Note to self: never prepay your honeymoon.
Ally Smith sat on the beach under a tattered umbrella
nursing her watered-down piña colada and wondered why that
caveat didn't make it into any of the wedding planning
books. Probably because no one plans a wedding with
escape clauses.
She should write her own book for brides-to-be. She'd
definitely include a chapter on cancellation clauses, the
folly of prepayments and how to mitigate the financial toll
of lost deposits. Oh, and some fun stuff like how to build a
nifty bonfire with three hundred monogrammed cocktail napkins.
And a chapter on how to know you're marrying the wrong guy.
She dug her toes into the warm sand and watched the
sailboats bobbing on the waves as they made their way into
and out of the marina just down the beach. Why hadn't she
pushed harder for the trip to Australia where she could at
least be snow skiing right now? June in Oz was supposed to
be fabulous. Why had she let Gerry talk her into this when
they lived just twenty minutes from the Georgia
coast—a popular honeymoon destination in and of
itself? She could go to the beach anytime she wanted. She
didn't have to fly to the Caribbean for sand and surf.
Because I was too happy to finally be engaged.
In the four months since she'd happened home at lunch-time
to find Gerry having a nooner with their travel agent—
which explained why he'd insisted they use her to begin
with, and probably also why Ally was booked into the worst
hotel on the island—she'd come to realize some hard
truths: she'd picked good looks and charm over substance,
and she should have dumped Gerry-the-sorry-bastard four
years ago.
Now, two days into her "honeymoon," she was bored
out of her mind.
"Is this seat taken, pretty lady?"
The low, gruff voice pulled her out of her reverie. Shading
her eyes from the late-afternoon sun, she turned to find the
source of the question.
And nearly spit out her drink as she ended up eye level with
the smallest swimming trunks ever made, straining over a
body they were never designed to grace.
In any decent movie, the voice would have belonged to a
handsome tennis pro with a tan and bulging biceps. This was
her life, though, so while her admirer did sport a
tan, his body bulged in all the wrong places—like over
the waistband of his Speedo. Ally bit her lip as her eyes
moved upward, past the gold chain tangling in his furry
chest hair to the three-day salt-and-pepper stubble, the
ridiculous iridescent blue wraparound sunglasses and
wide-brimmed Panama hat.
She was being hit on by a bad cliché. This horrible
vacation experience was now complete. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You look like you could use some company. How about we
have a drink and get to know each other?" Without
waiting for her response, the man lowered himself into the
adjacent lounge chair, took off his sunglasses and stuck out
his hand. "Fred Alexander."
With no excuse to deny the tenets of her proper Southern
upbringing, she shook the proffered hand. The palm was damp.
He held her hand a bit too long, and she fought the urge to
wipe it on her towel once released. "I'm Ally. It's nice
to meet you, but—"
"A pretty girl like you shouldn't be sitting out here
alone. No telling who might come along to bother you."
He winked at her.
Yeah, no telling. There were plenty of people on
the beach. Why had Fred picked her to hit on? Because
you are a loser magnet. First Gerry and now this guy.
At least Gerry had been good-looking, a fact he'd never
let her forget.
She had to escape. She should have just stayed in Savannah.
Oh, but no, she'd been steamed over the loss of so many
other down payments that she wasn't going to let a vacation
go to waste, too. It had sounded so practical at the time.
She knew better now.
"I was just about to go in, actually. I think I'm
getting too much sun." She reached for her bag and slid
to the edge of her seat, ready to beat a hasty retreat. Fred
placed his hand on her wrist and stroked his thumb over the
skin. Ally gently moved away from his hand and out of arm's
reach as she stood.
"I'd be happy to rub some lotion on you." Fred's
eyes roamed slowly down her body and back up to her
cleavage, making her skin crawl. With a slow shake of his
head, he said, "That's a crime, Ally. A girl with a body
like yours should be showing it off in a bikini." She'd
never been so glad to be wearing a one-piece in her entire
life, and as he licked his lips in appreciation, Ally felt
as if she needed a hot shower.
"Thanks, but no. I'm—"
"Dinner, then. I saw you checking in alone yesterday and
figured you'd be looking for some company."
Ugh. She took another step back. "Um, well,
I…"
"I'm staying here, too. Suite sixteen. It must be fate
that we're both here on our own…"
It was in her nature to make people happy, but this crossed
the line. There was "nice" and then there was
"stupid." She'd made enough stupid
decisions—no more.
"Enjoy the beach." She could hear Fred muttering
something about her attitude as she left. Whatever.
What little enjoyment she'd had just relaxing to the
sounds of the surf evaporated in the wake of being hit on by
some creepy guy old enough to be her father.
Maybe the TV in her room had a movie channel. She could take
that shower, order room service for dinner—if they
even did room service in this hotel; she hadn't seen a menu
when she'd checked in last night—and plan to do some
sightseeing on the island tomorrow.
This was the most pathetic vacation ever. Or was she the
pathetic one?
The lobby was mostly empty as she waited behind a couple
checking in. More honeymooners. The young woman carried a
bouquet, and the red-haired man at her side was having a
hard time checking in since he couldn't seem to keep his
hands off his new bride. They seemed happy, and Ally
silently wished them well as they headed for their room.
"I'd like to see about ordering room service to suite
twenty-six."
The hotel clerk shook his head. "Sorry. No room service.
Just the restaurant."
Lovely. She thought she'd hit her low spot on this vacation
with the arrival of Fred, but obviously there was much more
awaiting her over the next few days. Like eating every meal
alone.
"But I do have a message for you, Mrs. Hogsten."
"Miss Smith," she corrected automatically. Another
good reason not to marry Gerry. She'd never liked the sound
of his last name.
The clerk's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he rechecked
his computer screen.
Ally sighed. "I know. It says Hogsten, party of two, but
it's just me. Miss Smith."
She saw the flash of pity in the man's eyes as the
implications of staying alone in a honeymoon suite registered.
No sense trying to explain she wasn't the least bit sorry to
still be single. "The message?"
He handed her a folded piece of paper. "Enjoy your
evening."
"Thanks." She flipped it open for a quick peek as
she walked back to her room. Her mother's number.
Good Lord, what now? She'd hadn't been gone that long, and
she'd made sure all of them were squared away before she left.
Kicking the door closed with her foot, she dug in her bag
for her cell phone, only to flip it open and remember she
didn't have service here.
The minifridge in her room was well stocked after her trip
to the local liquor store last night, and the bottle of
Chardonnay called her name. She poured a glass and took a
drink before dialing the long string of numbers to call home.
"Oh, honey, it's so good to hear from you!"
Her mom sounded as though the phone call was a nice
surprise, which meant nothing was seriously wrong on the
home front. That didn't mean she was off the hook, though.
Ally drained her glass before she spoke. Instead of
refilling it, she took the bottle with her over to the bed
and sat down. She might need the whole thing. "You asked
me to call. Is everything okay?"
"Oh, we're fine. I guess."
Ally waited.
"Well, other than the fact your sister is going to put
me in an early grave with her dramatics…"
Oh, goody. Ring the bell for Mom versus Erin, round 427. Did
she really need to be discussing this long-distance?
Breathe in. Breathe out. How typical. Could her
family not function for at least a few days without her
there? She'd like to think that if she'd really been on her
honeymoon, no one would expect her to deal with this. Who
was she kidding? If her family tree were any nuttier,
squirrels would start showing up at Thanksgiving dinner. She
loved them, but not a one had an ounce of sense.
Maybe she'd been adopted. Switched at birth. Or had she been
intentionally placed in this family simply to keep them all
from spiraling out of control with their dramatics? It
sucked to be the grown-up all the time.
When her mom finally paused for a breath, Ally started her
peacekeeping duties. "Mom, it is her
wedding—"
"Maybe so, but you'd think she'd understand how
important this is."
It was a wedding, not the trials of Hercules, for goodness'
sake. But it took another half hour for Ally to convince her
mom of that, albeit temporarily. She banged her head against
the headboard gently in frustration.
"And, Ally, honey, the state sent a notice about the
property taxes."
"I took care of that before I left."
"So what do I do with the notice?"
"Just set it aside, and I'll get it when I come home.
I'll double-check with the state to be sure, but I wrote the
check along with your other first-of-the-month bills."
"Oh, then that's good."
The small headache her mother always caused after more than
twenty minutes throbbed behind her eyes. "Mom, I'm going
to go find some dinner now. I'll see you when I get home,
and we'll sort everything out then."
"Of course, honey. Have a wonderful time. We'll talk
soon."
With the phone safely back in its cradle, Ally leaned back
against the headboard of the king-size bed and hugged the
bottle of wine to her chest. I'm so glad I don't have
cell service here.
Out her bedroom window, she could see the sun setting over
the water. Dammit, she was on vacation. Granted, it was the
strangest vacation ever, but it was her vacation
nonetheless. She was alone in a honeymoon suite, in a place
she hadn't wanted to come to, and staying at a low-end hotel
because her travel agent was both spiteful and incompetent.
And she'd paid top dollar for this disaster. It wasn't fair,
and it wasn't right, but there were worse places to be. She
should make the most of it.
She'd earned a vacation, by God. She'd put up with
Gerry for three years longer than she should have in the
hopes he'd shape up and be worth the investment of her time
and energy. Instead she'd carried him—financially and
emotionally—for all that time. Planning and then
canceling the wedding had been stressful, and when she added
in her family's constant stream of crises, it was no wonder
she'd had a headache for as long as she could remember.
She needed a vacation. She deserved it. She would
take advantage of it.
After one last long drink straight from the bottle, Ally
reached for the phone again. By the time the desk clerk
answered, she had a whole new perspective.
"This is Ally Smith in suite twenty-six. No, not Mrs.
Hogsten. Miss Smith. I'd like your help in finding a
restaurant that delivers and a masseuse who can come to my
room tonight for an hour-long massage. And I need to know
where the closest spa is. I'd like to get a facial and a
manicure tomorrow. Oh, and I'd really love some fresh
flowers in here."
"She's a real beauty."
Chris Wells nodded, even if he didn't fully agree. She
needed quite a bit of work, but she still held great promise.
He'd wanted to have a closer look before he'd know if the
problems were just cosmetic or if they ran deeper.
"She's fast, too," the man continued, pride evident
in his voice, "but responsive and easy to handle."
"Her reputation certainly precedes her." Chris
stepped onto the weathered wooden deck. At just over forty
feet, the yacht was compact, yet elegant in design. Sadly,
though, she had suffered from too many years of poor
maintenance—the cleats were spotted with rust, the
leather cover of the tiller was cracked and peeling.
Twenty-five years ago, he'd watched his father skipper the
Circe to her first win, and he'd known then that
he'd race one day, too. In a way, he owed much of his career
to the boat rocking gently under his feet.
The Circe was long retired, her heavy wooden hull
no match for the newer, lighter racing yachts made of
aluminum or fiberglass. But he wasn't here to buy a new
racer—he was here to buy a piece of history and make
her into a queen.
His crew had called him crazy when he'd told them he was
taking time off to go to Tortola to see Circe, but
Jack and Derrick would come around eventually. And he
wouldn't trust anyone but them to refit her properly.
"Is she seaworthy? Any reason why she wouldn't make it
home?"
Ricardo, the boat's current owner, smiled, obviously pleased
with Chris's interest. "A few minor things you might
want to look at…"
Chris listened to Ricardo's list with half an ear as he
fished his cell phone out of his pocket and called home.
"Jack. Send Victor and Mickey down here on the next
flight. She needs a little work, but I should be ready to
start for home by the end of the week."
"So you're going through with it?"
"Definitely." He was handing the check to a bug-eyed
Ricardo even as he spoke.
"Why don't you come on home and let the guys bring her
back instead?"
Chris took a deep breath as a feeling of rightness filled
him. He was meant to own the Circe. "Because
she's mine now."
"But we need you here. Paperwork is already piling up on
your desk. And, if you're really going to break a record in
October, we don't have time for you to putter around the
Caribbean."
"I have an assistant to handle the paperwork. Grace can
call if she needs anything. October is still a long ways
off, and the Dagny is ahead of schedule. There's
nothing for me to do but admire your handiwork."