by Vicky Loebel
“What about your casino permit?”
“It’s in the bag,” Ryan lied. Two decades ago, the U.S. Virgin Islands had issued a pair of territorial gambling permits, but only one casino had ever been built. Since then the gambling commissioners had perfected the art of stringing developers along—traveling, eating, sitting through lavish presentations—without ever assigning the second permit.
This time was different, though. This time the casino permit was about to expire. Ryan and Bekka had spent the last six months wining and dining the commissioners, taking them yachting, fishing, petting their dogs. They’d also developed plans for a showpiece casino that any politician would be proud of.
“The permit’s in the bag,” Ryan repeated. “We’re closing the deal tomorrow night at Hotel Ten.”
“God help you.” Carl Andersen grimaced. “I suppose you’ve squandered our money renting a private jet to fly you there.”
“My money, mostly.” All four of them had invested in CasParDev—the Casino Paradise Development Corporation—but Ryan’s trust owned fifty-one percent. “We didn’t need to charter a jet to Vegas. We’re using your Cessna Citation.”
“You’re what?”
Something cracked loudly. Rifle? Broken branch? Ryan sidestepped neatly as Lucas tackled Carl and Bekka to the ground. The foliage shuddered and then a slim muddy figure burst from the trees, pursued closely by Edgar-the-bodyguard. Lucas thrust out his foot and tripped the intruder. The man—or kid, he couldn’t be more than fifteen—fell forward and then thrashed furiously beneath Edgar’s punishing knee.
Bekka staggered upright, coated in mud. “You jerk!” It wasn’t clear who she was screaming at, Lucas or the kid. “You donkey’s ass!”
“Let the child up before he suffocates,” Uncle Henrik advised.
Edgar cuffed the boy’s wrists behind his back and hauled him to his feet. The third bodyguard skidded out of the woods waving his gun. Ryan found a sports towel in his messenger bag and passed it to Bekka. She wiped her face, glaring.
Lucas helped Ryan’s father to his feet. “My apologies, sir.”
“Better safe than sorry, I suppose.” Carl Andersen slapped at the mud on his clothes with bad humor.
Ryan examined the kid—at least what could be seen of him through the thick coating of filth. Torn jeans, battered jacket, the painful skinniness common to island children. Short pale hair stuck out at crazy angles beneath an old gardener’s cap from the Paradise Resort.
“This is private property.” Bekka raised her hand in a slap, but Lucas politely intercepted it. “What are you doing here?”
The boy stared at the ground.
“Were you stealing?” Ryan’s father stepped forward. “Spying? Who for?”
“Scavenging, I expect,” Henrik said, sending a dry glance at Ryan. “It’s a shame nobody thought to have Mrs. Green’s cottage boarded up. Still, as the lady in question has already vacated, I don’t believe there’s any harm.”
“No harm?” Bekka sputtered. “This Hermès jacket cost twenty-three hundred dollars. I’ll have to overnight it to Paris for cleaning. What am I supposed to wear?”
“We’ll stop at Target on the way home,” Ryan suggested blandly, “and get you a replacement.”
Carl Andersen shook his head. “This sort of thing sets a bad precedent.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Take him to Cruz Bay. Tell Chief Wendell to book him for trespassing.”
“You’re kidding,” Ryan said. “You’re going to press charges?”
“Can’t let local gang members loot our building site. Get a move on.”
Edgar turned the kid and began to quick-march him toward the resort.
“Gang member? Seriously?” Ryan frowned. Ordinarily cops would laugh off something minor like this. But not with Carl Andersen involved. The boy might spend the night in jail or even wind up doing time. “Here. Take over the demonstration.” He passed his tablet to Bekka and chased Edgar onto the path, ducking branches, hopping over vines, catching up with the pair in front of the gate between properties.
“Wait.” Ryan trotted ahead, blocking their way. “Let him go.”
Edgar kept a tight grip. “On whose authority?”
“We held an investors’ vote.” Well, Ryan had voted. And counted ballots. And won. “Take off the cuffs.”
“You’re going to get me in trouble.”
“Not as much as false arrest and kidnapping. The cops will lock you up and feed you the key.” Ryan took out a hundred-dollar bill and offered it to Edgar. “This is with Henrik’s approval. I swear.”
That did the trick. “OK.” Edgar opened the handcuffs, replaced them carefully on his Batman utility belt, and stalked in the direction of Mrs. Green’s cottage. The former prisoner rubbed his wrists. He had remarkably bright hazel eyes.
“I’m sorry about this.” Ryan got out another hundred. He couldn’t believe how skinny the kid was. Or how dirty, thanks to being pressed into the mud by a two-hundred and fifty pound bodyguard. “Are you OK? No major bruises or broken bones?”
The boy clenched his jaw sullenly.
“You know Doris, the concierge next door?” Ryan wrapped the hundred dollar bill around his business card and put it in the kid’s hand. “Keep the money for yourself and give Doris my card. She’ll clean you up. If you need an after school job, she’ll either dig one up or send you over to Villa Louisa on St. Thomas. OK?”
The kid turned and ran for the gate.
“Wait,” Ryan called. “I’ve got the key—”
The boy shot up like a monkey, scrambled down the other side, and vanished—poof—into the resort.
The boy. Ryan blinked. Boy? He rubbed his chin, wondering how he’d been so stupid. But there was no mistaking the climber’s silhouette. The skinny kid they’d cuffed and sat on, the boy they’d bullied and dragged through the mud…was a girl.
Chapter Three
Ellie had grown up in Paradise, but that was nothing compared to the Hotel Ten Las Vegas. She turned off the luxurious rain shower, feeling guilty about wasting twenty minutes of water. Still, after four years spent washing under a natural waterfall, she figured she’d earned it.
“But, Gran.” Ellie wrapped herself in an enormous bath towel and used a thick washcloth to dry her spiky blond hair. “The Andersens can’t bulldoze our home!”
“They bought it,” Gran called from the living room. “They can do what they want.”
“But they’re building a huge tower.” She left her private bathroom and waded through ankle-deep carpet to look for something to wear. “They’re going to ruin St. John.”
Gran came in dressed in red spandex leggings and a white spaghetti-strap top with the American flag in sequins. “Elliegator, St. John’s my home. I buried my baby and raised my grandbaby there. I love the joint, but I spent the last thirty-seven years scrubbing rooms at the Paradise Resort, and I’m done. I want to live it up. Let someone else change the sheets for a while.”
Ellie sighed. If only she hadn’t borrowed Gran’s savings. There’d have been no Costa Rica. No unpaid ecotourism job. No Juan Esteban, embezzling tuition and breaking girls’ hearts.
“Put this on.” Gran thrust out a black and gold shopping bag. “I burned your old things.”
“Burned!”
“At least, the maid’s probably burned them by now. Honestly, child. How could you leave the island in rags like that?”
“You should have seen what I looked like before Doris washed them.” Ellie had cleaned up at the Paradise Resort, but there’d been no chance to shop. “I had a flight to catch.” Inside the bag, wrapped in expensive gold tissue, were a short red spandex skirt and a spaghetti-strap top, like Gran’s.
“I got Spanx.” Gran slapped her derriere. “But you’re so skinny, you barely need a bra. Haven’t they been feeding you all these years?”
“Not so much.” Juan Esteban had been too busy pocketing pennies to worry about meals. “That is, of course they fed us,” Ellie fibbed. “We ju
st worked really hard.” The new outfit was a little loose, despite the stretchy fabric. She added wedged flip-flops from the bag, wondering if the sequined footwear made her look more—or less—like a hooker. The price tag dangling from the skirt stole her breath. “Exactly how much did the Andersens pay for your land?”
“Plenty! But all this stuff is free.” Gran took a shiny black credit card out of her handbag. There was no name above the engraved number, only a gold letter A. “That nice boy, Ryan, told me to charge anything I want at the hotel.” She placed the card in Ellie’s hand. “You can get yourself a whole new wardrobe at the boutiques.”
Ellie had never even set foot in a boutique.
Gran dug out cherry red lipstick and squinted into the mirror.
“You know what’s paying for this, right?” Ellie plopped onto the bed. “They want to build a casino. Ryan Andersen brought the gambling commissioners to Hotel Ten as a bribe.”
“You got to admit, it’s a pretty good bribe.”
“Gran!”
“Those fart-heads have been milking the casino license for twenty years.” Gran blotted her lips. “It’s time they sign it and get some jobs for St. John.”
“But the island’s a nature preserve.”
“Not all of it. Not our property—” She was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Hold that thought.” Gran left the bedroom. Ellie followed in time to see her grandmother receive an enormous bouquet of roses from a thick-necked man dressed in black slacks, a black sports coat, a black unbuttoned polo shirt, and an expensive gold chain.
“Frankie! Baby!” Gran planted a kiss on his lips.
“Bubula!” Frankie-Baby cracked Gran’s ribs and then stretched his hand to Ellie, revealing a suspicious bulge under his coat. “This must be the little ecology professor I’ve heard so much about. I see where Gigi gets her looks.”
“I’m not a professor.” Ellie crossed her arms. “I’m not even a college student anymore.”
“Frankie and I met playing nickel slots,” Gran said. “He went to the college of hard knocks.”
“With a double major in sex appeal.” Frank goosed Gran’s rump. “Still got those winnings?”
“I slept with them under my pillow.” Gran skipped to the bar, dropped her flowers into a vase, and grabbed two plastic buckets of nickels. “We’re going to hit the supper buffet,” she told Ellie. “They’ve got ballroom dancing by the slot machines from five to seven. Wanna come?”
Ellie hesitated. On the one hand, she wasn’t sure Gran and Frankie-Baby should be left alone. On the other, she needed time to think. “No, thanks,” she said finally. “I’ll get room service and take a nap, OK?”
“Sure, honey.” Gran hugged her. “Why don’t you call those boutiques and tell them your size? They’ll bring a rack of stuff up here for you to try.”
“Of course they will.” Ellie wondered what else the magic credit card would buy. Art? Jewelry? Clean water for an entire Costa Rican village? She closed the door behind Gran and dropped the card on a shelf. What was it like getting whatever you wanted all the time? Ellie patrolled the suite, switching off lights, unplugging useless appliances. Could credit cards buy a new planet after spoiled rich people ruined the old one?
Someone knocked on the door. Probably the hotel staff with a selection of Mercedes Benzes for sale. “I didn’t—” She opened the door to Ryan Andersen’s magazine-cover perfection. Blue irises, flawless skin, dark hair photoshopped to casual masculinity, beautifully tailored suit.
“Why, Gigi.” The corner of his mouth twitched in appreciation. “That outfit takes forty years off your figure.”
“No way!” Ellie slammed the door, completely unprepared to face Ryan. Absolutely no way. Except…her stomach churned…except the man owned the hotel. He probably had a master key to this suite. She glanced around urgently for somewhere to hide. Behind the drapes? Under the bed?
Ryan knocked again. Not louder or more insistently. A polite simple knock.
Ellie sucked in courage. What was she panicked about? Ryan hadn’t recognized her yesterday. He probably wouldn’t remember her now. Besides, he was the one who should be ashamed of himself—buying an unsuspecting old lady’s cottage, destroying St. John’s delicate ecosystem.
She yanked the door open. “Gigi’s out. I’m her granddaughter.”
“Don’t tell me. Ellie Green.” He tapped his temple. “I never forget a former fiancée….”
She slammed the door again and held it shut with her back. OK. So he did remember her. So what? She’d been eight when she staged that stupid wedding, just a kid. She couldn’t be blamed, now, for decorating her room in white crepe, for the lace gown she’d pinned together from Gran’s favorite tablecloth, for the handmade invitations she’d never—ever—intended Gran to mail out. For the fact sixteen-year-old Ryan had been hauled into Ellie’s bedroom and beaten with her geography book.
Ellie blinked away the sting of remembered tears. All that was fourteen years ago. Ryan hadn’t seemed angry in the hall. He’d looked open and friendly. He probably wanted his credit card. She picked up the plastic rectangle, dismissed as cowardly the idea of sliding it under the door, and gripped the handle. Here goes.
“Sorry. I had an…um…thing. In the fridge.” She thrust the card forward. “Gran charged my outfit, but I haven’t bought anything else. In case you’re wondering.”
“Not at all.” He scanned her spangled spaghetti top and short-stretchy skirt and his smile widened. “The more you buy with it, the better. It belongs to my cousin, Seabury, who really needs to learn not to draw to an inside straight.” He raised one arm and leaned against the frame of the door. She’d never seen anyone strike a pose like that outside of photographs. The scent of spicy bay rum touched the air.
“As a matter of fact,” Ryan said, “I have a favor to ask.”
Anything. Ellie’s mouth dried. “What?”
“I’d like to climb over your balcony and break into my suite.”
Chapter Four
Ryan had had a hectic two days. There’d been CasParDev meetings with Bekka, Henrik, and his father. Conference calls with the architects. The flight to Vegas with three high-maintenance gambling commissioners to entertain. Stacks of regulations and contracts to review. He’d even taken his guests on a behind-the-scenes tour of the Vegas Strip, although the real party wouldn’t start until the casino license was signed. With the commissioners safely in Bekka’s hands, Ryan had decided to squeeze in a nap, only to realize he’d forgotten his key.
He could call Bekka, but he didn’t want any more hints that a double-announcement—the casino permit and their engagement—were expected at dinner tonight. Ryan was sick to death of scheming, blood-sucking women. His recent marriage to one had lasted all of three days. He’d rather give up his fortune and spend the rest of his life flipping hot dogs at the Paradise Resort than ever make that mistake again.
Never mind. He let his irritation go and examined grownup Ellie Green. Five-four, scary thin, with blond hair she’d either cut with a nail clipper or had styled at an exclusive salon, wearing a star-spangled teenage-hooker costume. The effect was somehow both completely innocent and arrestingly sexy. He’d heard Gigi’s granddaughter was in college somewhere saving the rainforests. Costa Rica, Ryan recalled. Apparently she’d come home.
“You want to climb over the balcony?” Ellie asked. “We’re thirty-three stories up.”
“After three stories, it doesn’t matter.” Ryan gave her the boyish grin. “You still go splat when you fall.”
“Why not call the desk for a key?”
“I don’t like to disturb them.” The hotel staff gossiped constantly about his family. “Besides, this is more fun.” He clasped Ellie’s hand and took her in tow. “The balcony’s right through these glass doors.” She had a nice hand, strong and compact like the rest of her. Ryan blinked, experiencing a flash of déjà-vu.
“B-but—”
He pulled her from air-conditioned comfort in
to a crushing desert heat that was somewhat softened by lush planters overflowing with miniature trees, shrubs, and flowers. A trickling waterfall flowed gently from the balcony above them to the one right below. Across the street, the Stratosphere Hotel’s concave tower rose stark and slim against the dusty background of mountains.
“Oh.” Ellie clasped her hands. “Oh, this is wonderful.” She wasn’t looking at the view. “What a great way to reduce your carbon footprint.”
“Thanks. I designed the balconies myself.” He ran his fingers through the sparkling waterfall. “I wanted hanging gardens originally, but the investors trimmed the budget to potted plants.”
“Do you really own this hotel?”
“Bits of it. Tiny bits, depending on how the holding companies shift around.” That was one of Henrik’s favorite subjects, although Ryan seldom listened. “The Andersens own this entire floor, but my personal kingdom is merely two suites.” He grinned. “One suite now that I promised Gigi she can stay here as long as it takes us to build on St. John.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “You mean as long as it takes you to destroy St. John’s ecology.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.” It was only a fifteen-story casino, after all. “More like…to expand St. John’s ecological brand awareness.” He turned the conversation to her. “Gigi says you’re studying environmental science.”
“I was. I thought I was. I worked the last four years at Vista de la Selva, an eco-tourism camp in Costa Rica, taking university classes on site.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Broadening the rain forest’s brand awareness among tourists.”
“Did it work?”
“Incredibly well.” Ellie’s eyes brightened. “People would show up talking on satellite phones, guzzling from plastic water bottles, complaining about missing their internet shows. But after we took them into the tree canopy, everything changed. They’d get involved, dig wells, invest in conservation projects, reduce, reuse, recycle.” She bent to sniff a scented geranium. “I guess that’s all over.”
