“I’m just asking you to please stay out of my business. First you insult me in your suite and now you’re jeopardizing my livelihood.”
“I didn’t order those towels.” The denial sounded petulant, childish.
“Well, somebody did.”
“Then I owe you an apology.”
“Apology accepted. Would you care for an appetizer before dinner?”
Smooth as silk she brushed him off and left him feeling like an idiot for offering his help. Sharmaine was right. Ruthie could take care of herself.
Tension knotted in his neck, he settled back into his chair.
Ruthie topped off his wineglass as if nothing had occurred, but her hand shook the tiniest bit.
When she moved away, Sharmaine pouted. “Really, Diego, you’ve paid more attention to that waitress tonight than you have to me.”
He couldn’t deny the truth. He had been far more attuned to Ruthie than he had to his lovely date. And he could offer no logical explanation for his behavior.
“That, sweet lady, is because the waitress served the prime rib.” Tilting his head, he gave her his most charming and disarming grin. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had prime rib?”
Sharmaine found that amusing. “So,” she said, “the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach?”
Diego struggled to keep his mind on the conversation and off the most disturbing urge to follow Ruthie into the kitchen and apologize again. Considering Ruthie’s reaction to his offer of help, he was not on her list of all-time favorite males.
“That’s what they say.”
“Oh, pooh. Now I’ll have to learn to cook.”
“Or hire one.”
Sharmaine responded with a throaty chuckle, and Diego knew he’d been forgiven for being less than the perfect dinner partner. To tell the truth, he was hard-pressed to understand himself tonight. He was sitting with a beautiful woman who fit into his social world. A woman who obviously enjoyed men and who would lead him on a merry chase if he would let her. Her game was clear. There was no subterfuge, and his heart was in no danger.
But he couldn’t take his mind, or his eyes, off a certain green-eyed waitress.
Chapter Three
“Ruthie, the craft class needs more hot-glue sticks.” Merry Montrose pushed a package at her. “And afterward drop this off to Miss Parris Hammond in Room 17. She’s been waiting, rather impatiently I must say, for it to arrive. It’s a donation, I think, for the charity auction from some pro football player in Miami. Then take these flowers up to Miss Coleman and tell her Dr. Vargas sent them.”
“Is there a card?” Stomach dipping at the doctor’s name, Ruthie took the package and the flowers. “I saw Miss Coleman heading for the tennis courts about twenty minutes ago.”
“Really?” Merry’s blue eyes flamed with interest. “Was Dr. Vargas with her by any chance?”
“No. She was with another guest.”
“Male or female?”
“Male. Mr. Plinkton, I believe.”
“Drat. Have I chosen wrong again?” The manager mumbled an incomprehensible sentence under her breath. Jabbing at the numbers on her cell phone, she waved Ruthie away impatiently. “Go on, then. Leave the flowers in the room. I’ll have to try something else.”
What in the world was Miss Montrose talking about? She acted as though she had some hand in getting Diego and Sharmaine together. With no real clue to where this conversation was going, Ruthie opted not to ask for clarification. The less she knew of Diego Vargas the better.
“I’ll take these things right up,” she said, and started out of the small office.
“And one more thing, Ruthie,” the older woman called. “You’ll be working at the pub from nine to closing tonight.”
Except for frequent stops to check on Naomi, Ruthie had run constantly from one task to the other all morning. With the tourist season upon them the resort was really hopping. She hated to admit it but her feet and body ached for rest. Though unwilling to turn down the offer of work, she was really too tired to tend bar tonight. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately.
First, there was the constant worry over her mother-in-law and finances. Dr. Attenburg had extended credit at the clinic, but Ruthie had to come up with that money soon. And if that wasn’t enough to ruin a good night’s rest, now her mind was experiencing flights of fancy. After last evening in the Banyan Room, she’d dreamed of Diego Vargas, the kind of dreams that made her blush to remember them. To add to the craziness, she saw the man practically every time she turned a corner on her way to the next job. More than once, as she’d come out of a guest room, the handsome doctor had appeared in the hall or the elevator. Each time she’d scurried away like a timid mouse until she’d come to both dread and yearn for those frequent encounters.
When he’d played rescuer in the restaurant, she’d vacillated between horror and thrill. Horror that the management would think she had insulted the drunk and lecherous Mr. Peterson in some way. And thrill that a man like Diego would intervene on her behalf.
And now Miss Montrose had to mention his name and start Ruthie thinking about him all over again.
As quickly as possible she completed the errands, then hurried down to the café to pick up the special Mexican lunch she’d ordered for Mama.
In minutes she had the disposable box in hand and hopped onto the elevator. The spicy scent of enchilada filled the small space. Carry-out was a luxury, but Ruthie would pay any price to see Mama eat a hearty meal again. After lunch they had an appointment with Dr. Attenburg. Twice weekly, now that the kind doctor had given them an extension, they’d go to the mainland for the IV treatments. The outing always left Mama exhausted, but Ruthie was hopeful that these symptoms would soon disappear with the new, more powerful drugs.
As she entered the suite, her pager beeped. Accustomed to the summons, she waved at Naomi while sliding the meal carton onto the table and went directly to the phone.
When Ruthie had replaced the telephone receiver, Naomi asked, “Work again, yes?”
“A guest wanting his in-room bar restocked.”
“Will you have time before we go inland?”
Ruthie checked her watch. “It won’t take long. I’ll do it now.”
“But you have not eaten lunch.”
“I’ll grab a bite later, Mama.” She kissed the older woman’s cheek. “You eat. I’ll be back in less than an hour to take you to the clinic.”
Whistling softly, Diego slapped a towel over his hot, sweaty shoulder and headed for the stairwell. Nothing like a game of beach volleyball to stir the senses, relax the muscles and elevate the bad mood
