The Unexpected Honeymoon (2 page)

Rashness led to nothing but disaster.

“Whoops, excuse us.” A pair of newlyweds cut around him to duck under the southwest archway, their arms filled with beach bags and each other. Carlos stepped aside, heaviness tugging at his heart as he watched the young woman playfully swat her husband's hand from her bottom. He'd been that way once himself, romantic and naive, believing the magic would last forever. Before a pair of needy brown eyes sucked him dry.

He wasn't an idiot. He was well aware there was more behind his family sending him to La Joya than righting managerial mistakes. They hoped that his tenure at La Joya might lighten his heart. As if being surrounded by romance would be enough to revive the man he used to be. What his family failed to realize was that man died. Destroyed by his own romantic illusions and desires, he could never be resurrected again, no matter what his surroundings.

No, Carlos's days of romance were over. Best he could do was let others enjoy the illusion while it lasted. Or, in the case of Señorita Boyd, help reality sting a little bit less.

* * *

Who turned on the lights?

Even with her eyes closed, the brightness stabbed at Larissa's right eye. If she could cover her face, maybe she could eke out an hour or two more of sleep. She reached to her right only to swat at empty air. Same when she reached left. Whoever was trying to blind her had also stolen her pillows and shrunk her bed.

Prying open one eye, she found herself face-to-face with a royal blue wall. Her bedroom was beige-and-brown. Whose bedroom was this? More importantly, how did she get here?

Bit by bit, reality worked its way into her brain. Mexico. Sometime during the night, she'd decided to stare at the stars, and stumbled her way to the terrace. She must have fallen asleep on the divan because she lay on her stomach, the side of her face smashed against a royal blue throw pillow.

How much did she drink? Too much, seeing how her tongue felt like it'd been wrapped in cotton socks. And her head... Thinking made the pounding at the back of her skull worse. Damn Delilah and Chloe for sending her that champagne.

“Why? We weren't the ones filling your glass,”
her friend Chloe would say, and sadly, she'd be right. Larrissa did the pouring all by herself. Seven hundred fifty milliliters of champagne and half a bottle of Spanish wine worth. She gagged, contemplating the volume.

Wouldn't Tom be thrilled to see her now? After all, wasn't she to blame for everything? Their breakup, his cheating.
She challenges me, Larissa. Makes me think about things. All you talk about is the wedding. It's like you don't care about anything else.

Apparently he missed the part where planning a wedding was a lot of work. Too busy having deep conversations with the other woman, no doubt.

Letting out a groan, she pushed herself to an upright position and stumbled to the living area, praying the powers that be included an industrial-strength coffeemaker. She still couldn't believe Delilah and Chloe paid to upgrade her to the Presidential Villa. The place was astounding, albeit filled with way too much sunshine at the moment. One glass wall looked out over the ocean, the other onto the lagoon. The entire villa was a glass box with curtains. Ironic since the resort boasted complete privacy.

Where did she put her sunglasses? She could have sworn she had them on her head when she checked in. Without them, her head was going to explode.

Oomph!
She forgot the living room had a sunken conversation area. Missing the step, she lost her balance and pitched forward. Fortunately, her hand managed to catch the edge of the sofa. As her fingers curled around the cushion, a memory made its way into her head. Sad brown eyes with thick lashes that sent odd spiraling sensations down her back.
They'd talked about relationships. He said he was a widower. She said she was sorry for his loss and
...

And she touched him.

Oh, Lord, please say she did not come on to a complete stranger last night. A quick look at the open wine bottles said it was entirely possible.

A knock on the door sliced her head open. “Room service,” an accented voice called out.

Peering through the peephole, Larissa spied a cart laded with silver serving pieces as well as—heaven help her—another bottle of champagne—and groaned. The wedding day breakfast package. She must have forgotten to cancel.

“For the bride,” the server announced when she opened the door. He very diplomatically pretended not to notice her appearance, but Larissa caught the sideways glance as he wheeled the cart inside. Whatever. No different from the looks she got checking in. Single definitely stuck out at La Joya. Combing her fingers through her hair, she smiled brightly, as if she woke up wearing yesterday's clothes and smelling of stale wine every morning. Damn, but those sunglasses would definitely come in handy about now.

Dish by dish, the server unveiled the contents of each platter. Fresh strawberries. Whipped cream.
Huevos motulenos
with plantains and peas. Their aromas mingled together into one fruity, spicy fragrance. Larissa's stomach rose in her throat.

“Is there coffee?” she interrupted before the man could unveil the final dish, which she was pretty certain would be bacon. The greasy scent would send her right over the edge.

“I can serve myself,” Larissa continued when he reached for the thermal pot.

Her upright quotient was nearing its end, and she didn't want to waste what little standing ability she had left on some elaborate presentation. Scribbling her room number on the bottom of the bill, she thrust the paper in the man's hand and hoped the generous tip would balance out her curt behavior.

“Please tell the chef everything looks wonderful.” She swallowed hard to get the words out. “Exactly as advertised.”

“I'm glad you think so,” a new voice replied. Before she could reply, the man from her memories strolled into the room. Tall, dark and way too crisp-looking.

Her vague memories didn't do him nearly enough justice. Broad shoulders. A hard, lean body. Her fingertips tingled recalling the feel of his torso all too clearly. Especially the way her palm spread against the taut muscles.

It was his face she'd forgotten. Hidden by the distraction of sad eyes was a face marked by character. A strong jaw, a prominent nose. Skin the color of burnished gold. It was a rugged, masculine face, carved to capture both attention and respect.

He greeted her with a polite nod. “
Buenos dias,
Señorita Boyd.”

Dammit, she'd forgotten his name. He wasn't the kind of man a person forgot, either. Maybe if she smiled brightly enough, she could fake her way through the conversation until it came to her. “
Buenos dias.
How are you doing this morning?”

“I am fine, señorita. A more important question is, how are you?”

“Right as rain,” she lied.

He arched his brow, proof she wasn't fooling anyone, but chose to turn his attention to the room service cart. Larissa couldn't help but notice the server's nervousness regarding the inspection. Señor Whoever-He-Was must run a tight ship.

“You're having the bridal breakfast, I see,” he said finally.

“Yes, I am.”

“Interesting choice. Did you mean to?”

An odd question, although she'd been kicking herself over its appearance herself. She waited until he'd dismissed the server before asking, “What do you mean?”

“Only that considering your circumstances, I'm surprised you're interested in having the full bridal morning experience.”

Was he referring to her hangover or the fact she was no longer a bride? His diplomatic description made it hard to tell.

He uncovered the bacon. A big mistake. Larissa started to gag.

“I'm looking forward to it,” she replied, swallowing her stomach back into place. Easier than swallowing her pride, apparently. “No sense letting a good meal go to waste.”

“I applaud your attitude. Personally, I wouldn't be able to look at food, let alone eat so much.”

Okay, so they were talking about her hangover. “I have an iron stomach.”

Again, he raised his brow, unconvinced. They both knew she hammered herself into oblivion last night. Only a fool would insist on pretending otherwise. Call her a fool then. And would have to salvage pride where she could. Especially considering her only clear memory from last night involved falling against that hard, lean chest.

“You have a far better constitution than I do,” he remarked. “Cream and sugar? Or do you prefer your coffee black?”

What she would prefer would be if he—and the breakfast cart—left her alone so she could collapse. “Black, please.”

“I have to warn you, Mexican coffee is brewed stronger than American. Many of our guests are taken by surprise.”

“I'm willing to take the chance.” Anything to hurry him out of her room. What was he doing here anyway? Her fingertips started to tingle again. Oh, no. Maybe she did come on to him, and he was here because he thought she wanted some kind of Mexican fling.

“While you are here, you must try our version of
café de olla.
We brew the coffee with cinnamon and
piloncillo.
It's sweet, but not overly so. The secret is in using the right pot.”

“Uh-huh.” She was far more interested in getting through this cup of coffee. Those stainless steel covers didn't do much to contain aromas, did they? His nattering on about brown sugar didn't help. Between the two, her stomach was pretty much ready to revolt. If she didn't know better, she'd swear all his talk was on purpose, to test how long she could hold on before cracking.

“Do all your guests get such personal service from the general manager, or am I one of the lucky ones?” Assuming he was the general manager; she could be promoting him in her head. Drat, why couldn't she remember his name?

His chuckle as she snatched the cup from his hands was low and sultry, making her stomach list. Well, either the sound or the champagne. “I suppose you could consider yourself lucky. Normally, our wedding director meets with our bridal guests.”

“But you don't have one,” she replied. Another piece of last night's conversation slipping into place.

The coffee smelled horrible. Apparently, the resort considered
strong
a synonym for
burnt
. Holding her breath, Larissa lapped at the hot liquid. The acidy taste burned her esophagus before joining the war in her stomach.

Check that, the coffee was still debating whether it wanted to join. She put the cup on the desk.

Meanwhile, her dark-suited guest was helping himself to a cup. “That's correct,” he said. “We are in between coordinators at the moment. Which is why I'm making a point of working with our VIP customers personally. I want to make sure their experience with us is exactly as they anticipated.”

“Little late there,” Larissa replied. This trip already wasn't what she expected.

Realizing his
faux pas,
the manager cleared his throat. “That is why I decided to visit you first. I noticed—”

Carlos!
His name rushed back. Unfortunately, so did the coffee. Larissa grabbed a nearby waste bucket.

And promptly threw up.

 

CHAPTER TWO

“A
RE
 
YOU
 
FEELING
better yet?” The voice on the other side of the door rolled far more gently than Larissa's stomach.

“Yes,” she managed to croak. After her embarrassing display with the waste bucket, she wasn't about to admit anything else.

Happy Wedding Day to me.
Her big day. The moment she'd dreamed about her whole life, when the world would see that she, little Larissa Boyd, found her Prince Charming. No more pinning sequins on someone else's wedding gown or standing in the sidelines.

Never, in all her dreams, did she see herself sprawled on Spanish tiles with her head propped against a walk-in shower.

Dammit, Tom.

“Do you need anything?”

Something to put her out of her misery might be nice. “I'm fine. I need a few minutes is all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. There's no need to for you to hang around. I'll be fine.”

She listened for sounds of his departure, but heard none. You'd think he'd take advantage of her locking herself in the bathroom to get as far away from her as possible. Was he that afraid she'd pass out and bang her head?

Struggling to her feet, she wobbled to the sink. Shaky as her mind was, she was still able to appreciate her surroundings. The room was so large, you could fit three of her bathroom back home—one in the sunken tub alone. Needless to say, at the moment she could do without all the sunlight. What was it with this place and windows? Brightness poured in from all angles, bouncing off the glass accessories in near blinding proportion.

Too bad she couldn't keep her eyes closed forever. Crawl under the covers and start the day over. One look at her reflection, however, and she wondered if simply starting the day over would be enough. No wonder the room service guy looked at her askance. She looked like a rabid blue-eyed raccoon. Grabbing a tissue, she swiped at her eyes, succeeding only in spreading the smudges to her temple.

“Señorita?”

On top of everything, he wouldn't leave. Señor Chavez. No way she'd forget his name again. Although she'd bet he'd like to forget hers. In less than a day she'd gotten drunk, flirted with him and gotten sick in the wastebasket.

So much for being a VIP guest.

Clearly he wasn't going away until she showed her face, so she might as well drag herself outside. With a heavy sigh, she gave one last useless swipe at her mascara, and reached for the door.

Señor Chavez stood looking out to the lagoon. Meaning his back was to the room, thank goodness. She needed to work her way up to looking him in the eye. As it was, his black-suited presence filled the room with an awkward tension.

Interestingly, she could no longer smell the food. Her breakfast had disappeared.

“I moved the service cart outside,” he said. “I know how overwhelming certain aromas can be when you're feeling under the weather.”

And yet, he'd made a production of serving her coffee. She'd been right; her little pretense didn't fool him one bit. If she weren't about to die, she'd be annoyed.

“And the waste bucket?”

“Outside as well. Housekeeping will bring you a fresh one later today.”

“Thank you,” she said, annoyance taking a back seat to manners. Whether he'd been testing her or not, she had no one to blame but herself for her condition, and they both knew it.

He glanced at her from over his shoulder. “Your bag rang while you were indisposed as well.”

Took a moment to realize he meant her cell phone. “My friends checking in to make sure I arrived safely.” Had to be. Delilah and Chloe were the only two people in her life who cared. Grandma was gone and Tom...well, like he'd call.

“The same people who paid for your upgrade?”

“And the champagne.” The enablers. “I don't normally drink so much,” she told him, figuring she should at least try and explain her sorry state. “Let alone on an empty stomach. It's just that last night, I was sitting here...”

When it struck her, she was on her honeymoon alone. What back in New York seemed like such a grand gesture of independence suddenly felt pathetic. And so she figured, why not indulge in a good old pity party?

“I guess I was feeling vulnerable,” she told him. “Today was supposed to be my wedding day.”

“I know. You told me last night.”

“That's right, I did.” She always did over share with strangers when she'd had a little too much to drink. Chloe used to tease her about how she practically shared her life story the day the two of them met, and that was after a few glasses of wine in a bar after their corporate orientation. Who knew what a bottle of Cristal made her babble? “Did I say anything else?”

“You don't remember?”

“For the most part I do.” A small white lie. She remembered thinking the space didn't feel quite so empty once he arrived, and the way his five o'clock shadow had felt rough against his fingers. “There are a couple blank spots, though. I didn't do anything...embarrassing, did I?” Like come on to him? A flashing image of brown eyes looming dangerously close set her stomach to churning again.

“I left the coffee in case you needed the caffeine,” he said. A neat change of subject that was answer enough. Inwardly, Larissa cringed.

“Would you like me to pour you a fresh cup?”

“No, thank you.” She couldn't take the burnt smell for a second time. “I think I'm better off with something cold. Maybe one of those twenty-dollar colas from the mini-bar.” A few dozen pain relievers would be nice as well, she thought, combing her fingers through her hair. “I don't suppose these rooms also come stocked with aspirin.”

“Next to the coffeepot.”

Sure enough, a bottle of pills sat on the desk, next to the thermos. They hadn't been there before. “I suspected you might need them.”

“Thank you.”

“You're most welcome. We strive for nothing less than one hundred percent satisfaction from all our guests. You said cola, correct?”

“That's not...” Before Larissa could utter a protest, she'd crossed the distance between terrace and cabinet. “Necessary.”

“Of course it is. You're my guest. It's my job to make sure you're happy.”

Although Larissa knew she was but one of a thousand guests, his lilting tone made the comment sound far more personal. As though she were the only one getting such hands-on treatment. She blamed her condition for the nervous fluttering in her stomach. “Even the hungover ones?”

“Especially the hungover ones,” he said, popping open the can.

Larissa felt her cheeks flush. “My friends always did say I was high-maintenance.”

“Are you?”

Good question. It always struck her funny, how her New York circle gave her that reputation. Growing up, she'd perfected the art of staying out of the way. Expensive dresses and “sticky kid stuff” didn't mix, according to her grandmother. If she was going to live there, Larissa had better learn to be careful.

“I prefer the term
particular,
” she replied.

Naturally, the universe decided to deflate her argument by tangling their fingers when Larissa reached for the soda can. The contact shocked her, so much so she jerked the can from his grip with a gasp. “I—um.” She looked up in time to catch something—a light but not quite a light—flashing in his brown eyes. One blink and it disappeared. Hidden behind a polite, distant shade. Didn't matter. Even if she hadn't seen anything, the way his body stiffened at the contact was message enough. She did them both a favor and stepped back. “Are you sure I didn't do or say anything stupid last night?”

“Nothing that bears repeating.”

But something, nonetheless. Enough that her proximity made him uncomfortable. Great, she thought, cringing. Probably best that she not to press for details. “I'll do my best to stay under the radar for the rest of my visit. In fact, you'll barely notice I'm here,” she added, taking a drink. Raising the can blocked her from seeing any skepticism.

On a positive note, the cold fizz felt wonderful on the back of her throat. Didn't completely wash away the cotton sock taste, but helped.

“Speaking of your stay, Señorita...” Reaching into his breast pocket, he removed a neatly creased sheet of paper. “I had some questions about your itinerary, now that your original plans have...”

“Bitten the dust?” Larissa supplied. “And please, call me Larissa. Formality seems a little silly at this point, don't you think?”

A hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Very well,
Larissa.
According to our records, you booked a number of activities for while you're staying with us.”

Larissa remembered. The wedding coordinator made everything sound so wonderful over the phone. Unable to pick one or two, she selected everything.
You only get one honeymoon,
she'd rationalized. Why not make it as romantic as possible?

“I'm assuming you are no longer interested.”

“You assume correct.” Moonlight dinner cruises and couples massages weren't exactly solo activities. “The only activity on my schedule this week is following the angle of the sun.” And hopefully figuring out what caused her perfect engagement to implode so spectacularly.
See, Tom, I am capable of introspection.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the manager looking at his paper. “What? Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. I'll make sure all your previous events are canceled. Although you realize, by canceling at such short notice, you are respon—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Short notice? I canceled everything weeks ago.”

He frowned. “Not according to our records.”

“Well, your records are wrong.” It would take more than a couple bottles of wine to erase that phone call from her memory. “What did you think I was going to do? Marry myself?”

“I assumed you didn't realize the wedding was off last night.”

A logical assumption. Wrong, but logical. “I spoke to your wedding planner six weeks ago.”

“Six weeks.” He inhaled deeply. “Are you sure you spoke directly with Maria del Olma?”

“Positive, and she assured me canceling wouldn't be a problem.”

Except apparently it was, if his quivering jaw muscle was any indication. “It appears there's been a miscommunication. Maria never noted the cancellation in your records.”

“Well, I'm noting it now.”

“I don't suppose you have written confirmation.”

Larissa started to say yes, only to snap her mouth shut. Come to think of it, Maria didn't send any follow-up. Normally, Larissa would request a letter for her files, but she'd been so upset she must have let it go. Plus, Delilah was getting married, and Chloe was having relationship drama. Following up slipped her mind.

Could she start this whole trip over? Please?

Turning on her heel, she stomped onto the terrace. Sunshine and brightness be damned; she needed fresh air. In keeping with the morning's theme, she bumped into the lounge chair, stubbing her toe on a piece of plastic. Her missing sunglasses skidded across the floor. Score one positive. She shoved them on her face as she limped toward the railing.

At least the view remained as beautiful as she remembered. Unlike in New York where activity reigned 24/7, the day had yet to get started. The lagoon's surface was an aqua-green mirror, the only sign of visible life a solitary egret stalking the opposite shore. Occasionally the leaves in the upper canopy would rustle as an unseen bird, or monkey maybe, alighted from a branch. After four years of city living, Larissa forgot such serenity existed.

She remembered when she decided to get married at La Joya. The photos online looked so gorgeous, she'd fallen in love at first sight. What could be more romantic than getting married in paradise? Delilah and Chloe always teased her when she said stuff like that.
You think everything's romantic,
Delilah would say. Then they'd joked and call her a Bridezilla because she changed the venue three times.

She loved her friends, but they didn't understand her any more than Tom did. She'd been planning her wedding day since she was six years old, and spied on her first dress fitting through the crack in her grandmother's accordion doors. When the bride stepped out of the fitting room all white and sparkly, it was like a princess in real life. So pretty, so...special. Standing there, surrounded by faded yellow wallpaper, she glowed. They all did. All the brides, all the prom queens. Delilah did, too, when she married Simon. So much so, it took her breath away. All Larissa wanted was to glow like that. To have one day where she was the princess.

And she'd come so close. She could still remember how excited she'd been when Tom proposed. Handsome, successful, stable Tom Wainwright wanted her. All those years dreaming a man would fall in love with her, and whisk her off into the sunset and finally her dream had come true. Or so she'd thought.

A soft cough reminded her she wasn't alone. Señor Chavez had moved to her elbow. “I'm told our former wedding coordinator was quite distracted toward the end of her tenure with us. Her abrupt departure has caused more than a few loose ends.”

“Let me guess. She left six weeks ago.”

“I'm afraid so.”

Figures. How much did Larissa want to bet she took off shortly after their phone conversation?

“I'll personally take care of canceling all your obligations. However, there is one problem.”

Say no more. Larissa made her living typing advertising sales contracts. An agreement was an agreement. Without evidence she actually spoke with Maria del Olma, it was her word against the computer system. “You're telling me I'm liable for the expense. How much?” She tried to remember the terms of their agreement. Technically, she gave them fewer than twenty-four hours. Which meant...