Free Unscrupulous by Avery Aster

Barth’s retains a strict ‘no celeb’ policy.” Warner didn’t want this location to get lost to the Hollywood drama. He owned a mansion nearby. The island was as much his holiday getaway as his guests who came to relax. Each resort in the Truman Enterprise’s profile possessed different traits and characteristics. For example, Cannes, France, exuded glamour. Bangkok, Thailand, gave outstanding service and this Caribbean castle ranked high in privacy and seclusion.
    “Understood, sir.”
    “Our shareholders don’t want this property to become one of those types of establishments.” He stood. “They can go to Eden Mal Rock down the beach, but not here.” He pointed out the window.
    Warner’s eyes squinted and then refocused. A bright orange racing boat was docked at their pier. Sleek in design, the vessel’s side read in bright yellow “Farnworth Firewater”. Underneath the brand logo was the slogan “Party with our girl Vive”.
    What the hell…?
    Located on the east end of the island, Secrète de St. Barth’s faced a picturesque beach on a turquoise cove protected from the ocean waves by a coral reef. Voted by Luxury Travel Channel as “the pre-eminent hush-lush hideaway in the world,” guests lounged in their swim trunks, women topless. Royal dignitaries and those born into old money came to Secrète de St. Barth’s to get away from the world. Not to whoop it up.
    “I’ll tell them.” Kip turned for the door.
    Curious, he asked, “Who is he?” Who’d come to Secrète de St. Barth’s for New Year’s Eve? This property exuded quiet.
    “Our guest is a she, three young women registered under an alias. The bellman who took two of the ladies’ bags noted their luggage tags. They flew in from JFK,” he smiled. “It’s Lex Easton.”
    “As in the late Eddie Easton’s daughter?” Suddenly, his favorite Eddie song, “Sandman’s Witching Hour”, played in his head.
    “The one and only.” Kip’s excitement at her arrival showed on his face. “The press caught them at the airport and followed them here. We sent the reporters away.”
    “Miss Easton received quite a raw deal.” Poor thing had gotten ruined in the press growing up. “Who did she fly in with?”
    “A real beauty—didn’t give a name. I put them in the Nouveau Beauté suite.”
    The Nouveau Beauté suite had been built as an old spa in the 1950s. When Warner acquired the property, he turned it into a villa for hotel guests and designed a new skin and body center adjacent. Secrète de St. Barth’s regular guests didn’t care for the room’s location. Too far from the lobby, they didn’t fancy the walk.
    “It’s not a nurse or personal manager or anything, is it?”
    “No sir.”
    “Miss Easton isn’t here to detox, is she?” He hated when celebrities used his rooms to dry out from partying or heal after their elective cosmetic enhancements. Truman Enterprises would be made liable if they dropped dead, and they sometimes did. Pontiak Fontana, a chart-topping R&B singer, had been found floating in his Beverly Hills property’s tub a few months ago. They were just starting to put the scandal behind them.
    “My concerns are the same, sir. But our bellman, Tristan, assured me the women smelled, stood and spoke sober. Her friend didn’t appear to be a nurse, rather gave the impression she might be a family member. Let me pull their card. One minute.” Kip left the office and returned with a file, which he handed over.
    Warner read over the printout. “American Express reads Tabitha Adelaide Brillford.”
    “Correct.” Kip grinned.
    “Never heard of her.” Of course, he’d heard the Brillford name. They were an academic family from Manhattan society and had won various Nobel Prizes for their work in economics and finance. Central Park had benefited over the years from the Brillfords’ generous donations. This Tabitha wouldn’t be caught dead with an Easton if she came from their stock. “Care to tell me about