The Perfect Gift Read online

  The Perfect Gift

  Jessa Kane

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Want More Jessa Kane?

  1

  Nova

  My favorite song comes on the ancient kitchen radio and I crank the volume, knowing full well that I’m tempting the wrath of my sisters. It’s Sunday morning and the breakfast rush is in full swing, our tiny island restaurant packed with hungry tourists and locals. I’m in the kitchen, waiting for our cook to finish plating the order for table nine, giving me approximately thirty seconds of free time before I have to carry out the plates.

  Ignoring the stern, yet amused, look from the cook, I throw my hands up over my head and weave my hips in a figure eight to the beat. There’s a mop leaning against the wall and I whirl it into a dance, pretending it’s a handsome boy who finds me dazzling. A memory flits through my mind of my mother humming along to this song while driving her beat-up old station wagon and my steps slow.

  The vision weaves my happiness through with melancholy, but I force my smile to stay in place, even as I replace the mop against the wall. It might just be me and my two older sisters now running the restaurant our parents opened as newlyweds, but I have to be grateful for what I’ve got. Being sad never solved anything, right?

  “Order up!” shouts the cook.

  “Looks incredible, Marcel.” I pick up the plates, pirouette toward the door and blow him a kiss. “Just like everything else you make.”

  His blush sends me into the bustling dining room with a giggle.

  I set down the plates in front of two sunburned college kids, hoping I can get back to the kitchen before the song ends—Sundays should be for dancing!—but I’m brought up short when I see my sisters talking to some men at the hostess station.

  There are two of them. They give off an air of importance, like a lot of the businessmen who come to our exclusive island on vacation. Tommy Bahama shirts, loafers, expensive sunglasses. They all look the same. But these two seem to be discussing something important with my sisters. Something a lot more important than breakfast.

  On cue, both of my sisters turn and pin me with a look.

  Then they trade a sly glance with each other.

  A sense of foreboding settles in my belly when they point me out to the men.

  One of them lets out a low whistle, shaking his hand like he’s been burned and the other nods enthusiastically. What is happening here?

  My feet are frozen in cement as my sisters approach me with a sense of urgency. Purpose. When they reach my sides, each of them takes an elbow and hustle me into the kitchen, shoving me toward the small alcove where we store supplies.

  “Order up!” calls Marcel, eyeing my sisters suspiciously. Normally they never enter the kitchen unless it’s to yell about the food taking too long.

  “The food can wait,” says my oldest sister, Raquel.

  “Yes,” Constance pulls the rubber band out of my long, blonde hair and fluffs it with a discerning eye. “We have far more important things to discuss.”

  “Like what?” I whisper, getting the urge to run.

  “Did you see the men we were speaking with?” Raquel asks.

  “The businessmen?”

  “Yes, the businessmen, Nova.” Constance exaggerates the words, as if I’m a simpleton. “They’re looking for an escort.”

  I gasp when Constance unties my apron and tosses it aside, then begins hiking up my skirt to an indecent length. “W-what’s an escort?”

  My sisters turn wide eyes on each other and laugh gleefully.

  Oh goodness. There’s a terrible pressure in my belly. My sisters have always been best friends…with each other. I tend to keep to myself, but not by choice. When I was a child, they told me I could bring our parents back from the dead if I plucked a flower from the highest cliff on the island. Only when a stiff wind almost knocked me off did I realize they were lying. As more time passed, their confusing resentment toward me only grew. I’m not sure what I did to make them hate me, but I’ve learned to do my job and make myself scarce.

  Truth be told, they scare me a little.

  Now, Constance glances over her shoulder to make sure the cook isn’t within earshot. “Ah, little Nova. An escort is a woman paid by a man to…” She nudges Raquel with an elbow. “How would you phrase it, sis?”

  “He pays her to have sex. With him.” She pouts dramatically. “Do you know what sex is, little Nova?”

  “Yes,” I breathe, my knees starting to tremble. “I…I think so. Mostly. You didn’t tell them…” I swallow hard. “You didn’t tell them I would be their escort, did you?”

  “What?” Constance slaps a hand to her chest. “Of course we didn’t!”

  My relief almost sinks me to the ground.

  “We told them you would be an escort for their friend.”

  An invisible hand squeezes my throat. “I don’t want to. Please tell them I—”

  “You will do it,” Raquel interrupts me, suddenly serious. “Look, they want to surprise their billionaire buddy with an escort. He’s coming to the island next week on a vacation and you know where he’s staying? The mansion on the cliff. You know the one that costs more than the whole rest of the island combined?”

  “Yes, I know it,” I manage.

  “He bought it free and clear,” Raquel continues. “Just so he could come stay for a week. Do you have any idea what this dude’s bank account must look like? It’s overflowing.”

  “And we’re going to get our share of it,” Constance adds, giving me a once-over. “You’re going to do it for us, rather.”

  They want me to have sex with a stranger? I’ve never even kissed a boy. Never accepted any of the date requests from customers or even watched an R-rated movie. The fear of the unknown is bad enough, but being used by my sisters, no matter how many times it has happened before, is excruciating.

  “Please, don’t make me do this,” I say, trying to back away, but coming up short when my back hits the kitchen wall. “They can’t be offering so much money that it’s worth taking this kind of risk. What i-if he’s mean?”

  Constance mimics me with an eye roll. “What if he’s mean? Grow up, Nova.”

  “And yeah,” Raquel hisses. “The kind of money they’re offering for a week of your time is definitely worth the risk.”

  “A week?” I lift my chin as much as my limited courage will allow. “M-maybe one of you should do it.”

  Raquel’s upper lip curls. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you look like, little sister. Those businessmen barely gave us a glance. When you walked out, they were practically foaming at the mouth.”

  “They said it was going to be hard not taking you for themselves.”

  Is one of the reasons my sisters hate me because of how I look?

  That possibility occurs to me for the first time in my life. Of the three of us, I’m the one who bears the strongest resemblance to our mother. She was an incredible beauty, but I always considered myself a flawed version of the original. After all, I can’t sing like her. I’m six inches shorter. I’m clumsy as sin, where she was graceful. Still, the venom my sisters are spitting at me makes me think I’m right.

  It’s been partly about how I look all along.

  I know the rest of their reasoning all too well.

  More than anything, the realization they begrudge my resemblance to our mother makes me sad. Of course, they wish they looked like her. It’s unfair that I’m the only one when we all loved her equally.

  “I don’t know what to say…” I murmur softly. “I know we could use the money, but—
”

  “You think?” Constance sneers. “That storm a few months ago almost put us out of business. We’re barely making ends meet.”

  “Do you really want the restaurant to close, Nova?” Constance asks, getting in my face. “Are you going to let Mom and Dad’s legacy vanish, just like that?”

  “No,” I whisper, horrified. “I don’t want that. But—”

  “But nothing.” Raquel pokes me in the shoulder hard and I struggle not to wince. “You listen to me, little Nova. We do all the hard work around here. You dance around all day and look pretty. You sneak off to go play in the ocean while we figure out how to cover the bills. You owe us. You owe Mom and Dad.”

  Are they right?

  I’m definitely a daydreamer, but have I been letting them pick up all the slack?

  Will I let my parents down if I don’t help make this money?

  Even if it’ll come at the cost of my virginity?

  “And don’t forget…” Constance raises an eyebrow. “Mom and Dad were on their way to pick you up from dance class when the accident happened. Otherwise they’d still be here.”

  A sob escapes my mouth, heat searing the backs of my eyelids. They are right. I’m responsible for my parents being on the road in the rain that horrible evening. I do owe their legacy this sacrifice. I owe it to my sisters too for taking away their parents. “H-how much did they offer?”

  “A lot,” Raquel says, trading a covert look with Constance. “But that’s just the initial payout. We have to take advantage of this. Of him. We won’t get another chance like this again.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “You tell that billionaire you’re on the pill. Understand, Nova?”

  My brow knits. “Like birth control? But…I’m not taking any.”

  Constance’s face splits with a grin. “We know. But he’s going to get one look at you and take any excuse to hit it raw. Nine months later? Ding dong. Hello, Mister Billionaire. I’m having your baby and if you want me to stay quiet, I’ll take a nice, fat check, please.”

  Understanding dawns. “You want me to get pregnant on purpose?”

  “You don’t think this kind of shit happens all the time? You won’t be the first gold digger to take advantage of one of these rich assholes.” Raquel jabs the air between us with her fingers. “This is our chance to be comfortable. For life. To keep this place running the way Mom and Dad intended. Are you going to rob us of that chance?”

  My breath catches. “No.”

  2

  Lincoln

  I’m extremely annoyed.

  I have no time for an island vacation.

  There is work to do back in New York. There is always work. Do my business partners honestly expect me to lounge around and drink mojitos for a week when I could spend that time conquering the world?

  The limousine driver materializes outside my door and opens it, stepping back, chest puffed up. Careful to avoid brushing against the man, I slide a folded hundred-dollar bill into his hand. “Thank you, sir,” he says, bounding off to retrieve my single piece of luggage from the trunk. Only slightly curious about my accommodations, I turn to survey the property I was advised to buy for my brief time on this godforsaken island.

  My personal real estate agent handled the sale, but if I recall his excited chatter over the phone, the property includes fourteen bedrooms, thirteen full baths, a movie theater, tennis courts, indoor pool, an outdoor pool and a helipad.

  Not bad, I suppose.

  When I’m done with this hellish week in paradise, I’ll offer it to my overseas investors as a vacation getaway or simply sell it. Doesn’t matter to me either way.

  Nothing matters to you but money.

  Was it always like that?

  I ignore the sharp jab in my throat and stride toward the house, intending to unpack my laptop as soon as I’m inside. During the flight, I was emailed about an opportunity to invest in a new water purification technology out of Germany and the deal should be done by now. Already I’m behind and I’ve only been on “vacation” for less than five minutes.

  Throwing open the door of the house, a series of tasteful lighting warms to a glow, an ocean breeze rifling from the other side of the expansive mansion space to ruffle my hair. A sunset fills every window, giving the air a pinkish-orange tinge. Ahead in the high-ceilinged living room, long white curtains waft up and down, a fire crackles in the marble fireplace.

  Just like my penthouse back in Manhattan, it’s quiet.

  Empty.

  Exactly how I like it.

  Again, there is a twitch of discomfort in my throat, but I clear it and hang up my overcoat on the convenient rack. Behind me, the limousine driver sets down my suitcase and closes the door without a sound. When I would have kept walking, I’m brought up short by a note on the entry table. My name is written in script on the front, so I pick it up and read the contents, my irritation already flaming higher when I see it’s from my business partners.

  Last week, they came into my office—mid-conference call with Japan—and demanded I take some time off. You’re working too hard. You’re making us look bad, they said.

  I let them think their cajoling is what convinced me.

  I might have even convinced myself.

  But the truth is, my birthday was last week. I’m thirty-four.

  The same age at which my father died.

  Just like him, I have only my money to keep me warm.

  But unlike him, I am not neglecting a family.

  My professional drive harms no one. That is the difference between me and him.

  So why is it getting harder and harder to tell us apart?

  Shaking off my troubling thoughts, I scan the contents of the note.

  Dear Linc,

  It only took ten years, but we finally got you to take a vacation.

  After all the money you’ve made us, we wanted to make it a memorable one.

  What do you buy for the man who has everything?

  After a lot of thought, we think we found the perfect gift.

  She’s legal, clean, on the pill—and she’s yours for the week.

  Enjoy.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter, positive they’re joking.

  My business partners might be morally corrupt bastards—it’s what makes them such good hedge fund operators—but they know I don’t participate in their kind of extracurricular activities. I keep to myself. Women are nothing but needy distractions and I resent distractions. They’ve known this about me for years. There is no way they would procure me a woman as a gift. Unless they think a vacation will loosen me up into behaving differently. Wanting things I don’t normally want. If so, they’re dead wrong.

  A muffled knock comes from the kitchen followed by some indiscernible muttering.

  Feminine muttering.

  Jesus Christ, they really did purchase me a woman.

  Now I have to waste precious minutes getting rid of her.

  I toss away the note and drag a hand down my face, moving briskly in the direction of the kitchen. I open the door, the command to please leave already poised on the tip of my tongue—

  There’s a little blonde fairy, half turned away, talking to herself.

  Hand gestures and all.

  She’s tied in a big pink bow that covers her small breasts—and she’s wearing nothing else but a pink thong and high heels. I’m shocked as hell when my cock fills with blood and swells against the front of my slacks. I have no choice but to reach down and adjust the growing length. It must be her ass. It’s almost indescribably hot. I’ve never seen a bottom quite so… disrespectful. Her cheeks are so high and tight, they’re talking back to me. Even sassing me.

  Have you lost your mind?

  “Ta-da!” she half-whispers to herself, throwing her arms out wide and almost knocking herself over. “I’m your present and oh boy, I’m so good at sex. Oooh yeah. You better watch out.” She slaps her hands over her eyes. “Oh goodness. You sound
ridiculous.”

  Is this girl…rehearsing what she’s going to say to me?

  I realize my mouth is arranging itself in a smile and quickly stamp it out.

  This has already taken up too much of my time.

  Even if I find her extremely sexy, I know damn well I won’t sleep with her.

  Sex requires human touch. Human touch burns me like fire and I have no desire to fix myself. For a while in my early twenties, I tried to undo the belief that pleasure equaled weakness, but it didn’t work and I haven’t had the desire to try again in over a decade. Forgoing human touch keeps me alone and alone is where I love to be.

  Surprised by my hesitation to get rid of the girl, I force myself to rap a fist on the door.

  The fairy whirls around to face me with a gasp—and falls squarely on her tight butt.

  My life flashes in front of my eyes in a frenetic slide show. When it stops, there is nothing but the fairy. My heart pounds like a fist on a drum. And I can’t do anything but stare.

  Her face.

  It’s innocence.

  It’s angelic purity and yet my cock hardens further, eager to defile.

  Blonde hair falls around in her comically stunned face, wide green eyes blinking up at me, her puffy mouth parted in surprise. My body aches for release simply by looking at her from the neck up, but below that…fucking Christ. Her ass was only the beginning. The outlines of her stiff nipples are visible through the soft material of the pink bow. With her leaning back on her hands, knees raised, I can see the mound of her pussy and I stifle the urge to get on top of her and hump that little thing until my balls are empty.

  “A-are you Mister Lincoln?”

  My loins twist like a fucking pretzel at the full, husky sound of her voice saying my name. “Lincoln is my first name,” I rasp.

  “Oh. Umm…”

  She turns over and awkwardly gets to her feet, the high heels clearly two sizes too big. Despite her whispered claims to be good at sex, I’ve never been more convinced in my life that someone is a virgin. That only makes me burn hotter, makes my dick harder, even though I know unwrapping this gift is impossible. I hate to be touched.