Larissa Learns to Breathe Page 2

  “Yep.”

  “Can you tell me what the condition of the guest bungalows is?”

  “Sure…most of them are nearly completed. Painting’s finished, new electric run. We’ve had a glitch or two with plumbing but nothing that should make us miss the deadline. Oliver—he’s the tech guy—he’s held us up a little because he’s been trying to figure out why the only place anyone not local can get cell service is inside the manor, but Rafe finally decided to scrap that project so the electricians got back to work today.”

  “They’re still working on electric?” Larissa pursed her lips. “Well, it does seem a little premature to announce the grand opening. Any number of things could go wrong in the next week. It’s a good thing my staff are on site, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to get them trained if we can’t get into the bungalows.”

  Uh oh, Tommy thought. She definitely needed to relax, or she was going to have a heart attack before the first guest arrived. “I’ve met some of the maids,” he said. “Rowed ‘em over here myself. You’ve got good people working for you.”

  “We’ll want to see what systems are in place already,” Amelia murmured, barely moving a muscle. “I’ll set up meetings with the chef, the concierges…”

  “I know there’s going to be a learning curve for me,” Larissa conceded. “I had just hoped things would be—oh no, what is that?” A large, dark brown mass came racing out of the palm grove near the dock, tearing straight toward them. “Are there wild boar on the island?”

  Tommy chuckled. “Wild boar? That’s a good one. No, that’s just—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Bluebell hurtled down the dock and leapt, soaring through the air for one glorious airborne moment before creating a huge canine cannonball, the splash extending many yards in every direction. Then she surfaced, and all that was visible was her joyful, toothy grin and pink-tinged snout as she swam toward them.

  “What is that creature?” Amelia demanded, finally roused from her trance. She gripped the sides of the boat, her elegant manicured fingers white with fear.

  “That’s Bluebell,” Tommy said with a note of pride as he watched her swim. With her powerful shoulders working and silky tail lashing the water, she was a far cry from the flea-bitten, worm-infested lump of bedraggled fur that Tommy had found shivering behind a convenience store on a road trip to Miami a couple of years ago. “She likes to greet the boats.”

  “She’s not going to—oh, no,” Larissa shrieked, scrambling away from the front of the boat. Too late, Tommy saw the fear in her eyes and remembered that the woman couldn’t swim. And she had no way of knowing that he’d trained Bluebell to circle the boat once and then head back to shore, a trick meant to amuse any kids who visited the island, and—

  What was the fool woman doing? She’d scrambled up onto her knees on the wooden bench. When the boat went over a swell, she grabbed his shoulder and he yelped in pain. She dug into his flesh with her lacquered nails for all she was worth.

  “Stay!” she yelled. Bluebell paused, her ears perking up. For a moment, she paddled in place, ears cocked, before heading toward them again.

  “Platz! PLATZ!” As Larissa’s voice escalated in decibels, it also rose in pitch, becoming a high scream. Tommy didn’t have the faintest idea what she was saying, but it was clear she was terrified of dogs. He was going to have to rethink the whole canine welcoming committee idea before opening day.

  “Bluebell,” he called. “Cut it out, now.”

  The trouble was that he didn’t really have a command to tell her to head back. She’d never learned ‘stay.’ ‘Budweiser’ had struck him as funny when he’d made her a pallet in an old beer crate when she was a puppy; it was still her command to go to lie down. But she was in the water now, far from her bed.

  At the sound of his voice, her joy only increased. As much as Bluebell loved new people, she loved Tommy most of all, with the passion that only an abandoned animal is capable of. She gave several powerful strokes and made it all the way to the boat, where she bumped her snout against the side and barked.

  Larissa made a squeaking sound and threw herself at Tommy.

  At least she hadn’t tried to stand, or she’d have gone in again. For the second time that day Tommy chastised himself for forgetting to retrieve the life vests from the Daisy Jean; he wouldn’t make that mistake again. Not only was it irresponsible and dangerous, but as his spine slammed against the hard wood bench with Larissa on top of him, he wished he’d had the benefit of the padding a vest would have lent him.

  As he tried to right them both, Larissa only held on tighter, her arms circling his waist and her face pressed against his neck. Still damp and chilly from her dunking, her face was incredibly soft and smelled like seawater and perfume. Her frantic hands slipped under his shirt somehow, and the sensation of her slippery cold fingers against his back ignited urges that were really not very convenient, considering the situation.

  “It’s going to capsize us!” Larissa yelled.

  “No, she’s just—” Tommy’s response was cut short as Larissa leaned out of the boat and tried to push Bluebell away, succeeding only in convincing the dog that she wanted to play.

  “Larissa, it might be a good idea if you—”

  But whatever Amelia was about to say was cut short by Larissa’s scream as Bluebell, sensing an opportunity for tug-of-war, caught hold of the cuff of her shirt in her wet jaw. Tommy’s heart sank. He was supposed to be training her not to pull, but the truth was that he still enjoyed the game he’d played with her as a puppy. Now that she weighed nearly eighty pounds it was more of a fair fight.

  “Bluebell, no!” he yelled.

  Larissa screamed. Amelia reached for the oar. And the air was filled with the sound of fabric ripping.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Are you taking those from the restaurant stock?” Amelia demanded, as Tommy pulled three frosty brown bottles from the long refrigerator behind the bar and set them on the polished wood. “Is there an inventory system in place?”

  “I doubt they’ve gotten that far,” Larissa said sarcastically, her teeth chattering.

  She was draped in a cotton throw that Tommy had hunted down from somewhere in the manor after depositing the two women in the lounge. She was only now beginning to warm up, her toes inches away from the space heater Tommy had dragged over for her, since the radiant heating system had apparently not been turned on yet. All throughout the beautiful building, the sound of hammering and sawing and men’s voices rang out. Raphael Westermere III clearly was sparing no expense to finish the renovations.

  So far, they were impressive. The carved woodwork had been lovingly restored and gleamed under a new coat of varnish. The brass light fixtures had been polished to a shine, and richly patterned rugs covered the floors.

  Tommy followed her gaze as she checked out the impressive selection of liquor. To her untrained eye, it all looked top shelf; there were no inexpensive brands in sight. The glasses were cut crystal; the pewter bowls filled with lemon and lime slices practically glowed.

  “Rafe wanted the bar done first,” he explained. “He says that a crew putting in so much overtime ought to be able to kick back with a cold one at the end of a shift.”

  Amelia gasped. “On the job? In the public areas of the resort?”

  Larissa stifled a hysterical giggle. Of course, Tommy would have no way of knowing that Rafe had chosen Amelia for her micromanaging skills. At least, that was Larissa’s best guess at why he had chosen Amelia, but since her job offer—as hers—had been delivered anonymously under the door to her apartment, she really had no idea. Subsequent communications from Raphael via email had contained no insight into their employer’s personal life, nor did he explain why he had hired them.

  In their prior lives—how quickly New York City had receded into memory! —Amelia had worked as a manager at the Chelsea Market, an extremely fancy and expensive specialty grocery store on 26th Street. In a place where the olives sold for
fifteen dollars a pound, and you could buy a bottle of champagne for more than Larissa’s monthly rent, it was no wonder that Amelia’s success hinged on her ability to keep rigid track of daily operations. But it was obvious that her style wouldn’t mesh with the current atmosphere here in Palmetto Manor. Either Amelia was going to have to relax—or the staff of Cupid Island were in for some changes.

  Larissa was putting her money on Amelia.

  Tommy brought the bottles over and set them down on a marble-topped coffee table, then plopped unceremoniously in an upholstered club chair, his long tanned legs splayed in front of him. He took a deep drink from one of the bottles and sighed contentedly.

  “Does this mean you are officially off the clock?” Amelia asked coolly.

  “Oh, this isn’t alcohol. Try it, it’s local ginger beer, they make it over on Key Grande.”

  Larissa took a cautious sip. It was delicious—unlike anything she’d ever tried before. Rich and piquant and foamy, and exactly what she needed now that she was finally out of danger of drowning. She was wearing a knit dress and flats, the first thing she could pluck from her suitcase, and she’d thrown the silk blouse in the trash. Bluebell had managed to rip off an entire sleeve, which Larissa allowed her to keep. The dog was not allowed inside, thankfully, but Larissa would have been pleased if Tommy had left her stranded on the boat, floating somewhere far away from the island.

  She really hadn’t been cut out for the dog walking business, she finally admitted to herself. Fill a need—she should have given that consultant’s advice a little more thought before plunging into a new endeavor. Except that was what Larissa did: she plunged, head first and full steam ahead. Because it was always easier to just do than to think. Thinking was what had led her parents, both Columbia University professors, into bankruptcy: they’d been so busy working on their definitive biography of one ancient philosopher after another that they didn’t seem to notice that their apartment was falling into disrepair, their only child growing increasingly unhappy in the Upper East Side prep school where hippie flower children were viewed with suspicion, and all the other kids seemed to have CEOs for parents.

  Larissa put herself through college and business school, fueled by sheer determination. She spent her graduation money from her grandparents on a power suit and a new laptop and never looked back. She threw herself into the corporate rat race, logging a promotion in each of the six years she had been working at Torrence Capital, and hadn’t expected to deviate from her path to the corner office—until the day she found herself unceremoniously dumped.

  After the dog walking fiasco, the mysterious job offer had seemed like exactly the opportunity she needed. And so she leapt again, subletting her apartment and shipping her business wardrobe and library of business tomes to the island. For the last two weeks since accepting the job, Larissa had spent long nights researching housekeeping operations. She’d gone on informational interviews and shadowed the housekeeping staff at a hotel where a college friend was the general manager. She’d mocked up a budget and schedule and researched suppliers and shipping options and even come up with a backup plan for the ferry, which now struck her as sheer genius. She supposed that it was possible that Tommy might be a competent construction worker—though she had her doubts—but she wasn’t going anywhere with him ever again, especially never on an oceangoing craft.

  “Blake Industrial Linen is scheduled to deliver a shipment tomorrow morning,” she said crisply, pulling her laptop out of her bag. At least she’d managed to keep it dry during the fracas on the boat. “I trust they’ll have full access to the dock.”

  To his credit, Tommy managed to look chastened. “Sure. Deliveries have all been coming in on the southeast side of the island, where the original landing strip was. We haven’t had too many hiccups.”

  Larissa nodded. She had to admit that the amount of work that had been accomplished since June, when renovations had begun, was nothing short of astonishing. The grounds were in immaculate condition, the stately palms trimmed and planters filled with winter arrangements. The guest bungalows had been painted a variety of tropical shades and outfitted with jaunty shutters and trim, fresh white fences, and wooden decks. Sunset beckoned from down at the beach in the distance, past the wide green lawn with its bocce courts and dance platform, the glistening pool and tennis courts.

  “I am assuming there will be a conference call in the morning?” Amelia said. “Or should I ask Mr. Watts for a private meeting? I would like a formal update on the construction schedule.”

  Tommy grimaced, and Larissa wondered if he had trouble with authority figures. Bill Watts was the construction manager, according to the materials she had received by courier after accepting the job. “Sure, you’ll meet Bill at the meeting. There’s one every morning, and I’m sure they’re all anxious to meet you. I’ll be there to give an update on the pool house. Marble shipment from Italy was delayed.”

  A man came into the room, wiping his hands on his pants. He was covered with a thin layer of white dust. “Yo, Tommy, got a problem with staff cabin number eleven. Felix had to shut off the water. He’s got parts coming in off the big island but we’re not going to have it fixed until tomorrow, earliest.”

  “Uh-oh,” Tommy said, stealing a glance at her. “Thanks for letting me know, Gordon. No way we can jury rig something until then? Maybe borrow some parts from the guest cabins?”

  “No, sorry,” the man said apologetically. “Problem’s in the main line. We’ve got the wall torn out. Good thing we found it now, though, boss says the lady who’s moving into it is pretty high maintenance.”

  Gordon’s voice trailed off as Tommy made a throat-cutting gesture, rolling his eyes in Larissa’s direction. He looked from Larissa to Amelia and back, and blushed bright pink. “Oh. Um. I’m sorry, I thought you were…I mean…”

  Then it was Larissa’s turn to blush: her makeup was smudged; her hair was drying into a wild, tangled mass of curls, as it always did when she didn’t blow it dry; and she was huddled under a blanket. Whatever impression she had made on Gordon, it couldn’t be good.

  But Amelia stepped toward him and offered her hand. “Perhaps I am the high-maintenance lady of whom you’re speaking?” she asked in a voice as cold as the Arctic circle. “Amelia Drake. General Manager.”

  “No ma’am,” the man said, consulting a clipboard. “Cabin eleven goes to someone named Larissa Lawson.”

  Everyone looked at her. The corner of Amelia’s mouth twitched faintly. Larissa stood with as much dignity as she could muster, clutching the blanket tightly at her throat—she wasn’t about to give the man a view of her bra through the ruined blouse, on top of everything else.

  “I’m Larissa Lawson,” she said, her voice high and thin. “Head of housekeeping.”

  Gordon had no choice but to shake her hand, though he looked like he wanted to disappear. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am. We’ll get your cabin finished as soon as possible.”

  “See that you do,” Larissa said, then bit her lip. She didn’t mean to sound so bitchy; it was her defense mechanism when she felt cornered. A trick she’d picked up in business school, when she’d competed against Columbia University’s best and brightest. At the time, it had seemed like a reasonable way to distinguish herself from the other students—and it had worked. Snagging the coveted job at Torrence Capital after graduation had been her prize.

  And her frosty demeanor had continued to ensure her success, promotion after promotion. She knew her peers didn’t like her; she knew they called her the Ice Princess behind her back. But she told herself it didn’t matter, because after all, she was headed for the corner suite.

  Fat lot of good that had done her. Turned out that ice princesses only went so far before they ended up alienating everyone around them, and then the bottom fell out beneath their feet.

  Larissa had been on Cupid Island less than an hour, and she’d already managed to be rude and condescending to the first two employees she’d met.

&nbs
p; Not employees, she reminded herself with a glance at Amelia. She wasn’t the boss here, at least not of Tommy. They were colleagues.

  “I’m sorry,” she said miserably, feeling like she might cry. “It’s been a long day. What I meant to say was…” She gulped, catching her breath and standing as straight as possible. “If you’ll just direct me to one of the guest bungalows, I’m sure it will be more than adequate until mine is ready. I think I’d like to freshen up now.”

  Gordon exchanged another freighted look with Tommy. “Well, the thing is, Ms. Lawson, none of them are ready either. We haven’t laid the carpet yet—they’re working on it today.”

  “What about my suite?” Amelia demanded. As general manager, she was the only person who would actually reside in Palmetto Manor, in the original suite of rooms belonging to Raphael Westermere’s grandfather.

  “Oh, yes,” Gordon said with evident relief. “Your suite has been ready since last week. Rafe was real clear about that—he wanted yours finished first. I think you’ll like it.”

  “Well, you can just stay with me until your cabin is ready,” Amelia said to Larissa.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Larissa protested. Not only did she hate to impose on her former client and coworker, but she longed for a few hours to herself. To unpack and unwind…to cry in private, if necessary. To pull herself together. “Surely there’s something else available?”

  “I have an idea,” Tommy said, snapping his fingers. “What about the honeymoon suite?”

  Gordon’s expression slipped. “Are you serious?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Rafe’s not going to like that…and seriously, I wouldn’t call it, uh, suitable—”

  “That will be fine,” Amelia said with finality. “Please prepare it for her. If it is an issue, I’ll take it up with Mr. Westermere myself.”

  “But Ms. Drake—”

  “Sooner would be preferable to later,” Amelia cut him off, in a tone that was every bit as firm as Larissa’s was earlier, but somehow the effect was calm and decisive, not bitchy. Amelia, Larissa noted, was a born leader. Heck, if she’d started a dog walking business, the dogs probably would have formed a perfect line behind her as they walked down the street. They probably would have cleaned up after themselves too.