The resort occupied a private island forty miles from the coast, accessible only by helicopter or yacht.
Marcus had booked the entire top floor — the Presidential Suite, fourteen thousand square feet of marble and glass and absolute isolation.
Elena had kissed him goodbye at the helipad, her expression sympathetic, her hand lingering on his lapel. "Work too hard," she'd said, oblivious. "Don't forget to rest."
Marcus had smiled, the mask perfect, while Vera stood three feet away with his release still drying on her inner thighs from the car ride.
Now, the helicopter's rotor faded into distance, and they were alone. The suite sprawled before them — living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlantic, kitchen stocked with champagne and oysters, bedroom with a bed large en
