Читать книгу The Billionaire's Bride - Jackie Braun - Страница 9

“HOLA! UM…UH…HMM.

“Donde esta…? Donde esta…? What’s the word?” she muttered. Glancing up at the clearly baffled cafe owner, she asked hopefully, “Bathroom? Um. Toileto? El johno?”

Okay, so it wasn’t actual Spanish, but Marnie really had to use the facilities and it couldn’t wait until after she’d rewound the Berlitz tape she’d listened to in the car on the trip south from Arizona and figured out the word for rest room.

Some detour, Marnie thought, as she thumbed through her Spanish/English dictionary in desperation. She hadn’t planned this side trip to Mexico, but she’d felt so crowded at her parents’ Yuma, Arizona, home. She was a grown woman of thirty-two, a mother herself to a precocious preschooler. But for four days they had hovered over her as if she were a wounded chick in need of nurturing. Finally she ‘d decided to leave Noah in their care—he would appreciate the doting, after all. She’d borrowed their car and driven south with no destination in mind.

Now, here she was a couple of hours or so beyond the United States border on Mexico’s Baja Peninsula. And she really needed to relieve herself.

From behind her, she heard the deep rumble of masculine laughter. When she turned, Marnie wondered how she could have missed the man. He sat at one of the small round tables near the door, his hulking frame in silhouette thanks to the light streaming in from the window behind him. And yet she knew without clearly seeing his features that his expression was one of amusement.

At her expense.

“Do you speak English?” she demanded, squelching the urge to cross her legs and hop in place.

“Si, yo hablo ingles, muchacha,” he replied smoothly.

His pronunciation was so flawless it took her a moment to realize that while he’d said so in Spanish, he could indeed communicate with her.

She pasted on a smile—one that would have had her brother Mason wisely moving well out of her range. This man merely crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned back until the front legs of his chair left the ground.

“Clever, Mr.—?”

Where her lethal glare hadn’t fazed him, her simple question apparently did. The chair bounced back to the ground with a thud. He hesitated a moment, as if he was reluctant to identify himself.

“Friends call me J.T,” he said at last.

“J.T. Wow, that’s funny.”

He angled his head to one side, again seeming suspicious of her. “What’s funny?”

“Just that we’re barely acquaintances and I already have a pet name for you, too.”

But she bit her tongue on the expletive that came to mind and asked sweetly, “So, J.T., could you tell me where the rest room is?” Her smile was really more a baring of teeth when she added, “Por favor.”

“Donde esta el baño?”

“Yes, yes.” She waved her hand impatiently. “I think we’ve already established that you’re bilingual. And isn’t that a wonderful trait? I know I now deeply regret taking Home Ec as an elective rather than a foreign language while I was in high school. Be that as it may, I’d really appreciate it right now if you could just answer the question. In English. Or maybe French. I did take two semesters of French in middle school.”

He rattled off something that had her exhaling slowly. The man would have to be multilingual.

“Okay, not French. English. Eng-lish!”

“Well, then, by all means.”

He stood and took a few steps toward her, bringing him close enough that she could now fully make out his features. Where she and Hal had been on eye level, this man had several inches on her, despite the thick wedge of her heel. He was blond to her dark hair, with eyes the same shade of blue as the flower of the wild chicory that grew alongside the highway back home. Every inch of him was tanned and toned, and impressively coated with some serious muscle.

Not her type at all, she thought, even as her pulse rate spiked and almost made her forget the fact that her bladder felt as if it were being stretched by the entire contents of the Great Lakes.

It had been a long time since she’d felt this way around a member of the opposite sex. The sensation was unwanted now, and, to Marnie’s way of thinking, its presence was just another reason to dislike the handsome stranger.

“Down that hallway and to the right.”

“Thank you.”

“De nada.”

She smiled and had just taken a step in the direction he’d indicated when he added, “For future reference, Donde esta el baño? is handy phrase should you find yourself in your, uh, current predicament again.”

“Gracias,” she replied with a roll of her eyes and hurriedly took her leave.

The annoying, albeit gorgeous American was nowhere to be found when Marnie returned, a fact for which she was grateful. The exchange made her feel foolish now. And she didn’t care for that instant jolt of attraction. She didn’t like his type, good-looking though he was. She preferred men with brains to men with mere brawn.

The woman wiping up the tables in the cafe smiled broadly when Marnie approached. After a long consultation with the dictionary, she was able to ask about accommodations. The woman pointed to the map Marnie held, her slim finger stopping just north of the small fishermen’s village where they were. Marnie had passed through the resort town the woman indicated. She’d wanted no part of it. Too loud. Too crowded. She wanted peace and quiet and a bit of isolation. This small village place was perfect.

“No, no. No…turista.”

She flipped through the book again. She’d bought it less than twenty-four hours earlier and it was already dog-eared and showing other signs of wear. Well, she was definitely getting her money’s worth.

“I need to get away, be alone,” Marnie said in English, knowing full well the woman’s polite smile meant she didn’t have a clue what she was rattling on about.

“Viuda,” Marnie said finally, pressing a hand to her heart as she uttered the Spanish word for widow.

“Ah,” the woman replied, brown eyes melting with sympathy. It was the last thing Marnie wanted right now. She had enough of that in Chance Harbor. After Hal’s death, it was as if her name had changed from Marnie LaRue to Marnie Poor Thing.

“I need…” She flipped through pages. “Tranquilidad.”

“Si, si,” the woman bobbed her head.

Half an hour later, Marnie was back in her car and trying to follow the crude map the woman’s husband had drawn for her. His English had been only slightly better than Marnie’s Spanish, which obviously wasn’t saying much. But he’d assured her that the small house of his abuela, which Marnie thought meant grandmother, was quiet and secluded and overlooked the Pacific.

It sounded perfect. The homeowner had moved in with family. She was too old to live alone any longer, the man had told Marnie. As the road opened up and her beachfront accommodations for the extended weekend came into view, Marnie thought she understood why.

She no longer felt guilty about the ridiculously low sum she’d paid to rent the place. It was little more than a shack built just back from the large boulders that dotted the beach, with rooms haphazardly tacked on at various angles to the original structure. A hundred yards down the beach, she spied another home. This one was a little more reputable-looking, but any hope she’d held out that it might be the place was dashed when she spied the black Jeep Wrangler parked outside.

It was only four days, she reminded herself. Then she took in the incredible view and decided the panoramic of the Pacific more than made up for any shortcomings in her accommodations. What did it matter where she slept or took her meals as long as she got to wake up to that?

Marnie had always loved the water. Even after Hal’s drowning death in Lake Superior, she’d continued to find being near it peaceful, restorative—essential even. Something about its vast size and rhythm soothed her, even on days when the lake’s surface was puckered with waves.

The ocean, so much bigger than even the greatest of the Great Lakes, had that soothing rhythm as well. She parked the car and walked to where the water churned white at shore. Seabirds swooped and called overhead, and even though it was only about seventy degrees, the air was heavy and seemed warmer thanks to a salty humidity that had her licking her lips to see if she could taste it. She could.

A storm was coming. Farther out, dark clouds were gathering, roiling in hues of purple and gray on the horizon. She should unpack her belongings. At the very least, she should unload the groceries she’d purchased at the market in town. But she tucked the keys in the front pocket of her shorts, tugged off her sandals and walked to where her feet flirted with the surf.

Now, here she was.

La Playa de la Pisada. Footprint Beach. That was the name of the small village she’d stumbled across. As Marnie added her own footprints to the sand, she knew coming here had been a good idea.

An hour later, as the first fat drops of rain turned into a torrent, she revised her opinion. The roof leaked, big time. The electricity was iffy, shutting off with a threatening sizzle with every gust of wind. So far it kept sputtering back on a few moments later, but she wasn’t sure how long her luck would hold. All of this was small potatoes compared to the roommate she’d discovered living in the primitive bathroom. Marnie had shrieked with unholy abandon when she’d spied the small scaly critter and then slammed the door closed. It could stay there. She didn’t need a bathroom.

¿Donde esta el baño?

The phrase came back to her, as did the memory of the man who’d uttered it. What was his story? she wondered, telling herself it was simple curiosity that had her recalling his Brad Pitt jaw line and impossibly blue eyes. He wasn’t a local, at least not originally. American like her and maybe, like her, he’d come seeking peace and quiet.

The electricity sizzled off again, but at least the rain was letting up some. Marnie decided she could do without the quiet part just now. She hopped over mud puddles on the way to her car and cranked up the volume on the stereo. The humble bungalow didn’t have a radio let alone a compact disk player.

As Marvin Gaye sang of sexual healing, Marnie went back inside to unpack her belongings. The knock on the open door a few minutes later startled her as she stacked a few canned goods in the cupboard. When she turned, the man from the café stood just outside in the drizzle. While his lips had twitched with laughter at their last meeting, this time they were drawn into a tight line.

“Just who in the hell are you?” he asked abruptly, stepping over the threshold.

The electricity came back on then, the overhead light in the kitchen flickering to life as if sparked by his mere presence.

At five-ten, Marnie wasn’t what anyone would classify as petite. She was in good enough shape to have tone to her muscles, but she was no body builder. What she was at this moment, she realized as fear pooled in the pit of her stomach, was a lone female in a foreign country with no telephone service and far enough from civilization that no one would hear her scream. So, she picked up the first object she could find—one of her sandals—and, summoning up some bravado, brandished it in the man’s handsome face.

“I suggest you stay away from me.”

He blinked in surprise, raising a hand to shove damp sandy hair back from his eyes.

“You’re threatening me with a shoe?”

“It’s got a heel and I’m not afraid to use it,” she bluffed in a deadly serious tone even though she knew there was nothing lethal about the sandal’s cork wedge.

“Who are you?” he asked again, this time seeming more baffled than angry.

“A woman who doesn’t want to be messed with, amigo.” Fear took a distant second to irritation as she stepped forward, poked a finger into the brick wall of his chest and challenged, “Who are you?”

“I think you know.”

“J.T.,” Marnie replied, repeating the initials the man gave her during their last encounter.

“Yes, J.T.,” he drawled. “Now, who sent you?”

“Sent me?”

“Whom do you work for?”

“I work for myself,” Marnie replied.

It was true, sort of. She was a waitress and sometimes manager at her family’s tavern, and, as her family could attest, no one told her what to do.

But I could be doing more, a little voice hummed. She lifted her chin and ignored it.

“So, you’re a freelancer.”

Blinking slowly, she regarded the man. She had no clue what he was blathering on about, but she lowered the shoe. If he’d planned to assault her, surely he would have done so by now without playing twenty questions first.

“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” she asked in exasperation.

Before he could answer, the critter in the bathroom thumped against the door.

“What the devil?”

J.T. stepped around Marnie in the small kitchen and headed toward the equally miniscule adjoining room that probably served as the home’s main gathering place, although at the moment it had no furnishings. He pointed to the closed door at the far end of the room.

“What do you have in there?”

“No idea. I opened the bathroom door and there it was. I wasn’t going to evict it.”

Marnie smiled at J.T., ready to forgive him for his rudeness now that she had determined he was quite harmless: annoying, arrogant and appallingly short on manners, but harmless nonetheless.

She was still smiling when she asked, “Maybe you could, um, convince it to go outside?”

Then she handed him the shoe.

J.T. couldn’t believe this woman. She had the sultry, sexy look of a lingerie model: long, slender limbs, a well-curved bottom and generous bust, all neatly topped off with a short dark mop of hair, deep brown eyes and lips that looked inviting even when she was snarling at him. She was a study in contrasts, much like the Baja peninsula with its deserts, mountains and gorgeous coastline. One minute she was threatening him with a flimsy sandal and the next she was trying to wheedle a favor out of him.

And she still hadn’t answered his question.

“Tell me who you are and why you’re here, and I’ll consider doing my best imitation of the Crocodile Hunter for you,” he bartered.

She heaved an aggravated sigh that had the thin material of her cotton T-shirt pulling taut across her chest, drawing J.T.’s attention. He tried his best not to think about how long it had been since he’d spent some quality time alone with a woman.

“Fine. I’m Marnie. Marnie LaRue of Chance Harbor, Michigan.”

“The plates on your vehicle say Arizona.”

“My folks live there. I borrowed their car. Satisfied?”

“Hardly. Why are you here?”

Marnie. Was that a real name? he wondered. A pen name? It had a certain exotic quality about it, much like the woman herself.

“Why are you here?” she countered.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Uh-uh-uh. I’ll ask the questions.”

“Control freak,” he thought he heard her mutter before she admitted, “I’m in Mexico for a little R and R.”

“Please. You can lie better than that. Rest and recreation are what they specialize in up the highway from here. Despite its picturesque name and stunning view, La Playa de la Pisada isn’t a mecca for tourists,” he said. And, as if to underscore his point, the creature in the bathroom thumped against the door again.

He pointed toward the door and offered a mocking smile. “Exhibit A.”

“I never said I was a tourist.”

He nodded in satisfaction. “Finally we’re getting somewhere.”

“I’m not here for a vacation. I’m here for some…solitude.”

J.T. exhaled sharply in frustration. “A woman who looks like you doesn’t come to a place like this for solitude or anything else.”

“Where would a woman who looks like me go?” she asked and he got the impression she was trying to figure out if he meant the description as a compliment or an insult.

He pointed to her luggage. It was as bright red as newly spilled blood and about the size of a small car.

“I’ll bet there’s not one pair of sensible shoes or jeans in there. Hell, I’ll bet there’s nothing practical in there, period.”

“Care to put money on that wager?”

“Why not?” J.T. shot back, amused.

He pulled out his wallet and then immediately regretted his impulsiveness when her eyes widened at the thick wad of American bills he carried. He tugged out a twenty and tucked the wallet away.

Motioning with his chin, he said, “Open it.”

She unzipped the overstuffed bag with an aggressive yank of her arm and tossed back the lid. As she rummaged around inside its contents, colorful swatches of silk and satin caught J.T.’s attention. Lingerie model, he thought again. She damn well could be with all the mouthwatering unmentionables she had stowed in her bag. But he reminded himself that the frothy contents only confirmed his suspicions. No one who looked like Marnie came to this tiny little backwater in Mexico with a suitcase full of soft, frilly, feminine things to rent a shack of a house and seek solitude.

She had another motive, and he’d bet his last buck it wasn’t so pure. He’d had his fill of inquisitive women, whether they were reporters seeking an exclusive interview or job applicants eager to skip his company’s personnel department and dazzle him directly with their resumes.

Worst of all, though, were the marriage-minded mercenaries who had hunted him relentlessly since his divorce became final two years earlier. None of them had ever managed to find him here, though. He’d been careful, very careful, to cover his tracks.

Still, J.T. wasn’t sure which category Marnie fit into. She didn’t seem to be trying to impress him with her charm, wit and appealing ass…um…assets.

Maybe she wasn’t a gold digger. A reporter? He’d never met one who hadn’t skewered him with a dozen questions before offering a business card. As for a job applicant, she didn’t seem the sort to dabble in software design. Okay, maybe he was stereotyping here, but not many of the women who worked at Tracker Operating Systems looked like something that stepped out of one of those glossy fashion magazines that sported more advertisements than editorial content.

As he mulled the possibilities, Marnie extracted something from her bag with an exaggerated flourish.

“Tell me this isn’t practical,” she challenged, holding up the item with one hand as she settled the other one on her hip.

J.T. tried to keep a straight face. Really, he tried. He was known for his cool demeanor and unreadable expression, after all. But how could he be expected to maintain a serious facade when faced with this? Sure, the flashlight she’d produced had practical written all over it. Problem was it also had a skimpy little swatch of black lace snagged on its switch.

“Which is intended as the turn-on?” he couldn’t resist asking.

The room was relatively gloomy, illuminated by only one small lamp and the last remnants of evening light that streamed in from the small window that faced the ocean. And yet when she glanced at the flashlight and caught sight of the flirty little thong dangling from it, he swore she blushed scarlet.

His amusement was cut short however. Barely a heartbeat later, lightning flashed outside, followed swiftly by a deafening clap of thunder. The room’s lone lamp sizzled briefly before sputtering out, leaving them in virtual darkness.

Marnie flipped on the flashlight, all but blinding J.T. with its penetrating beam.

“Practical,” she said succinctly. And held out one hand. “Now pay up.”

A couple of hours later, J.T. stretched out on the plush mattress of his king-size bed, but he couldn’t get comfortable. His thoughts had strayed to Marnie LaRue and stayed there.

He’d rousted the harmless lizard from the shack’s bathroom and then had left her in darkness. He still felt guilty about it and as if his mother would pop out of the woodwork at any moment and berate him for his lack of chivalry. But until he knew who Marnie was and what she was after, he planned to keep her at arm’s length.

From the outside, his home looked barely more habitable than the one Marnie was renting. J.T. intended it that way. No one would guess a billionaire vacationed there when he really needed to get away. And he really needed to get away right now, what with the government threatening an antitrust lawsuit.

He heaved a sigh and reached for the remote on the nightstand. With a click of a button, Smokey Robinson was singing about the tears of a clown. Despite the home’s rough exterior, the inside was another story. The furnishings of its six rooms were state-of-the-art, from the stainless steel six-burner oven and wine cooler in the kitchen, to the plush leather upholstery in the living room and the elaborate computer setup in the den.

When he’d returned that evening, he’d booted up his computer—thanks to a backup generator, he never lost power. And thanks to the onward march of technology, even in this small outpost, he had access to the Internet. A Google search had turned up nothing on Ms. LaRue. Chance Harbor, Michigan, had scored a few hits, but nothing that really told J.T. anything useful except that she had at least given him the name of a real city, tiny though it was.

And that only turned up more questions. She said she’d come here for quiet and isolation. Couldn’t she get that without leaving home? Chance Harbor was located about as far north as one could go in Michigan without taking a dip in Lake Superior. And the population of that bustling metropolis: 793.

Something didn’t add up. J.T. wasn’t deterred. His company’s logo was a bloodhound—specifically, Tracker, the beloved dog he’d had as a boy. J.T. would figure it out. He was determined to rework the numbers until they did add up.

Marnie spied the lights at the house just up the beach, the place where she assumed J.T. now sat enjoying his evening. Was he renting it, too? If so, he’d gotten the better deal. It didn’t appear to be much larger than the one she was paying for, and it hardly looked more habitable, but it had electricity at this point, whereas she had nothing but a fire in the primitive hearth to roast hot dogs over.

God, she hated hot dogs. But she’d brought them with her in the small cooler she’d packed because they were easy. The perfect multipurpose food. No one knew better than the mother of a finicky four-year-old how quickly boiling water, a bon fire or a gas grill could turn pressed meat into a meal. And Noah loved them.

Truth be told, she wasn’t much of a cook. Never had been. In fact, Hal had prepared most of the meals during their marriage, for which she was eternally grateful. Still, surviving on her own cooking did have one nice side benefit. At least she never had to watch her weight.

She pulled the blackened dog from the fire and sighed. Nope. No calories to worry about here.

Marnie tossed her dinner into the fire, stood up and stretched. She really wasn’t that hungry anyway. Without bothering to locate the flashlight, she stumbled to the home’s only bedroom and felt her way along in the dark until her knee rapped smartly against the bed’s wooden footboard.

With a sigh of exhaustion, she flopped onto the lumpy, unmade mattress still wearing her clothes, too tired to bother to hunt up her toothbrush or take out her gritty-feeling contact lenses.

Sleep. When she didn’t have any of the disruptions or responsibilities of motherhood to intrude, Marnie Striker LaRue was remarkably good at it.