A Holiday Romance (4 page)

His hair, for another. Short and thick, deep walnut brown and tipped with the slightest touch of honey. His eyes had been almost the same shade. Serious eyes, even when he’d teased her about the list.

She closed her own eyes now, remembering his strong hands, the quick grin, the hint of stubble on his firm jaw, the masculine fuzz on his tanned forearms.

The moment at the door when their fingers had touched.

She’d felt a blazingly intense awareness—of his skin, the heat of him, the solid muscle and discipline and careful control.

Alice pressed her fingertips together hard enough to hurt. She released them and let her hands fall to her lap, curled like limp macaroni as she looked up at the stars and sighed. No sense wishing on
them
anymore. She’d asked for a handsome stranger and she’d been given one.

Oh, yes. Kyle Jarreau had fulfilled the requirements very well.

Perhaps too well, considering that, despite their apparent connection, he’d seemed determined to remain a stranger.

A
LICE AWOKE EARLY
the next morning and got into the shower, emerging revived and ready to take on every activity the resort offered. The list she’d written had proved how much of her life she’d let slip away the past six years on Osprey Island.

She would never, absolutely never, regret being there for her mother as the initial occurrence of breast cancer had returned, then spread. Family was family. But Alice also recognized that the cost to herself had been high. At a time when many others her age were settled with jobs, marriage, kids, she had nothing but a one-half share in a run-down little cottage and a spotty job history of temporary positions. Nursemaid, gardener, part-time baker, fill-in babysitter, substitute teacher.

She had a substitute life.

But no more! Alice brushed her teeth and pulled a comb through her wet hair, wrinkling her nose at the mirror. She’d made promises to herself.

She dropped her damp towel and got into the thick terry robe with the PM crest on the lapel. It was good to feel pampered.

She strolled into the living room, captivated anew by the exotic surroundings. Last night, she’d pulled the louvered wood shutters across the windows and sliding
glass doors. Now the early-morning sunshine had reached past the dusty red foothills that bordered the resort complex to stripe the floor with light. She curled her bare toes into the heat. All around her was adobe and slate, brushed steel, ebony wood and Sinatra-era furnishings with low, straight lines. So different from the dumpy, flowery pieces and peeling paint at the cottage back home.

Everything’s different now. I’m a woman on the verge of a whole new life.

The doorbell chimed.

“Cripes,” she said, touching her hair, pulling at the neckline of the robe. She didn’t know anyone here, except…

Maybe it was Chloe.

The bell chimed again, and she hurried to open the door.

“Welcome to Wrinkle Resort!” Five seniors—three women and two men—crowded close, each as tanned as Kraft paper.

“She’s a youngster,” said a large, sharp-eyed man. He wore a black toupee above thick gray sideburns and matching gnarly eyebrows.

“Myrna saw you arrive,” announced one of the women as she pushed herself into the room. The others followed when Alice politely stepped aside. “And so did the Pool Sharks.”

“But we were taking our siestas.”

“Late afternoon, until the sun drops.”

“Most everyone does.”

“Except the Pool Sharks, led by Arthur Banyon. He’s a lizard. He basks in the sun.”

The man in a Panama hat snorted. “Sure, but he’s seventy and he’d pass for a hundred.”

“She doesn’t care about Arthur,” said a second
woman, who was small but forceful, in a T-shirt that advertised Cuervo Gold.

Alice was amused. The older women on Osprey Island didn’t wear tequila shirts. Maybe Joe D’s Crab Shack, if they were characters.

The woman eyed Alice blatantly. “Where ya from, honey?”

She clutched the lapel of the white robe. “Maine.”

“Maine!” The answer set off a buzz. “All that way.”

“Are you related to the Raffertys?” one of them asked. “What happened to the Raffertys?”

The first man gestured for silence. “Introductions first.” He pumped Alice’s hand. “This gang here is known as the Cocktail Shakers, rivals to the Sharks. I’m Walter St. Gregory. This is my wife, Mags.” The woman with the Lucille Ball curls. “Forgive us for barging in so early. We should have waited, but the gals were impatient.”

Mags nodded. “We were expecting the Raffertys.”

“Sorry. It’s just me.” Through the Holidays Away agency, Alice had swapped vacation homes with a man named Sean Rafferty, who was a state trooper from Massachusetts. He’d written in one of his e-mails that the condo belonged to his retired parents, who used it for vacations. “I don’t actually know the Raffertys. I’m staying here on a house swap.”

The group was taken aback. “A swap! My goodness,” Mags said.

“I’ve heard of them,” said the woman in the tequila shirt. She pursed her lips, which made her narrow face look even narrower. “Then where are the Raffertys?”

“At my house. On Osprey Island. But it’s not the Raffertys, it’s only their son.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Raffertys. They always have their grandson from California come to visit while he’s on summer vacation. What did you say your name was?”

“Alice Potter. The, um, Prince Montez management is fully informed. I have the keys and a letter of agreement.”

The third woman patted Alice’s arm. “I’m Mary Grace Malone. Alice is such a sweet, old-fashioned name and I can see it fits you. Don’t mind Harrie. She was a private investigator for thirty-eight years. Nothing happens in the resort without her getting the details.”

Harrie winked. “Harriet Humbert, at your service. If you need a clue.”

Alice laughed. “I…well, I probably do.”

“You’ll learn your way around soon enough,” she sympathized.

“What did you call this place?” Alice asked. “Some nickname?”

“Wrinkle Resort,” said Walter, spreading expansive hands to encompass his elderly cohorts. “You can see why.”

Alice gulped. The median age was as she’d suspected. “Are there any younger people around?”

“Sure, up at the hotel,” Harrie said. She wiggled her narrow hips. “Every night, at the club and the bars.”

Walter scowled. “We get a bunch of families, too, especially with the new water park. Hellions, most of ’em. Between them and the Pool Sharks, you’ll want to avoid the pools in the peak hours.”

“Oh,” Alice said.

“Look at her.” Mags pinched Alice’s cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. There’s plenty going on for the young singles, too. Anytime you want, get yourself all
gussied up and Wally will drive you up to the disco in his golf cart.”

Alice imagined making an entrance on the arm of the large and blustery Walter. “We’ll have to do that one of these nights.” She smiled and crossed her fingers inside the robe’s deep pockets. “But for now, I’ve got a busy day planned.” Potentially.

“Then we’ll leave you to get dressed.” Mary Grace moved toward the door. The others reluctantly followed.

“Just remember,” Walter said, “you’re welcome to join the Cocktail Shakers anytime.”

“We’re the fun bunch,” Harrie put in. “Always a good time.”

“Tonight’s Margarita Madness,” crowed the Panama hat man, using a bad Latin accent. “Five o’clock, under the umbrellas by the pool. We’re clearing out the Sharks if we have to attack with water guns.”

Walter backed out, hands cupped around an invisible martini shaker at shoulder level. He gave it a vigorous shake. “We do a different cocktail every evening. You’d be a fine addition to our merry band, Miss Potter.”

Alice nodded. “Thanks, Mr. St. Gregory. I appreciate the invitation. I promise to stop by eventually. I’m here for two weeks.”

“Call us Wally and Mags.”

“Reg and M.G.,” called Panama hat from the breezeway, his arm around Mary Grace.

“And don’t forget Harrie!”

“As if I could.” Alice laughed and waved and shut the door. She stared wide-eyed at the empty room before letting out her breath.

Okay, so maybe there wouldn’t be a lot of glamour
and adventure to her vacation. Maybe, even after all her resolutions, she’d end up doing crossword puzzles and drinking strange cocktails by the pool. She was still determined to enjoy herself.

Don’t surrender yet.
According to the brochures, the resort offered horseback riding, off-road biking and hiking, desert-jeep tours. Even skydiving.

Staying on the ground seemed like a good idea for now. She’d already made one big leap of faith.

“H
OWDY, THERE
,
ma’am. Now ain’t yew a fine filly?” The stablehand pushed a battered straw Stetson to the back of his head. “Y’lookin’ for a bronc?”

Number fifteen.
Alice ran her palms down her jeans before extending a hand.
Meet a cowboy.
At this rate, she’d have to come up with a new list before the first week was out.

“I’m Alice Potter. Chloe sent me.”

“You mean that sweet li’l gal with the blond ponytail?” Plastering a wide grin across his tanned face, the man shook her hand. He was straight from central casting: handsome weathered face, golden-brown lock tumbled across his forehead, clear green eyes, shoulders as broad as his cowpoke accent. A white tank and low-riding jeans clung to his lean hard body. His boots were pointy-toed and emerald green. Bought to match his eyes, she’d just bet.

Alice nodded. “Chloe said you would set me up with a lesson or two. I’ve already signed on for a trail ride, but I’d like to learn a few techniques first so I know what I’m doing. I’m a beginner.”

The cowboy slid an arm around her shoulders and gave her an encouraging hug. “Don’tcha worry none, li’l
lady. I’ll have you gallopin’ ’cross the desert in two shakes of a rattler’s tail.”

That startled her—how did he know she dreamed of galloping across the desert? Did everyone have the same secret desire? She tried to squirm away. The cowboy smelled of leather, cologne and pungent sweat. The proximity of so much male made her stomach swirl. She stepped out from under his arm and looked into a stall, pretending an interest in the four-legged occupant. The stable was quiet and dark. At the other end of the building, a lone female stablehand shoveled out one of the stalls, pitching forkfuls into a wheelbarrow.

“That there bay’s name is Loco,” said the cowboy. “Y’think you’d like to climb aboard?”

An extremely large brown horse stuck its black nose against the upper rails of the stall, nostrils flaring as he snorted the way Alice imagined a charging bull might. “Heck, no.”

The cowboy slid open the stall door. The horse swung around to greet him, its long black tail swishing across its hocks. “Pay the name no mind, ma’am. This old fella’s gentle as a lamb.”

She stayed far back as he led the horse out into the aisle. “What about you? Have you got a name?”

“Y’can call me Denver,” he said, nodding and grinning. His eyes swept her up and down with obvious approval. “If I can call yew Allie.”

Denver the cowboy. Perfect.

A little too perfect. Especially the lingo. She supposed he’d been hired to give the guests a show.

“My name’s Alice,” she said, thinking he’d misheard.

“Maybe so, but yew look like an Allie. Y’know—all cute ’n sassy.”

“Me?” Her hair was caught up in a clip and she’d knotted her sleeveless checked blouse at the waist. Did that qualify as sassy? Or was her new attitude showing already?

After the Cocktail Shakers had gone, Chloe had phoned with suggestions for the day—a riding lesson this morning and a trip to the wave pool in the afternoon. What she’d called an easy start had seemed plenty adventurous to Alice, particularly now that she was face-to-face with a cowboy and a horse. She wasn’t afraid of horses. Or cowboys. She just had a healthy caution about riding—or kissing—either one.

That darn Kyle Jarreau.
He’d
put the notion in her head.

Denver hooked a rope to the horse’s halter and handed the end of it to Alice. “By gosh, you’re cute as a pigtailed pup when you’re blushin’.”

He flirts with every woman.
Alice was certain of that, but she was flattered all the same. Back home on the island, she knew everyone as well as they knew her. Flirting with Keith at the inn or Bill the kayak guy would be like flirting with a cousin.

Standing at the end of the horse’s lead, she looked sidelong at Denver. Her lips curved invitingly. “I’ll bet you make all the women blush.”

With an unabashed wink that did nothing to deny her claim, he tossed a saddle blanket over the horse’s back. His lashes were as thick as a girl’s.

So were the horse’s, fringing large brown eyes that watched her with interest. Alice swallowed and stepped closer to the animal, determined to make a friendly overture there, too. “Nice horse.”

She extended her hand. Loco thrust his nose at her. She flinched before realizing that the horse’s muzzle
was soft and velvety beneath the bristle of whiskers. He didn’t chomp at her fingers, but moved supple, leathery lips against her palm.

Denver took her hand and pressed something into it. “Old Loc’s looking for a treat. Hold your fingers out straight.”

Slices of carrot. The horse gently lipped them up, crunching greedily. He returned to her palm, nostrils fluttering, the nibbling lips smearing her with spittle.

She giggled. “That’s ticklish.”

Denver clasped her hand for a moment before releasing it. He gave the horse’s neck an affectionate slap. “Loc’s a good beginner’s horse. He’ll take care of you just fine.”

What about you?
she wondered as she rubbed her palm on her jeans. The way he’d touched her had made her ticklish inside, too, even when she reminded herself that she shouldn’t take the cowboy seriously.