Judith Arnold - Right Place, Wrong Time

Alicia abandoned her for the bag of chocolate-chip cookies that lay open on the counter. Gina didn’t know if she’d already had a cookie, but right now she had more important concerns than Alicia’s consumption of junk food. Besides, they were on vacation. Vacations meant extra cookies.

She dialed Carole’s number back in New York and tried to ignore the faint long-distance hiss on the line. It occurred to her that Carole might not be home—but if she wasn’t, Gina would try her cell phone. Carole had to be reached. They had to get this situation resolved.

Fortunately, Carole answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Carole, it’s me, Gina.”

“Gina! Is everything all right? Where are you?”

“I’m in your condo in Palm Point. Everything’s fine—except there’s this family here who say they’ve got the place for this week. They have a key and everything.”

“Everyone who owns a share of the unit has a key,” Carole reminded her. “Who are they?”

“Friends of someone named Paul—” she thought for a minute, then remembered “—Collins.”

“Right, yeah. Paul Collins.”

“You know him?”

“Not personally,” Carole said. “But we traded weeks. Remember when I went down to St. Thomas in January? That was his week.”

“So…you traded him this week?” Gina felt her stomach tighten.

“Originally, yeah. But I was in touch with him after I got back from St. Thomas. I don’t know, mid-February, maybe? And he said he wouldn’t be using the condo in July. He was very definite about it, Gina. No way would he be using the condo.”

“Okay.” Gina’s stomach relaxed, but only a little. The definite Paul Collins had been true to his word; he was not using the condo in July. He’d apparently communicated something a little different to his preppy friends, however. “We’ll work this out,” she told Carole, wishing she felt as certain as she sounded.

“I mean it, Gina. That place is yours for the week. I offered it to you after I talked to Paul, remember? Because he was very clear that he wouldn’t be using the condo.”

“Right.”

“So don’t let those people give you any crap.”

Gina laughed, which helped her stomach to relax some more. “When do I ever let anyone give me any crap?”

“Right. Have a great week. And give Alicia an extra hug from me.”

“I will. Thanks, Carole.” Gina hung up the phone, squared her shoulders and returned to the living room alone. The Hamiltons had moved farther into the room, checking out the bland, functional furniture, the trite seascape paintings on the walls, the spectacular view from the balcony. Gina didn’t like the idea of them making themselves at home. “Carole says,” she announced, “that your friend Paul made it very clear to her—very clear—he wouldn’t be using this place this week.”

“He’s not using it,” Ethan retorted, his voice stern despite his polite veneer. “We are.”

“If he wanted you to use it, he should have told Carole he was using it. He misrepresented his plans to Carole, and I booked my airplane ticket accordingly.” And when the airline had alerted her to their “take-a-friend promotion,” which would enable her to bring someone with her for only fifty dollars more, she’d booked a second airplane ticket. “He misrepresented himself,” she repeated, savoring the word. “I’m afraid that means we’ll be staying here, and you’ll have to make other arrangements.”

A flutter of protest arose from the Hamiltons. Ethan’s jaw clenched, causing a muscle in his cheek to twitch. Great cheeks, Gina noticed—hollow but not sunken, drawing her attention back to his amazing green eyes.

He stepped toward her. She refused to back up—retreating to the kitchen struck her as tantamount to turning the condo over to him—but she had to admit that standing her ground against the tall, quiet man took a lot of guts. Fortunately, she had a lot of guts.

“Paul didn’t misrepresent himself,” Ethan said. “Your friend Carole misunderstood him.”

“It was up to him to make sure she understood him,” Gina argued, working hard to keep her voice as level as his.

“She already had her week here, in January. Did she think she was entitled to two weeks?”

“He said he wasn’t going to use the place this week.”

“He isn’t. We are. You and the little girl will have to find another place to stay.”

His gaze shifted, focusing on something behind Gina. She spun around and saw Alicia standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a half-eaten cookie in her hand and a smear of chocolate on her lower lip. Her eyes shimmered with moisture. “Do we have to leave?” she asked in a tremulous voice. A fat tear slid down her cheek. “I want to go to the beach, Aunt Gina. We don’t have to leave, do we?”

Gina wasn’t sure how to answer. Carole and some ass named Paul Collins had crossed wires, and it seemed to her that Ethan and the Hamiltons had as strong a case for staying as she and Alicia did. But Ethan Parnell’s case wasn’t stronger. She and Gina had as much a right to be here as they did.

And the scale tipped slightly in her favor, because she had something they didn’t have: Alicia. She had a niece for whom she would slay dragons, a niece who’d been through a hellacious few months as her parents’ marriage deteriorated, and now she was crying, and Gina had promised they would go to the beach.

She turned back to Ethan and said, “We’re not leaving.”

“THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS,” Delia Hamilton huffed. She set her purse on an end table by the sofa, as if staking her claim on the disputed territory. “They can’t stay.”

Ethan flashed her an impatient look. Delicate negotiations were necessary. Issuing ultimatums wouldn’t help. “Mrs. Hamilton—”

“Delia’s right,” Ross piped up. “The woman and her daughter will have to go.”

“She’s my niece,” the woman corrected him. “Not my daughter.”

Ethan wished he could sit down, but that would put him at a tactical disadvantage. The headache that had seized him on the drive flared with renewed vigor, surging up from his neck over the top of his head and cresting at the bridge of his nose. Yes, the woman and her niece would have to go. There had been a monumental screwup, and it was her friend’s fault, and unfortunately, she and her niece would be stuck paying the price.

New York City flowed in her veins—or at least, tripped along her tongue. She had a classic accent, all exaggerated vowels, harsh consonants and a sporadic absence of the letter R. Her straight black hair was chin-length and blunt-cut, her eyes dark, her nose a bit too long for her face and her cheekbones a bit too wide. Her complexion had a tawny olive undertone, making him wonder about her ethnicity. Morante—could be Hispanic, could be Italian. She wore a skintight black tank top covered by a sheer peach-hued shirt, short denim cutoffs that displayed long tanned legs, a black belt with an industrial-strength buckle and thick-soled leather sandals that made her feet look disproportionately tiny. His gaze strayed repeatedly to her feet. The skin of her insteps was unusually smooth and her toes were perfect little knobs tipped with pearl-hued polish. The second toe of her left foot sported a silver ring.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” he said, although he was sure of no such thing. He forced his attention away from her feet and his gaze slid up those long legs again, the snug-fitting shorts, the black top that emphasized the swell of her bosom, her slender neck and pointy chin and those wide, sharp cheekbones. Silver hoops pierced her ears, two hoops per lobe. Nothing about her looked bland or boring—or safe.