Judith Arnold - Right Place, Wrong Time

When she reemerged from her room with the kid, she had the decency to wear a lacy white cover-up over her bikini. It didn’t hide much, but it distracted him from what was underneath. She sent him a smile that had a hint of teasing in it, and swung a bright green toy pail and shovel and a colorful tote bag as she guided her niece out the door.

“That’s taken care of,” Ross Hamilton announced, joining Ethan in the living room. He looked grim and patronizing, as if he considered Ethan an irredeemable loser, too inept to arrange a sensible vacation. “We’ve got our reservation. What a disaster.”

“The reservation?”

“No—this entire situation. You’ll convey our displeasure to your friend Paul, won’t you?”

“I’ll let him know,” Ethan promised. “Do you want me to drive you and Mrs. Hamilton over to the hotel now?”

“I’d like to look around here first,” Delia said as she trailed out of the kitchen with Kim. “We’re not going to stay here, but we can at least check out the place. Because I don’t know how much time we’ll want to spend at Palm Point when those two—people are here,” she concluded, uttering the word as though it were the worst sort of insult. “You may wind up spending most of your time with us at the hotel.” She seemed distinctly cheered by the possibility.

Ethan couldn’t imagine spending most of his time with the Hamiltons at the hotel. He’d rather hang out with a two strangers than with Kim’s pompous parents. If he did ultimately decide to marry Kim, he’d make sure they never lived anywhere near Chevy Chase, Maryland—unless, of course, the Hamiltons moved to Nova Scotia.

“This bedroom is pretty. This is the one you’ll be staying in,” Delia declared as she and Kim wandered into the master bedroom. “Is it clean? Do they just shove the dust around, or do they do a real cleaning, with furniture polish?”

Not wishing to hear her assessment of the room’s cleanliness, Ethan headed out onto the terrace. A breeze drifting up from the water fluttered the palm fronds and distorted the voices of the people enjoying the beach. Off toward the horizon, a rainbow-colored sail bobbed above the water. Closer to the shore, people waded in the water and floated on the surface, snorkeling gear strapped to their heads.

Ethan’s gaze zeroed in on Gina and her niece as they set up shop in the shade of a palm. He told himself he’d spotted them instantly because of the Day-Glo brightness of the kid’s swimsuit, but in fact Gina had attracted his attention. She’d shed the lacy cover-up, and even at this distance, he could see the curve of her back, the wind sifting through her hair.

“She’s not very respectful,” Ross Hamilton noted, sidling up beside Ethan and resting his hands on the railing. Ethan followed his gaze; it led him back to Gina. “Obviously not well-bred. I don’t like her attitude.”

“She probably just felt awkward,” Ethan defended her. “Her friend screwed up, and she was put on the defensive. She’ll be all right.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out, we’ll get another room at the hotel. But I must say, I’m not thrilled about this unexpected expenditure.”

“I’ll talk to Paul about it.” And say what? That Paul should reimburse Ross Hamilton for the hotel room? This wasn’t Paul’s fault, any more than it was Ethan’s—or Gina’s.

“Delia seems to be making the best of it,” Ross said wryly. “Give her room service and she’s as happy as a duffer who’s just gotten a hole in one. As for that woman…” He gestured toward the beach, where Gina was now on her knees, scooping up sand with her bare hands. Ethan couldn’t see her smile, but he could imagine it. “I’d keep my things locked up if I were you.”

“You believe she’s a thief?” Ethan laughed.

“I don’t know what she is. Neither do you. Don’t let your guard down.”

Ethan wouldn’t—but fear that Gina Morante would abscond with his money and credit cards wasn’t his primary reason. What he had to guard against was the keen awareness she aroused within him. There was no good explanation for it, other than basic hormones, the typical male response to a woman strutting around in skimpy swimwear.

Gina wasn’t his type. She was too urban, too gritty. He liked his women sweet and refined. Not pliant—Kim certainly wasn’t pliant, but she was genteel. Ladylike. Gracious, except when her dander was up. She was elegant, subtle, the sort of woman who made him feel he was the most important man in the world.

So he had an ego. So he liked the way Kim stroked it. He wasn’t going to apologize for being human.

A wisp of laughter spiraled through the air to the terrace. He had no way of tracing it to a particular person, but he suspected it was Gina’s. Hers and her niece’s. Their heads bowed and their knees touching, they dug in the sand, looking not the least bit elegant or refined or subtle.

They were obviously having a blast. And for one brief, incomprehensible moment, Ethan wished he were down there on the beach with them, digging.

WHEN GINA AND ALICIA returned to the condo, the country clubbers were gone. “Did they leave?” Alicia asked with what sounded like a combination of hope and dread.

Gina found several suitcases in the master bedroom, implying that the younger half of their group intended to stay at the condo with her and Alicia, as they’d said they would. They were probably gone only temporarily, moving the older half into a luxurious hotel room somewhere. “I think we’re stuck with them,” she told Alicia. “But we’ll just go ahead and have our vacation as if they weren’t here.”

She made Alicia shower to wash off all the sand that dusted her arms and legs and clogged the cracks between her toes, then took a quick shower, too. She hadn’t packed a bathrobe—she hadn’t expected to need one—but when she peeked out around the bathroom door, she saw and heard nothing to indicate that Ethan and the cheerleader had returned. Wrapping a bath towel around her, just in case, she darted across the hall to the bedroom she and Alicia were now sharing. She was used to living alone in her studio apartment in Chelsea, where as long as the shades were drawn shut she could move around her home wearing as much or as little as she wished. Of course, she would have been discreet even if she’d been sharing Carole’s condo only with Alicia. Seven-year-old nieces should never be flashed by their aunts. But wearing a large bath towel was as discreet as she needed to be for Alicia.

She slipped into a light cotton shift, rubbed some moisturizing lotion into her cheeks and her legs and grabbed her purse. “There’s a restaurant at the hotel just down the beach,” she informed Alicia. “You ready for dinner?”

Unlike their housemates, she and Alicia lacked wheels. Fortunately, the restaurant she had in mind was a short ways down a path that was part boardwalk and part brick, lined with beach grass, sand and palm trees. Since she didn’t have to drive home afterward, Gina happily indulged in a tall, frosty piña colada along with her grilled grouper and vegetables. Alicia wolfed down a burger, a basket of fries and a dish of vanilla ice cream with butterscotch sauce. However many cookies she’d devoured before they’d left for the beach, the snack hadn’t interfered with her appetite.

During the early days of Ramona’s marital crisis, Gina’s sister had confided that Alicia wasn’t eating much. The poor kid had lost a couple of pounds during the past spring, and she didn’t have any weight to spare. But her appetite seemed fine right now. Even the invasion of strangers into their condo hadn’t upset her enough to keep her from enjoying her dinner. Gina was grateful for that.