Читать книгу: «Rich Man, Poor Bride»

Ruthie entered the luxury suite…and sucked in a lungful of masculine-scented air.

There stood a gorgeous man without a stitch of clothing on his dark-skinned body.

His onyx eyes reflected the shock of her own. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Maid service, sir. Towels.”

He frowned and one black eyebrow arched in disbelief. “Do all the maids in this hotel wear bathing suits?”

Oh, no. She’d forgotten how she was dressed. Her pulse thundered in her ears. “I’m the lifeguard. And a waitress and a bartender and—”

“Really?” A cynical twist of sculpted lips said he wasn’t buying her babbling explanations. Though her one-piece suit was modest, his gaze raked over her. “You’re a busy girl,” he mocked softly.

Staring into his incredible black eyes did strange things to her insides. Her brain had turned to tapioca pudding. All she could remember was that trouble with a guest could cost her this much-needed job.

And from the small cross necklace on his bare chest to his six-pack stomach, this man looked like nothing but trouble.

Rich Man, Poor Bride
Linda Goodnight

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Kelli McBride: Fellow writer,

fabulous Web mistress and, most of all,

a dear friend who spurred me on from the beginning.

LINDA GOODNIGHT

A romantic at heart, Linda Goodnight believes in the traditional values of family and home. Writing books enables her to share her certainty that, with faith and perseverance, love can last forever and happy endings really are possible.

A native of Oklahoma, Linda lives in the country with her husband, Gene, and Mugsy, an adorably obnoxious rat terrier. She and Gene have a blended family of six grown children. An elementary school teacher, she is also a licensed nurse. When time permits, Linda loves to read, watch football and rodeo, and indulge in chocolate. She also enjoys taking long, calorie-burning walks in the nearby woods. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com.

The Tale of Ruth and Boaz

After leaving the arms of her mother and father for the wonders of a happy marriage, Ruth had believed her life settled. Then tragedy struck. This new wife and her beloved mother-in-law, Naomi, were left widowed and alone, with only the comfort of each other.

Reduced to poverty, Naomi insisted on traveling alone to a distant town, the land of her relatives. Ruth, she claimed, was still young and beautiful. A new husband and family would surely come into her life. But Ruth’s love for Naomi was strong, and she vowed to follow Naomi to the ends of the earth, if need be.

When they arrived at their destination, Ruth was true to her word. She worked diligently to provide for their household, even gleaning the leftover wheat in the field of a mighty landowner, Boaz. Ruth’s demure beauty and loving diligence were noted by the wealthy scholar. As he daily watched her in his fields and saw the pure devotion she showed Naomi, he fell hopelessly in love.

The moment her period of mourning ended, he stood in line with other distant relatives to be the lucky man to win her heart. When he requested her hand in marriage, she could not deny the emotion between them and the care he took with her mother-in-law. With a heart full of love, she accepted his proposal.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Prologue

Bones aching, Meredith Montrose put the finishing touches on her makeup in preparation for another day of managing La Torchere, the single most exclusive and private resort in southwest Florida. Dabbing blush over her wrinkled, leathery cheeks, she sighed. Who would believe an old crone like her was not yet thirty years old? Thirty.

Yet it was true. Though she still reeled with the knowledge that her own beloved aunt and godmother Lissa Bessart Piers would do such a thing, the fact remained. Aunt Lissa had cast a spell upon her. Just because Merry was a tad bit selfish, had an occasional temper tantrum, and had tried to sabotage her father’s engagement to an older woman, her godmother decided she needed a lesson in humility and the power of love—and more empathy for the aging.

Now the deadline for breaking the curse loomed like an oncoming tidal wave. Less than a year left to break the spell that held her beautiful young body captive inside this withered, ugly, aching form. Less than a year to complete the task of pairing twenty-one couples with their true loves. She thanked her lucky stars that the latest matched couple, Jackie Hammond and Steven Rollins, would soon be married here on La Torchere’s beach.

Seventeen down and four to go.

Then she could be free again—the beautiful, brilliant princess Meredith Montrosa Bessart of Silestia. But if she failed she would serve out her lifetime in this body as hotel manager Merry Montrose without ever seeing her family or her beloved homeland again.

A shiver of dread made her hands tremble as she took up her cell picture phone, the most special tool in her bag of magical matchmaking tricks. At the press of a button, a handsome Latino face, a little sad and resigned and a lot weary, appeared in the tiny video screen. If fate was kind, Dr. Diego Vargas was about to meet his match.

Chapter One

Flip-flops popping, Ruthie Ellsworthy Fernandez rushed down the hallway of La Torchere Resort dropping off extra gourmet coffee packets in Room 12 and a bottle of Perrier in Room 7 before jumping into the elevator. As she hit the ground floor, her pager buzzed for the hundredth time and a text message appeared: Towels to penthouse, followed by the guest’s name.

A quick check of the time told her she had five whole minutes before reporting to lifeguard duty at the outdoor pool. Grabbing a stack of fluffy, blindingly white towels emblazoned with the candelabra insignia of the resort, Ruthie greeted several of the wealthy, high-class guests as she hopped back onto the elevator and headed to the penthouse. That suite, on the same floor as her small apartment, had been empty this morning. A new guest must have just arrived.

At the door she rapped softly, having learned in her few months as the hotel’s Jane-of-all-trades that the rich and cultured expected the best in serene but entertaining surroundings, and they didn’t mind paying for what they wanted. But they were darned fussy when service wasn’t prompt and perfect.

When no one answered, she rapped again then used her maid’s key to open the door.

All around her lay the trappings of class and wealth. Sumptuous carpets, plush furnishings. Casually elegant, the tasteful decor was alive with splashes of tropical color. The suite was bigger than the home back in Texas she had shared with her late husband Jason and his mother, Naomi. And much bigger than the small suite of rooms she and Naomi now occupied at the resort.

Not that she was complaining. Not at all. She was ever so grateful to have a job that not only gave her a place to live as part of her pay, but allowed her to work as much as possible while still having time to care for her beloved mother-in-law. Naomi and her medical treatments came first, above everything else.

Ruthie entered the beautiful luxury suite, crossed through the living room and bedroom on her way to the bathroom to put the towels away. She pushed the door open, stepped into the massive bathroom…and sucked in a gasping lungful of damp, masculine-scented air. For there at the sink stood a gorgeous man without a stitch of clothing on his fit and trim, dark-skinned body. In the mirror a pair of onyx eyes reflected the shock in her own.

To Ruthie’s horror, he whirled around and demanded, “What do you want?”

As she slowly backed toward the doorway, she thrust the towels at him. He ignored the offer and continued to stare at her.

“I’m the maid, Mr.—” She searched her memory for the man’s name. Had it been on the pager? At this point she couldn’t remember her own name, much less his. Mortified, she thrust the towels in his direction one more time, hoping, praying he would take them. “I didn’t know—I thought you were— Please excuse me.”

Ripping the towels from her grip, the man had the belated decency to hold them over the proper area. Still, she was in the same room with a handsome, mostly naked stranger. The heated blush moved from her face to her ears and clear down to her toes. Ruthie was certain if she looked down, her naked legs would be fiery red. Never had she walked in on an unclothed guest.

From somewhere his name appeared in her mind.

Dr. Diego Vargas. That’s who he was.

“I’ll just leave now, Dr. Vargas.” Backing up, she twisted one flip-flop, felt the rubber sandal slip from her foot and was forced to stop. Eyes never leaving his because, Lord knew, she dare not look lower, she fished around the floor by feel until her toes found their way back into the thong.

“Wait,” he demanded, coming toward her. “Who are you? Why are you in my room?”

Was the man deaf? “Maid service, sir. Towels.”

He frowned and one black eyebrow arched in disbelief. “Do all the maids in this hotel wear bathing suits?”

Oh, no. She’d forgotten how she was dressed. The blush deepened and her pulse thundered in her ears. Swallowing, she tried to explain. “I’m the lifeguard.”

The other eyebrow went up.

“And a waitress, and a bartender and—” She was stuttering now. How did she explain—with her brain shorted out from encountering the most fascinating male body she’d seen since Antonio Banderas played Zorro—that she worked at anything and everything within the confines of the resort. Anything to earn the money for Naomi’s expensive treatments. “And the spa girl.”

“Really?” A cynical twist of sculpted lips said he wasn’t buying any of her babbling explanations. Those incredible black eyes raked over her, taking in every inch of her five-foot, five-inch body, most of it as nude as he was. She’d had no time to toss on a cover-up before delivering those towels, and though her one-piece suit was modest, under this man’s appraisal, a nun’s habit would feel risqué.

“You’re a busy girl,” he mocked softly. “And just what other services do you provide for your guests?”

Somehow she’d managed to back all the way through the living room, past several couches topped with throw pillows, past a fireplace, over an oriental rug, and to the entryway. She couldn’t find anywhere decent to look, and staring into those onyx eyes did strange things to her insides. Her gaze moved to his chest—a mistake, she knew, the moment a glistening water droplet trickled from the hollow of his throat down through a smattering of dark chest hair, past a small gold cross necklace dangling from a leather cord, over a six-pack stomach…and beyond.

Eyes glued to that one drop of water, she hardly heard the words tumbling out of her mouth. “Whatever you want—I mean, anything you need. La Torchere aims to please.”

Oh, dear, that didn’t come out right at all.

“Anything?”

“Yes. No. I mean—” She’d never been this tongue-tied in her life.

Every humiliated, fascinated pore in her body wanted to respond to his insulting tone, to explain in lucid terms they both could understand, but two things stopped her. Trouble with a guest could cost her this desperately needed job. And her brain had turned to tapioca pudding.

With the grace and dignity of a wounded buffalo, she did the next best thing. She headed for the nearest exit.

Diego followed the mysterious woman all through the suite determined to discover the real reason why she’d suddenly appeared in his room. He hadn’t called for more towels. And though he’d been in luxury accommodations all over the world, no maid he’d encountered had ever worn a bathing suit. And none had stuttered out so many different job descriptions that she was impossible to believe.

He had, on the other hand, endured his share of women who’d do anything to capture the attentions of an independently wealthy doctor with the social standing of the Vargas family. His lip curled in distaste as he strove to control an unwanted spike of interest.

Regardless of her incredulous babblings, his male antenna had arced fire when he’d caught sight of her in the mirror—a reaction he’d learned never to trust. Hormones had lied to him before.

Never mind that she looked as nervous as a new army recruit, one hand feeling behind her for the doorknob, her green eyes wide in a fresh face devoid of makeup. Little Miss Maid-Lifeguard-Waitress might not fit the gold-digger image, but he was no fool.

There was nothing particularly seductive about the woman. Her hot-pink bathing suit was a Speedo, for crying out loud. Not purposefully revealing or sexy. But that little strip of spandex accented a swimmer’s flat belly, a hint of rounded, tempting cleavage, and long tanned legs. A sprinkle of golden freckles kissed her shoulders and nose, and her dark blond hair was parted in the middle and yanked back into a knot at her neck. She shouldn’t have looked sensual at all, but Diego’s mouth watered.

He was a physician, his observational skills honed to perfection, and in this case, those skills were giving him fits. He noticed every detail of the lovely woman standing in his room ogling his nudity with a deer-in-the-headlights kind of interest.

His hands, which never perspired, broke out in a sweat that was repeated on the back of his neck. He swiped a hand over the moisture.

No woman had made him sweat since—he gripped the back of his neck and squeezed, shutting off thoughts of Leah.

Suddenly his uninvited guest found the knob and wrenched the door open.

“I’ll just…go now.”

Her chest heaving in a way that made it impossible for him not to stare at her cleavage, she backed into the hallway, then turned and fled. The hot-pink thongs slapped against her feet as she escaped.

In her haste, the Speedo crept up, revealing more and more hip and leg. The tiny jiggle of female flesh raised the hairs on Diego’s arms. The woman’s hand snaked around and yanked at the suit as she raced for the elevator without looking back.

Tempted to follow and find out who she really was, Diego ventured two steps into the hallway before remembering his state of undress. Glad for the towel held strategically over equipment that had come to attention in the woman’s presence, he retreated into the suite and shut the door.

La Torchere was a private resort on a private island, reachable only by a private ferry. Sooner or later, he would run into the mysterious and lovely woman again. And he would get some answers. If she was a gold digger, as he suspected, who frequented luxury resorts in pursuit of men like him, he’d find out. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had appeared in his room uninvited. Nor did he suppose it would be the last time he’d be sought out for who he was and what he had.

Over the years he’d grown weary of searching for a woman who wanted him for himself. To Diego, love was a four-letter word used to manipulate and control. Human beings in general, and women in particular, were out for what they could get.

Real love may have existed in another time, another generation, but not today. Not since Leah had he encountered another person who loved unconditionally.

He fought back the wave of emptiness that came every time he thought of Leah, the woman whose self-lessness had taught him the true meaning of love. He’d been younger then and idealistic enough to believe he could make a difference, a medical student still wet behind the ears. And Leah had encouraged his idealism with her tireless, uncompromising care for humanity.

Now at thirty-three he’d seen too much ugliness and met too many people who wanted to take but had nothing to give in return. He’d been duped more times than his ego wanted to remember, and now he’d sealed off his heart to this thing called love.

He felt so empty at times, but emotional isolation was a necessary method of self-preservation. His motto had become: Have fun with women, but never let your guard down.

Raking a hand through his still-damp hair, he went to the huge walk-in closet in the master bedroom and began to dress.

“Stop whining, Vargas,” he told himself. He was a lucky man and he knew it. He had wealth, privilege and worked in the career of his choosing. He had women when and where he wanted, and if the having resulted in more loneliness in the end, he’d learned to live with the situation.

He was tired, that was all. The last tour of duty in war-torn Africa had left him drained and heartsick, tormented by the awful devastation brought on by a people hell-bent on annihilating one another.

And that’s why he was here—for some much needed R&R in a beautiful place guaranteed to lift the spirits.

The resort’s manager, that oddly interesting, sometimes crotchety Montrose woman, had convinced him to attend a social gathering this afternoon. An ice breaker of sorts. So he would.

He pulled on a pair of casual khakis and a blue golf shirt, his thoughts bouncing back to his uninvited guest. She had already provided a brief distraction.

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.