The Trouble with Mojitos: A Royal Romance to Remember!. Romy Sommer
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face down across one of the rough wooden tables. Beside him stood a harassed looking young man in a wrinkled white suit who had to be the manager.
“What’s the problem?” she asked in her most cheerful voice.
The manager turned, his face transforming from aggrieved to relieved in an instant. Kenzie wished she felt the same, but instead her heart hit the bottom of her espadrilles.
“We need to get him out of here,” the manager said, huffing as he tried to lift Rik’s dead weight. “Where does he need to go?”
“How the hell should I know?” Kenzie frowned at the two men.
“He gave you his car keys,” the barman pointed out.
“Yes. He asked me to keep them until the morning so he wouldn’t drive anywhere in this state.” She turned to the manager. “Surely you must know which room he’s in.”
The manager stiffened, righteous indignation written all over him. “He’s not a guest of this hotel.”
It just kept on coming.
“Maybe there’s something in his car that will tell us where he belongs?” she suggested. “Then perhaps we can call a cab and send him home.”
“We can’t leave him here while we look,” the manager said. “What if he wakes up and wanders into the sea, or one of the pools? I don’t want to be responsible for that.”
Neither did she. “Okay, we’ll have to take him with us to the main building.”
It took both men to lift Rik off the table. Then, with his arms looped around their shoulders, they began the shuffle back along the brightly lit path. The trip took at least three times as long as it had taken Kenzie on the way down. Impatient to get rid of the lot of them and back to the comfort of her king-size bed, she lengthened her strides and hurried ahead, fingering the car keys in her pocket.
She had no idea how she was going to identify which car she was looking for. This could take all night.
But when she reached the guest car park, it wasn’t too hard to work out which car was Rik’s. The car park was packed full of vehicles that were obviously rentals – all but one, a sleek black Lamborghini.
Doing ‘Nothing much’ clearly paid a lot of money. Perhaps he really was a pirate. Or a drug smuggler. What if she found packages of cocaine stashed beneath the seats?
With her heart knocking against her ribs, Kenzie scoured the car for clues. Nothing. Not a driver’s licence, no scraps of paper – not even a bank bag of marijuana. Relieved by the last but frustrated by the first, she sat down in the passenger seat and racked her brains.
Who was this man? A local, a guest at another hotel? His accent was indistinct. There’d been a hint of something European, but equally he spoke as if he’d learned his English at Eton or Harrow.
She rubbed her forehead. Was anyone missing him?
She jumped as a shadow moved beside her.
“Found anything?” the manager asked, bending down into view.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Did you check if he had any ID on him, or credit cards?”
“Of course. The only thing in his wallet was cash.”
What kind of man drove a fancy sports car but didn’t even have a credit card? In her experience, wealthy people always had plastic of the platinum variety, and weren’t afraid to use it.
Unless her pirate needed to conceal his identity?
Perhaps he was an assassin. Or a stockbroker caught embezzling funds who was now on the run from the law.
She climbed out the car and slammed the door shut. “There’s only one thing to do then.”
“What?”
“You’ll have to put him up in a room for the rest of the night.”
The manager drew up his thin shoulders, offended. “We don’t just give out rooms to everyone who gets drunk in this hotel. I’ll have to call the police.”
Kenzie rubbed her temple where an ache had begun to bloom. If Rik spent the night in a police cell, what were the chances he’d be able to take her to the mayor’s office any time soon? Assuming of course that hadn’t all been a big fat lie.
She squeezed her eyes shut. He’d seemed genuine enough when he offered. Unwilling, but genuine.
Damn him. She needed the mayor’s permission so she could do her bloody job and get off this island and carry on with the rest of her life. Which meant she needed him.
“Fine,” she snapped. “He can sleep in my room.”
There was a sofa. And Rik was so out of it, he’d never even notice he was way too tall for it.
Back in the hotel lobby, Rik lay on a plush banquette, the barman hovering wearily nearby. On the plus side, and unlike Brett, her most recent and completely unlamented ex, Rik neither snored nor drooled in this state.
As the two now red-faced hotel employees manhandled him into the lift, Rik surfaced long enough to mumble “sod them all” before sinking back against the glass wall.
Sod you too, Kenzie thought. And Neil, for sending me into this mess. Though in all fairness, she couldn’t blame the film’s producer. She’d wanted this job. Had begged for it.
As noiselessly as they could, they half-carried, half-dragged Rik down the corridor to her room and she opened the door with her key card.
“On the sofa,” she instructed the men, and they dumped Rik unceremoniously down.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t call the police?” the manager asked, eyeing Rik’s prostrate form.
“Absolutely not,” she said, in the crispest, most professional voice she could muster at this time of night. Or this time of morning.
The barman and manager couldn’t get out fast enough, and Kenzie didn’t stop them. She latched the door behind them and sagged against it.
There had to be worse ways to spend a Friday night, although nothing sprang to mind.
Her gaze fell on Rik, twisted uncomfortably on the sofa. Tough shit. Served him right if he woke with a sore back as well as a sore head.
It was only when she’d undressed and climbed into bed that she noticed the piece of paper sticking out the pocket of Rik’s jeans. The manager clearly hadn’t done a particularly thorough job of searching him.
She shouldn’t bother. She should switch out the light, pull the covers over her head, and get back to sleep.
But that scrap of paper gnawed at her. What if it could tell her who Rik was and where he belonged?
Curiosity won. She padded across the room and eased it out of his pocket, trying hard not to look an inch to the left at the bulge in his jeans. Rik mumbled and rolled over, and she jumped back.
But he didn’t wake.
The paper was a single page, creased as though it had been crumpled in anger then smoothed out again. She really shouldn’t unfold it. She should put it back. It was none of her business …
Oh what the hell …
She unfolded the paper. A letter. No address, just a barely visible embossed logo in the top left hand corner, in the same ivory colour as the paper itself. The note was hand-written in a large, old-fashioned hand, very neat, and dated several weeks ago.
Rik – you’ve been a pain to track down. No more hiding - we need to talk. I expect you at my engagement party and I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. I’ll owe you big. Max
Nothing there to give any hint of who Rik was, yet something tugged at the edge of her memory, just out of reach. She moved to the bedside table