What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG)

by CJ Roberts

  Casey laughed. “You’re doing a great job for the Mexican tourist bureau,” she reluctantly admitted. “And I’ve got to agree it would be heaven to trade these heavy boots for a pair of sandals, to see the sun again, and to swim in the middle of winter.”

  “It’s very easy,” he coaxed smoothly. “All you do is ride the trolley to Kenmore Square, have the travel agent change the name on the ticket, go home pack your bags and grab your passport. Stay five weeks, six weeks, hell, stay six months. Stay as long as you want. The house is all ready for occupancy. There’s instructions posted on everything and you can drink the water, it’s filtered. If you need anything, just walk down to the flamingo pink villa next door, I share a caretaker with Ricardo Castillo and his wife Inez.”

  “I love those two. We clicked so fast when they were here last year.”

  Matt nodded. “He’s got an extra car and apartment in Acapulco that he lets me use if I want to stay there for a while.”

  “Matt, you’re making it very easy to say yes.”

  “Then say it, damn it! I’ve let practically everyone on the staff borrow the place, and you’ve got more right to take this from me than anyone.”

  “Matt –”

  “Casey –”

  “All right.” She laughed, reached over, and picked up the ticket. “If you change your mind, just fly down.”

  He leveled a blunt forefinger at her. “If you change your mind about giving up your job, just walk down to the village barbershop. It doubles as a public telephone and give me a call.” At her odd look, he elaborated. “Well, cell service and Wi-Fi do not exist but that weird Japanese electric typewriter-computer machine is there and has a power converter. Bring a flash drive and you can store your book on it but still have the fun of ripping out pages and throwing them across the room. There’s no TV but there is a radio. The house is situated so the ocean breezes almost equal air conditioning. The area is safe. The people friendly. You speak enough Spanish to get by. Trust me, it’s perfect for you to rest, relax, rejuvenate, and write.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider this sale to Marshall,” she groused. “I’d hate to see this paper turned into a scandal sheet.”

  “Never mind,” Matt ordered. “You just get to work on your bestseller and, Casey –” his expression grew paternal, his voice gentle. “This is an order: don’t spend all your time behind the typewriter. Get into Acapulco, enjoy the night life, spread those wings, but be careful.”

  He pulled open his desk drawer. “Here, probably my final order. You are to take this credit card – don’t say a damn word, I know you donated your prize money to that children’s shelter. You are to shop for all new clothes in the cruise department, convert some into pesos, and use it for everything else. I want to see that you’ve charged a bundle.”

  “By the expression on your face, I don’t dare say no.” She smiled. “Matt, I –”

  “Go on, get out of here,” he growled. “Just watch out for chickens in the road and remember that burros don’t have tail lights!”

  She grinned and blew him a farewell kiss.

  2

  Casey halted her climb to sit on the seventy-fifth stone step. The growing strength of the early morning sun was adding an enchanting colorful wash to the softly silhouetted landscape. Below glittered the azure waters of the bay she had just swum in. To her left, nestled amid the backdrop of jungle-covered hills, was the sleepy village of Tecpan de Galeana. It was a stunning contrast to the dismal, overcast, bustling city of Boston she had left five days before.

  After an impossibly long plane flight, she had arrived in Acapulco amid a dazzling festival. Beautiful Mexican senoritas, with billowing dresses, twisted and whirled to the throbbing beat of the mariachi bands. The spectacular display of exotic colorful dresses, accomplished dancers, and their accompanists held her prisoner for an hour.

  Then she followed Matt’s instructions. The last forty miles to the villa was managed in a 1955 Chevrolet courtesy of Juan’s Taxi Company. The taxi, which was held together by rust, piano wire, and a trio of tarnished Saint Christopher medallions, proved more exhausting than the flight. Casey had virtually collapsed into bed on her first night in Mexico and slept until noon.

  The next day was spent exploring her new living quarters, reading all the laminated instructions and notes that were posted, and then walking down to the picturesque town that seemed to be clinging to a steep hill. Matt’s villa was set high on a cliff overlooking the small inlet of Plata Rada – Silver Bay. The white stucco house with its red clay roof was surrounded by hibiscus, poinsettias, and jasmine, all in bright, scented full bloom.

  There were exactly one hundred fifty steps and a hop over a malecon – a smooth brick sea wall – to get to the bay. Warned about the bay’s strong currents and undertows, Casey had carefully tested her strength against the Pacific Ocean and knew when she had reached the limit of her endurance.

  The interior of the villa had been a pleasant surprise. The huge sunken living room was comfortably decorated with soft brown leather furniture and hand-crafted Mexican tables. A rya area rug highlighted the rich coppery quarry-tiled floors. Indian carvings and ceremonial masks decorated the cream stucco walls.

  Two sea-toned bedrooms winged off the living room. Casey had chosen to occupy the smaller and obviously the guest room. Each bedroom had its own full bath and a sliding glass patio door that led to a wraparound wooden deck.

  The kitchen, although small, was equipped with modern appliances, and a big double door fridge with a well-stocked freezer section. The stainless steel sink gleamed amid the black granite countertops; beige walls and matching tiles gave the room a cool, airy feel. An eating bar separated the kitchen from the dining room.

  It was in the dining room, where Casey found the unique typewriter/computer combo, with twenty pages of instructions. It had taken her a full day to get use to the combo-machine. She had typed pages of the quick brown fox, saved it to a flash drive, then pulled it back up again to make her feel secure. The wide oak dining table provided ample room for her to work and all her research materials.

  Casey had followed the twisting, rutted dirt road into the village, pausing to watch a group of women doing their wash by the narrow river that skirted the unspoiled town. Tecpan’s narrow cobblestone streets seemed more suited for burros than for the few aging automobiles parked there. Pastel-washed, red-tile-roofed houses lined the steep lanes. Most had lovely courtyard gardens.

  The village’s two hotels catered to sports fishermen and hunters; the barbershop housed the public telephone and served as the general meeting place. Dominating the heart of Tecpan was the pink stone Baroque Church of Santa Maria built in the late 1600’s. Life in the town had barely changed since colonial days. The people spent most of their days fishing or producing a variety of handicrafts, including excellent pottery and copperware that were displayed in the open-air market along with produce.

  Casey purchased a large hand-woven basket and filled it with vegetables, fruits, shellfish and a fresh-killed chicken. Local merchants poked various carved birds and stuffed iguanas in her face. Laughing, she pushed those souvenirs aside to get down to serious haggling for a colorful sarong, hammered silver hoop earrings, a pair of leather huaraches, and a lavishly embroidered cotton gauze shirt.

  Tecpan ran on mañana time, which Casey found very contagious. She had spoiled herself for three days, doing nothing, but swimming, eating and sleeping. The she put herself on a strict schedule, with the promise of a weekend in Acapulco. Rising with the sun, she enjoyed a brisk swim in the secluded bay and then returned to her writing for the remainder of the day.

  The tranquil villa proved to be a soothing balm for her weary, burned-out psyche. Gone were the everyday deadline pressures, the hectic schedules, and the time demands. No telephones, no newspapers, no television, and no people. She had always felt alone even among a crowd. Now, she had found a companion in, of all things, solitude. She had mastered loneliness, had met herself face
to face. She was not perfect, but she was gaining confidence. It was a nourishing experience.

  Casey took a fresh look at the world around here – the splendor of the sunrises and the sunsets, the vibrant flowers, the strange mystical pull of the moon on the ocean that caused the tides, even the melody of the sea gulls. They all worked by themselves, almost in spite of humanity, like small miracles. She reveled in everything. She glowed with energy and peace, enjoying the regeneration of her soul.

  A series of splashing sounds brought her out of her reverie. She watched in rapture the cavorting of three dolphins as they dived with rhythmic orchestration through the glassy water. The fishing pelicans were heading back to their cliffside homes, their huge beaks filled with breakfast mullet. Her own stomach growled in reminder of a promised breakfast.

  Stretching her tall, slim body toward the sun, she filled her lungs with the tangy salt air. She felt light-hearted and carefree in a bathing suit that had replaced the burdensome winter wools. Turning, she made quick work of the remaining seventy-five steps. Inside the kitchen, she turned once again to gaze at the enticing view. Casey knew if she succumbed to the invitation of the landscape, she’d be lulled into a workless day. No you don’t. It’s coffee and toast at the counter then back to re-writing that awful chapter three.

  She filled the coffeemaker with cold water, and spooned fresh grounds into the filter basket. The machine hissed and bubbled almost immediately. Soon she’d have wakeful cups of the aromatic brew to keep her going until lunch.

  Casey padded into the dining room and began shuffling through the pages she had finished last night. She was feeling a strange exhilaration about her writing. Her inner energy seemed infinite, and she was glowing under the excitement. This was not the taking of facts and turning out readable newspaper copy. Now she was able to create characters, events, dialogue, and a plot that was able to weave magic on a previous blank page.

  She smiled, thinking of the half-finished page she had left in the machine. It was smoother and more polished than before. The words flowed more naturally. It was…it was…her forehead puckered…covered with a series of blue editing marks, of changed punctuation and spelling corrections! A lump formed in her throat. She hadn’t made these changes. It must have been – “Matt!” She turned, her wet, braided pony tail bouncing against her bare shoulders, and ran across the living room to push open the door of the other bedroom.

  Sunlight slanted through the tops and sides of the half-closed drapes, clearly illuminating the outline of a long body contentedly snoring beneath a thin cotton sheet. All that was visible was the back of a head of dark hair and half of a bare, muscular back. Casey silently moved across the blue tweed carpet. She reached out and laid a cool hand on his warm shoulder. “Matt,” she called softly, gently shaking him. “Why didn’t you wake me when you arrived last night?”

  He made a grunting sound and rolled over. Instead of looking into Matt Granger’s familiar gray eyes, Casey found herself staring into a pair of sleepy, sherry-colored eyes and a face decidedly unfamiliar!

  The stranger’s hair was as black as Matt’s, but that was there the resemblance ended. This man was in his late thirties with strong, carved features – a face more interesting than handsome. The white sheet had fallen, revealing a broad muscular chest covered by a light mat of dark curly hair. Casey had the distinct rather unsettling impression the sheet was the only thing he was wearing.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled with a silent message of warning and her pulse accelerated in alarm, but she was more curious than panic-stricken. She cleared her throat and attempted to speak, only to be halted by the man’s slow smile and the deepening grooves on either side of his mouth. She simply stared at him in paralyzed, fascinated silence.

  At first, he thought she was standing on an impossibly tall pair of platform sandals, but a cursory glance showed bare feet with ten poppy-red toenails wiggling uncomfortably amid the carpet fibers.

  His alert golden eyes belied their lazily drooping lids. Slanting his head, he leisurely eyed every visible inch of her – the long shapely legs, the gently rounded hips and slender waist, the full breasts that the damp teal green maillot revealed with tantalizing near-transparency. He made a slow assessment of her face, roaming over her softly rounded cheekbones, pert nose, and an ever-widening pair of emerald eyes.

  “You must be the surprise I was told to expect,” he murmured suggestively, his tone husky with sleep.

  He was smiling, a wide wolfish smile that made Casey shift uneasily and wonder where her confidence had gone. “I…I thought you were Matt.” Her own voice came out a disgusting squeak.

  “No, I’m Travis, but I’m positive you won’t mind the substitution.” His eyes glittered with amusement.

  Casey felt a desperate need to turn and run, but she found her legs refused to move. Travis’s left hand snaked out and captured her right wrist, is free arm slid around her waist and pulled her off balance onto his chest before he pulled her down on the wide bed.

  A muffled cry caught in her throat. She twisted her head, ready to deliver a violent protest, only to find his mouth lowering to take possession of her half-parted lips. His hard tongue probed the moist sweetness of her mouth, their breaths became as one in a long, sensuous kiss that made her feel dizzy and weightless. She felt drugged, her rigid muscles relaxing and weakening under his masterful touch.

  His fingers spread across her smooth, bare back and moved down her spine, following the thin material of her bathing suit that covered her curving buttocks. The weight of his powerful body pressed her farther into the downy comfort of the mattress. His hands expertly caressed her hips before sliding over her flat stomach to gently cup a full breast. He had succeeded in trapping her hands and arms between the crush of their entwined bodies and she was powerless to stop his intimate exploration. His cheek and jaw nuzzled against her neck, the rough stubble of his beard scratching the smooth, sensitive skin he found there.

  These unaccustomed sensations of intimacy spread a warm lassitude through Casey’s lower limbs. Her body seemed unafraid, arching instinctively against his hardening length, encouraging his hungry caresses. Casey’s brain, however, was not totally anesthetized. When she felt his fingers trying to disengage the metal clasp that held the bathing suit’s halter straps together, she knew that unless she took immediate action, the situation was going to be totally out of her control.

  A sudden burst of adrenaline mixed with a heady combination of excitement and danger launched her into action. She managed to wiggle one arm free and slam her elbow into his solar plexus. The result was an instantaneous release from her captor and a sweet sound of a groan of surprise. Casey wedged her forearm against this throat and used her long, athletic body to pin him against the mattress. “All right, buster,” she growled forcefully, “what the hell are you doing here?”

  “It’s not buster,” he automatically corrected, “its Travis.” She caught the flash of white teeth and knew he was laughing at her.

  “Whatever,” she returned gruffly. “You’ve got some questions to answer, and don’t get any ideas because I’ve got a black belt,” Casey pushed her arm tighter against his Adam’s apple. The coiled strength of his muscular body relaxed beneath her. She smiled to herself, savoring her advantage. “Now, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m on vacation,” he returned evenly, letting his tawny eyes study her flushed features.

  “This is a private villa, not the Hilton.”

  “That’s quite true,” he agreed pleasantly, “and the owner of this villa, Mike Granger –”

  “Mike!” She echoed, blinking in astonishment. The sound of laughter tinged with relief escaped her throat. “Oh, no.” She sobered quickly. “You must be the surprise Mike wrote in his email. But you’re supposed to be in Boston.”

  “I…I beg your pardon?” It was his turn to look confused.

  Casey rolled of his chest and onto the mattress. “You don’t have to feel uncomfor
table about admitting it,” she told him cheerfully, trying to alleviate his guilty look. “Mike’s always sending his father some teaching friend who wants to be a journalist.”

  “I see,” he said slowly, pushing himself up on one elbow to eye her closely. “And is that what you’re doing here, waiting for this Matt to arrive so you can wangle a job?”

  “I’m already a reporter on Matt Granger’s newspaper. Or at least I was until last week. If you’d made a left over Michigan and landed in Boston, you could have gotten my job.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t trying to get your old job back?” He inquired silkily, one bold finger reaching out to trace the low, curved neckline of her swimsuit.

  “I don’t think I quite follow your train of thought.”

  “Well, you were very positive that Matt would be occupying this bed, and you know Mike and you are staying in their villa…” His deep voice trailed off suggestively.

  The gist of his statement slowly formed in her mind. “Oh. Oh, you think Matt and Mike and I are…oh, my…all three of us?” Her eyes widening incredulously at his bald statement.

  He nodded, waiting expectantly for a verbal lashing, tears, even a stinging slap. Maybe she would invite him to be her substitute vacation playmate. He got neither – only the sound of her delightful bubble of laughter and a wide smile.

  “Travis?” At his nod, she grinned at him, a deep dimple peeping out of her right cheek. “Why Travis, that is the nicest compliment I’ve ever had. A ménage a trois!” Impulsively she leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose before sliding off the wide bed. “Get dressed and I’ll fix you some breakfast before you leave. Ménage a trois…wow!” She was still chuckling as she left the room.

  Five minutes later, he was leaning indolently against the kitchen counter watching her pour two cups of coffee while he buckled the leather belt on his gray slacks. He was barefoot, and Casey became uncomfortably conscious of the broad, naked expanse of his chest and the lazy gleam in his eyes.