Slippery When Wet. Kristin Hardy
long lashed, they were a sea-green.
And currently narrowed in irritation.
“A problem? I’ll tell you what the problem is. I bought travel insurance nine months ago when I booked this trip. Now I need to cancel and your agent is telling me that I can’t.”
“We can cancel it, sir. We just can’t get you your money back.” Glynnis looked at her helplessly. “He got the basic insurance package.”
“Let me see.” Taylor reached out for the policy. “This is trip interruption insurance. It’s standard. Covers family death or hospitalization. Why are you canceling, Mr….”
“Carson. Dev Carson.” His words were clipped. “The trip was a honeymoon. The wedding’s been called off.”
Wedded bliss wasn’t for everyone, that much she knew from bitter personal experience. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be,” he said shortly.
“Yes, well…” She scanned the insurance contract but she already knew the terms by heart. “Unfortunately, this policy doesn’t cover your reason for cancellation.”
“Then why do you sell it?”
She needed to concentrate on the discussion, not on the alarmingly fascinating angles and planes of his face. “It covers what most people need,” Taylor said automatically. “On occasion, when we know people’s plans call for something more comprehensive, we have that as well.”
“It’s not like I planned to call off my wedding. I didn’t get a detailed explanation of the coverage choices. Under the circumstances, I think I should get my money back.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carson. There’s nothing I can do. If the trip were just a couple of days perhaps we could work something out, but this is—” she scanned his file “—three weeks. We simply can’t swing it, especially since you’re scheduled to leave in four days.” Especially now, when the company was as cash poor as it could be.
His brows lowered. “Do you think I can afford to throw away that kind of money on nothing?”
“Perhaps you could still go. We could try to get the tour company to allow you to substitute companions. Maybe you could take a friend.”
“I’m not feeling like company at the moment,” he snapped. Just for a moment, an emotion other than anger flared in those sea-colored eyes. “Look, I bought the insurance I was offered. What are you going to do to make good on it?” he asked with an edge to his voice.
It was Taylor’s turn to bristle. “Let’s not get personal about this.”
“Oh, but it is personal, Ms. DeWitt,” he said silkily, reading her name off her badge. “My fiancée and I chose a destination—and insurance—based on your agency’s recommendation. You look like the sort of person who believes in standing behind her business.”
Those extraordinary eyes held steady on hers. Guilt pricked at her. If times had been better, she’d probably have offered to make good on his trip. But times weren’t good, Champlin was stalking her agency, and taking an $8,000 hit was simply out of the question.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carson. I’ll check into whether any of the resorts or the tour company will give you a break. I warn you, though, at this point it’s unlikely.”
“What’s unlikely is that I or anyone I know will use your agency again,” he said tightly.
“I’d urge you to reconsider taking the trip. Cozumel is lovely this time of year. I’ll be down there myself soon on business.”
“Yeah? Well, I hope you make a better choice of travel agencies than I did,” he said cuttingly and stalked out, letting in a blast of cold, damp air.
1
EXOTIC BIRDS HOOTED as Taylor threaded her way along the flagstone path that wove through the lush Mexican jungle of the Iberonova resort, a straw bag slung over her shoulder. To either side of the central sweep of jungle lay the brightly colored stucco huts that housed the hundreds of guests, but a person would never know it. Walking down the winding path, watching monkeys swing overhead, Taylor might have been deep in the Yucatan jungle. A trio of rust-colored birds with nodding topknots on their heads stared at her as she walked by. The enormous, intricately carved stone medallion that leaned against a tree trunk off the path looked Mayan, as though she were approaching the ancient jungle city of Chichen Itza.
She emerged from the trees at the curving edge of an enormous free-form pool. Palm trees and brightly colored umbrellas shaded the guests who sprawled on lounges, dozing or reading or sipping fancy drinks from the swim-up pool bar. At the center of the pool, a stone fountain sprayed droplets of water that glittered in the sun. Cocoa butter scented the air.
And she was warm, warm, warm. No coats, no sleet, no shivering. A sarong and a bikini were all she needed, for the air was soft and hot as a lover’s touch.
Taylor skirted the pool, heading toward the beach. Ahead, a short stone walkway leading to the sand was lined with parallel walls of warm golden stone that rose higher than a man’s head. On their inner surfaces, a series of primitively carved stone faces with Mayan features stared impassively at one another. A young girl turned a porcelain knob as Taylor passed and water gushed out of the stone lips and out of the fluted funnels below them. The guest showers, Taylor realized. Leave it to the Iberonova to turn even the prosaic into atmospheric whimsy. Then she looked through the showers at the vista beyond and caught her breath.
Ahead of her, curving palm trees framed the view of an ocean that stretched out an impossible shade of aqua, darkening to indigo on the horizon. A white catamaran with a sail banded in turquoise, blue-green, and magenta glided over the waves. Palm-thatched palapas dotted the beach like giant parasols, guests stretched out beneath them on sun couches. And the waves whispered.
She couldn’t stop the smile.
For two weeks, she’d been hopping from island to island, resort to resort, sometimes three or four properties in a day. Every night, she was somewhere different, never anywhere long enough to unpack, let alone relax. It hadn’t been about relaxing, though. It had been about work. Admittedly, work she enjoyed, but work nevertheless.
This, though, this was her time. Seven precious days to herself, to sleep in until noon, to read, to lie on the beach. To do absolutely nothing that she didn’t want to do. She picked up her straw bag and started down the broad beach.
The sand was hot on her feet, the sun warmed her shoulders and made her glad of her dark glasses. As she walked past the sun worshippers, she relaxed to hear the mix of languages. No Texas twangs or Southern drawls or nasal Yankee accents talking about PTA meetings and yesterday’s big game here. The mix of French, Italian, German, and Spanish danced into her ears. Perhaps they were talking about the banal, but with the musical flow of syllables, it hardly mattered. The English she heard was from other shores—British, Australian, New Zealander. Americans were outside the norm here.
Which was probably just as well, considering the fact that most of the European and South American women matter-of-factly dropped top when they hit the beach. Taylor set her straw bag in the shade of a palapa, pulling over a sun couch. A beautiful Hispanic woman walked toward her, breasts standing out proud and high and completely bare. Taylor smiled to think how the vice president of the Rotary Club and his wife would have reacted to the sight. Probably just as well that she’d booked them to Fort Lauderdale.
She untied her sarong and spread her towel out on the lounger. For a moment, she stared at it, then she moved it back out into the sun. Just for a little while, she’d give herself the luxury of baking in the heat, before she yielded to reason and shifted into the shade.
Lying back on her couch, she sighed in pure bliss, listening to the soft rush of the waves, the breeze whispering through the palm fronds of the palapa. Reaching into her bag, she rummaged for the bottle of sunblock. With her brown eyes, she was the rare blonde who took to the sun readily, but it still