Rich Man, Poor Bride

Shaking his head in self-mockery, Diego crossed the spacious suite. Distraction or not, he knew to beware of strange women bearing towels, especially those dressed in skin-tight bathing suits.

Diego had no more than entered the club room when the resort manager hurried in his direction as fast as her obviously arthritic knees could carry her.

“Dr. Vargas.” She gushed his name, her blue eyes sharp and intense in a wrinkled face. Growing up as the son of a cosmetic surgeon, Diego recognized great bone structure. Merry Montrose had once been a beautiful woman. “We are so delighted to welcome you to La Torchere.”

Diego managed an easy smile that he didn’t feel, relying on social skills honed from childhood. Even exhausted and discontent, he could schmooze with the best of them.

“Your description of the resort was not an exaggeration,” he told Merry. “I’m looking forward to a much-needed vacation.”

When he’d run into the hotel manager at separate conferences in the same California hotel, he had, for reasons he still didn’t understand, mentioned his upcoming leave from the army. Merry Montrose, after extolling the virtues of her southwest Florida resort, had insisted he vacation here.

With the regal air of royalty and impeccable manners that would have pleased Diego’s socialite mother, Ms. Montrose motioned around the room. “We have a wonderful social director who will arrange any activity you might have in mind. And the concierge will make reservations, order tickets, anything your heart desires. La Torchere aims to please.”

Suppressing thoughts of a blond woman in a hot-pink Speedo who’d said the same thing, Diego selected a drink from a passing waiter and gazed around the room. Twenty or so beautiful people chatted and smiled over crystal flutes of champagne and fancy tropical drinks. They were the kind of blue-blooded people he’d grown up with as the son of a highly regarded plastic surgeon in Los Angeles.

But after the places he’d been and the horrors he’d seen, he no longer felt as comfortable among them as he once had.

He stifled the weary feeling that moved over him like a cloud on a sunny day and refocused on the chatty hotel manager.

“You’ll like Sharmaine,” she said, blue eyes piercing him with a fanatic eeriness. “I’m absolutely certain.”

Diego tried to fill in the gaps he must have missed during his musings.

A tall, elegant blonde, dressed in a white sundress that showed off her salon tan to perfection, glided up to them.

“Dr. Diego Vargas,” Merry said, “Meet Sharmaine Coleman.”

Following the usual murmured introductions, Merry disappeared into the crowd to welcome other guests, leaving Diego alone with the newcomer. She was very beautiful, in a pampered, classy way. His usual type, though he experienced none of the shouting hormones the Speedo-clad maid had produced.

In minutes he discovered Sharmaine was from Georgia, her father was in paper goods, and she had graduated from Brown with a degree in art history. More to his interest, she was here “recovering” from her latest divorce.

“Is this your first visit to La Torchere?” she asked, twining long fingers around a stemmed glass.

“It is. Yours, too?”

“No, suga’. I love this place and come here often. The spa is to die for and the other guests are always so entertainin’.” She flashed him a perfect white-capped smile. “You have to try the herb body wrap at the spa. It eases away all your stress.”

“I’m not exactly a spa kind of guy.”

“Oh, too bad.” She managed a sexy pout. “What kind of guy are you?”

One that’s really tired of playing the mating game, he thought, then suffered immediate contrition. Sharmaine was friendly and undeniably great to look at. She didn’t deserve his cynicism.

Rather than tell her the truth—that he liked to run and sweat out all his stress—and see her nose curl in feminine distaste, Diego said, “On this trip I’m a tourist, eager to swim, snorkel and see the sights.”

“Then put yourself into my capable hands, Doctor. No one knows all the fun and cozy spots like moi.” She tapped her breastbone with one long fingernail.

From the corner of his eye, Diego caught a flash of hot pink that brought to mind this afternoon’s intruder. A slight turn of his head afforded him a view of the outdoor swimming pool through floor-to-ceiling privacy glass that formed one wall of the club room. He saw a host of swimmers but none wore pink. Not that it mattered, but his curiosity about the woman was still piqued and would remain so until he discovered who she was and why she’d invaded his room. Perhaps she would also provide a little recreational diversion, as well.

A child ran on bare feet across the concrete and from somewhere he heard a whistle. The Speedo, as he was coming to think of her, had worn a whistle around her neck. He remembered the exact spot where the lanyard crossed the naked flesh of her bosom and the way the silver whistle bobbed when she backed away from him. Maybe she really was a lifeguard, though that still wouldn’t give her liberty to be in his room. He angled his head to one side, trying to see the opposite end of the pool, but one wall obstructed his view.

“Diego?” Sharmaine’s voice drew his attention from the pool to her.

“What?” he muttered. “Oh, sorry.”

“You seem entranced by the pool. Would you like to go for a swim?”

Diego pushed a hand over the back of his neck. His mother would have his hide for woolgathering during polite conversation, and he’d done it twice in one afternoon. Hoping he could blame the lapse in manners on jet lag and mental fatigue, he focused on Sharmaine. “What I’d like is to have a nice quiet dinner. Have you any suggestions?”

She trailed a French-manicured fingernail over his forearm and intensified her liquid Southern accent. “Suga’, you are talkin’ to the right girl. I know just the place.”

And before he could say lobster bisque, Diego found himself with a dinner date. Considering his sudden and unexplained obsession with hot-pink spandex, he owed Sharmaine that much.

Thanks to his mother, no one could fault his impeccable manners. He knew the social game so well he could play it in his sleep. And that, it seemed to him, was the problem. Relationships, especially those of the male-female variety, never stirred him anymore. They came and went easily, as though they didn’t matter. He wanted to feel that leap of kinship again, to care, to have someone touch him as deeply as Leah had. A few had touched Diego’s body, but none had touched his soul.

He longed for that with all his being, but common sense said to hold himself aloof. He was good at that—too good perhaps.

Classy and confident, Sharmaine would fit well with the world he’d grown up in. He had a month’s leave. And though he was weary of the fuss and bother of the ever-unsuccessful dating game, why not spend some time with a beautiful female? He could have some harmless fun—they were both adults—then go on his way, heart intact.

Chapter Two

Ruthie blew the whistle a second time, then climbed down from her small perch to talk to the teenage boy who seemed intent on killing himself to impress a girl on the other side of the pool.

“Justin.” She caught up to him and blocked him from cartwheeling off the shallow end. “It is Justin, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. So?”

He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, all legs and arms and undeveloped chest. Ruthie didn’t let his teenage arrogance bother her. “I know a way to get her to pay attention to you.”

“Who?” Water dripped from the end of his nose. His stomach was stained red from all the acrobatics and belly flops.

“You know who.” She inclined her head. “Kelley. That cute girl in the striped bikini.”

“Oh. Her.” His words denied his interest, but color crept up his neck. Brown eyes flicked in that direction before returning to Ruthie.

“Instead of all this monkey business around the side of the pool, which could get you tossed out and embarrassed, why not try the high dive?” Before he had a chance to take offense to her threat, she rushed on. “You do an awesome somersault, but from down here no one can tell.”

“You think my somersault is good?”

Ruthie’s smile was genuine. “You’ve got talent.”

The boy’s chicken chest puffed out. “Ya think?”

“Yep. Now go to it. I promise you, Kelley will be watching.”

“Cool.”

Before he could escape, Ruthie placed a hand on his wet arm and said gently, “No more crazy stunts, okay?”