Honeymoon Hotel

by Bretton, Barbara

  He stopped at the bottom of the last flight of stairs, leaned back against the railing and looked deep into her eyes. "You can't trust me, Maggie," he said and then proceeded to prove that statement to her with his mouth and hands.

  She was quiet when he put her down, but he knew by her rapid breathing and flushed cheeks that she'd been as affected by what they'd shared as he.

  "I'll walk you to your car," he said, taking her hand.

  "Fine," she said, her voice unsteady. "I'd like that."

  The lobby was empty except for the night clerk who sat behind the reception desk working a crossword puzzle and watching Letterman on a portable TV propped up on a bookshelf.

  John nodded at the man and marched toward the front door. Maggie seemed to not even notice the clerk's existence. She was quiet, almost contemplative, and he'd give half his fortune to know what she was thinking.

  It was quiet outside save for the buzz of the crickets and the faint sounds of music from the nightclub on the south side of the property. The curving driveway was awash with moonlight and, for once, it seemed all the newlyweds were someplace else.

  He didn't even feel ridiculous as he strode toward her car, which was parked in the visitor's lot behind the main building.

  He was too much in love to feel anything but the thrill of holding her close.

  They reached her car, and he lifted her on the front fender and, arms still around him, she brought her mouth toward his for another kiss.

  "What was that for?" he asked, too dizzy to pay attention to the crunch of leaves behind him.

  "Making sure," she whispered, kissing him again. "I had to make sure you weren't my type."

  "And you're positive?"

  She nodded. "Absolutely."

  He lowered his mouth toward hers for one last kiss before he sent her back to The White Elephant. Her breath was sweet and warm and –

  Three motorcycles, huge mean choppers, not those pastel versions that were sprouting everywhere like dandelions, were angled across the outer edge of the driveway.

  And leaning against those motorcycles were four misplaced Hell's Angels who looked as out of place in front of Hideaway Haven as John had felt in the Bronze Penguin.

  The tallest of the three had jet-black hair slicked off his forehead and gathered in a ponytail. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

  A shorter, more muscular blond man with a diamond stud in his ear struck a match against the sole of his boot and lit a cigarette.

  The one with the blaze of unruly red hair and a leather jacket straight out of The Wild Bunch stepped forward.

  "Get in the car," John said to Maggie.

  "What?" She still had the sleepy look of a woman expecting to be kissed.

  "Get in the car and leave." He wasn't ready for the collision of past and future. Not yet.

  "John, I –"

  He pulled her off the front fender, opened the car door, and unceremoniously pushed her inside.

  The red-haired man stopped about ten feet away from John.

  "You're a tough man to track down," he said, all menace and muscle. "We figured home turf was our best bet."

  John reached inside his breast pocket for a cigarette before remembering he no longer smoked.

  "I need more time." He glanced over at the other two men as they approached. "You didn't think I'd run out on you, did you?"

  The other time it had been different. No one could have blamed him for running as long and far as a broken heart could carry him.

  "Hey, man, we didn't know what to think. You backed out on lunch."

  "I left you a message." He was glad he wasn't wearing his suit. The trappings of corporate success would have put him at a disadvantage. "You're asking a lot of me. I need more time to think."

  "Time's up," the red-haired man said, drawing closer. "We need your answer now."

  The Russells from Ohio and the Matamores from Philadelphia stopped at the foot of the driveway on their way to the nightclub, took one look at the group assembled near John, then headed abruptly back toward their cottages, as if coming face-to-face with a crazed grizzly were preferable to a showdown.

  "You're scaring the paying customers," John said, aware that Maggie was still in the car behind him.

  "Can't have that," said the red-haired man. "Can't let our leader lose money, can we?"

  "You're pushin', Terry," he warned, his accent reverting to the Brooklyn street corner where he'd learned about life. "I'll answer when I answer."

  "You'll answer now," said Terry. "One way or the other, it's time you made up your mind. Are you with us or not?"

  He gestured toward the fourth man standing separate from the rest of the group. "Who's that?"

  "Ronnie busted his hand. Dave's a replacement."

  "I thought you didn't do replacements." They hadn't when he walked out on them.

  "Times change."

  John smiled despite himself. "We're starting to sound like a bad movie."

  Terry didn't return the smile. "So which is it?" he pressed. "In or out?"

  John knew he'd avoided it for too long. In the faces of the men standing before him, he saw his own aging in a way his mirror didn't reflect. He had the time and the money for personal trainers and hand-tailored clothes and vacations to Gstaad to recharge his batteries.

  Life had been damned good to him since that day he walked out on these men and, one way or the other, it was time he did something for the guys who'd been there back when they were all young and hungry and so innocent.

  Maybe you couldn't go back home again, but John Adams Tyler hoped like hell you could visit.

  "You in?" Terry asked, raising his fists in their old way of cementing an agreement, the way of the streets.

  John matched the other man's body language as if it had been yesterday and not fifteen years ago. "If you beat me, you get me."

  They circled each other warily as the other men cheered them on.

  John waited until Terry threw the first punch, and that's when all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Eleven

  One minute Maggie was in John's arms thinking how she'd been too hasty in declaring he wasn't her type, and the next minute she was behind the wheel of her battered Jeep Cherokee, while John faced three Hell's Angels by himself.

  Her car windows were rolled up, so she couldn't hear what the red-haired man was saying to John, but she didn't need to.

  Body language was enough.

  The man with the red hair raised his fists.

  Tyler's fists clenched in response.

  They circled each other. Then before she could scream out a warning, the redhead in the leather jacket broke rank and headed straight for Tyler.

  One of the things Maggie had learned during her years with PAX was to recognize trouble when she saw it.

  Fortunately for John, she'd also learned how to deal with it. Judo, karate, and plain down-and-dirty street fighting had all been part of her training.

  Who would have thought she'd save his life twice in two days?

  She kicked off her heels and leaped out of the car. The blacktop stung her bare feet as she ran full speed toward the brawling men.

  She was at the man's throat in a flash, eight years of forgotten martial arts training resurfacing in the blink of an eye.

  John's attacker let out a howl and hit the ground, butt first. Maggie dug her knee into his chest.

  "Check for weapons," she ordered as she began to frisk the man on the ground, "then call the cops."

  "The cops!" The man on the ground yelped as she dug her knee in even deeper. "What the hell's going on?"

  "Woman's crazy." The man with the blond hair backed away, palms up in surrender. "Won't catch me near her."

  "Call her off, Tyler," said the hood with the cigarette bulge in his T-shirt. "She's ruinin' all our fun."

  Maggie looked up at John who still hadn't moved an inch. "You know these punks?"

  He shook his head. "Never saw them before in my life."
r />   Was that the reflection of the gas lamps lining the drive, or a definite twinkle in his golden eyes?

  "Out with it, Tyler," she said. "This isn't funny."

  "Yeah," said the guy on the ground. "What she said."

  "From where I stand," John said, "it's pretty damned funny."

  Maggie loosened her hold on the man's throat, and her fingers started to itch for John's. "In case you haven't noticed, Tyler, I'm not laughing, either."

  "Let him up, Maggie," he said with an easy grin. "I know him."

  "You owe me an explanation," she hissed in Tyler's direction as she turned to storm back toward her car. "I'm humiliated."

  She heard him say something to the three men. She heard their laughter, low and slightly nervous, then the sound of Tyler himself coming after her.

  "Who are those people?" she asked when he caught up with her.

  "We grew up together."

  She arched a brow. "And they say hello by starting a fight?"

  "It's an old ritual." He narrowed his eyes. "Where are you from?"

  "Effingham, Illinois."

  He laughed. "You'd never understand."

  "Try me," she said. "I'm a lot smarter than you think."

  He tugged at the neck of his sweater as if it were his red silk tie. "We used to sing together."

  "Sing?" Her earlier suspicions about him were beginning to seem more absurd by the minute.

  "Choir?"

  He grinned. "Rock."

  She started to ask if they'd ever made a record when he smoothly moved in front of her, blocking the door of her car.

  "You realize what you just did, don't you?" he asked.

  "Sure I do. I've made a total fool of myself in front of three strangers." She tried to push him out of the way, but he wouldn't budge. This didn't seem the time to whip out any more of her martial arts tricks.

  "You saved my life again, Maggie. I don't know where the hell you got those moves, but you were pretty damn impressive."

  "So I took a few karate lessons."

  "It is a big deal. You used it to save my life again."

  "No, I didn't," she protested weakly. "You know those guys. You weren't in any danger. You said so yourself."

  "But you didn't know that."

  No man should look that good by moonlight. She gathered her composure. "I fail to see what difference that makes."

  "You thought I was in trouble, and you came to my rescue." His breath brushed her cheek, wonderfully warm despite the cool night. "I see a definite pattern emerging."

  "So do I," she said. "I'm a jerk."

  "Admit it, Maggie Douglass. You're having second thoughts about me."

  "I'm having second thoughts about my sanity." The truth was, she found herself wishing she was back upstairs in that crazy room with his mouth against hers. "I should have left you there on the floor of the Bronze Penguin and been done with it."

  "Look me in the eye and say that."

  She hesitated and glanced over at the three men standing near the motorcycles.

  "Last chance, Maggie. If you can look me in the eye and say that, I won't bother you again."

  What was the use? She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his shoulder. "Damn you, Tyler," she whispered. "You know I can't."

  "That's what I was hoping."

  He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away until their eyes met.

  "Why fight it, Maggie? It's in the stars."

  "You're crazy, Tyler." Funny and gorgeous, but totally, unmistakably mad. "You don't know anything about me."

  "I'll learn," he said, his fingers tangling once again in her hair. "I can't think of a better way to spend the rest of my life."

  A flip remark, sophisticated and witty, died on her lips as it finally hit her. "You mean this, don't you?"

  "You finally realized it?"

  "I think so."

  "And?"

  He was gently massaging her scalp, and she found it increasingly difficult to think.

  "I should go home," she finally said. She should go home before she found herself on a plane bound for Vegas and one of those wedding chapels on the Strip.

  "Breakfast tomorrow?"

  "Can't. I work for a living, remember?"

  "Lunch."

  "John, the staff. I –"

  He pressed his index finger against her lips. "Dinner. After the rush is cover. No excuses."

  "Dinner," she agreed. She couldn't come up with one good excuse to keep herself away from him.

  He opened the car door, and as Maggie climbed inside she realized that tonight, somewhere between the champagne and the water bed, John Adams Tyler had become exactly her type of man.

  Which was wonderful except for the fact that last night she'd promised her uncle three things: no publicity, no strangers bearing gifts, and no romantic entanglements.

  In just twenty-four hours she'd found herself on the front page of the Pocono Bugle, the recipient of a million dollars in funny money, and now it looked as if she were headed for the most romantic entanglement of her entire life.

  Another woman would call Alistair up and say, "Sorry, Uncle. Maybe another time."

  Unfortunately, that wasn't Maggie's style.

  Her loyalty to her uncle ran deep, and the thought of what the Summit could mean to The White Elephant, deeper still.

  She'd spent the better part of her life doing what was right, doing what she promised, doing what she was told. Responsibility had always been her strong suit and, damn it, no matter how much she wished it could be otherwise, this time was no exception.

  She sighed and started the engine.

  She hoped Tyler was a patient man because, starting tomorrow, she would have to put him on hold.

  #

  John waited until Maggie disappeared around the curving driveway before he faced his old friends.

  They were grinning and nudging each other just the way they used to back in high school and John felt the same goofy kind of embarrassment he'd felt at seventeen.

  "One word and you're dead men," he said as he crossed the blacktop to where they stood.

  "He talks tough," said Terry, red hair bristling. "Think he means it?"

  Frankie and Joe gave him the once-over. The new guy watched and listened.

  "Nah," said Frankie, still the street punk with the angel face. "We're old friends."

  "Yeah," said Joe, whose blond hair was liberally laced with grey, "and friends get to know everything, right?"

  "Wrong," said John. "I'll talk about the old days with you. I'll talk about business. But she's off-limits."

  A lot of years had gone by since they were best buds, and John wasn't up to pretending things hadn't changed.

  He owed them something, sure, but he didn't owe them this. Maggie, and the way she made him feel, was too important.

  The men fell silent, and the silence stretched until John became acutely aware of the sound of his own breathing. It was an old street game, the same game played in corporate boardrooms across the nation each and every day.

  A game of emotional chicken where the first one who broke the silence gave himself away.

  He had won so often in the boardroom that he could afford to lose this one time.

  "Okay," he said, breaking the silence and giving them control, "where were we?"

  Their relief was almost palpable.

  "The concert's set for two weeks from tomorrow." Terry adjusted the collar of his jacket.

  "The deal's already made?"

  "Signed, sealed, and almost delivered."

  Frankie's cigarette glowed red in the darkness. "That's where you come in, Johnny."

  Terry shot Frankie a look, and the dark-haired man took another drag and fell silent.

  "I'll give it to you straight," said Terry, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "Without you, we don't have a deal."

  "Come on," John said, suddenly uncomfortable. "You guys went on for years without me and did great." He remembered
two gold records that he wished had been his. "Why the sudden interest?"

  "Seems to me a smart guy like you could figure that out." Joe didn't say much as a rule, but when he did it was worth listening. "Times change. Most of the old bands weren't as lucky as we were."

  The list of departed rock stars was long and heartbreaking.

  "They want all of us, Johnny, or the deal's off." Terry looked him square in the eye. "You owe us a farewell performance."

  The performance he'd denied them when he'd tossed it all aside that long-ago August night.

  The one time in his life when John had taken the easy way out and now, fifteen years later, it was coming back to haunt him.

  "The whole group will perform?" he asked, knowing the answer as well as he knew the sound of his own voice.

  "Except for Ronnie," said Terry, not backing down. "Just the way it was."

  But of course that was a lie. Nothing was just the way it was.

  For years John had believed it was all behind him, part of another life he barely remembered.

  Now that he was on the verge of something wonderful with Maggie, it was time to prove it to himself, once and for all.

  "It's going to mean a lot of rehearsing."

  Terry nodded.

  "Madison Square Garden?"

  Terry nodded again. "Sellout crowd."

  "Top billing?"

  Terry's manic Irish grin spread across his face. "Is there any other way to fly?"

  "What the hell," John said finally. "I probably still have those leather pants in the attic."

  "We can count on you?" The look of naked hope in his old friend's eyes made John realize just how long and far he'd traveled from the man he used to be.

  "You can count on me." He wondered how Maggie would feel about being a groupie.

  #

  "I'm ashamed of you, Alistair." Holland's voice sounded loud in the silent Rolls. "Spying on your own niece."

  "Spying is an ugly word," he said as they watched Maggie's car turn into the driveway of The White Elephant. "I wanted to make certain she got back safely."

  "Got back safely?" What on earth was the matter with the man? "She went down the road for dinner, not to Afghanistan."

  "She didn't seem herself this afternoon, and I was concerned."