BILLIONAIRE Island: Idyllic Mischief by Savannah May Page A

snapped, angry on Laurent's behalf, the guy was really sweet, and oh so hot, making them coffee in an espresso pot on the single burner stovetop.
    “Not with you though,” Laurent grinned like a hot little demon. “That was fantastique how you told him no way. I don't think Damien had ever been told no by any woman, the shock almost gave him heart failure.”
    “Hopefully it woke him up to the realization that people aren't on this earth for his entertainment.”
    “I wouldn't go that far.”
    “Who the fuck does he think he is trying to get me into bed as a second best, beer-goggle, after- midnight make-do?”
    “Huh? Second best?” Laurent looked confused by her remark and she thought it was the slang speech. Better not start bitching Damn up to his friend. She changed the subject.
    “Shall we start work? I'm dying to see a Paco Rabanne designer tee-shirt.”
    Laurent handed her a pile of sundresses in slinky fabric, creased from not being hung from a rolling rack. But when she went upstairs to the empty second bedroom to slip into one, she was amazed how the thing skimmed her body almost perfectly. It was too irresistible to dip into Laurent's sleeping quarters- a low double bed with a plain wood frame, his clothes spilling out of a stuffed suitcase. Indie discovered a cloudy old mirror tacked into the bathroom wall and wondered how he didn't slit his throat trying to shave in that thing, but wow, she could tell the dress was a clinger in all the right places.
    She went downstairs and her breasts rose in a naked blush under the smooth fabric as Laurent took her in, sliding his eyes over her body, scrutinizing every stitch– of the garment of course, not the girl. With a combo of admiration and dissatisfaction, he began to pull the dress around her body, tucking and nipping, and periodically stepping back to gauge his handiwork. As was the job description, Indie stood still and uncomplaining as she was pulled about, one arm lifted, boobs pulled about in fabric until perfectly situated.
    They worked like that through the day, stopping to eat a bite of lunch and chatting about Laurent's discoveries about their island paradise. Mostly he found the fact that everyone knew everyone's business the instant they'd accomplished it was disconcerting, used to the anonymity of a capital city.
    “Dat, and the fancy French families think they are, how you say it le roi ?”
    “They think they're kings?”
    “Exact, yes, they think they are kings and this is they're little kingdom. They order everyone about here like their servants and do whatever they want.”
    “But there is a huge Indian population and an Indian government.”
    “Pheugh,” Laurent guffawed. “They do not care about that government. It does not exist for them. They are the aristocracy. And the girls, the daughters of those families are brat princesses. You have not seen Damien's sister, Virginie. She can barely lower herself to even look down her nose at any man other than her own brothers. It's a very French girl.”
    “Are those French girls the ones kept locked up from seducers like Damien?” Indie asked, curiosity about the french hunk getting the better of her.
    “He will never get one of those until he marries one.”
    “Oh.” Of course, it would be expected that the families would intermarry and keep the estates intact. “So then what sort of women does Damien date?”
    “Date? Dammo never dates. He seduces, he chases, and when he exhausts availability, he goes to town.”
    “Goes to town?”
    Laurent made a don't be naive face at her.
    “You mean, he visits a prostitute?” Laurent nodded and focused harder on pinning the next sample to her body.
    “He's never had a girlfriend?”
    “The only woman he ever saw more than one time is an American ex-pat here. She's older and married with another French. I don't know much, he never talks about it but I think she broke his heart by going back to her husband when the scandal blew up.”
    The