Are you married, Mark? Still a widower? Why haven’t you—
“Are you married, Mark?” Fiona whispered.
“Speaking of time, I’m out of it. Ladies.” He nodded to the table, then looked at Law and Ken. Law was talking to one woman, but sneaking eye contact with Chesty. And Ken was trying hard to look like he wasn’t staring at…a woman across the table in a scarlet sweater.
So much for manly solidarity.
“Great to see you all, and Lacey, you have my number. Call me in time for the next meeting.”
“I will,” she agreed. “But, Mark I have to tell you—”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it, despite the fact that it hadn’t rung. “Really sorry, but I have to take a call.”
He hustled out of the room, a low-grade resentment seething in him. Not against the women. Technically, he was fair game. And they all seemed…nice. Probably really good women. And he liked a good woman as much as the next guy.
But here, on Mimosa Key, Florida, he was profoundly reminded that none of those women was his soul mate, and once you’ve had that, all the lesser attachments were just…lesser.
He bypassed the lobby and took a side door out to the beach, the late spring sun blasting over the wide, white sands of Barefoot Bay. Gulls screeched, children ran in the surf, and vacationers lounged under the cheery yellow umbrellas along Casa Blanca’s private Gulf of Mexico beach.
He kicked off his Docksides and held the shoes in one hand, oblivious to the heat of the sand or the occasional shell that stabbed his foot. Pain didn’t bother him. He’d spent years on risky adventures that were rarely comfortable, and he’d yet to be inflicted with any physical pain that was close to the agony of losing the only woman he’d ever loved.
He shook off the unexpected punch of mourning, the feeling unwelcome and unfamiliar.
He didn’t come to this island or this reunion to stroll down memory lane and cry into his beer because he’d lost his wife in the prime of their lives. He was here to chill out, to check out the changes in the town, and because…
Julia wanted him to come.
The truth, a small whisper in his brain, hit as hard as his foot on the stone path he took to get to Blue Casbah, the villa he’d checked into this morning. He rounded a thicket of flowering plants, the sickeningly sweet fragrance of honeysuckle mixing with salt air, and then he paused at the sound of a sigh. No, that was…what was that? An animal being strangled?
Very slowly, he inched past the hedge to peek at the walkway and small stone patio in front of the villa. A woman sat there, a roller suitcase and oversize bag next to her, her head in her hands.
Weeping. A full-out, shoulder-shaking shudderfest of misery unfolding on his porch.
Well, this was embarrassing. Mark looked left and right, dreading a resort guest passing by, then he took a step closer, dropping his shoes to make some noise louder than the gurgling and moaning coming from her throat.
But she didn’t even look up, choking on the next sob.
“Excuse me,” he said loudly.
She kept her face in her hands. “Go away!” she mumbled.
“But I…” Want to get to my villa…where you’re crying. “Are you all right?”
“No. I am not all right.” The words were garbled, teary, and spoken into hands that covered her whole face. “Give me five minutes before you drag me off, okay?”
Drag her off? “Okay.” He took a few steps closer, trying to make sense of the scene. All he could see of her was long dark hair falling over narrow, hunched shoulders, jeans, and a white shirt.
“Would you, uh, like to cry inside?” Before someone got a very wrong impression.
Her head shot up. “Yes,” she said softly. “I would very much like to cry inside. Inside that villa.” She turned and pointed at the front door painted deep orange and trimmed in white. “In fact, that’s the whole reason I’m here, a thousand miles from home, completely alone on what was supposed to be the happiest…” She grunted and stopped herself.
Brown eyes flecked with topaz and rimmed in red stared up at him, her cheeks little more than rivers of running makeup. Her face was shredded from tears, and her deep-brown hair spilled around her as if she’d combed it with a rake, the remnants of pink lipstick smeared around her mouth.
She’d almost be comical if she wasn’t so…miserable.
“I swore I wasn’t going to tell a soul my story,” she finally said.
“Well, out here you’re telling every soul.” He pulled out his card key. “So you might as well come inside and weep.”
She blinked at him. “You’re not with resort security?”
He shook his head, then eyed her. “Should I be?”
“You’re not going to take me in there and…rob me, are you?”
“It’s my villa, with all my stuff in it. Maybe I should be the one worried about being robbed.” But he was pretty sure the only thing she’d steal of his was some peace and quiet, and tissues. Lots of tissues.
“Your villa?” she asked.
“Well, this week anyway.”
“Your villa for this week?” She choked the words, kicking the stone paver with her loafer. “Well, that’s just perfect. I suppose you’re here with your wife for a…” She narrowed her eyes at him, sizing him up. “Oh, I know. An anniversary in paradise?”
“No,” he said simply. “I’m here alone.”
He gingerly bypassed her on the step and walked to the door, sliding in the key card.
As he opened the door, he turned to find her watching him over her shoulder, distrust and uncertainty in those golden-brown eyes. She shuddered on the next pathetic inhale, and he held out his hand.
“Come on and make that noise inside. I have tissues. And wine.”
A slight, unsure smile lifted the pink-stained corners of her mouth. “I like wine.” Very slowly, she took his hand and let him pull her up, leaving her suitcases on the step.
Chapter Two
Emma had to see the place. She wasn’t about to leave without at least placing her feet on the imported, cream marble floor or touching the posh furnishings or gazing out over the infinity pool that disappeared into the bay.
And don’t forget the beach-facing bedroom balcony or the stunner of a bathroom with a Jacuzzi the size of a small country.
All designed for fairy-tale romance.
The copy on page three of the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa brochure still danced in her memory, torturing her. Oh yeah. Fairy tale. Those were the words that sold people on villas that cost this much. Not, you know, real life. But then, advertising copy wasn’t real life…and who knew that better than the woman who wrote it?
Sniffing back some tears, she stepped in so she could fully wallow in her misery. Wasn’t that why she’d dragged her suitcases along the path, gulping great mouthfuls of humiliation with the desk clerk’s words still echoing in her head?
Oh, I’m sorry, that reservation was canceled by Mr. Kyle Chambers’s secretary. Would you like to see the cancellation number?
No, but, damn it, she wanted to see the villa.
She’d hoped to find a kindly housekeeper who might let her take a peek inside when she’d marched over here after her failed check-in attempt. She was totally prepared to use her six degrees of separation trump card to get inside. I’m with the ad agency that handles the resort… Well, she had been with the agency, before quitting in shame.
But a housekeeper was nowhere to be found, and the villa was locked tight.
That was when frustration, sadness, and the total unfairness of life had kicked Emma in the chest so hard, she’d dropped onto the patio step and gave in to the first real sobfest since her fiancé broke their engagement.
This guy must think she was a total loon. She glanced at him, already soothed by his baritone voice and commanding presence, and grateful that he hadn’t treated her like an unwanted piece of litter strewn outside his expensive accommodations.
She inhaled a
quick breath as the impact of the place hit her. Here it was, in full three-dimensional living color, so much more beautiful than the photos they’d dropped into the brochure and on the website. The luxurious living area led straight to French doors that opened to a jaw-dropping, heart-stopping view of…that man.
No, no. He was not in the brochure, but could have been, easily. She’d know exactly what to ask the modeling agency to send, if they’d used a model: a gorgeous, confident man, maybe mid-forties, a little dusting of silver, a strong jaw, piercing blue eyes, and an air of authority and power. Yes, he’d be the perfect accent to the stunning villa.
Emma looked beyond her unexpected host to the turquoise waters of Barefoot Bay glinting in the late afternoon, warmed by pink clouds that heralded a spectacular sunset over the Gulf of Mexico.
At least, that’s how she’d describe it if she had to write copy for that postcard view. Throw in a happy couple walking hand in hand, barefoot, of course. They’d be laughing or caught in that split-second exchange of an intimate touch and…
A sob bubbled up, and she choked it back with a noise that sounded something like a cross between a strangled burp and a hiccup.
Great, Emma. Just great. She’d never been a delicate crier. Hell, she’d never been a crier.
“So, what exactly did you mean by ‘your villa’?” the man asked.
“I meant that it was supposed to be…” Ours. “Mine this week.”
A frown creased his brow. “I was told there was a cancellation and that’s why Lacey—the resort owner—put me in this, the last available villa. I would have taken a room in the main building, but that was booked, too.”
“There certainly was a cancellation,” Emma said. “A big, fat, nasty, embarrassing, gut-wrenching brutality of a cancellation.” She wiped her face, vaguely aware that she must look like a red-faced freak, but honestly didn’t care. “Can I see the bedroom?”
“Sure. It’s through that doorway, to the left.”
Maybe this was a little masochistic—okay, no maybe, this was truly self-inflicted torture—but she just had to see it. Taking slow steps to a vestibule outside a huge double-doored entrance, she peeked into the bedroom.
Yep. The photographer had nailed it. A king-size four-poster bed with a puffy white comforter and sheer drapes all around, giving it a secretive, seductive feel. The pale marble floors continued in here, warmed by expensive Oriental carpets and layers of lush window treatments.
And the bathroom. She had to see the bathroom.
She crossed the room to a space that led into the spa-like sanctuary, drinking in a vaulted ceiling and blue tile trim that captured the Moroccan feel of the whole resort. Light bounced off the shiny floor, blinding her.
Just like she’d been blinded by…dreams and hopes and empty promises.
“Oh, Kyle. How could you do this to me?” She sighed and turned around, taking it all in, especially the magnificent tub surrounded by candles and a view out to the bay.
A tub built for…two.
“Seen enough?”
She startled at the voice behind her, low and close and as alluring as the surroundings. Looking up, she caught sight of the man in the mirror, pinning her with a look that fell somewhere between amused and annoyed.
No, mostly amused. And he had pretty eyes. If they hadn’t already been that piercing sky blue that matched the villa, she’d have suggested the art department Photoshop them to exactly that color.
Then her gaze shifted to her own reflection, and she gasped. “Oh Lord.” She put her hand to her mouth, laughing softly, because what else could she do?
She so did not match the cool and beautiful villa. “I look like I was dragged through a mascara factory.”
He put a hand on her shoulder, slowly turning her to face him instead of the mirror. “Were you supposed to stay here this week?” he guessed.
She let out a breath and gave a weak nod. “Yeah,” she managed.
“Special occasion?”
“Just, you know, a honeymoon. Is that special?”
“Oh.” His eyes widened. “Usually, yeah.”
She tore her gaze from him to take another longing look around. “Except there was no, you know…”
“Wedding,” he supplied gently.
“No wedding,” she confirmed. She heard the hurt and bitterness in her voice and wished she could hide those feelings, but they were out now. “Just a lot of frantic phone calls and canceled florists and returned gifts and sympathetic friends, and oh, that bitch at the dress place would not refund my money. And I woke up this morning, maybe a little hung over because last night was, you know, not my wedding night, as planned. Then I realized today would have been check-in day. I called, and the reservation hadn’t been canceled, so I thought why not?”
“Of course,” he said, as if that made perfect sense.
“Well, they do that in movies all the time, right? The jilted bride goes on her honeymoon alone and has…” She swallowed and looked up at him.
“And has…?” he prompted.
Wild sex with a hot guy.
No, no, good God in heaven, no. Except…whoa. He was easy on the eyes. “And has a chance to heal,” she finished.
Silent, he searched her face for a moment, his gaze sharpening as if he read her thoughts, which would not be good. “You could use that wine.”
He left her standing in the oversize Moroccan tile bathroom staring at her ravaged face.
Yeah, wine. To calm her jumpy nerves and misbehaving libido. Wine from the wine god who happened to be the lucky recipient of Kyle Chambers’s cold, second-guessing heart. Now, this man—whoever he was—knew her history, had seen her at her worst, and still offered wine.
Could anyone really be that nice? She’d think he had an ulterior motive, but one look in the mirror and she knew it couldn’t be a hot seduction on the sand. Pity, more likely.
She closed the bathroom door and went to the sink, unwrapping some sweet-smelling goat’s milk soap—made locally, exactly as she’d written in the brochure—to wash her face completely clean. She still looked pale and wretched.
Glancing down to the drawer in the vanity, she thought of a line from the direct-mail piece. Every bathroom in Casa Blanca comes with all the extras, including a luxurious robe, fluffy slippers, and a supply of high-end cosmetics directly from our own Eucalyptus Spa.
She tugged on the drawer handle and, sure enough, there was a blue silk bag with the spa logo embroidered on the flap. Inside, she found a never-been-used brush wrapped in sealed plastic, which was like heaven in her hair. And some powder, fresh mascara, and a light peach lip gloss.
The note inside said, “Enjoy your stay in Barefoot Bay. Kick off your shoes and fall in love!”
Ah, yes, the clever and ridiculously optimistic tag line that came with the Casa Blanca account and had to be incorporated in every ad, brochure, and web design. Emma might kick off her shoes and enjoy the company of a handsome stranger, but she’d never fall in love again. Never, ever.
Love was for idiots and fools and losers who bought what advertisers were shoveling out. Love was a fabrication used to sell stuff. Who knew that better than an advertising copywriter?
She cleared her throat and took one more look in the mirror. Better. Still bitter, but better.
And she sure could use that wine.
* * *
Jilted.
Mark thought about the word, and the woman who used it, while he sat at the table for two on the patio, enjoying the sight of the tangerine ball of sun slowly falling into Barefoot Bay. When the French door opened, he turned and tipped his head in silent appreciation of another sight equally as attractive.
She’d washed, brushed, and pulled herself together. Quite nicely, too. Her hair cascaded like a chocolate waterfall over her shoulders, her eyes bright, her skin clear, especially considering the tears. Thank God there were no more tears.
She walked toward him, giving him a moment to admire a feminine figure he hadn’
t really noticed in the middle of her crisis. Trim but curvy enough to appeal to him, with long legs in tight jeans, her bare feet adding a surprising kick of sexiness.
What kind of blind and stupid guy walked away from that before the wedding bells rang?
There might be more to that story. One thing he knew about romance gone south—and he did know plenty considering the business he’d been in for so many years—there were always two sides to the coin. Although this side was definitely fine.
“Feeling better?” he asked, pushing his chair back to stand as she approached.
A quick flash of her golden eyes told him the basic level of chivalry surprised her. So the ex was a dick in all areas, he surmised.
“Better on the outside,” she admitted. “And thank you again for letting a bawling stranger into your villa.”
“It was silence you or face charges,” he joked.
She smiled. “But you didn’t have to listen to my tale of misery or share your wine.”
He reached for the stemless bistro glass and offered it to her. “I have a soft spot for orphans and strays,” he said. “I also like a nice sauvignon at sunset. I had the owner order a case of my favorite for the week.”
She lifted her brows. “Fancy.”
He laughed and met her glass in a toast. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rub it in.”
“It’s okay.” She took a sip and closed her eyes as the mix of oak and vanilla hit her palate just as it hit his. “The view is rubbing it in enough.”
“Please.” He gestured to the other chair. “Relax. I’m Mark, by the way, stealer of your villa.”
“Emma.” She sat down and gazed out to the view with a low, sad sigh. “And you can’t be held responsible for your good fortune and my bad choice.”
“Hello, Emma.” He tasted the name, like the wine, liking the feel of it in his mouth.
“Well, this place has lived up to its reputation, and I’m pleased about that,” she said. “I knew I’d love it here, just like I knew every word I wrote was the truth. For once, I wasn’t lying about the product.”
The product?
She gestured toward the water. “Panoramic views.” Then the villa. “World-class accommodations.” Then him. “High-end clientele.”
Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) Page 2
