Rich Man, Poor Bride. Linda Goodnight
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suit. Besides I don’t like cheesecake as much as I once did. And we can’t let it go to waste. You’ll be doing me a favor if you eat it. Please.”
“How is it you bring these sweets and fancy foods from your work and do not like any of them? I know you, Ruthie Fernandez. You buy nothing for yourself. You work, work, work, saving pennies, doing without, all for a sick old lady who is not even your kin.”
“Don’t ever say that, Mama. You are my kin.” Ruthie tapped her heart. “Right here, where it matters most.”
“Always in Texas you say how much you love having a home and a husband. Roots, you say. Yet you are in Florida, living in a hotel. You are a good wife to my Jason, but he is gone now—” she crossed herself “—God rest his sweet soul. This place is full of rich, handsome men. You should be finding a new husband, not spending every minute working or caring for me.”
Ruthie’s heart pinched to hear her mother-in-law talk this way. She wasn’t looking for a husband, especially among the snobbish rich and famous. And even if she were, she couldn’t expect a man to care for Naomi the way she did.
“This is only temporary until you’re well. Remember when you first started seeing Dr. Attenburg? Remember how much better you felt for a while?”
They’d had such hope for those few weeks until the money ran out.
A soft smile creased the wrinkled brown face. “Yes. So much better. I believed Dr. Attenburg was going to cure me.”
“And he will. As soon as we can start the treatments again. I’ve saved up the money for the next round.” Almost. Every day Naomi grew weaker, and Ruthie was terrified of losing her. She had to start those treatments again soon.
“Already?”
Ruthie faked a jaunty grin. “Tomorrow I’ll call for an appointment.” Somehow, some way, she’d manage the expense. “And in no time you will be on your feet making me the world’s best tamales.”
“Better than Mrs. Sanchez’s, sí?”
“Sí, Mama. The best.” Ruthie fought a smile. Naomi and their former neighbor Mrs. Sanchez had a good-natured battle over who was the best cook. In the past two years, the battle had been on hold as Mama’s condition worsened.
Her print dress, once snug on a rounded body, now draped limply over her knees. Ruthie hugged those bony knees and stood. Leaning down, she kissed Naomi’s soft cheek. “Let me grab a shower to wash off this chlorine, and I’ll fix you something good to eat. Okay?”
“Rest, child.” Naomi’s fragile eyelids drooped.
“You rest, Mama,” she said, swallowing the lump that formed in her throat every time she looked at the woman who’d been so vital, so energetic before this strange illness took over. “I’m not the least bit tired.”
As Ruthie showered and dressed, she justified the tiny untruth with the knowledge that more work meant more money. Because of the experimental nature of Naomi’s expensive treatments, Dr. Attenburg required cash—a commodity in short supply in the Fernandez coffers. And now the good doctor said Naomi needed more intensive—and more expensive—therapy, a fact she wouldn’t share with her mother-in-law. The money was her problem to solve. Naomi had to concentrate on getting well.
Gnawing on her bottom lip, Ruthie yanked her hair into a loose knot on her head and headed into the kitchen area. If only there was some faster way to earn more…Or perhaps Dr. Attenburg would consider extending a little credit.
Fretting, planning and mentally counting her pennies, she rummaged through the refrigerator trying to hustle up a healthy meal to tempt Naomi’s decreased appetite. She sprinkled cheese on a simple noodle casserole and was sliding it into the microwave when her pager went off.
A glance revealed Merry Montrose’s phone number. Ruthie tapped the number into her telephone. Holding the receiver between her shoulder and chin, she tossed together a green salad while listening to the manager’s voice.
“One of the waiters can’t make it in. He claims to be sick, though I have my doubts about that unless laziness is now a recognized malady. So I need you down here. Six sharp.”
“The Banyan Room? At six?” Ruthie checked the digital clock on the microwave. Twenty-five minutes to finish dinner and make sure Naomi ate before reporting for duty. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.”
“And don’t be late.”
“I won’t. I appreciate the work.” An understatement.
“There’s a very special couple with reservations tonight, and I want you to see that they have the best of everything.” The manager’s voice took on an intense edge.
“Of course. I’ll take good care of them.” Ruthie scrambled around for a piece of paper. She didn’t want to call an important guest by the wrong name. Finding a pen, she poised, ready.
“I’ve reserved table five, the cozy corner table with the perfect moonlit beach view, for Dr. Diego Vargas and Sharmaine Coleman.”
Ruthie’s insides took a nosedive. Not Dr. Vargas, the naked hunk in the penthouse! Swallowing hard, she jotted down the woman’s name then tossed the pen aside. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget the man. Though she wanted to request another server for that table, Ruthie knew better than to cross the resort manager.
Merry Montrose made her nervous, always sharp-tongued and on the alert as though looking for a reason to fire her. Losing this job was not an option, so Ruthie did everything possible to please the demanding old lady.
She had worked the Banyan Room numerous times and liked the atmosphere. Posh, quiet and expensive, the five-star facility only attracted the very wealthiest patrons. And the tips were incredible.
But the insulting Dr. Diego Vargas was the one person in the resort she did not want to see. Not yet. Not until she’d wiped away the vision of his smooth dark skin. And his perfect masculine chest. And his gorgeous face. And his—she slammed her eyes shut and tried not to think at all.
Tips or no tips, tonight was going to be a long night.
Ruthie spotted him the moment he walked in the door. If such a thing was possible Diego Vargas looked better in a suit than he did naked. And the woman at his side, Sharmaine Coleman, was exquisite in a short blue sleeveless dress cut down to there.
Fighting back the zip of interest in a man she didn’t even know, Ruthie waited until the couple had been seated before approaching the table. From the explicit instructions she’d received from Merry Montrose both before and after her arrival at the restaurant, Ruthie knew the manager had some sort of interest in Dr. Vargas and his date. Perhaps they were personal friends, although it wouldn’t be the first time the manager had requested special services for a particular couple. In fact, several of those couples had gone on to marry.
For some reason the thought of Diego Vargas marrying Sharmaine Coleman bothered her. But she knew her job and would perform it to perfection. She had to. Her paycheck was Naomi’s lifeline. For a woman with little education, service work was the best Ruthie could hope for.
Complaining guests could get her fired, and after her run-in with Dr. Vargas, that was a distinct possibility if she upset him again. Even though he’d insulted her with his insinuations, the customer at La Torchere was always right.
Nestled in a corner amidst a tropical minigarden of bougainvillea and ponytail palms, table five looked out toward the beach. Ruthie had seen to the place settings herself, so she knew the silver gleamed, the polished crystal reflected the candlelight, and the napkins were perfectly fanned. No couple could resist the romantic ambience. Ruthie had even made certain that a fresh orchid centered the white linen tablecloth. Now if only she could manage to serve them without Dr. Vargas recognizing her. Hopefully he hadn’t gotten as close a look at her as she had him.
Ruthie suppressed a nervous giggle. That much was a given. She’d definitely seen much more of him than he had