18: Sharks Don't Fit In The Bed

The next thing she knew, cool lips were touching hers.

“Wake up, Mrs. Marshall.”

“Quinton,” she mumbled.

Greg chuckled, “Not anymore, you’re not. Come on. Up!”

She sat up slowly and blinked. “Shouldn’t it be evening?”

“In South Carolina, yes. Not here.”

“Where are we?”

“First port of call, Hawaii.”

“Ah. I’m kind of scared of sharks.”

“Don’t worry. They won’t be coming to bed with us.”

He helped her down the stairs of the jet, to a waiting limousine.

“Did I tell you, how beautiful you look today?” he murmured, leaning back against the seat across from her.

She smiled with dimples. “That’s because I’m wearing red.”

He laughed. The back of her dress was held together by red ribbon.

The car passed a few tall hotels, then a row of bungalows before turning into a lane lined by exotic plants. It stopped in front a large bungalow. Donna could hear that the sea wasn’t far from where they were.