Читать книгу Right Place, Wrong Time - Judith Arnold, Judith Arnold - Страница 8

“THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS,” Delia Hamilton huffed. She set her purse on an end table by the sofa, as if staking her claim on the disputed territory. “They can’t stay.”

Ethan flashed her an impatient look. Delicate negotiations were necessary. Issuing ultimatums wouldn’t help. “Mrs. Hamilton—”

“Delia’s right,” Ross piped up. “The woman and her daughter will have to go.”

“She’s my niece,” the woman corrected him. “Not my daughter.”

Ethan wished he could sit down, but that would put him at a tactical disadvantage. The headache that had seized him on the drive flared with renewed vigor, surging up from his neck over the top of his head and cresting at the bridge of his nose. Yes, the woman and her niece would have to go. There had been a monumental screwup, and it was her friend’s fault, and unfortunately, she and her niece would be stuck paying the price.

New York City flowed in her veins—or at least, tripped along her tongue. She had a classic accent, all exaggerated vowels, harsh consonants and a sporadic absence of the letter R. Her straight black hair was chin-length and blunt-cut, her eyes dark, her nose a bit too long for her face and her cheekbones a bit too wide. Her complexion had a tawny olive undertone, making him wonder about her ethnicity. Morante—could be Hispanic, could be Italian. She wore a skintight black tank top covered by a sheer peach-hued shirt, short denim cutoffs that displayed long tanned legs, a black belt with an industrial-strength buckle and thick-soled leather sandals that made her feet look disproportionately tiny. His gaze strayed repeatedly to her feet. The skin of her insteps was unusually smooth and her toes were perfect little knobs tipped with pearl-hued polish. The second toe of her left foot sported a silver ring.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” he said, although he was sure of no such thing. He forced his attention away from her feet and his gaze slid up those long legs again, the snug-fitting shorts, the black top that emphasized the swell of her bosom, her slender neck and pointy chin and those wide, sharp cheekbones. Silver hoops pierced her ears, two hoops per lobe. Nothing about her looked bland or boring—or safe.

She extended her arms to her niece, who obviously considered Gina the safest person in the room. The little girl ran into her aunt’s embrace, sniffling and whimpering. “I don’t want to leave,” she sobbed into Gina’s stomach. She had on a garish orange swimsuit, her hair was pulled into a lopsided ponytail and small gold dots adorned her ears. Gina Morante hugged her tightly.

How could the Hamiltons evict these women? Where would they go? Would Ross put them out in the street? Would Delia exile them to the airport?

“They can’t stay here,” Ross remarked, as if he felt Ethan needed a reminder.

“We can’t just kick them out,” Ethan retorted.

“Ethan.” Kim’s voice was like a stiletto, searching for the tenderest part of his headache and impaling it. “They can’t stay.”

“Excuse me,” Gina said to Kim, her voice more of a broadsword than a stiletto, whacking rather than stabbing. “This isn’t for you to decide, honey. Alicia and I have every right to be here. Just because there are four of you and two of us doesn’t mean you get to vote us off the island. We’re here because your buddy Paul failed to communicate his intentions to my friend Carole. This situation is his fault, not mine and not Alicia’s.”

If Kim were a cat, she’d be arching her back and hissing. She was a woman, though, so she only crackled with electrifying anger, her upper lip twitching and her eyes narrowing on Gina. “Your friend Carole is obviously a complete imbecile. I’m sorry you don’t have smarter friends, honey, but that’s your choice. We’re staying here this week. So get your things and clear out.”

Ethan shook his head. He could tell just by looking at Gina Morante that she wasn’t the sort of woman anyone could issue orders to. She pulled herself to her full height—a good three inches taller than Kim—and flexed her shoulders, which appeared inordinately powerful beneath the narrow straps of her skimpy tank top. Her eyes might be dark, but they flashed like lightning. “We’re staying,” she declared, her arms closing more tightly around her weeping niece.

“Okay.” Ethan rubbed his temples and pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to massage his headache away. He glanced toward Kim, and was met with an indignant glower. Turning back to Gina, he saw steely resolve. “Either Paul or Carole screwed up. Or it was a joint screwup and they’re equally to blame. It doesn’t matter. We’re going to have to come up with a compromise. It’s off-season, right? There must be an available hotel room in the vicinity.” He gave Gina a hopeful smile.

“You want us to move to a hotel room?”

“That would make the most sense.”

“And we’re supposed to pay for this hotel room how?”

He opened his mouth and then shut it. He had no idea what her financial circumstances were, but he supposed that even off-season, a week in a resort comparable to Palm Point was going to cost upward of a thousand dollars.

“I’ll pay for the damn hotel room,” Ross Hamilton interjected. “Find one and move out, for God’s sake. I’ll pay the damn bill.”

“He’s saying bad words,” the little girl murmured between sobs.

“I don’t want to move to a hotel,” Gina argued. “I want to stay here. It’s got a kitchen. We’re entitled to stay here. This is Carole’s week.”

“Carole is an idiot,” Kim snapped.

Gina glared at Kim. “Carole is a better person than you’ll ever be. She’s a pediatrician. She saves children’s lives. How many children’s lives have you saved lately?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Kim retorted. “I don’t care how many children’s lives she saved. She’s an idiot!”

“Enough.” Ethan held up both hands like a cop halting traffic in all directions. He waited for both women to subside. Kim simmered. Gina remained just as she was, posture straight, head high, dark eyes shooting lightning bolts in Kim’s direction. “Mr. Hamilton has generously agreed to cover the cost of a hotel. Ms. Morante, this is an extraordinary gesture. You really ought to—”

“He wants to pay for a hotel room? Great. Let him pay for it and stay there himself. I don’t want to stay in a hotel. I want to stay here, where I can fix Alicia meals. I like the location. I like the setup. We’re already unpacked here. We’re not leaving.” She sent a frosty smile Ross’s way. “Thanks for offering, though.”

“Your friend made a mistake,” Ethan tried.

She turned back to him, and he nearly staggered under the force of her gaze. “My friend or yours. Or they both did equally, like you said.”

He sighed. She was right. He could phone Paul, but even if Paul swore he’d made his plans for the condo clear to her friend Carole, it would only be a case of he-said-she-said. Without concrete proof, he couldn’t assign the blame to one friend or the other.

“Why don’t we stay at a hotel?” Delia Hamilton suddenly spoke up. “Isn’t there a Ritz-Carlton here on the island? Or something of that quality? Frankly, Ross, having to make my own bed isn’t my idea of a vacation. If we go to the hotel, we’ll have maid service, room service, all the amenities.”

“You want all four of us to go to a hotel?” Ross frowned, his chiseled face contracting into a maze of creases. “I offered to pay for one room, not three. We could do it in two rooms, I suppose, if you and Kimberly share one room and Ethan and I…” He glared at Ethan and shuddered.

Trust me, Ethan wanted to say, the feeling’s mutual.

“How about just you and me?” Delia suggested. “We passed several hotels not far from here. If one of them is nice enough and has a room, we could stay there. We’d be near the children. Kim could have the main bedroom here, Ethan was planning to stay on the sofa anyway and those two—” she waved disdainfully at Gina and her niece “—can have the other bedroom.”

“You’d want our Kimberly sharing an apartment with a total stranger?” Ross seemed horrified.

“Ethan will be here to protect her. And this woman says she’s not leaving.”

Ethan eyed Delia with newfound respect. Maybe she was a shopaholic. Maybe she was a frivolous club lady. But she’d come up with the solution Ethan had been contemplating but hadn’t dared to voice. If he’d suggested it, Ross and Kim would have jumped down his throat. Delia they had to listen to, because she was their wife and mother.

“The woman should leave,” Ross growled.

“The woman has a name,” Gina reminded him. “And the woman has as much right to stay here as you do. But hey, your wife wants a hotel room. This ain’t the Ritz.”

Ethan shot her a look and saw a hint of a grin tracing her lips. He struggled not to grin back.

“Actually,” Kim interjected, giving Gina a smile as authentic as a cubic zirconium solitaire, “I think Ethan and I could share this place with Ms. Morante and her daughter. Her niece, I mean.” Her smile grew even brighter, expanding from one carat to two. “Dad, you and Mom could have a little privacy. If you’re paying for the hotel anyway, you may as well get all the benefits of staying there. Why don’t we see if we can get you a nice room at one of the hotels we passed?”

“Or you know, there might even be another empty unit here at Palm Point,” Ethan said. “I’m sure there’s a manager. We could see if anything’s available here.”

“Nonsense.” Delia clearly had her heart set on maid service. And Kim, Ethan could guess, had her heart set on getting her parents out of the condo so she and Ethan could sleep together. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that; cohabiting in the condo with Gina Morante and a melodramatic young girl might prove inhibiting. He had little experience with children. He couldn’t even guess how old this Ali the Alley-Cat was. But he doubted he’d feel comfortable making love with Kim when there was a chance the kid might barge in on them.

Or Gina Morante.

If he could lock the bedroom door, maybe…But his gaze wandered back to Gina, her angular face and her geometric black hair and those wild, dark eyes. And for some unfathomable reason, he thought sleeping on the couch might be the best thing for him to do.

WHILE THE country-club people fluttered about, conferring, making phone calls and murmuring bad words, Gina emptied the master bedroom’s drawers of her things and carried her suitcase into the second bedroom. It didn’t have the beautiful ocean view the master bedroom boasted, and a twin bed wasn’t a queen. But she couldn’t come up with a better solution to their dilemma—except for kicking the country-club people out and sending them all to the Ritz-Carlton or whatever fancy hotel they wanted. Sharing this condo with two strangers wasn’t Gina’s idea of the perfect vacation.

Their friend had told Carole he wasn’t going to use the condo this week. She knew Carole wasn’t lying. Their friend had misrepresented his plans. But Gina couldn’t prove it. So she was stuck.

She and Alicia would survive. She was good at making the best of bad situations. When she’d gotten expelled from Our Lady of Mercy in eighth grade for asking why, if God didn’t want people to use birth control, he’d created human beings smart enough invent things like condoms and the pill, she’d quickly thrown together a portfolio of her scribblings and submitted them, along with an application, to the LaGuardia High School of Music and Art, which had seen enough talent in those scribblings—or enough chutzpah in Gina—to grant her a place in the freshman class. When she’d gotten cited for running a red light in Forest Hills a year and a half ago, she’d not only talked the cop out of giving her a ticket but wound up dating him for more than a year. And when he’d broken up with her, complaining that she spent too much time with all her weirdo friends, she’d phoned Bruno, the weirdest of her friends, and told him he would to have to escort her to every party she got invited to until she reached the point where she could think of Officer Kyle Cronin without either sobbing or cursing. It had taken more than a month, and a lot of truly awful parties, but by the time Gina had stopped sobbing and cursing, she’d talked herself into a job as Bruno’s assistant. She didn’t want to model sandals and mules for the rest of her life, after all. She wanted to create sandals and mules, and working for Bruno would give her that opportunity.

Right now, all she wanted to create was a wonderful week for Alicia. So it wouldn’t be perfect. At least it would be good.

She carried her suitcase into Alicia’s room, ignoring the quartet huddling in the kitchen. Alicia sat on her bed, knees tucked against her chest and arms hugging her shins. “When can we go to the beach?” she asked.

“As soon as I unpack.”

“Are those people gonna leave?”

“Some of them. The older ones, I think. We’ll just have to put up with the younger ones.”

“I don’t like the lady,” Alicia said solemnly. “She’s mean.”

She’s a first-class bitch, Gina wanted to say, but then Alicia would scold her for using bad words. “We can steer clear of her.”

“The man is okay, though. He’s very handsome.”

“Is he?” He was a bit too clean-cut and conservative for Gina’s tastes, his apparel obviously expensive and his attitude reeking of superior breeding and privilege. But she would have had to be blind not to notice how handsome he was. She bet his auburn hair would catch fire with red highlights when the sunlight struck it. And his eyes glinted with curiosity and—all right, call it sex appeal. And intelligence. He looked like the sort of person who spent a lot of time deep in thought.

Of course, that could be a pose. He could be a moron, the blonde’s puppet. They were obviously a couple. Not married, though. Neither wore wedding bands. Besides, if they were married, the blonde’s parents wouldn’t be talking about his sleeping on the sofa.

Then again, Gina knew married people who slept apart. In particular, Ramona and Jack Bari, Alicia’s embattled parents. Neither of them was wearing a wedding band these days.

Great. She’d brought Alicia to St. Thomas to get her away from her dysfunctional parents for a week. Was the poor kid going to wind up spending that week in the company of another dysfunctional couple?

“I’m almost done,” Gina announced, pulling a pair of black jeans and a wraparound silk skirt from the suitcase and carrying them to the closet. She and Gina had both packed light, but they’d managed to fill every drawer in the dresser. “Let me put on a swimsuit, and then beach, here we come!”

“Beach, here we come!” Alicia echoed gleefully, shedding the last traces of her distress.

Gina carried her black bikini across the hall to the bathroom. The powwow was still going strong in the kitchen. Shutting the door, she looked around the small room. Her toiletries and Alicia’s already took up most of the counter space. Well, Ethan and Blondie would just have to make do. They were getting the bedroom with the beautiful view; they could keep their toiletries on the windowsill, and they could admire the ocean while they put on their deodorant. And they’d better not hog the bathroom, either. They’d better not take erotic two-hour showers together. She glanced up at the showerhead and sighed, dismayed to see it was one of those adjustable pulsing spouts. Ideal for lovers, she thought sourly.

Her bikini on, she emerged from the bathroom, carrying two beach towels from the shelf above the towel rack. Ethan was entering the living room from the kitchen, but he froze in midstep when he saw her crossing the hall to her bedroom. She halted and stared back at him. “Something wrong?”

He swallowed. “No.”

“Good.” She continued into the bedroom, then glimpsed her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Her swimsuit wasn’t the most modest in the world, but everything that needed to be covered was covered. If he couldn’t handle her walking around the condo in beachwear, he could move to the Ritz-Carlton with Blondie’s parents.

“All set,” she announced, tossing Alicia a towel and then pulling from the closet shelf the plastic bucket and shovel she’d remembered to pack. “Beach, here we come!”

“Beach, here we come!” Alicia yelled as she scampered out of the room.

HE’D FORGOTTEN the swimsuit part.

Well, he hadn’t forgotten it. He just hadn’t thought about it. And why should he? He’d gone to beaches before—the sandy Long Island Sound beaches at yacht clubs on Connecticut’s south shore, the pebbly peaceful beaches of the lakes dotting the state’s northwest corner, the high-surf ocean beaches of Cape Cod’s National Seashore. Every beach he’d ever been on had included bikini-clad women among the bathers and sun worshipers.

But seeing a bikini-clad woman on a beach was far different from seeing one wandering around a shared apartment. And seeing any bikini-clad woman was different from seeing a bikini-clad Gina Morante.

Feature for feature, Kim had her beaten by a mile. Kim’s beauty was of a quality that would cause the vast majority of heterosexual men to reel in astonishment. Her gently waving, corn-colored hair, her delicate little nose and softly curving lips, her body round in all the right places—she was a perfect ten.

Gina, on the other hand…Her revealing black bikini had made her legs look almost too long, and her breasts were kind of small in proportion to her hips, and her facial features were too pronounced. Yet if Kim was a beauty queen, Gina carried herself like a real queen, chin high, arms swinging, those wide strong shoulders held straight and proud. She radiated…something. He wasn’t sure if it was confidence or sexuality or—damn it, balls. She was tough. Gentle with her niece but fierce with the world—or at least, with that small segment of the world that had tried to oust her from unit 614 for the week.

When she reemerged from her room with the kid, she had the decency to wear a lacy white cover-up over her bikini. It didn’t hide much, but it distracted him from what was underneath. She sent him a smile that had a hint of teasing in it, and swung a bright green toy pail and shovel and a colorful tote bag as she guided her niece out the door.

“That’s taken care of,” Ross Hamilton announced, joining Ethan in the living room. He looked grim and patronizing, as if he considered Ethan an irredeemable loser, too inept to arrange a sensible vacation. “We’ve got our reservation. What a disaster.”

“The reservation?”

“No—this entire situation. You’ll convey our displeasure to your friend Paul, won’t you?”

“I’ll let him know,” Ethan promised. “Do you want me to drive you and Mrs. Hamilton over to the hotel now?”

“I’d like to look around here first,” Delia said as she trailed out of the kitchen with Kim. “We’re not going to stay here, but we can at least check out the place. Because I don’t know how much time we’ll want to spend at Palm Point when those two—people are here,” she concluded, uttering the word as though it were the worst sort of insult. “You may wind up spending most of your time with us at the hotel.” She seemed distinctly cheered by the possibility.

Ethan couldn’t imagine spending most of his time with the Hamiltons at the hotel. He’d rather hang out with a two strangers than with Kim’s pompous parents. If he did ultimately decide to marry Kim, he’d make sure they never lived anywhere near Chevy Chase, Maryland—unless, of course, the Hamiltons moved to Nova Scotia.

“This bedroom is pretty. This is the one you’ll be staying in,” Delia declared as she and Kim wandered into the master bedroom. “Is it clean? Do they just shove the dust around, or do they do a real cleaning, with furniture polish?”

Not wishing to hear her assessment of the room’s cleanliness, Ethan headed out onto the terrace. A breeze drifting up from the water fluttered the palm fronds and distorted the voices of the people enjoying the beach. Off toward the horizon, a rainbow-colored sail bobbed above the water. Closer to the shore, people waded in the water and floated on the surface, snorkeling gear strapped to their heads.

Ethan’s gaze zeroed in on Gina and her niece as they set up shop in the shade of a palm. He told himself he’d spotted them instantly because of the Day-Glo brightness of the kid’s swimsuit, but in fact Gina had attracted his attention. She’d shed the lacy cover-up, and even at this distance, he could see the curve of her back, the wind sifting through her hair.

“She’s not very respectful,” Ross Hamilton noted, sidling up beside Ethan and resting his hands on the railing. Ethan followed his gaze; it led him back to Gina. “Obviously not well-bred. I don’t like her attitude.”

“She probably just felt awkward,” Ethan defended her. “Her friend screwed up, and she was put on the defensive. She’ll be all right.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out, we’ll get another room at the hotel. But I must say, I’m not thrilled about this unexpected expenditure.”

“I’ll talk to Paul about it.” And say what? That Paul should reimburse Ross Hamilton for the hotel room? This wasn’t Paul’s fault, any more than it was Ethan’s—or Gina’s.

“Delia seems to be making the best of it,” Ross said wryly. “Give her room service and she’s as happy as a duffer who’s just gotten a hole in one. As for that woman…” He gestured toward the beach, where Gina was now on her knees, scooping up sand with her bare hands. Ethan couldn’t see her smile, but he could imagine it. “I’d keep my things locked up if I were you.”

“You believe she’s a thief?” Ethan laughed.

“I don’t know what she is. Neither do you. Don’t let your guard down.”

Ethan wouldn’t—but fear that Gina Morante would abscond with his money and credit cards wasn’t his primary reason. What he had to guard against was the keen awareness she aroused within him. There was no good explanation for it, other than basic hormones, the typical male response to a woman strutting around in skimpy swimwear.

Gina wasn’t his type. She was too urban, too gritty. He liked his women sweet and refined. Not pliant—Kim certainly wasn’t pliant, but she was genteel. Ladylike. Gracious, except when her dander was up. She was elegant, subtle, the sort of woman who made him feel he was the most important man in the world.

So he had an ego. So he liked the way Kim stroked it. He wasn’t going to apologize for being human.

A wisp of laughter spiraled through the air to the terrace. He had no way of tracing it to a particular person, but he suspected it was Gina’s. Hers and her niece’s. Their heads bowed and their knees touching, they dug in the sand, looking not the least bit elegant or refined or subtle.

They were obviously having a blast. And for one brief, incomprehensible moment, Ethan wished he were down there on the beach with them, digging.