“It doesn’t look like much,” Mrs. Hamilton said with a sniff.
“Oh, Mom,” Kim scolded. “It looks lovely.”
It looked fine to Ethan. The stucco was freshly painted, the gardens surrounding the building well tended. When he opened the car door, the air that hit him was heavy with heat and thick with the scent of those red flowers.
“Hibiscus,” Kim answered his unasked question. She threw open her door, climbed out and circled the car to him. “I just love the smell of hibiscus. Isn’t this beautiful?” she gushed, as if to nullify her mother’s disparagement of the place.
“As soon as we unpack, let’s go to the beach,” said Ethan.
Kim gazed up at him, her hair golden and her eyes a blue paler than the sea but darker than the cloudless sky. She was beautiful. From the moment Ethan had seen her stepping out of the elevator into the lobby of the building where he’d worked, he’d been almost uncomfortably aware of her beauty. It was as overpowering as the fragrance of those red flowers.
“We’ll have to help Mom and Dad get settled in first,” she said.
“They’re adults. They can get settled in without our help.”
“I really appreciate your taking the convertible couch in the living room,” she added. “I know that wasn’t what you wanted.”
A ripple of resentment passed through him, impeding his evolution to mellowness. Sleeping on the living-room couch was definitely not what he wanted. Paul had told him one bedroom had a queen-size bed and the other had two twins. Ethan had thought he’d been demonstrating admirable selflessness by ceding the queen-size bed to Kim’s parents. He and Kim could snuggle together in one of the twins—and they could rumple the other bed’s blanket each morning so it would appear that they were sleeping separately.
But Kim had maintained that such an arrangement wouldn’t work. They couldn’t sleep in the same room, not with Mom and Dad right across the hall. If they were married—or even, perhaps, if they were just formally engaged—she might consider it. But without anything official declared between them, she just wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing a room with him when her parents were present.
Ethan had contemplated calling off the whole trip at that point. But that would have made him seem like a sex maniac. After all, he and Kim slept together often enough in Connecticut. It wasn’t as if he had to travel all the way to St. Thomas to get his rocks off. For Kim’s sake—for her parents’ sake—he could be a gentleman.
He didn’t have to like it, though.
Unlocking the trunk, he gazed at the array of luggage Kim and her parents had brought. A folding garment bag, a large pullman, a midsize pullman, a tennis tote containing racquets and fresh cans of balls, and two carry-ons—all in a matching tapestry pattern—belonged to Ross and Delia Hamilton. Given the option, Ross probably would have brought his golf clubs, too—and he probably kept them in a golf bag with the same quaint tapestry pattern. Kim had packed an enormous wheeled, leather-trimmed suitcase for herself, as well as an ergonomically designed shoulder tote she’d ordered from a catalog company specially for this trip.
Ethan had fit everything he needed into one modest duffel.
Nonetheless, he knew that as the young man of the party, he’d be the one hauling all the luggage inside.
He hoisted his duffel out of the trunk and slid the strap onto his shoulder. Then he pulled out Kim’s wheeled suitcase and the Hamiltons’ garment bag. “I’ll get the rest in the next round,” he promised the Hamiltons, who had finally emerged from the air-conditioned car into the broiling Caribbean afternoon.
“The condo is air-conditioned, isn’t it?” Delia Hamilton asked her daughter anxiously.
“Of course it is.” Kim grabbed her ergonomic shoulder bag, handed her mother one of the carry-ons and her father the other, then stepped aside so Ethan could close the trunk. Why she didn’t close it herself—she had two free hands, after all—he couldn’t guess, unless it was to prove to her parents that the man she intended to marry was properly chivalrous.
Feeling like a packhorse, he lugged the bags along the walk to the stairway and up to the second floor, the wheeled bag thumping as it hit each riser. Kim and her parents trailed him like baby ducklings following a mother duck. Sweat slicked his face and dampened his collar as he trudged along the open-air corridor to the door marked 614. He balanced the luggage on the concrete floor, then dug into the pockets of his khakis and pulled out the key Paul had given him. It slid easily into the lock. Smiling, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open.
He was greeted by a blast of cold air and an skull-splitting scream.
IN THE HOUR since they’d arrived at Carole’s unit at Palm Point, Alicia had changed into a swimsuit and run circles around Gina, investigating their vacation digs and announcing her discoveries: “They got a microwave, Aunt Gina! Can we make microwave popcorn?” and “This TV doesn’t get the Disney Channel!” and “There’s a balcony!”
That announcement had torn Gina from the dresser drawer into which she’d been dumping her underwear and sent her flying down the hallway, past the bathroom and through the living room to stop Alicia before she ventured onto the balcony. Alicia was seven, and in general she was smart enough not to fling herself over the balcony railing, but “in general” had nothing to do with this week. Alicia was wired. She’d just taken her very first airplane trip, and now she was in an ocean-view condo on a Caribbean island. Remembering to be careful on a balcony would not be high on Alicia’s to-do list.
But when Gina had joined Alicia on the terrace, gazing down the gentle slope toward the palm-studded beach and the vivid blue water beyond, she’d felt almost as wired as her niece. The air smelled tangy and sweet, so different from the usual sour scents of Manhattan in July that Gina could almost believe she was on a different planet, with its own separate atmosphere.
This was exactly what Alicia needed, she’d thought—a safe, happy planet for a week of carefree fun.
“Don’t lean over the railing,” Gina had warned, even though Alicia was too short to fall over accidentally.
Alicia had rolled her eyes and issued a long-suffering sigh. “I know. Look at the beach, Aunt Gina. Isn’t it great? I want to go down there.”
“You’ll have to wait until I finish unpacking.”
“You’re taking too long,” Gina had complained.
“I unpacked all your stuff first so you could put on a swimsuit. Now I’ve got to unpack my stuff. You’ll just have to be patient.”
“I hate being patient.” Alicia had folded her arms across her chest and pouted. Her skin was already golden from swimming at the day-camp pool. Her swimsuit was a garish orange, the color of those vests road construction crews wore to make themselves more visible to passing motorists. Ugly as it was, Gina appreciated the color. It would make Alicia easier to spot on the beach.
“I’ll go finish unpacking, and you will win the Most Patient Girl of the Year award, and then we’ll go to the beach. I promise.”
“Can I have a cookie while I’m being patient?” Alicia had asked.
Gina had asked the cabdriver to stop for ten minutes at a grocery store on the way from the airport to Palm Point so she could stock up on food. She would never complain about New York City cab fares again. Compared with the rates in St. Thomas, New York’s were a bargain. “One cookie,” she’d told Alicia. “If you eat too much, you won’t be able to go in the water.”
“I won’t eat too much,” Alicia had promised her before scampering through the sliding-glass doors and heading for the kitchen.
Gina had returned to the master bedroom, but had bypassed her open suitcase for the window, which offered the same view as the living room and terrace. God, what a beach. What an ocean. What heaven. She and Alicia were going to have the time of their lives—
And then she’d heard the scream.
“Alicia!” she roared, charging out of the bedroom, nailing her shin on the corner of the queen-size bed but not stopping to rub the b
ruise. “Ali! What?” She stumbled to a halt at the sight of four luggage-bearing strangers hovering in the condo’s open doorway. Actually, only three hovered—an older couple and a young blond woman. Their leader—a man who looked to be about thirty—was standing inside the room, his face glistening with sweat as he let assorted bags and suitcases drop to the carpeted floor at his feet.
Alicia darted from the kitchen to Gina’s side and pressed into her. Gina wrapped an arm protectively around her niece and gaped at the four invaders. They didn’t seem dangerous. Actually, they looked as if they could have stepped out of the pages of a Ralph Lauren fashion spread. The older couple had the refined appearance of people who belonged to elite clubs and indulged in his-and-hers facials. The man wore a blazer with a crest on the pocket and the woman had on the sort of pearl earrings favored by politicians’ wives. The younger woman was almost painfully beautiful. She could be a refugee from one of those teenage cheerleader movies.
If the man in the lead looked a little less polished and a little less sure of himself, it was only because he was sweating and because he’d been loaded down with all the heavy luggage. His reddish-brown hair was mussed, his brows skewed upward and his mouth twisted into a quizzical shape that was half a smile and half a frown. His face intrigued her, all sharp lines and planes, his eyes the color of jade.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“He said a bad word,” Alicia announced in a stage whisper.
“Hell isn’t always a bad word,” Gina assured her. Alicia didn’t have to know how often her aunt uttered words a lot worse than hell. “It’s just the name of a place.”
“A bad place.”
“We can turn that bad word right back on him, okay?” Gina stared boldly at the man and said, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. Gina wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the invasion or only for his language. “There’s obviously been a mistake.”
“Obviously.” If he could be diplomatic, so could she. “I don’t know how you got in here, but you’re in the wrong unit.”
“Six-fourteen,” he said, glancing behind him at the open door, on which that number appeared. He turned back to Gina and lifted his hand so she could see his key. “This is how we got in here.”
There’s obviously been a mistake, she thought, her brain scrambling to figure out just how serious a mistake it was and how she was going to get these strangers out of the unit. “Okay—this is a time-share. We’ve got a key. You’ve got a key. My guess is, someone’s here the wrong week.” You, she wanted to say. You’re here the wrong week.
“We’re here the week of July 19,” the man said calmly.
“Um, no.” Gina smiled. “That’s our week.”
“That’s our week,” the cheerleader said, stepping into the room. “Come in,” she ordered the older couple, “and shut the door. All the air-conditioning is escaping.” She sashayed past the man to confront Gina, who sensed not a hint of diplomacy in her attitude. “This is our week. We planned this trip back in March. This week belongs to Ethan’s friend Paul, and he gave it to us.”
Gina shook her head firmly and felt her smile petrifying into something stiff and lifeless. She didn’t like the cheerleader. The man had opted for courtesy after his initial outburst, but this woman—his wife?—sounded presumptuous and demanding. Gina imagined she was used to getting her way. “This week belongs to my friend Carole, and she’s letting us use it.” She gave Alicia’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“She’s crazy,” the wife declared, giving her husband an aggrieved frown. “Tell her she’s crazy.”
“She’s not crazy. There’s been a mix-up, that’s all.” He smiled apologetically. Gina decided to absolve him for having said “hell” in front of Alicia. “I’m sure we can work this out, Ms….?”
“Morante. Gina Morante.” Gina extended her hand.
The man shook it. His palm was dry. His face seemed to be drying off, too, as the air-conditioning did its work. “Ethan Parnell,” he introduced himself. “This is Kimberly Hamilton—” he gestured toward the blond woman, who pointedly did not extend her hand “—and her parents, Ross and Delia Hamilton,” he concluded, indicating the older twosome, who remained near the door, looking supremely annoyed.
“And this is my niece, Alicia Bari,” Gina said.
Alicia peered up at the younger pair. “I’m Ali the Alley Cat,” she said, then hid behind Gina and wrapped her arms around Gina’s hips.
“All right.” Ethan Parnell drew in a deep breath. “Obviously, there’s a problem here. We’ve just arrived from the airport and we’re planning to stay in this condo for a week. My friend Paul Collins made the arrangements. I don’t know who your friend is—”
“Carole Weinstock, and she told me this week was hers, and Alicia and I could stay here.”
“Ali,” Alicia murmured into the small of her back. “Ali the Alley Cat.”
Gina reached around to give Alicia another squeeze, then stretched her smile as wide as it would go under the circumstances—which wasn’t very wide. “As you say, there’s been a mix-up. I’ll phone Carole right now.”
“Good idea,” Ethan said with a nod. “Call your friend Carole.”
The cheerleader whispered something harsh to him, but he waved her silent. Gina marched into the kitchen, Alicia still holding her hips and trotting behind her in awkward little steps. Was the cheerleader Ethan’s wife? Gina wondered again. They had different last names, but that didn’t mean anything nowadays. He’d introduced the older couple as her parents, not his in-laws, but that didn’t mean anything, either.
Not that it mattered to Gina. She was going to talk to Carole, get this mess straightened out and send these strangers on their way. This was her week with Alicia, her week to get the kid away from her squabbling parents, who needed the time to decide whether to file for divorce or give their marriage another try—and it would remove Alicia from all the tension. She deserved it, and Aunt Gina lived to make sure her niece got what she deserved.
Alicia abandoned her for the bag of chocolate-chip cookies that lay open on the counter. Gina didn’t know if she’d already had a cookie, but right now she had more important concerns than Alicia’s consumption of junk food. Besides, they were on vacation. Vacations meant extra cookies.
She dialed Carole’s number back in New York and tried to ignore the faint long-distance hiss on the line. It occurred to her that Carole might not be home—but if she wasn’t, Gina would try her cell phone. Carole had to be reached. They had to get this situation resolved.
Fortunately, Carole answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Carole, it’s me, Gina.”
“Gina! Is everything all right? Where are you?”
“I’m in your condo in Palm Point. Everything’s fine—except there’s this family here who say they’ve got the place for this week. They have a key and everything.”
“Everyone who owns a share of the unit has a key,” Carole reminded her. “Who are they?”
“Friends of someone named Paul—” she thought for a minute, then remembered “—Collins.”
“Right, yeah. Paul Collins.”
“You know him?”
“Not personally,” Carole said. “But we traded weeks. Remember when I went down to St. Thomas in January? That was his week.”
“So…you traded him this week?” Gina felt her stomach tighten.
“Originally, yeah. But I was in touch with him after I got back from St. Thomas. I don’t know, mid-February, maybe? And he said he wouldn’t be using the condo in July. He was very definite about it, Gina. No way would he be using the condo.”
“Okay.” Gina’s stomach relaxed, but only a little. The definite Paul Collins had been true to his word; he was not using the condo in July. He’d apparently communicated something a little different to his preppy friends, however. “We’ll work this out,” she told Carole, wishing she felt as certain as she sounded.
&
nbsp; “I mean it, Gina. That place is yours for the week. I offered it to you after I talked to Paul, remember? Because he was very clear that he wouldn’t be using the condo.”
“Right.”
“So don’t let those people give you any crap.”
Gina laughed, which helped her stomach to relax some more. “When do I ever let anyone give me any crap?”
“Right. Have a great week. And give Alicia an extra hug from me.”
“I will. Thanks, Carole.” Gina hung up the phone, squared her shoulders and returned to the living room alone. The Hamiltons had moved farther into the room, checking out the bland, functional furniture, the trite seascape paintings on the walls, the spectacular view from the balcony. Gina didn’t like the idea of them making themselves at home. “Carole says,” she announced, “that your friend Paul made it very clear to her—very clear—he wouldn’t be using this place this week.”
“He’s not using it,” Ethan retorted, his voice stern despite his polite veneer. “We are.”
“If he wanted you to use it, he should have told Carole he was using it. He misrepresented his plans to Carole, and I booked my airplane ticket accordingly.” And when the airline had alerted her to their “take-a-friend promotion,” which would enable her to bring someone with her for only fifty dollars more, she’d booked a second airplane ticket. “He misrepresented himself,” she repeated, savoring the word. “I’m afraid that means we’ll be staying here, and you’ll have to make other arrangements.”
A flutter of protest arose from the Hamiltons. Ethan’s jaw clenched, causing a muscle in his cheek to twitch. Great cheeks, Gina noticed—hollow but not sunken, drawing her attention back to his amazing green eyes.
He stepped toward her. She refused to back up—retreating to the kitchen struck her as tantamount to turning the condo over to him—but she had to admit that standing her ground against the tall, quiet man took a lot of guts. Fortunately, she had a lot of guts.
Right Place, Wrong Time Page 2
