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“You stayed in too long, querida“ he told her.
“Did I?” Based on how her insides were trembling, she wondered if she should still be swimming.
“Sí You need to be careful. Too long, and you’ll grow weak from the cold.”
“I’m not cold.”
“Your shivering says otherwise.”
Larissa looked him in the eye, her gaze telling him what they both already knew: that her trembling had nothing to do with the water. His hands slowed, the touch becoming slow and sensual.
“I don’t … I’m not …” He struggled for words. A warning, but his gaze dropped to her mouth even as he spoke.
“Me neither,” Larissa whispered. This was purely physical. Two people giving in to an attraction and nothing more. That her heart pounded in her chest in anticipation meant nothing.
The Unexpected
Honeymoon
Barbara Wallace
BARBARA WALLACE is a lifelong romantic and day-dreamer, so it’s not surprising that at the age of eight she decided to become a writer. However, it wasn’t until a co-worker handed her a romance novel that she knew where her stories belonged. For years she limited her dreams to nights, weekends and commuter train trips, while working as a communications specialist, PR freelancer and full-time mum. At the urging of her family she finally chucked the day job and pursued writing full-time—and she couldn’t be happier.
Barbara lives in Massachusetts with her husband, their teenage son and two very spoiled, self-centred cats (as if there could be any other kind). Readers can visit her at www.barbarawallace.com and find her on Facebook. She’d love to hear from you.
To my fellow writers, Donna Alward, Wendy S. Marcus, Julia Broadbooks, Abbi Wilder and Jennifer Probst, without whom I could never have gotten this book written. Thank you for showing up every morning and pushing me to be productive. You ladies are the absolute best!
And, as always—Pete and Andrew, you’re my heroes!
Contents
“BUENOS DIAS!”
Having grown up in the hospitality industry, Carlos Garcia Chavez thought he’d seen everything. But nothing prepared him for the blonde standing in the doorway of the Presidential Villa. With her tight white dress and messy halo of platinum blond hair, she looked like she’d stepped out of a black-and-white newsreel. So much so, he half expected to hear her call him Mr. President in a husky stage whisper.
What he got was a big, overly bright smile that sent awareness shooting through him. Something else he was unprepared for. He adjusted his grip on the wine bottle cradled in his arm and pushed the unexpected reaction aside.
“Buenas tardes, Señorita Boyd.”
“Oh, right, you say tardes in the afternoon. My bad. I’m still on East Coast time. I’ll catch on eventually.”
Carlos refrained from pointing out that East Coast time would place her later in the day, not earlier. After all, the guest was always right, no matter how wrong they might be.
Meanwhile, this particular guest leaned. She leaned a hip against the door frame, a position that drew further attention to her curves. “So what can I do for you, Señor...?”
“Chavez. Carlos Chavez. I’m the general manager here at La Joya del Mayan.”
“Did you say general manager? Damn. I knew this was too good to be true.”
“There is a problem?” he asked. Carlos tensed. Errors were the kiss of death in the hotel industry. Mistakes led to bad reviews. He had enough on his plate keeping La Joya’s current woes under wraps; he did not need to add to his troubles.
“Lucky for you, I haven’t unpacked yet.” He followed, trying not to stare at the way her bottom marked her steps like a white silk pendulum. “I mean, Delilah and Chloe might be generous, but seriously, this? Doesn’t matter if they are married to millionaires. Well, Del’s married to one. Chloe and her boyfriend aren’t married yet, although anyone with two eyes in their head can see they’re going to be. They’re absolutely
