and crossed into the open great room.

The vaulted ceiling held several rotating fans and had a white pine finish. Muted colors of the Caribbean complemented the space. Overstuffed sofas and love seats, an open kitchen with marble countertops, and a dining room for four . . . tile floors and, of course, wall-to-wall windows that opened to the deck beyond. The ocean view and walk-out beach were nothing short of perfect.

Michael whistled as he walked into the space and opened the disappearing glass doors. The sound of the lapping sea filled the room. “I think I can give up my cell phone for this.” He reached into his pocket and tossed said phone on a nearby chair before stepping outside.

Gabi stepped outside with him while Meg stayed back.

“What about you, Miss Rosenthal? Have I fulfilled your needs?”

She met his gaze and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were a honey amber . . . not brown, but not quite hazel. Her driver’s license probably categorized them as a normal light brown. They were anything but normal.

“It takes more than a view to ensure my needs are met, Mr. Masini. It took some convincing to get here. I hope the rest of our stay will be easier.”

“Whatever you and Mr. Wolfe need,” he said with a slight bow. “You need only ask.”

She reached into her small clutch, removed her phone, and extended her hand.

Val’s fingertips grazed hers with the exchange and she pulled back.

Her cheeks flushed and she looked away.

Gabi’s and Michael’s voices carried into the room. They laughed at something, shaking Val out of Margaret Rosenthal’s amber-eyed trance. “You’ll find maps of the island, our chef’s specials, spa hours . . . everything you need in your welcome packet.”

“I’ve had clients swear by your chef’s specials. I look forward to sampling them.” She licked her red lips and Val had an instant desire to sample her.

He was staring and had to stop.

Val pushed away from the counter and stepped toward the open veranda. “Gabi. We should let our guests settle.”

Gabi offered a practiced smile and reentered the villa, while Val said good-byes. “Enjoy your visit, Miss Rosenthal.”

“I plan on it.”

Chapter Three

“Good Lord, Meg, you didn’t say the man who owned this joint was hot.”

If there was one thing she loved about Michael, it was his ability to open up about his sexuality when it was just the two of them.

“I honestly didn’t know. Pictures of Valentino Masini don’t exist.” The fact probably had something to do with the irritating rules about taking pictures while on the island. Lord knows she wouldn’t have been able to refrain from taking a shot of him to show Judy when she returned home.

When she’d stepped off the plane, the weight of Valentino’s eyes had fallen on her like a restraint on a rollercoaster. She knew, given the snappy, short conversations via e-mail, that he hadn’t expected her professionalism, or her appearance. She sure as hell hadn’t imagined him to fill out his suit like a man who lived in the gym . . . well, maybe not lived, but Masini didn’t dip into the dessert menu from the looks of his taut chest, which slimmed to a tight waist and perfect ass.

She really hoped he hadn’t seen through her dark sunglasses. Getting caught checking out his butt would have completely shattered the image she was trying to portray.

Masini’s face looked like it belonged to a man who lived on an island. His clothes, however, were a different story. She wondered if he wore the uptight suit all the time. A farmer’s tan on that body would be a crime.

He’s still an ass, she reminded herself.

Meg smoothed a hand over her waist, happy she and Michael had a little shopping spree during the necessary layover in Dallas.