Czytaj książkę: «The Unexpected Honeymoon»

To my fellow writers, Donna Alward, Wendy S. Marcus, Julia Broadbooks, Abbi Wilder and Jennifer Probst, without whom I could never have gotten this book written. Thank you for showing up every morning and pushing me to be productive. You ladies are the absolute best!

And, as always—Pete and Andrew, you’re my heroes!

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EXTRACT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“BUENOS DIAS!”

Having grown up in the hospitality industry, Carlos Garcia Chavez thought he’d seen everything. But nothing prepared him for the blonde standing in the doorway of the Presidential Villa. With her tight white dress and messy halo of platinum blond hair, she looked like she’d stepped out of a black-and-white newsreel. So much so, he half expected to hear her call him Mr. President in a husky stage whisper.

What he got was a big, overly bright smile that sent awareness shooting through him. Something else he was unprepared for. He adjusted his grip on the wine bottle cradled in his arm and pushed the unexpected reaction aside.

“Buenas tardes, Señorita Boyd.”

“Oh, right, you say tardes in the afternoon. My bad. I’m still on East Coast time. I’ll catch on eventually.”

Carlos refrained from pointing out that East Coast time would place her later in the day, not earlier. After all, the guest was always right, no matter how wrong they might be.

Meanwhile, this particular guest leaned. She leaned a hip against the door frame, a position that drew further attention to her curves. “So what can I do for you, Señor...?”

“Chavez. Carlos Chavez. I’m the general manager here at La Joya del Mayan.”

“Did you say general manager? Damn. I knew this was too good to be true.”

“There is a problem?” he asked. Carlos tensed. Errors were the kiss of death in the hotel industry. Mistakes led to bad reviews. He had enough on his plate keeping La Joya’s current woes under wraps; he did not need to add to his troubles.

“Lucky for you, I haven’t unpacked yet.” He followed, trying not to stare at the way her bottom marked her steps like a white silk pendulum. “I mean, Delilah and Chloe might be generous, but seriously, this? Doesn’t matter if they are married to millionaires. Well, Del’s married to one. Chloe and her boyfriend aren’t married yet, although anyone with two eyes in their head can see they’re going to be. They’re absolutely crazy about each other. Do you want some champagne?” She lifted a bottle from the coffee table.

“No, thank you.” Judging from her rambling friendliness, she’d had enough for both of them. “You said there’d been an error?”

“I’ve never had Cristal before. This stuff is really good.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“Oh, I do.” She took a long drink, nearly emptying the glass. “I definitely do. I should have served it at tomorrow’s night—I mean tomorrow night’s reception.”

“We can upgrade the menu if you’d like.”

She snorted, for some reason finding his suggestions amusing. “Little late for that.”

“Not at all. We can make changes right up to the last minute. So long as you’re happy.”

“Because everyone knows, it’s the bride who matters, right?” A shock of blond curls flopped over one eye. She swiped them away with a sloppy wave of her hand. “Long live the bride.”

Her groom was going to have his hands full tonight. Come to think of it, where was her groom? According to their records, Señorita Boyd booked one of their famed wedding packages, but the front desk said she’d checked in alone. Most guests arrived either as couples or with a gaggle of family and friends.

Only unhappy brides drank alone.

Stop it. The señorita’s drinking arrangements were none of his business. For all he knew, she wanted to be alone. Her accommodations, however were his concern, and so he repeated his original question. “Is there a problem with your room?”

“Only that I’m here. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To tell me I have to move?”

So that was her worry. His shoulders relaxed. “Not at all.”

“Seriously?”

“I handled the upgrade personally.” In fact, her friend, Señora Cartwright’s, phone call had been one of the few positive highlights of his first week. “For the next week, consider this villa your home away from home.”

“Really? Wow. I have the best friends.” She looked down at her glass, her eyes growing so damp that for a moment, Carlos feared she might cry.

“If I recall, Señora Cartwright said you’d admired the photos in our brochure,” he said.

The comment did its job, and distracted her. “More like drooled. This place is amazing. More than amazing, actually.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“Oh, I do.” Draining her glass, she reached for the bottle again. “So, Señor... What did you say your name was again?”

“Carlos Chavez.”

“Car-rrr-los Cha-a-a-a-vez. I like how it flows off my tongue.” She gave a tipsy grin. “You sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

“Positive.”

“Then why are you carrying a bottle?”

The Cabernet. In all the distraction, he’d almost forgotten the point of his visit. “My desk manager told me you talked with the Steinbergs while waiting to check in.”

She drew her brows into a sensuous-looking pout. “Who?”

“The couple from Massachusetts who were staying at the Paradiso.”

“Oh, right, Jake and Bridget. They’d walked up here from the beach. I told them they were wasting their time getting married at the Paradiso. I researched every destination wedding location in the eastern hemisphere, and none come close to being as romantic as this place.”

Given his family’s outrageous investment in creating said romance, Carlos certainly hoped so. The Chavez family prided itself on owning the most exotic, most enticing resorts in Mexico. “Apparently your enthusiasm was contagious because they placed a deposit for next spring.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She paused to wipe champagne from her upper lip with a flick of her tongue that left Carlos gripping the bottle a little tighter. He didn’t know whether she always moved with such sensuality or if the alcohol unleashed some hidden sexuality gene, but he found himself reacting in a most unwanted way.

“They said they stopped by on a whim, but no one hikes four miles along a beach on a whim. Besides, Bridget had that look, you know? After five minutes, I knew she’d made up her mind. Can you believe the front desk wanted to send her away with nothing more than a brochure?”

Yes, Carlos could. “Unfortunately, we are between wedding coordinators at the moment,” he told her. No need to explain the disaster he’d been sent to fix. “Thankfully, you were there to speak on our behalf. I wanted to come by and personally thank you for assistance, and to give you this with our compliments.” He presented the bottle. “Cabernet from Mexico’s own Parras Valley.”

“How sweet. Mexican wine.” She reached to take the bottle from him, only to stumble off balance and fall against his chest. Champagne sloshed over the rim onto his shirt, but Carlos barely noticed as he was far more focused on the hand pressed against his chest.

“I like how you pronounce Mexico.” There it was, the husky whisper. Carlos’s body stirred instinctively.

“Perhaps you and your fiancé can toast to a long life together.”

Gripping her shoulders, he righted the señorita and thrust the bottle into her grip. A bit rougher than necessary, perhaps, but he wasn’t in the mood to play substitute. The force caused her to stumble backward, although thankfully, she managed to catch her balance without assistance. Giving a soft “whoops,” she smiled and swayed her way to the writing desk. “Nice thought, Señor Carlos. Unfortunately, he’s off having a long life with someone else, and I don’t feel like toasting that.”

“Pardon?” She had booked a wedding package, hadn’t she?

“My fiancé—ex-fiancé—decided he’d rather marry someone else.”

No wonder she was drinking. He felt a stab of sympathy. “I’m sorry for...” Did one call a broken engagement a loss? No matter, he hated the phrase. Loss was such an empty and meaningless word. Having your world implode was far more than a loss.

“You’re here alone, then,” he said, changing the subject.

“Honeymoon for one.” She raised her glass only to frown at the empty contents. “Wow, this stuff goes down way too easily.”

“Perhaps you ought to...”

Blue eyes glared at him. “Ought to what?”

“Nothing.” Wasn’t his place to monitor her behavior. She was a guest. His job was to make her happy.

“Do you know what he said? He said I cared more about getting married than I did him. Can you believe it?”

“I’m sorry.” What else could he say?

“Yeah, me, too.” She swayed her way back to the coffee table. “Like it’s a crime to be excited about getting married. News flash: It’s your wedding day. The one time in your life when you get to be special.”

Hard to believe a woman who looked like her needed a specific day to feel special, but then as he knew all too well, there existed women who needed constant reassurance, despite their beauty. Perhaps the señorita was one of those women.

“Besides, if Tom was that upset, why didn’t he say something sooner? He could have said, ‘Larissa, I don’t want a fancy wedding,’ but nooo, he let me spend fifteen months of planning while he was busy having deep ‘conversations’ with another woman, and then tells me I’m wedding obsessed.

“Seriously, what’s so great about having deep conversations anyway? Just because I don’t go around spouting my feelings to anyone who will listen, doesn’t mean I don’t have them. I’ll have you know I have lots of deep thoughts.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Tons. More than Tom would ever know.” Turning so abruptly, the champagne yet again splashed over the rim of her glass, she marched toward the balcony.

He should go, thought Carlos. Leave her to wallow in peace. But he didn’t. Instead, something compelled him to follow her outside to where she stood looking at the Velas Jungle, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I would have listened to him, you know,” she said, the energy depleted from her voice.

“I’m sure you would have.”

He joined her at the rail. It was the view that made La Joya famous. Across the way, snowy egrets had taken up their nightly residence in the mangroves, their noisy calls reverberating across the lagoon. The water rippled and lapped at the tree roots, creating a blurry mirror for the green and blue above.

The champagne glass dangled from her fingertips. He was debating reaching for the glass to keep her from dropping it into the water when she asked abruptly, “Are you married, Señor Carlos?”

The word yes sprang to his tongue, same as it always did. “Not anymore.”

“Divorced?”

“Widower.”

“Oh.” Downcast lashes cast shadows on her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Again with the meaningless words. “It happened several years ago,” he replied.

“My problems must seem really silly to you.”

Her remark surprised him. Normally, people relaxed when they heard his answer, assuming the passage of time meant less pain and mistaking his numbness for healing grief. To hear her express sympathy, left him off balance. “I’m sure they don’t seem superficial to you.”

“But they are,” she said with a sigh. “They’re silly. I’m silly.”

She was sliding into self-flagellation, dangerous territory when combined with alcohol. Old warning bells rang in his head. “Why don’t we step back inside?” Away from the railing. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“I don’t want water,” she said, but she did push herself away from the rail. “I want more champagne.”

As long as it moved her off the terrace. He stepped back, expecting her to turn around, only to have her cup his cheek. Her blue eyes locked with his and stilled him in his tracks. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said with far more sincerity than the word merited. Behind the kindness, Carlos recognized other emotions in her eyes. Need. Loneliness.

A spark passed through him, a flash of awareness that he was alone with a beautiful, vulnerable woman looking for reassurance. The similarities between now and the past were far too many, forming a dangerous rabbit hole down which he swore he’d never go again.

“Our staff is here for anything you need,” he told her, breaking contact before other, more disturbing memories could rise to the surface. When it doubt, turn to business. The rule served him well these past five years. “We’ll do our best to ensure you enjoy your stay, regardless of the circumstances.”

“You’re sweet.”

On the contrary, he put an end to sweet a half decade ago.

After leading her inside, he made sure to lock the balcony door. With luck, she would curl up on the sofa and fall asleep. To be on the safe side, however, he made a mental note to have security keep an eye on the villa.

Images of a lifeless body floating atop water flashed before his eyes, stopping his heart.

Housekeeping, too. You could never be too careful.

The sun still beat strong on the sandstone walkway when he stepped outside. The beach side of the resort always remained sunny long after the lagoon settled in for the night. Guests enjoyed what they considered two sunsets. They would gather on their balconies or their private docks, margaritas in hand, and watch the shadows spread across the lagoon. A short while later, they’d turn their attention westward in time to see the sun slip behind the ocean. One more of the many perks that came with vacationing in paradise.

Personally, Carlos liked this time of day because the resort was quiet. Gave him time to walk the perimeter and ferret out any potential problems. There were always problems. Creating paradise took work—more work than people would ever realize. He’d been here six weeks now, not yet long enough to know all the resort’s idiosyncrasies. Much of his time, thus far, had been consumed by cleaning up his predecessor’s mess. Misused funds, unpaid accounts.... His predecessor’s managerial incompetence knew no bounds. And of course, there was Maria. Stupid woman was supposed to plan weddings, not run off with the philandering idiot. A decade’s worth of reputation in jeopardy because of two people’s recklessness.

Rashness led to nothing but disaster.

“Whoops, excuse us.” A pair of newlyweds cut around him to duck under the southwest archway, their arms filled with beach bags and each other. Carlos stepped aside, heaviness tugging at his heart as he watched the young woman playfully swat her husband’s hand from her bottom. He’d been that way once himself, romantic and naive, believing the magic would last forever. Before a pair of needy brown eyes sucked him dry.

He wasn’t an idiot. He was well aware there was more behind his family sending him to La Joya than righting managerial mistakes. They hoped that his tenure at La Joya might lighten his heart. As if being surrounded by romance would be enough to revive the man he used to be. What his family failed to realize was that man died. Destroyed by his own romantic illusions and desires, he could never be resurrected again, no matter what his surroundings.

No, Carlos’s days of romance were over. Best he could do was let others enjoy the illusion while it lasted. Or, in the case of Señorita Boyd, help reality sting a little bit less.

* * *

Who turned on the lights?

Even with her eyes closed, the brightness stabbed at Larissa’s right eye. If she could cover her face, maybe she could eke out an hour or two more of sleep. She reached to her right only to swat at empty air. Same when she reached left. Whoever was trying to blind her had also stolen her pillows and shrunk her bed.

Prying open one eye, she found herself face-to-face with a royal blue wall. Her bedroom was beige-and-brown. Whose bedroom was this? More importantly, how did she get here?

Bit by bit, reality worked its way into her brain. Mexico. Sometime during the night, she’d decided to stare at the stars, and stumbled her way to the terrace. She must have fallen asleep on the divan because she lay on her stomach, the side of her face smashed against a royal blue throw pillow.

How much did she drink? Too much, seeing how her tongue felt like it’d been wrapped in cotton socks. And her head... Thinking made the pounding at the back of her skull worse. Damn Delilah and Chloe for sending her that champagne.

“Why? We weren’t the ones filling your glass,” her friend Chloe would say, and sadly, she’d be right. Larrissa did the pouring all by herself. Seven hundred fifty milliliters of champagne and half a bottle of Spanish wine worth. She gagged, contemplating the volume.

Wouldn’t Tom be thrilled to see her now? After all, wasn’t she to blame for everything? Their breakup, his cheating. She challenges me, Larissa. Makes me think about things. All you talk about is the wedding. It’s like you don’t care about anything else.

Apparently he missed the part where planning a wedding was a lot of work. Too busy having deep conversations with the other woman, no doubt.

Letting out a groan, she pushed herself to an upright position and stumbled to the living area, praying the powers that be included an industrial-strength coffeemaker. She still couldn’t believe Delilah and Chloe paid to upgrade her to the Presidential Villa. The place was astounding, albeit filled with way too much sunshine at the moment. One glass wall looked out over the ocean, the other onto the lagoon. The entire villa was a glass box with curtains. Ironic since the resort boasted complete privacy.

Where did she put her sunglasses? She could have sworn she had them on her head when she checked in. Without them, her head was going to explode.

Oomph! She forgot the living room had a sunken conversation area. Missing the step, she lost her balance and pitched forward. Fortunately, her hand managed to catch the edge of the sofa. As her fingers curled around the cushion, a memory made its way into her head. Sad brown eyes with thick lashes that sent odd spiraling sensations down her back. They’d talked about relationships. He said he was a widower. She said she was sorry for his loss and...

And she touched him.

Oh, Lord, please say she did not come on to a complete stranger last night. A quick look at the open wine bottles said it was entirely possible.

A knock on the door sliced her head open. “Room service,” an accented voice called out.

Peering through the peephole, Larissa spied a cart laded with silver serving pieces as well as—heaven help her—another bottle of champagne—and groaned. The wedding day breakfast package. She must have forgotten to cancel.

“For the bride,” the server announced when she opened the door. He very diplomatically pretended not to notice her appearance, but Larissa caught the sideways glance as he wheeled the cart inside. Whatever. No different from the looks she got checking in. Single definitely stuck out at La Joya. Combing her fingers through her hair, she smiled brightly, as if she woke up wearing yesterday’s clothes and smelling of stale wine every morning. Damn, but those sunglasses would definitely come in handy about now.

Dish by dish, the server unveiled the contents of each platter. Fresh strawberries. Whipped cream. Huevos motulenos with plantains and peas. Their aromas mingled together into one fruity, spicy fragrance. Larissa’s stomach rose in her throat.

“Is there coffee?” she interrupted before the man could unveil the final dish, which she was pretty certain would be bacon. The greasy scent would send her right over the edge.

“I can serve myself,” Larissa continued when he reached for the thermal pot.

Her upright quotient was nearing its end, and she didn’t want to waste what little standing ability she had left on some elaborate presentation. Scribbling her room number on the bottom of the bill, she thrust the paper in the man’s hand and hoped the generous tip would balance out her curt behavior.

“Please tell the chef everything looks wonderful.” She swallowed hard to get the words out. “Exactly as advertised.”

“I’m glad you think so,” a new voice replied. Before she could reply, the man from her memories strolled into the room. Tall, dark and way too crisp-looking.

Her vague memories didn’t do him nearly enough justice. Broad shoulders. A hard, lean body. Her fingertips tingled recalling the feel of his torso all too clearly. Especially the way her palm spread against the taut muscles.

It was his face she’d forgotten. Hidden by the distraction of sad eyes was a face marked by character. A strong jaw, a prominent nose. Skin the color of burnished gold. It was a rugged, masculine face, carved to capture both attention and respect.

He greeted her with a polite nod. “Buenos dias, Señorita Boyd.”

Dammit, she’d forgotten his name. He wasn’t the kind of man a person forgot, either. Maybe if she smiled brightly enough, she could fake her way through the conversation until it came to her. “Buenos dias. How are you doing this morning?”

“I am fine, señorita. A more important question is, how are you?”

“Right as rain,” she lied.

He arched his brow, proof she wasn’t fooling anyone, but chose to turn his attention to the room service cart. Larissa couldn’t help but notice the server’s nervousness regarding the inspection. Señor Whoever-He-Was must run a tight ship.

“You’re having the bridal breakfast, I see,” he said finally.

“Yes, I am.”

“Interesting choice. Did you mean to?”

An odd question, although she’d been kicking herself over its appearance herself. She waited until he’d dismissed the server before asking, “What do you mean?”

“Only that considering your circumstances, I’m surprised you’re interested in having the full bridal morning experience.”

Was he referring to her hangover or the fact she was no longer a bride? His diplomatic description made it hard to tell.

He uncovered the bacon. A big mistake. Larissa started to gag.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she replied, swallowing her stomach back into place. Easier than swallowing her pride, apparently. “No sense letting a good meal go to waste.”

“I applaud your attitude. Personally, I wouldn’t be able to look at food, let alone eat so much.”

Okay, so they were talking about her hangover. “I have an iron stomach.”

Again, he raised his brow, unconvinced. They both knew she hammered herself into oblivion last night. Only a fool would insist on pretending otherwise. Call her a fool then. And would have to salvage pride where she could. Especially considering her only clear memory from last night involved falling against that hard, lean chest.

“You have a far better constitution than I do,” he remarked. “Cream and sugar? Or do you prefer your coffee black?”

What she would prefer would be if he—and the breakfast cart—left her alone so she could collapse. “Black, please.”

“I have to warn you, Mexican coffee is brewed stronger than American. Many of our guests are taken by surprise.”

“I’m willing to take the chance.” Anything to hurry him out of her room. What was he doing here anyway? Her fingertips started to tingle again. Oh, no. Maybe she did come on to him, and he was here because he thought she wanted some kind of Mexican fling.

“While you are here, you must try our version of café de olla. We brew the coffee with cinnamon and piloncillo. It’s sweet, but not overly so. The secret is in using the right pot.”

“Uh-huh.” She was far more interested in getting through this cup of coffee. Those stainless steel covers didn’t do much to contain aromas, did they? His nattering on about brown sugar didn’t help. Between the two, her stomach was pretty much ready to revolt. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear all his talk was on purpose, to test how long she could hold on before cracking.

“Do all your guests get such personal service from the general manager, or am I one of the lucky ones?” Assuming he was the general manager; she could be promoting him in her head. Drat, why couldn’t she remember his name?

His chuckle as she snatched the cup from his hands was low and sultry, making her stomach list. Well, either the sound or the champagne. “I suppose you could consider yourself lucky. Normally, our wedding director meets with our bridal guests.”

“But you don’t have one,” she replied. Another piece of last night’s conversation slipping into place.

The coffee smelled horrible. Apparently, the resort considered strong a synonym for burnt. Holding her breath, Larissa lapped at the hot liquid. The acidy taste burned her esophagus before joining the war in her stomach.

Check that, the coffee was still debating whether it wanted to join. She put the cup on the desk.

Meanwhile, her dark-suited guest was helping himself to a cup. “That’s correct,” he said. “We are in between coordinators at the moment. Which is why I’m making a point of working with our VIP customers personally. I want to make sure their experience with us is exactly as they anticipated.”

“Little late there,” Larissa replied. This trip already wasn’t what she expected.

Realizing his faux pas, the manager cleared his throat. “That is why I decided to visit you first. I noticed—”

Carlos! His name rushed back. Unfortunately, so did the coffee. Larissa grabbed a nearby waste bucket.

And promptly threw up.