My Paradise Is You

My Paradise Is You

By Lucie Archer

When two very different men are stranded on a deserted island, will opposites attract, or will they end up killing each other—if the elements don’t get them first?

Marc Reed is an expert scuba diver and leads underwater tours of the infamous shipwrecks scattered around Bermuda. When a robbery forces him and his boss’s son—a man he despises on principle—to take shelter on an uncharted island, he might have to reassess his opinion of the spoiled snob.

Ian Blythe-Darcy II lives a life most would envy. He’s a trust-fund kid being groomed to take over his father’s empire of hotels and resorts. But it’s not a life that matches what’s in his heart. He’s in the closet and engaged to a socialite he doesn’t love, but he’s about to get a crash course in being true to himself—and maybe learn money can’t buy happiness after all.

World of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the globe.

Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One: Closets

Chapter Two: Stranded

Chapter Three: Day 1, Water

Chapter Four: Day 2, Fire

Chapter Five: Day 3, Shelter

Chapter Six: Day 4, Boredom

Chapter Seven: Day 5, Food

Chapter Eight: Day 6, Family

Chapter Nine: Day 7, Leisure

Chapter Ten: Day 8, Lies

Chapter Eleven: Day 9, Truth

Chapter Twelve: Bermuda

Chapter Thirteen: Last Night on Earth

Epilogue

More from Lucie Archer

About the Author

By Lucie Archer

Visit Dreamspinner Press

Copyright

For Camille for keeping me sane.

Acknowledgments

MANY THANKS to everyone who’s helped make this book the best that it could possibly be.

Chapter One: Closets

IAN BIT his bottom lip to quell the rage fermenting under his skin. Arguing with his old man would only compound the throbbing between his temples that the Gosling’s Black Seal Rum had so kindly gifted him. It was a Bermuda staple, so he didn’t have a choice but to indulge. When in Rome…. He vowed to show more restraint next time, but he couldn’t help the fact that boardrooms drove him to alcohol. He blamed his father, really.

Instead of pointing out how much he loathed the idea of following in his father’s footsteps, he stayed quiet as Ian Blythe-Darcy Senior tore into him for showing up late to the meeting with some potential investors. He didn’t understand why they needed more money. He’d grown up not wanting for anything, and his father’s hotel empire had amassed enough capital for his children’s children’s children to live on comfortably. What more did they need?

Did you even think about how your lateness would reflect on the company? Ian Senior bellowed, his face an ugly shade of red that Ian liked to refer to as angry tomato, but that led to thoughts about lunch, which then led to Ian smiling and Senior turning eggplant. That’s when things got real.

Do you think life is a joke, son? I’m building your future here and all you can do is show up late to meetings hungover, ruin investment opportunities, and make your mother and I look like fools?

Senior dealt a low blow evoking his mother, one he couldn’t let slide. Unlike you, Mother is proud of me! He scowled at his father as he loosened his silk Armani tie. He didn’t know who to strangle with it in the moment, him or his father, but since it hung around his neck, he was willing to act as the sacrificial lamb.

If you got off your arse and did something for a change, perhaps I’d have something to be proud of.

Mr. Blythe, sir? Margaret interrupted.

What? Senior snapped, both their heads swiveling toward the white-haired executive assistant who stood tall and stoic in the doorway.

Ian deflated when her eyes flickered over to him for half a second. She’d worked for his father long before he drew his first breath, and Ian appreciated her ability to wrangle Senior and rescue him when things between them boiled over.

Senior pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out a heavy sigh. What is it, Margaret?

Your ten o’clock arrived early, sir. I showed them to the lounge. Shall I let them in?

Yes, yes, fine. Senior waved her away. Ian made himself busy by rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt to avoid making eye contact, when his father turned his attention back to him. We aren’t done discussing your behavior, Junior. I don’t know how a son of mine could lack so much ambition.

Ian didn’t bother replying. When his father called him Junior, it signaled the end of conversation. He grabbed his jacket off the chair and stormed out, a little black rain cloud tagging along on the way back to his suite. His headache lingered, but on the bright side, his day had just opened up, which meant sun and more of that delicious rum.

AS SOON as the door to his suite closed behind him, Ian kicked off his shoes, stripped, and reached for a pair of swim trunks. He grabbed a bottle of water from the minibar and sucked it down before heading out the glass doors of his suite, onto the pink sandy beach. The warm Bermuda sun might do him some good, and his skin could use a splash of color. Pasty English white didn’t go very well with his summer wardrobe.

He’d only been in Bermuda a few nights, but he enjoyed having some time to himself. The opportunity to sit on the beach and take in the scenery was well overdue. Francesca, his fiancée, kept nagging him about wedding details, and he needed a break. But the fight with his father had caused anger to flow through him like a current. In actuality, it wasn’t only the fight that had him worked up.

His current life trajectory brought him nothing but anxiety.

Somehow he’d managed to get engaged to a woman with whom he had little in common. He and Francesca were great friends, and she would, in theory, make an ideal life partner, but they lacked that spark, and he deemed the dread of spending the rest of his life with her just as responsible for last night’s inebriated state as his father. Maybe it was a tad naive for a grown man to believe in fairy tales, but was a little chemistry too much to ask?

Of course, he suspected that lack of chemical compatibility had more to do with the fact that he was so far in the closet that he might as well declare it his permanent place of residence. Having a hotel mogul for a father came with benefits: closets were plentiful. He stayed inside because he needed another reason for his father to be disappointed in him like he needed a hole in his head. And maybe the money was nice too.

As far as Francesca knew, he was bisexual, but her sharp intellect and intuition made him fearful she’d uncover the truth someday. He hated lying to her, but he felt like he didn’t have a choice. Invitations to the wedding went out weeks ago, her parents loved him, and the fact that Ian adored her—albeit on a very platonic level—kept him from breaking things off.

Francesca had elected to stay behind in London as she worked on her doctorate, which left him free to drink his sorrows away. So he flagged down a waiter, ordered a Rum Swizzle, and attempted to substitute alcohol for his guilt while he indulged himself with memorizing the lines of muscle on the sexy men combing the beach.

She deserved so much better.

BABYSITTING A rich brat all day ranked very low on Marc Reed’s list of awesome activities to do on the one day off he’d had all month, but there he was, strolling down the beach in search of some trust-fund kid who probably needed help wiping his own ass. Living in paradise came with a hefty price tag, and he really needed the money. Otherwise he would’ve told his boss to screw off.

He cupped his hands, hollered for some guy named Ian, and tried not to think about how pretentious of a name it was. Is there an Ian down there? he yelled toward the water.

No one answered and he groaned in frustration.

The sun beat down on him from its place in the midmorning sky. It was supposed to be a hot one, and with his instructions clear on showing the boss’s son all Bermuda had to offer below the surface, he wanted to hit his favorite dive spot before noon. The sooner he found this Ian prick, the sooner he could get the job done.

Anybody named Ian around here?

I’m Ian, replied a man from behind him. By the sound of his posh British accent, Marc knew he’d found his man, the hotel owner’s son, his charge for the day.

He turned to find a guy around his age, give or take, lounging on a deck chair, sipping a cocktail complete with a little umbrella. His designer shades made Marc want to roll his eyes, but he resisted. Instead, he put on his best fake smile and introduced himself.

I’m Marc, your dad hired me to take you diving for the day.

Ian scoffed. My father sent you?

It took everything in him not to snap back. He couldn’t risk getting fired. His assistant lady said he wanted you to experience the beauty of the islands.

Ian took a drink, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucked on the straw. Pretentious or not, the guy was bangable, and he filed the image away in his spank bank for later.

Isn’t that a complete one-eighty? An hour ago he insisted I spend more time in the boardroom.

Marc bit the inside of his cheek to check