Honeymoon Hotel

by Bretton, Barbara

  "Is that an insult?"

  "Perspective." He stepped closer. "It's all in how you look at things."

  The perspective was obviously better when you were sitting atop a multinational, multimillion-dollar enterprise, and Maggie was about to say so when Angie popped up at the back door.

  "I can't find Rachel anywhere," the girl hollered, openly eyeing John. "Somebody's better start the sloppy joes. They'll be comin' in from the bridle path any time."

  "Sloppy joes?" He seemed to be having a tough time controlling his laughter.

  "Perfectly legitimate meal. I suppose you serve pheasant under glass for lunch?"

  Angie stepped out onto the porch before he had a chance to answer. "I'm not kiddin', Maggie. You better get started and fast."

  "Damn," Maggie muttered under her breath. Rachel and her black roots! If Tyler hadn't been standing right there, enjoying every minute of her humiliation, she'd have picked up the phone and called Pizza Hut. Instead she said to Angie, "Get out the big iron skillets and the ground round. I'll be there in a minute."

  Tyler waited until Angie had gone back inside. "Working the kitchen, are you? I thought you owned the place."

  He already knew more facts and figures concerning her business than she did. What was a little more humiliation?

  "I do own the place. That's why I work harder than anyone else."

  "Puritan work ethic. Somehow you don't look the type."

  Although there was nothing overtly sexual about the statement, she found herself aware of her body in a way she hadn't been a moment ago.

  "Appearances can be deceiving. Who'd think someone like you would own old happy house?" She made a show of studying him. "I'd expect to see you playing the Bucks County country squire."

  "Is that an insult?"

  "Perspective." She tossed his words back at him. "Depends how you look at it."

  "Insult." He grinned at her, and she couldn't help grinning back. "I'll bet you think water beds are crass, and mirrored ceilings are a health hazard."

  "Incredible! The man reads minds." She edged toward the back door. "I'd really love to stand out here and trade thoughts on the downfall of Western civilization, but I have to make lunch."

  "The sloppy joes."

  "Yes, the sloppy joes."

  "What about the money?" he asked.

  "You had your laugh, now you can take it back with you."

  "I want you to keep it."

  "I don't think my bank would appreciate the deposit. You're cute, Mr. Tyler, but you're not Andrew Jackson."

  "You could spend the money," he said, following her to the back door.

  "Where? Disney World?"

  "It's only good at Hideaway Haven."

  She'd rather give it to Mickey Mouse and see him spend it on a two-year cheddar binge. "Now I get it: The Club Med principle of entertainment."

  "With a difference," he said, not batting an eyelash. "We're into monogamy."

  "How interesting. One would think you'd be into whatever turned a profit."

  "Pretty harsh judgment to make on such short acquaintance."

  "Your reputation precedes you."

  "So does yours."

  "I was talking business."

  "So was I."

  From inside, Angie's second call for help rang out loud and clear. "Take the money and run, Mr. Tyler, before I offer you some Chicken Kiev."

  She turned and stepped into the kitchen with John right behind her.

  "Persistent, aren't you?" she asked as he shrugged out of his spiffy suit coat.

  "That's how I got rich." He leaned back against one of the cabinets.

  "You can get comfortable," she said, "but don't expect me to make lunch for you." Ten hungry newlyweds were more than enough for one overworked inn owner to cope with.

  "Who said anything about lunch?" He leaned over and hung his jacket from a hook near the pantry door.

  "Who said anything about inviting you inside?" she countered. "You seem to take a lot for granted."

  He looked around the empty kitchen. "You need help."

  "I have help."

  "Do they all work night shift?"

  "They're on vacation."

  "The whole staff?"

  She nodded.

  "Bad planning, Maggie. No wonder you're in trouble over here."

  "We're not in trouble. August is a slow month. September is when we start to shine."

  "Not according to my sources."

  "I guarantee September will put The White Elephant on the map." Shut up, she warned herself. In another second, she'd be inviting him to the Summit.

  "Will you still be pulling kitchen duty in September?"

  "If that's your way of asking if I'll be fully staffed, the answer is yes." By presidents and prime ministers and more high-powered types than this guy had ever imagined.

  How she'd love to tell him and watch his aristocratic jaw drop open in shock. Unfortunately she'd been too well trained for pleasures like that. No matter how difficult it was, she'd honor her promise to Alistair and bide her time until the third week of September, when The White Elephant would be on the lips of every newscaster from Minneapolis to Moscow.

  She reached for a fresh apron and slipped it on over her tank top and shorts.

  He unfastened his gold cuff links and rolled up his sleeves.

  "Look," she said, "a joke's a joke. You've made your point. You can go home now."

  "I thought I'd hang around for lunch. See what the competition is up to."

  "Slumming? Listen, I'm stick to death of Margo and Ernie and all the rest of you fat cats thumbing your noses at me. I have my own way of doing things, and I'll be damned if I'm going to –" She stopped dead in her tracks as Tyler opened her refrigerator, poked around and pulled out a fat Spanish onion. "What are you doing?"

  "Making lunch." To her amazement, he started peeling the onion with quick efficient slashes of a paring knife.

  "You don't owe me anything," she said, pulling three cans of Manwich out of the pantry.

  "You saved my life," he said, rolling over her objections with the finesse of a bulldozer. "What kind of price do I put on that?"

  "Eternal gratitude is enough." No shrines. No monuments. And definitely no help with lunch.

  He ignored her and continued chopping.

  The newspaper with that damning picture was faceup on the counter to his immediate left. He unnerved her enough standing there up to his elbows in Spanish onion. Vivid, tactile memories of his body beneath hers were wreaking havoc with her equilibrium.

  Being in the same room with both him and that strangely erotic thought might be her undoing.

  She tossed the ground round into the skillet and turned the flame up higher than her libido. Then she faced the enemy across the kitchen.

  "Mr. Tyler –"

  "John." His eyes twinkled with glimmers of topaz. She should have known a man like that wouldn't cry when he peeled an onion. Probably somewhere back at Hideaway Haven, some lowly assistant's eyes were turning all red and watery as a favor to his boss. "It's a little late to stand on ceremony, isn't it, Maggie?"

  Her thighs had been pressed against his hips less than twenty-four hours ago. She'd pressed her mouth to his bare chest. His skin had been warm and supple beneath her hands. Beads of sweat broke out on the back of her neck.

  If his body had felt that wonderful when he was unconscious, God only knew what would happen when he was –

  She cleared her throat. "Go home, John."

  He stopped chopping. "What?"

  "You're making me nervous." She grabbed the newspaper and thrust it behind her back. "When I'm nervous I can't cook."

  "So don't cook. I'll do it."

  "You don't seem to understand the problem here. You're the competition. I know all about the way you big-business types operate. You're supposed to be wishing financial ruin on me."

  He was a better man than she. Maggie doubted if she'd have been able to ignore such a power-packed st
raight line, given the obvious shortcomings of The White Elephant.

  "No hidden microphones," he said, patting his chest then turning his pants pockets inside out. He didn't even have lint. "No secret cameras." He picked up the paring knife again and pierced her with a look. "Besides, if you had anything I wanted here, you wouldn't be able to stop me. I always get what I want."

  His words caused a flare of heat deep within her body.

  "An overstatement, I presume."

  "I don't believe in wasting time." His eyes never left hers. "I see what I want, and I zero in on it. A simple strategy, but effective."

  "I would imagine so," she murmured. Her throat felt suddenly tight with emotions she'd relegated to her past, along with PAX and security clearances and the wedding band she once wore so proudly.

  How she hated his type, so handsome, so privileged, so certain of his place in the world that it would never occur to him that divine right wasn't a privilege granted to mortal men.

  "You know a great deal about The White Elephant," she said when she found her voice again.

  "I know a great deal about all of my competitors. Especially the ones I try to buy out."

  She took a step closer. "There isn't enough money in all of your Swiss bank accounts to get The White Elephant away from me."

  He laughed, a marvelously primitive laugh. She wondered how many unsuspecting women had fallen prey to it.

  "Don’t' worry," he said. "It's not The White Elephant I want. It's –"

  "Am I interrupting something?"

  Maggie wheeled around and saw Alistair in the doorway, his tanned forehead creased in a frown.

  "Mr. Chambers." John raised the knife in salute. "I hope you and Ms. Masters are enjoying your stay with us."

  "That we are," said Alistair. If he was surprised to see Tyler standing there in a gingham apron, he didn't let on. "We both dread the idea of leaving tonight."

  Alistair was smiling, but Maggie knew the smile masked an anger that grew with each second. Was nothing going right this morning?

  "Perhaps you'll favor us with another, longer stay in the future," Tyler said smoothly.

  Did he have to rub it in like that?

  Maggie wanted nothing more than the pleasure of hitting him over the head with her iron skillet, but the thought of cleaning up the mess was sobering. If she hadn't given the kitchen staff the monthy off, Tyler would have been in big trouble.

  "So, what brings you here, Uncle Alistair?"

  Tyler's knife clattered to the counter. "Uncle?"

  She ignored him and spoke directly to Alistair. "Are you here for lunch?" she persisted.

  "Hardly that," said her uncle, the traitor, as he looked at the cans of Manwich lined up on the counter. "I understand we're dining on Shrimp de Jonghe this afternoon."

  "Wimp food," she mumbled, reaching for the can opener. "Sloppy joes are classic American cuisine." When in doubt, go for broke.

  Not that anyone heard her. The two men were having a spirited discussion on food.

  "The medallions of veal last night were superb," her uncle was saying. "Comparable to Le Cirque in its prime." He turned to Maggie. "Didn't I say that to you?

  "Did you?" The can opener whirred "I don't remember."

  "I'm certain I did," Alistair went on, blithely unaware of her wrath. "I seem to recall mentioning it right after you told me about your rustlers' roundup buffet."

  She glared at him. The rustlers' roundup was a White Elephant euphemism for "dinner is ruined, what the hell do we serve them now?"

  John glanced from Alistair to Maggie, then rolled his sleeves back down and grabbed his jacket from the peg in the pantry. "I have a lunch meeting at one. I'd better get moving."

  "So soon?" Alistair looked genuinely disappointed.

  Maggie wanted to kick him in his elegant shins.

  "My regards to Ms. Masters," John said, shaking Alistair's hand. "I hope you'll join us again soon."

  "That, Mr. Tyler, is something you can count on."

  Disgusting. The two of them were acting like reunited war buddies.

  "Perhaps Mr. Tyler could give you a lift back to Hideaway Haven," Maggie said, piqued. "It's a terribly long walk from here and I'd hate for you to get overtired."

  "My pleasure," said Tyler. He had manners. She had to give him that.

  "No need, Mr. Tyler. I brought the Rolls." The look he gave Maggie was something to behold. "My niece worries too much about my comfort."

  "Well, you are getting on in years, Ally," she said sweetly as Tyler moved toward the door. "I'm just thinking of your welfare."

  Alistair muttered one of those multilingual curses that had made him a legend at PAX, but Maggie just laughed and ushered Tyler onto the back porch.

  "What did he say?" Tyler asked before the door squeaked behind them. "It sounded dirty."

  "It was."

  He looked at her curiously. "You understood him?"

  "In a fashion," she said, "but only after years of practice."

  He tried to mimic the words Alistair had used, but became hopelessly tongue-tied. "What language was that anyway?"

  She shrugged. "A little Greek, a little Latin – my uncle is a whiz when it comes to dead languages."

  Tyler whistled low. "I'm impressed."

  "He'll be thrilled. Alistair is a bit of a snob."

  "What does he do anyway?"

  "Do?"

  "Career. A man like that must have a hell of a lot of stories to tell."

  "That he has," she said carefully. "He's retired now."

  "Retired from what?"

  Butcher? Baker? Candlestick maker? Tyler would never buy the ordinary. "He's a retired polo player," she said finally. "World-class."

  "Rich man's game," said Tyler. "Suits him."

  "Are you leaving because Alistair showed up?"

  "I told you I have a one o'clock appointment."

  "That didn't seem to bother you before my uncle dropped in."

  "Have dinner with me tonight, and I'll explain it to you."

  "The Bronze Penguin again?" She gave a mock shiver.

  "I was thinking of Hideaway Haven."

  "I'd rather go to McDonald's."

  "Afraid of the competition?"

  "Competition doesn't faze me, Tyler. I'm afraid I'll choke on bad taste."

  "Haven't you heard?" he said with a laugh. "The food's great. You can ask your uncle."

  "It's not the food I'm worried about. You probably have smoked mirrors over the dining room tables and a heart-shaped dishwasher."

  "Come for dinner and find out for yourself."

  "It'll be a start."

  "Tyler, I –"

  He stopped her words with a kiss. It was only the slightest touch of his lips against hers, but it was enough to make her head spin.

  "Tonight," he said. "I'll pick you up at eight."

  "Nine," she said, thinking of dinner for ten and the cleanup afterward. "I'll drive myself."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive."

  "You don't trust me, do you?" He brushed her lower lip lightly with his index finger. The urge to draw it into her mouth and taste him was overpowering.

  "No," she whispered. "Not one bit."

  But, even more frightening, for the first time in her life she didn't trust herself.

  Chapter Seven

  Alistair was standing by the boxes of money when Maggie went back inside.

  "Clever gimmick, isn't it?" She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the sloppy joe mixture. "Just what you'd expect at the pleasure palace up there."

  Alistair picked up a stack of bills and gave them a quick once-over. "May I ask what they're doing here?"

  She opened a huge white paper bag filled with hamburger buns from the bakery in town and arranged them on a cookie sheet so she could warm them in the oven. "That's my reward for saving Tyler's life. Generous, isn't he?"

  Alistair didn't crack a smile.

  Maggie slid the rolls into the oven and turned
to face the music.

  "You saw the paper, didn't you?"

  "I'm certain everyone in the Poconos saw the newspaper, Magdalena."

  "He's photogenic, isn't he?"

  "Quite. Unfortunately, my girl, you are even more so."

  "Okay," she said, "give it to me straight. Are we talking family honor or the integrity of PAX here?"

  "PAX."

  "That's what I thought. You realize the photo predates our agreement, don't you?"

  "The photo, it seems, is the least of it now."

  She took the skillet off the stove and ladled the mixture into two large serving dishes. "I thought you'd be furious to see me on the front page."

  He filched a cookie from the jar near the refrigerator. The sight of her elegant uncle munching on a chocolate chip was amusing, but not amusing enough to divert her from the issue at hand. "An hour ago I was," he said, dusting his hands off on a square of paper towel. "Now there are more pressing problems."

  "Have they called off the Summit?"

  "The contrary. I faxed the blueprints of The White Elephant to the home office last night."

  "You faxed them? Where on earth did you find a fax machine at that hour?" Probably Tyler supplied one with every bottle of champagne.

  "Let us simply say that the accoutrements in a Rolls are second to none."

  Maggie thought about her own dilapidated Jeep Cherokee and sighed. These days new windshield wiper blades were a luxury of the first order. "There are times I wonder why I ever left the organization."

  "You fell in love," Alistair said, meeting her eyes. "Isn't that why?"

  The reason, of course, had been much more complex than that. For her, love and loyalty had been inextricably bound, and when Rick Douglass said he needed her, she had turned her back on everything else.

  "Why don't we cut to the issue at hand?" she said finally. "Do we have a security problem?" Do we have too few bathrooms? Too many doors?" She forced a smile. "Don't tell me the president requested a heart-shaped mattress."

  For an answer, Alistair picked up a handful of fake twenties left behind by John Adams Tyler.

  "Counterfeit money is a problem?" Maggie's laughter was genuine this time. "Really, Alistair, sometimes even PAX can go off the deep end."

  Alistair's face seemed to register one conflicting emotion after another.