Rub It In. Kira Sinclair
own smile was tight as she said, “It isn’t a matter of money, ma’am.” She refused to let the false name pass her lips. “The resort is undergoing construction and our insurance company won’t allow any guests on the premises for liability reasons.”
The woman’s scowl deepened. Marcy could see the snit she was about to unleash as it built in the back of her beautiful green eyes. Cutting it off at the pass, Marcy continued, “However, I’d be happy to contact a resort on St. Lucia and see if something is available while you recover.”
Instead of a tirade, a sigh of relief exited through the woman’s pink and pouty lips. “Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. If you wouldn’t mind.” Marcy fought the urge to smack the smile off Mrs. Smith’s face.
“Give us a minute.” She ground out the words through clenched teeth as she pulled Tina into the back office behind her. “Run down the list of resorts on the island and see what you can find. Start with the family-oriented resorts. The more obnoxious the kids, the better.”
Tina giggled. “Happy to.”
Marcy left her to it, heading back to her desk and the pile of work waiting for her there. Despite it being afternoon, the other offices were already dark. Most of the staff were busy packing their own bags for a change. Everyone except a skeleton crew left the island for these two weeks each year. When a tropical paradise was your home, vacations usually meant visiting family you hadn’t seen in forever.
Marcy had no family to see. Her mother had died when she was a little girl. Her father, a hotel manager himself, had died five years ago. She had no brothers or sisters, and only one aunt on her father’s side, but the last time she’d heard from Suellen had been at her father’s funeral.
She had several close friends from college, but they were all scattered around the country. And while she talked to them as often as possible, most of them were busy starting families and building careers. Several years ago they’d given up trying to plan a girls’ week away. It was just too hard to work around all their schedules.
Some of the staff would stay. She’d spent last year here herself. In theory having the entire resort to yourself—including all the amenities the guests used but she never had time for—wasn’t a bad thing. If she’d actually taken time to use those amenities. Instead, she’d spent the entire two weeks—weeks that were supposed to be her vacation—working.
Not this year. Tomorrow afternoon she was leaving. Marcy sighed. Two blissful weeks with no Simon—the bane of her existence.
In her opinion, no laid-back surf god should ever own a resort. It had gotten to the point where just the sight of Simon’s low-riding shorts and tight T-shirts had begun to grate on her nerves. They were running a business!
Besides, no man should look that sexy while somehow still managing to appear as if donning clothing had been an afterthought. The problem with that kind of … demeanor was that most of the time she feared Simon was two steps away from shedding his clothes again just because they were annoying him. And she didn’t want that. Really, she didn’t. It would set a bad example for the employees.
She preferred men with more structured wardrobes. The kind who wore business suits every day … and liked it. If she discovered Simon owned a single pair of tailored pants or a silk tie—let alone a suit—she’d die of shock.
Before moving to the island she’d lived in cities. Lots of them. London, Prague, Chicago, San Francisco. And she’d loved them all. But her heart belonged to New York, where the men definitely knew how to wear their suits. And run their businesses.
Simon might have had the money to purchase the resort, but he didn’t seem to care much about keeping it going. Even the disheveled blond hair that notoriously hung in his dark blue eyes bothered her. She constantly wanted to sweep it out of the way, but the one time she’d given in to the impulse her hand had tingled for twenty minutes. And that was the last thing she needed.
But it was difficult, as a woman, not to recognize that Simon was an attractive man. He was tall, his athletic body moving with a grace that seemed counterintuitive considering his height. Charm and devilment mixed with his inherent sex appeal—a potentially lethal combination.
But she refused to feel attracted. Not to her boss. She’d learned her lesson the first time around that block.
“Marcy.” The two-way radio on her hip squawked. “We have a problem.”
Tom, their only remaining security person, thought everything was a problem. Since the head of security, Zane Edwards, had left to follow the woman he loved to Atlanta and his replacement had lasted all of six weeks, Tom was all she had right now. Marcy couldn’t really blame the guy for his “the sky is falling” attitude—he was so far out of his element. Tom was great at watching the monitors and keeping drunken guests in line. But at twenty-two, he was hardly ready to take on the task of head of security for a resort as large as Escape.
Marcy was hoping to fix that problem before she left, as well. On her desk sat three résumés from three very capable candidates. All were to arrive on the afternoon ferry. They’d stay the night, be interviewed tomorrow, tour the facility and then leave on the morning ferry. Simon had balked at the expense, but after Zane’s replacement hadn’t been able to handle island life, she wasn’t making that mistake again.
The last stragglers would join them. Marcy was half packed and come hell or high water would be on the last ferry.
Snatching the radio off her belt, Marcy huffed, “What is it, Tom?”
“Several men—” she could hear the hesitation in his voice “—just got off the ferry. You said not to allow anyone off.”
What she’d said was not to allow any guests off. She had no doubt, based on the falter in his voice, that the group he was referring to were her construction workers.
“Do the men have toolboxes, ladders or anything else resembling construction equipment, by any chance?”
“Yes.” He sounded surprised, and Marcy fought hard not to roll her eyes.
“Could they be the crew coming to handle the maintenance and renovations while we’re closed?” she asked patiently.
“Maybe.” He drew out the single word, telling her that he was quickly reevaluating the situation in front of him. Really, he was a good boy who could do with just a little more common sense and practical life experience. Marcy could hear a rustle as he placed his hand over the phone. Unfortunately it didn’t dampen the sound enough for her to miss as he asked the men, “Are you construction guys?”
Their yes was muffled but audible nonetheless.
“Uh, yeah, they are.”
“Great. Maybe next time you’ll ask them why they’re here first before calling me up with a non-crisis. Put them in the old bunkhouse.”
The bunkhouse was left over from the days when the island had been a cocoa plantation, though it had been updated and renovated since then. The building was rarely used, but it would serve perfectly for the next two weeks. Most of the permanent employees had either bungalows at the back of the property, like hers, or living quarters close to the job, like their chef, who had a rather large apartment above the kitchens.
Great, now she had workers but no supplies for them to actually do anything.
Blowing at a wisp of hair that had fallen into her eyes, Marcy flopped back into the executive chair behind her desk, not sure whether she wanted to scream, cry or start smashing things. Probably a little of all three.
Her to-do list was a mile long. Nothing was going right.
And she had no doubt that the minute Simon realized she was leaving tomorrow he would blow a gasket. Not that her departure should surprise him, since she’d told him in person, sent him an email and reminded him a dozen times over the past few weeks.
However, if there was one thing she’d learned about Simon Reeves, it was that his