Rich Man, Poor Bride. Linda Goodnight
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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