Читать книгу An Innocent in Paradise - Kate Carlisle - Страница 9

The cocktail lounge was packed with happy people drinking, laughing and dancing. The music was mellow jazz, just loud enough to enjoy but not so overbearing that people had to shout to be heard. The lighting was subtle enough to make everyone look good and was embellished this evening by the glow of a full moon reflecting off the dark blue waters of the bay.

Logan had a dozen other things he could’ve been doing tonight. He usually made a point of stopping by the bar most evenings to say hello to guests and lend his presence in the rare instance that someone was causing trouble. But he didn’t usually linger for long. He and his brother had hired the best, most trustworthy and well-trained employees, who knew the service business inside and out. They didn’t need Logan hanging around, standing sentinel like an overanxious mother hen, driving his bartenders and staff crazy. Or worse yet, making them think Logan had no confidence in them.

But he was here anyway—and he wasn’t leaving. He attempted to look casual as he leaned his elbow on the bar and sipped his thirty-year-old single-malt scotch. He let the smooth liquid heat its way down his throat and tried like hell to pretend he wasn’t here to keep an eagle eye on his newest employee.

“Order up, Grace,” Joey, one of the bartenders, called.

“Thanks, Joey,” Grace said, rewarding him with a generous smile as she placed one of the wide trays on the bar and began to load it with drinks.

Logan noted that, as promised, she hadn’t spilled a drink tonight. But that was only because her customers and the other waiters had been so willing to step in and help her carry her trays. One guest had even bussed a few tables for her. It was the strangest thing Logan had ever seen.

Usually, his waitstaff were territorial about their customers and tips. But with Grace, they all chipped in and helped her. Logan grudgingly admitted it was to her credit that she was quick to split her generous tips with all of them.

She loaded the drinks onto a large tray in that spiral pattern she’d insisted was cosmologically sound. Logan had to shake his head at that cockamamy theory, but sobered as he watched her shoulders tense up. She licked her lips and tested the tray’s weight. Was she really going to try to carry it? There had to be at least ten drinks on the tray. What was Joey thinking?

Logan pushed off from the bar and moved toward her. But before he could get close enough to grab the tray, Clive, a witty Englishman and one of his top waiters, slipped smoothly behind Grace and rested his hands on her hips.

“Brace your knees, love,” Clive said, “and put all your strength right here.” With that, he skimmed the edges of her slender thighs all the way down to her knees. Then he moved around to face her and patted his own stomach. “Breathe from here. Muscles nice and tight.”

Logan froze in place, his teeth clenched, determined not to step in and save her again. Instead, he would allow Clive to instruct her, unless it started to look like she would need more skilled intervention from Logan himself.

He watched Grace’s breasts move in rhythm with the deep, anticipatory breaths she took. Then she was flying solo, following Clive’s instructions, steadying her legs and lifting the tray onto her shoulder.

Clive and several other waiters watched with apprehension as Grace moved slowly across the room to a table of guests sitting near the window. Bending her knees, she set the tray down on the table. Half the staff applauded and Logan’s tight jaw relaxed.

Grace’s face lit up as she glanced around at her odd group of supporters. When her gaze met Logan’s, her happy smile faltered.

Hell. He hated to be the cause of her bright eyes dimming, so he quickly grinned at her and flashed a thumbs-up sign. Her eyes widened and, as her smile grew, the entire room seemed to light up, as well.

Satisfied that she was happy and would survive the night, Logan turned back to the bar and took a last sip of his drink. But before he could even swallow, reality smacked him upside the head and he noted with disgust that she’d manipulated him again. Who cared if she smiled, for God’s sake? She wasn’t here to be happy. She was here to earn her paycheck or go home, damn it.

Waving down the head bartender, he snarled out his order, “Pour me another scotch, Sam.”

Taking advantage of the early-morning quiet, Logan hauled his windsurfing board down to the deserted beach just as the sun was cresting over Alleria Peak. He slipped the board into the water, adjusted the mast and sail and then slid on top and started paddling.

It might’ve sounded strange to someone who didn’t know him, but from the first time he swam in these waters, Logan had recognized Alleria as home. It was warm all year round so he never had to wear a wet suit. And it was clean. Even at twenty feet, he could see the sandy bottom of the sea. That was a minor miracle after years of surfing and sailing the rough and churning waves off the coast of Northern California—where he and his brother had grown up and where, when they were seven years old, their father had taught them how to surf.

Logan paddled a few more yards out. Then in one quick move, he rose to a standing position on the board and yanked the uphaul rope, pulling until the sail was upright. Grabbing hold of the mast and boom, he angled the sail until it caught the barest hint of wind. Balancing his weight on the board, he turned and headed for open water beyond the tip of the peninsula that formed the bay.

Alleria Bay itself was a tranquil inlet with few waves and the mildest of winds. But out beyond the break, the eastern trade winds provided plenty of excitement for any resort guests interested in windsurfing or sailing.

In a few hours, Logan would have contracts to study and phone calls to make. But right now, surrounded by wind, water and speed, he tried to blow off all thoughts of business and enjoy the moment. It wasn’t easy; he was hardwired for success and had had a difficult time relaxing lately.

An unexpected swell crested and broke into a wave inches from his board. Logan took instant advantage, raking the sail back, then throwing the mast hard into the wind while jumping and lifting the board into the air and twirling it over the wave.

“Hot damn,” he shouted with good humor. He’d managed a one-hundred-eighty-degree flaka, a hotdog maneuver he hadn’t pulled off in years. He laughed as the wind picked up. The move reminded him of the days when he and Aidan had lived to surf. Back then, Logan had considered surfing the closest he would ever get to spirituality. It was all wrapped up in the notion of man and nature coming together through the elemental forces of the universe, the movement of water against earth, the changing of the tide, the passing of time.

He could still recall that exact moment in his youth when he’d stared into the eye of a twelve-foot wave and realized that if he could stand up on a flimsy piece of fiberglass and ride over the spuming water like Poseidon on a dolphin-teamed chariot, he could damn well conquer anything.

That understanding had kept both brothers at the top of their game as they traveled the world and competed in—and won—numerous international competitions. Because they were identical twins competing at the highest echelon of surfing circles, they were often treated like celebrities with all the perks that came with the territory. Especially women. They were everywhere and temptation was strong.

It was a wild life that might’ve eaten them up if they hadn’t taken to heart the life lessons their father had taught them early on. Thanks to Dad’s good example, they didn’t take the lure of the high life too seriously. They also followed the number-one rule of surfers everywhere: Never turn your back on the ocean.

In other words, Logan thought: Pay attention. A guy never knew when a wave might knock him down or a shark would eat him alive.

Logan had learned the hard way that the rule applied to women especially. He’d let down his guard five years ago when he met Tanya and convinced himself he was in love with her. When he asked her to marry him and she said yes, he thought his life was complete. A year into their marriage, she was killed in a car crash and he thought he might die along with her. It wasn’t until the funeral that Logan found out she had been driving off to meet her lover, some clown that had worked in the twin brothers’ accounting office.

Never turn your back on the ocean. If his wife’s betrayal wasn’t enough to remind him that women, like sharks, were not to be trusted, Logan only had to remind himself that his own mother had deserted them when he and Aiden were seven years old.

With a determined pull on the boom, Logan angled the sail around and headed back to land. For the past few years, his emotions had drifted between grief that Tanya had to die and guilt that he’d never really loved her anyway. He had finally resigned himself to the fact that he just wasn’t capable of love—and that was fine with him. Women were in plentiful supply and he certainly enjoyed them. A lot. The more the merrier. But that didn’t mean he would ever fall in love and he sure as hell would never trust another woman again.

As he sailed closer to the beach, he spotted Grace Farrell walking through the clusters of palms growing in profusion along the bay. The muscles of his hands tightened around the mast and boom as he watched the gorgeous research scientist pause at each palm tree to study the roots and base. He was glad to see she’d taken his advice and worn a wide-brimmed hat today, along with a loose shirt with sleeves that would protect her sensitive shoulders from the unrelenting heat of the sun.

But there was barely anything covering up her long, shapely legs and even from this distance, he could appreciate the view of those legs and her luscious bottom as she bent over to search for spores.

Spores, for God’s sake.

After a moment, she straightened up, then noticed him and waved. He grinned and aimed the board in her direction and sailed to within a few feet of the beach.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Same to you.” Logan folded the rigging and secured it to the board with a Velcro strap. Then he pulled the board onto the sand far enough to insure that it wouldn’t slip back into the water.

“Hunting for more spores?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Have you been out long?”

“About an hour,” he said.

She stared at the board, then back at him. “How in the world do you stay upright on that thing?”

Logan ran both hands through his wet hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “It’s magic.”

“It would have to be,” she mused. Her gaze slipped down to his wet, bare chest. “Would you like my towel?”

“No, thanks. I’m okay.”

She held it out for him. “But you’re so wet and, um, well, it’s your towel, actually, since I took it from my hotel room.”

“Well, since it’s mine,” he said, chuckling as he took the towel. Maybe she hadn’t seen many dripping-wet men in swim trunks back at her research lab because she seemed awfully flustered. He hoped like hell that he made her uncomfortable. It would serve her right for manipulating and lying to him.

He took his time drying himself off as he studied her. She’d been on the island four days now and true to her word, she spent each morning hunting for spores, then worked the cocktail lounge in the afternoons and evenings. And she hadn’t dropped a single glass since the first day’s fiasco.

He noticed her cheeks had a rosy pink glow from her mornings in the sun. He liked the glow almost as much as he liked her fabulous legs and perfect rear end. Even knowing the woman was a liar and not to be trusted, Logan found her incredibly appealing. He wanted her in his bed with an urgency that was going to reveal itself any second now if he didn’t get the hell out of here.

“I’ve got work to do,” he muttered finally, and handed her the towel as he walked away.

Grace clutched the damp towel as she stared at Logan’s backside until he disappeared through a door into the hotel. Then she pressed the towel to her face to cool herself off. She was certain she’d never met such a formidable man. Certainly not one with a body like that. Or eyes like that. Or hair, so adorably short and blond and spiky when wet.

But for goodness’ sake, did that mean she had to practically drool in front of him? And could she possibly have thought of anything dumber to say to him? How in the world do you stay upright on that thing? What was wrong with her?

She blamed it on his smile. This was the first time he’d smiled at her without showing his sarcastic or ironic side. The sweetness of it had nearly blinded her. And talk about upper-body strength. The man was built. She’d wondered what he looked like under his business suit and now she knew. The knowledge was life affirming, to say the least.

She turned back to her task but was still trying to shake off the effects of Logan’s smile ten minutes later. She silently recited the periodic table of elements, an effective trick she used whenever she was having trouble concentrating. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working today. She feared that smile of his might have a half-life of more than several hours because she was still caught up in its spell.

With a sigh, she walked away from the beach and deeper into the forest of vegetation. Despite the heat, she appreciated the extra layer of humidity, knowing it was the best breeding ground for her beloved spores.

“Beloved spores,” she uttered aloud, shaking her head. Did that sound pathetic or what? But the truth was, sometimes she felt closer to the tiny, one-celled meiotic organisms than she did to people. Well, except for Phillippa, of course. Her lab partner and mentor had been her friend for years and right now, she could use someone to talk to. One thing she loved about Phillippa was that she always had an opinion about everything. Grace wondered what her friend would think of Logan Sutherland.

Grace was certain Phillippa would declare him “hawt.”

Okay, he was hot, all right. But as she pushed past a giant fern, Grace gave herself a good talking-to. It didn’t matter whether Logan was hot or not. He was her boss and Grace had no business thinking of him that way. All she needed from Logan Sutherland was his approval of her work in the cocktail lounge, nothing more.

She forced all thoughts of Logan away and got to work, backtracking to the palm trees where she’d found spores yesterday. Close to the base of each tree, she pounded a discreet wooden marker into the sand so she would know the trees from which she’d already extracted specimens. She planned to remove the stakes on her last day here; but, until then, they would provide a handy map for her to follow.

An hour later, she left the palm trees behind and headed back to the hotel. After running into the staff commissary to grab a sandwich, she returned to her room to document her findings and refrigerate several more petri dishes filled with fresh specimens. She showered and dressed for work, happy she’d been assigned to the swing shift from two o’clock to ten. The bar stayed open until three in the morning and the servers on the late shift got the best tips, but Grace preferred to wake up early and go to bed relatively early.

As she walked through the lobby toward the cocktail lounge, she passed a pretty young woman sitting on one of the smooth rocks that surrounded the tropical waterfall, crying. Grace paused, wondering if she should say something. Would the management frown on a cocktail waitress approaching a hotel guest? Did it matter? The woman was clearly distressed, so Grace went with her instincts and walked over to the woman.