a specific day to feel special, but then as he knew all too well, there existed women who needed constant reassurance, despite their beauty. Perhaps the señorita was one of those women.
“Besides, if Tom was that upset, why didn’t he say something sooner? He could have said, ‘Larissa, I don’t want a fancy wedding,’ but nooo, he let me spend fifteen months of planning while he was busy having deep ‘conversations’ with another woman, and then tells me I’m wedding obsessed.
“Seriously, what’s so great about having deep conversations anyway? Just because I don’t go around spouting my feelings to anyone who will listen, doesn’t mean I don’t have them. I’ll have you know I have lots of deep thoughts.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Tons. More than Tom would ever know.” Turning so abruptly, the champagne yet again splashed over the rim of her glass, she marched toward the balcony.
He should go, thought Carlos. Leave her to wallow in peace. But he didn’t. Instead, something compelled him to follow her outside to where she stood looking at the Velas Jungle, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
“I would have listened to him, you know,” she said, the energy depleted from her voice.
“I’m sure you would have.”
He joined her at the rail. It was the view that made La Joya famous. Across the way, snowy egrets had taken up their nightly residence in the mangroves, their noisy calls reverberating across the lagoon. The water rippled and lapped at the tree roots, creating a blurry mirror for the green and blue above.
The champagne glass dangled from her fingertips. He was debating reaching for the glass to keep her from dropping it into the water when she asked abruptly, “Are you married, Señor Carlos?”
The word yes sprang to his tongue, same as it always did. “Not anymore.”
“Divorced?”
“Widower.”
“Oh.” Downcast lashes cast shadows on her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
Again with the meaningless words. “It happened several years ago,” he replied.
“My problems must seem really silly to you.”
Her remark surprised him. Normally, people relaxed when they heard his answer, assuming the passage of time meant less pain and mistaking his numbness for healing grief. To hear her express sympathy, left him off balance. “I’m sure they don’t seem superficial to you.”
“But they are,” she said with a sigh. “They’re silly. I’m silly.”
She was sliding into self-flagellation, dangerous territory when combined with alcohol. Old warning bells rang in his head. “Why don’t we step back inside?” Away from the railing. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“I don’t want water,” she said, but she did push herself away from the rail. “I want more champagne.”
As long as it moved her off the terrace. He stepped back, expecting her to turn around, only to have her cup his cheek. Her blue eyes locked with his and stilled him in his tracks. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said with far more sincerity than the word merited. Behind the kindness, Carlos recognized other emotions in her eyes. Need. Loneliness.
A spark passed through him, a flash of awareness that he was alone with a beautiful, vulnerable woman looking for reassurance. The similarities between now and the past were far too many, forming a dangerous rabbit hole down which he swore he’d never go again.
“Our staff is here for anything you need,” he told her, breaking contact before other, more disturbing memories could rise to the surface. When it doubt, turn to business. The rule served him well these past five years. “We’ll do our best to ensure you enjoy your stay, regardless of the circumstances.”
“You’re sweet.”
On the contrary, he put an end to sweet a half decade ago.
After leading her inside, he made sure to lock the balcony door. With luck, she would curl up on the sofa and fall asleep. To be on the safe side, however, he made a mental note to have security keep an eye on the villa.
Images of a lifeless body floating atop water flashed before his eyes, stopping his heart.
Housekeeping, too. You could never be too careful.
The sun still beat strong on the sandstone walkway when he stepped outside. The beach side of the resort always remained sunny long after the lagoon settled in for the night. Guests enjoyed what they considered two sunsets. They would gather on their balconies or their private docks, margaritas in hand, and watch the shadows spread across the lagoon. A short while later, they’d turn their attention westward in time to see the sun slip behind the ocean. One more of the many perks that came with vacationing in paradise.
Personally, Carlos liked this time of day because the resort was quiet. Gave him time to walk the perimeter and ferret out any potential problems. There were always problems. Creating paradise took work—more work than people would ever realize. He’d been here six weeks now, not yet long enough to know all the resort’s idiosyncrasies. Much of his time, thus far, had been consumed by cleaning up his predecessor’s mess. Misused funds, unpaid accounts.... His predecessor’s managerial incompetence knew no bounds. And of course, there was Maria. Stupid woman was supposed to plan weddings, not run off with the philandering idiot. A decade’s worth of reputation in jeopardy because of two people’s recklessness.
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,
