babysitting duties, Travis made a show of snapping up the plate. He uncovered it, and using his fingers, he snagged a chunk of fish. Spices exploded on his tongue, the flavor reminding his stomach of the good ole days, when he’d liked to eat.
“It’s great, man. Tell Glory thanks for me.”
“You’ll eat it all?”
As much to assure the guy as to get him to leave, Travis tossed back the rest and handed back the plate.
“Yum.”
It took a few more prods to convince Manny that he was fine, he was full, he was comfortable and yes, he would get some sleep. But finally, the guy took his paper plate and left.
Leaving Travis alone with the sound of partyers in the distance, and the ocean nearby. As the moon climbed higher in the sky, he watched the waves with eyes that must have been as empty as his soul felt. For what seemed like the hundredth time in the last month, he wondered if recovery at the beach had been a mistake. He’d had friends offer him their cabins in the mountains, a trip to a ranch in Colorado, a condo in Vegas and a high-rise in Manhattan. He could have—should have—crashed at any of them. Instead, here he was watching the one true love of his life.
The ocean, the sea.
For all her fickle whims, all her changeable moods, she was power. She was life.
Some might say that she’d tried to kill him, but Travis figured that just proved she had a dark side.
And watching her from a hammock on a sunset beach was as good a way to heal as any, he supposed.
* * *
Lila loved the job she’d created. She really did.
Here she sat in a deeply cushioned lounge chair, her hair loose, a tray on her lap to hold her computer and a frothy drink, complete with pink umbrella at her elbow. Despite the setting sun, the air was warm and the beach quiet as the sun worshippers had gone in for dinner and the partyers hadn’t yet gathered.
It really was a great job, she reminded herself as she sucked up more Caribbean Punch through an icy straw.
But, holy cow, where was she going to find a female blacksmith? Specifically one with public speaking skills, an affinity for children and a desire to travel with an educational troupe for a year. Scrolling through the database on her laptop, she scanned for any name that’d spark an idea.
But blacksmiths weren’t exactly plentiful in the circles Lila traveled in. So she’d expand them, she decided.
Still, maybe Corinne was right. Matchmaking might be easier. But Lila had less faith in the longevity of love than she did in her ability to track down a buff chick that liked to beat fire and steel.
“Ms. Adrian?”
Her fingers pausing on the keys of her laptop, Lila looked up with a smile. “Yes?”
“Phone for you, ma’am,” the young concierge said, holding out a cordless phone on a bamboo tray.
“For me?”
Corinne would use her cell number. So would any clients, friends or prospects trying to reach her.
There was only one person who’d make a point of tracking her down and calling the hotel to ensure she knew she’d been tracked.
Lips pressed tight, Lila gently closed her laptop. She gave herself an extra few seconds to gather her thoughts, to push away the initial rush of emotions that dealing with her father always incited.
Strongest was the heavy weight of regret that she’d never, not once in her life, lived up to her father’s expectations. She’d like to blame it on her brother. It wasn’t easy to live up to a guy like Lucas. Prep school prince, Annapolis grad, Navy SEAL. Not even leaving the Navy against their father’s express wishes had knocked him off his golden pedestal.
Instead of a pedestal, Lila had a gilded cage.
“I’d prefer to take this in my room,” she stated. He was probably calling to lecture, would likely round that out with a few unreasonable demands. Whatever her father wanted, she knew she’d rather deal with it in private. “Would you transfer it there, please?”
Lila took her time. She took the stairs. Once in her room, she even took a bottle of water from the small refrigerator. Tequila would be better, but she knew she’d want her wits about her.
She didn’t sit on the bed. That’d be too casual, too relaxed. Instead, she pulled out the stiff wooden chair from the small desk and perched on the edge.
One deep breath, and she lifted the phone receiver.
“Hello, Father. How are you?”
“Lila. Your help is required to organize and act as hostess for an event of great import. I’m honoring dignitaries and notable Navy personnel, including your brother.”
Pointing out that Lucas wasn’t in the Navy anymore would have as much impact as her hello had. So Lila didn’t waste her breath.
“It does sound like a worthy event, and honoring our troops—” even the ones who didn’t serve in Special Ops, the ones her father pretended didn’t exist “—is important. But as commendable as I’m sure it will be, I am not available to hostess or attend.”
There. Didn’t that sound officious and professional? Two things her father should easily relate to.
But, instead of understanding—or God, forbid, pride—at her work ethic and business success, her words garnered her a lecture.
Duty. Privilege. Expectations. Failure. Disappointment.
Years of practice helped her keep all of the tension, all of the reaction, in her left hand. Clenching, unclenching, clenching her fist. Over and over. Squeeze the tension, release the stress, she silently chanted.
When he finally wound down, she gave herself a second to make sure her temper was under control before speaking again.
“I have a business to run and commitments that require my time. A concept you should be familiar with. Isn’t that what you always said at every holiday, birthday or potential family occasion?”
So much for control.
“I run a multimillion dollar conglomerate with holdings in twelve countries, producing profits in the billions. You, on the other hand, are playing at running an employment agency for the odd and disenfranchised. Your accrued net earnings for the three years you’ve been in so-called business are a drop in the bucket compared to just the yearly interest on the trust fund you’ve rejected with your little act of faux independence.”
Everything wasn’t about money, Lila wanted to shout. Some things were worth more than dollars and cents. Like independence. Or pride. Or respect. She’d happily walk away from her trust fund if he’d give her any one of those.
But there was no point in telling him any of that. He never listened.
“As I understand it, you’re in Costa Rica to procure a chef for Joe Martin. That’s no longer necessary.”
