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“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.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_43db7dd0-16a2-5a5c-b036-597308858130)
“ARE YOU FEELING better yet?” The voice on the other side of the door rolled far more gently than Larissa’s stomach.
“Yes,” she managed to croak. After her embarrassing display with the waste bucket, she wasn’t about to admit anything else.
Happy Wedding Day to me. Her big day. The moment she’d dreamed about her whole life, when the world would see that she, little Larissa Boyd, found her Prince Charming. No more pinning sequins on someone else’s wedding gown or standing in the sidelines.
Never, in all her dreams, did she see herself sprawled on Spanish tiles with her head propped against a walk-in shower.
Dammit, Tom.
“Do you need anything?”
Something to put her out of her misery might be nice. “I’m fine. I need a few minutes is all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. There’s no need to for you to hang around. I’ll be fine.”
She listened for sounds of his departure, but heard none. You’d think he’d take advantage of her locking herself in the bathroom to get as far away from her as possible. Was he that afraid she’d pass out and bang her head?
Struggling to her feet, she wobbled to the sink. Shaky as her mind was, she was still able to appreciate her surroundings. The room was so large, you could fit three of her bathroom back home—one in the sunken tub alone. Needless to say, at the moment she could do without all the sunlight. What was it with this place and windows? Brightness poured in from all angles, bouncing off the glass accessories in near blinding proportion.
