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Shaking his head in self-mockery, Diego crossed the spacious suite. Distraction or not, he knew to beware of strange women bearing towels, especially those dressed in skin-tight bathing suits.
Diego had no more than entered the club room when the resort manager hurried in his direction as fast as her obviously arthritic knees could carry her.
“Dr. Vargas.” She gushed his name, her blue eyes sharp and intense in a wrinkled face. Growing up as the son of a cosmetic surgeon, Diego recognized great bone structure. Merry Montrose had once been a beautiful woman. “We are so delighted to welcome you to La Torchere.”
Diego managed an easy smile that he didn’t feel, relying on social skills honed from childhood. Even exhausted and discontent, he could schmooze with the best of them.
“Your description of the resort was not an exaggeration,” he told Merry. “I’m looking forward to a much-needed vacation.”
When he’d run into the hotel manager at separate conferences in the same California hotel, he had, for reasons he still didn’t understand, mentioned his upcoming leave from the army. Merry Montrose, after extolling the virtues of her southwest Florida resort, had insisted he vacation here.
With the regal air of royalty and impeccable manners that would have pleased Diego’s socialite mother, Ms. Montrose motioned around the room. “We have a wonderful social director who will arrange any activity you might have in mind. And the concierge will make reservations, order tickets, anything your heart desires. La Torchere aims to please.”
Suppressing thoughts of a blond woman in a hot-pink Speedo who’d said the same thing, Diego selected a drink from a passing waiter and gazed around the room. Twenty or so beautiful people chatted and smiled over crystal flutes of champagne and fancy tropical drinks. They were the kind of blue-blooded people he’d grown up with as the son of a highly regarded plastic surgeon in Los Angeles.
But after the places he’d been and the horrors he’d seen, he no longer felt as comfortable among them as he once had.
He stifled the weary feeling that moved over him like a cloud on a sunny day and refocused on the chatty hotel manager.
“You’ll like Sharmaine,” she said, blue eyes piercing him with a fanatic eeriness. “I’m absolutely certain.”
Diego tried to fill in the gaps he must have missed during his musings.
A tall, elegant blonde, dressed in a white sundress that showed off her salon tan to perfection, glided up to them.
“Dr. Diego Vargas,” Merry said, “Meet Sharmaine Coleman.”
Following the usual murmured introductions, Merry disappeared into the crowd to welcome other guests, leaving Diego alone with the newcomer. She was very beautiful, in a pampered, classy way. His usual type, though he experienced none of the shouting hormones the Speedo-clad maid had produced.
In minutes he discovered Sharmaine was from Georgia, her father was in paper goods, and she had graduated from Brown with a degree in art history. More to his interest, she was here “recovering” from her latest divorce.
“Is this your first visit to La Torchere?” she asked, twining long fingers around a stemmed glass.
“It is. Yours, too?”
“No, suga’. I love this place and come here often. The spa is to die for and the other guests are always so entertainin’.” She flashed him a perfect white-capped smile. “You have to try the herb body wrap at the spa. It eases away all your stress.”
“I’m not exactly a spa kind of guy.”
“Oh, too bad.” She managed a sexy pout. “What kind of guy are you?”
One that’s really tired of playing the mating game, he thought, then suffered immediate contrition. Sharmaine was friendly and undeniably great to look at. She didn’t deserve his cynicism.
Rather than tell her the truth—that he liked to run and sweat out all his stress—and see her nose curl in feminine distaste, Diego said, “On this trip I’m a tourist, eager to swim, snorkel and see the sights.”
“Then put yourself into my capable hands, Doctor. No one knows all the fun and cozy spots like moi.” She tapped her breastbone with one long fingernail.
From the corner of his eye, Diego caught a flash of hot pink that brought to mind this afternoon’s intruder. A slight turn of his head afforded him a view of the outdoor swimming pool through floor-to-ceiling privacy glass that formed one wall of the club room. He saw a host of swimmers but none wore pink. Not that it mattered, but his curiosity about the woman was still piqued and would remain so until he discovered who she was and why she’d invaded his room. Perhaps she would also provide a little recreational diversion, as well.
A child ran on bare feet across the concrete and from somewhere he heard a whistle. The Speedo, as he was coming to think of her, had worn a whistle around her neck. He remembered the exact spot where the lanyard crossed the naked flesh of her bosom and the way the silver whistle bobbed when she backed away from him. Maybe she really was a lifeguard, though that still wouldn’t give her liberty to be in his room. He angled his head to one side, trying to see the opposite end of the pool, but one wall obstructed his view.
“Diego?” Sharmaine’s voice drew his attention from the pool to her.
“What?” he muttered. “Oh, sorry.”
“You seem entranced by the pool. Would you like to go for a swim?”
Diego pushed a hand over the back of his neck. His mother would have his hide for woolgathering during polite conversation, and he’d done it twice in one afternoon. Hoping he could blame the lapse in manners on jet lag and mental fatigue, he focused on Sharmaine. “What I’d like is to have a nice quiet dinner. Have you any suggestions?”
She trailed a French-manicured fingernail over his forearm and intensified her liquid Southern accent. “Suga’, you are talkin’ to the right girl. I know just the place.”
And before he could say lobster bisque, Diego found himself with a dinner date. Considering his sudden and unexplained obsession with hot-pink spandex, he owed Sharmaine that much.
Thanks to his mother, no one could fault his impeccable manners. He knew the social game so well he could play it in his sleep. And that, it seemed to him, was the problem. Relationships, especially those of the male-female variety, never stirred him anymore. They came and went easily, as though they didn’t matter. He wanted to feel that leap of kinship again, to care, to have someone touch him as deeply as Leah had. A few had touched Diego’s body, but none had touched his soul.
He longed for that with all his being, but common sense said to hold himself aloof. He was good at that—too good perhaps.
Classy and confident, Sharmaine would fit well with the world he’d grown up in. He had a month’s leave. And though he was weary of the fuss and bother of the ever-unsuccessful dating game, why not spend some time with a beautiful female? He could have some harmless fun—they were both adults—then go on his way, heart intact.
Chapter Two
Ruthie blew the whistle a second time, then climbed down from her small perch to talk to the teenage boy who seemed intent on killing himself to impress a girl on the other side of the pool.
“Justin.” She caught up to him and blocked him from cartwheeling off the shallow end. “It is Justin, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. So?”
He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, all legs and arms and undeveloped chest. Ruthie didn’t let his teenage arrogance bother her. “I know a way to get her to pay attention to you.”
“Who?” Water dripped from the end of his nose. His stomach was stained red from all the acrobatics and belly flops.
“You know who.” She inclined her head. “Kelley. That cute girl in the striped bikini.”
“Oh. Her.” His words denied his interest, but color crept up his neck. Brown eyes flicked in that direction before returning to Ruthie.
“Instead of all this monkey business around the side of the pool, which could get you tossed out and embarrassed, why not try the high dive?” Before he had a chance to take offense to her threat, she rushed on. “You do an awesome somersault, but from down here no one can tell.”
“You think my somersault is good?”
Ruthie’s smile was genuine. “You’ve got talent.”
The boy’s chicken chest puffed out. “Ya think?”
“Yep. Now go to it. I promise you, Kelley will be watching.”
“Cool.”
Before he could escape, Ruthie placed a hand on his wet arm and said gently, “No more crazy stunts, okay?”
“Sure. Whatever.” And he was off to the diving board, walking this time, strutting his stuff instead of running.
Ruthie sympathized with the love-struck boy, remembering those years of adolescent uncertainty, those times of wanting to act grown-up and having no idea how to go about it. But Justin was in luck. Ruthie knew for a fact that Kelley had been watching him, too, pretending all the while not to.
Ruthie’s lifeguard relief arrived, and after waiting long enough to watch Justin execute an acceptable somersault from the high dive, she gave him a thumbs-up and headed to her room. Leaving Naomi alone for more than a couple of hours worried her.
As she unlocked the door to the suite, the elevator down the hall pinged open and Dr. Diego Vargas stepped out. Remembering the embarrassing scene in his rooms, she blushed and hurried inside, hoping he wouldn’t catch sight of her. She hadn’t been able to get the man out of her thoughts all during her stint at the pool. Eventually, she’d have to run into him again, but today she needed time to regain her equilibrium.
Feeling an instant, slam-dunk attraction to a man was unusual for her. In fact, it hadn’t happened since before her husband’s death two years ago. But this afternoon, the handsome Latino doctor in the penthouse had blindsided her.
Maybe that was the appeal. Dr. Vargas was Latino. Just like Jason.
Tossing her room key and whistle onto the small lamp table, she laughed at the comparison. The rich, spoiled doctor might be a dark and beautiful Hispanic male, but he was nothing like her hardworking, good-hearted Jason.
“Mama,” she called, moving from the living area toward the bedroom the two women shared. Their suite was small compared to some of the others, but she considered herself fortunate to have wrangled this much out of the cranky old resort manager. Only after Ruthie agreed to be at the hotel’s beck and call day and night as a fill-in and floater had Miss Montrose agreed to include the living quarters as part of her salary package. Most employees lived in staff quarters, but Miss Montrose wanted her inside the hotel so she could be on the job at a moment’s notice. Ruthie had accepted the conditions gladly. The more work she did, the more she earned. The living room, kitchenette, bedroom and bath weren’t home, but they were close to Naomi’s doctor, and that’s all that mattered right now.
“Mama,” she said again. “You in here?”
Her mother-in-law, whom Ruthie had called Mama almost from the first time Jason introduced them, sat in a chair next to the bed, her eyes closed. Lips moving silently, her fingers weakly prayed the rosary beads lying in her lap.
“Ah, Ruthie. It is you.”
Ruthie laughed softly. “And who else were you expecting? Prince Charming?”
“Maybe. Wasn’t he a native of Florida?” Naomi’s brown eyes still snapped with warmth and humor, though since Jason’s death, her sixty-eight-year-old body had grown frailer with each passing week. Lately, she’d been frighteningly ill on several occasions, suffering from blinding headaches, nausea and eye pain.
Naomi’s doctors back in Texas believed her vague transient symptoms were psychosomatic brought on by the tragic loss of her only child. Ruthie knew better. Which was exactly why she’d requested the transfer from her hotel in Texas to La Torchere, its sister resort. She’d been lucky to talk by telephone to Alexander Rochelle himself, the owner of both hotels. The kind and generous man had made the transfer arrangements as soon as she’d explained her dilemma. The only doctor who’d given them hope for a cure was a ferry ride across the water on the mainland of Florida. She’d hated leaving Texas and the only real home she’d ever known, but she would have moved to the moon if that’s where Naomi could find health again.
Someday her mother-in-law would be well. Then Ruthie could think about the home and family and roots she’d always wanted.
Kneeling in front of her mother-in-law, Ruthie grasped one soft, thin hand between her own water-cooled ones.
“How are you?”
“Better now that my daughter is here.” Naomi gently cupped Ruthie’s cheek. “You are gone half of last night and again today since the morning. Even the young must rest.”
Ruthie’s chest filled with love for this gentle Mexican woman who’d become more of a mother than her own had ever been. Working to earn money for Naomi’s medical care was a privilege, a labor of love, though she could never make Naomi understand that. The older woman had tenderly taught a twenty-two-year-old military brat to be a wife, to cook, to make a real home. But, most important, she’d welcomed her son’s wife into her life with open arms and a loving heart. No matter how much Ruthie might do, she could never give as much as Naomi had.
“Have you eaten anything?” Ruthie knew the answer before Naomi shook her head. Most days her mother-in-law barely mustered the strength to move from room to room. And the cup of prepackaged peaches Ruthie had left on the bedside stand remained untouched.
“Mama,” she scolded gently. “You didn’t touch that fruit.”
“Later, chica.”
“Did you see what I brought you from that banquet I worked last night?” Ruthie pumped her eyebrows for emphasis, hoping to generate interest in a special treat. “Chocolate cheesecake. Your favorite.”
“My favorite? Ha. No one loves cheesecake like my Ruthie. You eat it.”
“Mama, look at me.” She tilted back on her knees and pooched out her belly. “One more pound and I won’t fit into this bathing suit. Besides I don’t like cheesecake as much as I once did. And we can’t let it go to waste. You’ll be doing me a favor if you eat it. Please.”
“How is it you bring these sweets and fancy foods from your work and do not like any of them? I know you, Ruthie Fernandez. You buy nothing for yourself. You work, work, work, saving pennies, doing without, all for a sick old lady who is not even your kin.”
“Don’t ever say that, Mama. You are my kin.” Ruthie tapped her heart. “Right here, where it matters most.”
“Always in Texas you say how much you love having a home and a husband. Roots, you say. Yet you are in Florida, living in a hotel. You are a good wife to my Jason, but he is gone now—” she crossed herself “—God rest his sweet soul. This place is full of rich, handsome men. You should be finding a new husband, not spending every minute working or caring for me.”
Ruthie’s heart pinched to hear her mother-in-law talk this way. She wasn’t looking for a husband, especially among the snobbish rich and famous. And even if she were, she couldn’t expect a man to care for Naomi the way she did.
“This is only temporary until you’re well. Remember when you first started seeing Dr. Attenburg? Remember how much better you felt for a while?”
They’d had such hope for those few weeks until the money ran out.
A soft smile creased the wrinkled brown face. “Yes. So much better. I believed Dr. Attenburg was going to cure me.”
“And he will. As soon as we can start the treatments again. I’ve saved up the money for the next round.” Almost. Every day Naomi grew weaker, and Ruthie was terrified of losing her. She had to start those treatments again soon.
“Already?”
Ruthie faked a jaunty grin. “Tomorrow I’ll call for an appointment.” Somehow, some way, she’d manage the expense. “And in no time you will be on your feet making me the world’s best tamales.”
“Better than Mrs. Sanchez’s, s??”
“S?, Mama. The best.” Ruthie fought a smile. Naomi and their former neighbor Mrs. Sanchez had a good-natured battle over who was the best cook. In the past two years, the battle had been on hold as Mama’s condition worsened.
Her print dress, once snug on a rounded body, now draped limply over her knees. Ruthie hugged those bony knees and stood. Leaning down, she kissed Naomi’s soft cheek. “Let me grab a shower to wash off this chlorine, and I’ll fix you something good to eat. Okay?”
“Rest, child.” Naomi’s fragile eyelids drooped.
“You rest, Mama,” she said, swallowing the lump that formed in her throat every time she looked at the woman who’d been so vital, so energetic before this strange illness took over. “I’m not the least bit tired.”
As Ruthie showered and dressed, she justified the tiny untruth with the knowledge that more work meant more money. Because of the experimental nature of Naomi’s expensive treatments, Dr. Attenburg required cash—a commodity in short supply in the Fernandez coffers. And now the good doctor said Naomi needed more intensive—and more expensive—therapy, a fact she wouldn’t share with her mother-in-law. The money was her problem to solve. Naomi had to concentrate on getting well.
Gnawing on her bottom lip, Ruthie yanked her hair into a loose knot on her head and headed into the kitchen area. If only there was some faster way to earn more…Or perhaps Dr. Attenburg would consider extending a little credit.
Fretting, planning and mentally counting her pennies, she rummaged through the refrigerator trying to hustle up a healthy meal to tempt Naomi’s decreased appetite. She sprinkled cheese on a simple noodle casserole and was sliding it into the microwave when her pager went off.
A glance revealed Merry Montrose’s phone number. Ruthie tapped the number into her telephone. Holding the receiver between her shoulder and chin, she tossed together a green salad while listening to the manager’s voice.
“One of the waiters can’t make it in. He claims to be sick, though I have my doubts about that unless laziness is now a recognized malady. So I need you down here. Six sharp.”
“The Banyan Room? At six?” Ruthie checked the digital clock on the microwave. Twenty-five minutes to finish dinner and make sure Naomi ate before reporting for duty. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.”
“And don’t be late.”
“I won’t. I appreciate the work.” An understatement.
“There’s a very special couple with reservations tonight, and I want you to see that they have the best of everything.” The manager’s voice took on an intense edge.
“Of course. I’ll take good care of them.” Ruthie scrambled around for a piece of paper. She didn’t want to call an important guest by the wrong name. Finding a pen, she poised, ready.
