The Unexpected Honeymoon. Barbara Wallace
aloud. “Nothing.
“Uh-huh. Is everything all right, primo? You seem distracted this morning.”
“Of course I’m distracted. I thought we were finished mopping up Rodrigo’s and Maria’s messes. Instead I had to bill a jilted customer on her wedding day.”
“Better you than me. I would have caved completely out of sympathy.”
Carlos didn’t say how close he came to doing that very thing. The two of them fell into step back to the office. Although only midmorning, the sun already hung hot in the cloudless sky. Sunbathers, eager to turn their skin to Aztec gold, crowded both sides of the walkway. A mosaic of body shapes sprawled towels and chaise longues. Some of the more cautious tourists staked their claims on the popular cabana beds scattered strategically around the resort. He wondered, would Larissa Boyd find her way to one of them to sleep off her hangover or would she prefer the privacy of her terrace? Pale skin like hers would definitely burn if exposed too long.
“I have to admit,” Jorge continued, “now that you tell me the wedding was canceled weeks ago, I’m surprised she’s here. She must have had nonrefundable airline tickets.”
“Or perhaps she simply needed to get away.” He understood. After a while, all the well-meaning comments and sympathetic looks started to eat at your soul. It was either scream at people to go away or lose yourself in a place full of distractions. “Whatever her reason, ours is not the place to judge.”
“The staff is fascinated by her. She made quite a memorable impression yesterday.”
Blue smudged eyes and rat nest hair came to mind. Memorable indeed. Wonder what Jorge would say if he saw her this morning.
Interestingly, he was beginning to think this morning’s version might be more memorable.
Mirabelle used to worry incessantly about her appearance, obsess over every hair, every ounce on her frame. As much as he reassured her that she would be the most beautiful woman in the world to him, his reassurances fell on deaf ears. Fell, and fell, and fell.
Something in him wanted to hope Larissa Boyd was different. Stronger.
“I don’t think we’ve ever had a guest stay solo before.” Jorge’s voice saved his thoughts from traveling down a dark road.
“Of course we’ve had single guests,” he replied.
“Single, yes, but always as part of a group. I can’t remember ever having someone attend completely alone before. Certainly not a woman on her honeymoon.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Perhaps Señorita Boyd will spark a trend.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Jorge grinned, his smile white and even. “We could become the new singles hot spot on the Riviera.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A hotel full of heartbroken women.”
“What is it the Americans say about getting back in the saddle? Perhaps our señorita could use a stirrup.”
The idea of his muscular cousin touching pale American skin stuck hard in his chest, giving him heartburn. “The señorita came to nurse a broken heart. I doubt she’s interested in riding lessons.”
“You never know. Not everyone—”
“Not everyone what?” Carlos whipped around.
“Nothing.”
As if Carlos didn’t know what he was going to say. Not everyone grieves forever. Of anyone in the family, he expected Jorge to understand.
“It’s just...” His cousin’s voice softened. “It’s been five years. Don’t you think Mirabelle would want you to move on?”
“My days of giving Mirabelle everything she wanted died with her,” he replied. Fitting, really. Given all the times he failed her in life, why should his grief be any different?
Besides, he thought, looking out to the Atlantic, if she’d wanted him to move on, she should have left his heart intact. “The only people I care about making happy these days are our guests. In Señorita Boyd’s case, that means protecting her privacy.”
“Were you worrying about her privacy when you had security checking on her last night?”
Carlos stopped short. He should have known Jorge would hear of his orders. The hotel staff was a small community, and nothing escaped notice. “She’d been drinking. I thought it a good idea to watch out for her.”
“Old habits die hard, do they?”
Some did anyway. He thought about arguing the point, and blaming liability for his behavior, but Jorge would see right through the excuse. After all, his cousin knew all about Mirabelle. More, he’d been there the day they found her.
“I didn’t want to take any chances. There were too many similarities.” More than he wanted to admit.
Before he could say anything, the two-way radio on his cousin’s waist began to crackle. The first sentence was all Carlos needed to hear. “Housekeeping emergency, Presidential Villa.”
“I’M NORMALLY NOT this squeamish. I mean, I live in New York City. I’ve seen things.” But this wasn’t some scrambling little roach or scurrying sewer rat.
The maintenance man grinned. “Tarantula,” he said.
No kidding, it was a tarantula. One the size of her fist and it was clinging to the bathroom wall next to the bathtub. Larissa shivered, thinking how she’d been sitting on the floor while it had been crawling around. For all she knew, it could have crawled right by her foot. Or her hair. Heebie-jeebies ran across her skin.
All she wanted to do was take a nice long bath, thinking a whirlpool and a jungle view would be exactly what she needed to shake off her pity party and start fresh. Nowhere did her plans include sharing her tub with a man-eating creature.
She looked over from her place atop the double vanity. “Can you get rid of it?”
“Si.” Taking a hand towel, the man brushed the offending creature to the floor. Larissa squeaked and tucked her legs beneath her. How was that getting rid of anything?
Suddenly commotion sounded outside. “What happened?” Señor Chavez burst into the bathroom.
Oh, great, he was back. Was the general manager going to witness every embarrassing moment she had this trip? This time he brought a friend along, as well. A second dark-suited man pulled up behind him.
“The radio said there was an emergency.” He looked Larissa up and down with a scrutiny that made her wish she was wearing more than the complimentary robe. She tugged at the gap, making sure the cloth covered her legs.
“There was an emergency. I had an unwelcome guest,” she replied, pointing toward the floor. The maintenance man had laid the towel on the ground, and the tarantula was crawling onto the cotton surface toward the middle. “I called to have someone get rid of him.”
“I’m afraid tarantulas are an unfortunate byproduct of sleeping so close to the jungle,” the other man replied with a smile. In comparison to Señor Chavez’s scowl, it was positively blinding. “Our staff does its best to sweep them off the property, but every once in a while one makes its way into a room. I’m Jorge Chavez, the assistant manager, by the way.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Larissa watched as the maintenance man scooped up the towel and spider. “What’s he going to do with him?”
“Pedro will release him away from the property. Don’t worry, he won’t be back.”
“I’m more worried about whether he has friends.”
“I doubt there are others, but we’ll