Larissa Learns to Breathe (7 page)

She shook her head, hard. “You don't understand. I just can't seem to get along with people. Know what they used to call me at my first job? Ice Princess.”

“That's…not very flattering,” Tommy conceded.

“And know what I was doing before I got this job?” She drew a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

“No, and it doesn't matter. This is a…a special place. You'll see. No one has met Rafe, but somehow he knows things about people. Important things, the things that matter. Everyone here is just basically good.”

Larissa laughed bitterly. “You make it sound like he's some sort of magical guardian.”

“Well…” Tommy wound his fingers through her hair, pushing it carefully to the side, so that it tickled against her neck and shoulder. Then he brushed his lips against her bare nape. Larissa swallowed hard, knowing she should pull away, knowing that this was one more mistake in a long line of them.

But she was already finished here. Humiliated. Bridges burned. And his touch felt like the only good thing that had come her way in a very long time, at least since the small ray of hope she'd stupidly allowed herself to enjoy when she accepted this doomed job. Who knew when she'd have something to celebrate again?

“I don't know if there's magic on the island,” Tommy whispered, closing his arms around her, pressing his body against hers. “But I want to find out. Now. Here. With you.”

He turned her toward him, and she caught her breath. His jaw was faintly stubbled; it left tiny trails of sensation along her neck that had turned her blood to hot, rushing waves. She didn't feel hungover any more. She didn't feel anything but longing. Need. Urgency.

“I'm not a good person,” she whispered. But that wasn't true, not really. Larissa tried hard. She always had. And somehow, right now, it seemed very important to tell the truth. “I'm not a good employee, anyway. I haven't been successful at any job I've ever tried.”

“Then I won't hire you for anything. And I promise not to apply to be a maid, so you won't be able to ruin my career, either.”

“But…people don't like me.”

“
I
like you,” he said, and kissed her. His lips were warm and his tongue barely brushed against hers. He wound his fingers more deeply into her hair, pulling her head back so he could kiss along the tender skin underneath her chin. She moaned deep in her throat and Bluebell answered with a questioning whine. “You taste like toothpaste,” he continued. “Glad to know that if you'd been too late to save me, at least mouth-to-mouth would have been pleasant.”

His hands found their way under the T-shirt she'd worn to bed. His rough skin, callused and scarred, worked magic along her nerve endings. She felt limp in his arms, like she might melt against him. With the last of her strength, she shoved him toward the cot, and he pulled her down into the warm sleeping bag with him, pushing the dog out of the way. Bluebell tumbled onto the stone floor with an indignant grunt, and then poked her snout against Larissa's bare calf, as if hoping she'd be allowed to squeeze back in with the two of them.

“Dogs don't like me,” Larissa sighed. And that would be a very big problem indeed, because she was pretty sure that Tommy and Bluebell weren't the kind of team that would be easy to break up, but since she'd be drummed off the island and back into the unemployment line within hours, she might as well take advantage of the time that they had together.

“You two just don't know each other yet,” Tommy said, sliding the soft T-shirt up her body. “Oh. Oh, sweet angel of mercy. I thought I got a good look at you yesterday but this…this…”

He bent to kiss his way down her neck, her collarbones, murmuring his appreciation as he went. Larissa sighed and ran her fingers through his beachcomber hair.

When Bluebell caught the scent of a seabird pecking for crumbs on the beach, she took off at a gallop, but by then, both of the humans in the little stone room were past noticing.

CHAPTER NINE

Tommy took a seat between Chloe and Charlie Allen, the maintenance foreman. “Great dinner last night, as always,” he said, toasting Chloe with the steaming cup of coffee to which he'd just helped himself.

“Glad you liked it,” Chloe said. “It's just sandwiches tonight. I'll have all hands on deck doing pies and stuffing today. We'll need all the ovens for the turkeys and side dishes.”

Thanksgiving was tomorrow. Tommy had completely forgotten, given the events of the last twenty-four hours. Maybe he shouldn't have tried so hard to talk Larissa into coming to the staff meeting. He still thought she might be able to talk her way into a second chance, especially if she explained to Rafe what had happened.

“In front of everyone?” she'd said, shocked.

“Yeah, it's the only time any of us ever get to talk to him live. I mean, you could send an email…”

Larissa would never do that. She might be a failed MBA-turned-entrepreneur, but she wasn't an ill-mannered one.

“I'll make sure my letter of resignation is signed by Amelia before I leave,” she'd said. “I'll find someone to row me back, and don't worry, I won't fall in this time.”

By then, the heat the two of them had generated—first in the little stone cot and then a second time in the shower in his bathroom—seemed to have drained from her. As he raced to shave and dress in time to check in on the crew's progress before the staff meeting, she sat forlornly on the bed, wrapped in a towel, scheming her exit.

“At least don't leave until I get back,” he'd pleaded with her before leaving.

She'd promised.

She seemed so sad. Tommy brought Bluebell with him, tying her up outside Palmetto Manor, where Chloe had set a big water bowl out for just that purpose, so that at least Larissa could pack and collect her thoughts without the dog distracting her.

The antiquated speakerphone system let out its customary chime, which sounded like a prison alarm going off. At least, it was what Tommy imagined a prison alarm would sound like, not having ever had the opportunity to find out. Several of the dozen people gathered around the antique walnut conference table exclaimed at the sound. Chloe jumped; she was probably under more pressure than any of them: since none of the staff on the island would be able to travel to see loved ones, she had to make sure the Thanksgiving feast would be one to remember.

“I thought you were going to fix that, Oliver,” someone called out.

Oliver Baker, tech guru extraordinaire—rumor was that Rafe had poached him from the Los Angeles library system, where he'd been the youngest head librarian ever—threw up his hands in defeat. “I've tried, people. I've taken all of your suggestions under advisement—even yours, Bill, though I'm not sure that the sound of a beer can being cracked is quite the effect Rafe would appreciate—but I can't figure out how to modify this thing.”

Everyone stared at the large beige plastic speaker planted in the middle of the table as it crackled to life. The few techies in residence on the island had first assumed that Oliver was incompetent…until they each took a crack at figuring out the ancient wiring system in the manor. It was well known that, while the cell company swore the entire island should be in range of reception—and the cable company had sent its techs out repeatedly to figure out why wireless only worked inside the walls of Palmetto Manor—the simple fact was that no one really understood what was going on the island. It was as though it was a sort of Bermuda Triangle of data transmission—which was exactly why Oliver had agreed to take the job. Not, as some initially groused, because he was paid a handsome salary to care for what was essentially only a single twelve thousand square foot structure—but because he was determined to crack the mystery of why the only data coming in and out was the data that supported Rafe's plans for the island.

And the funny thing was, Rafe didn't seem to object a bit. Every few days, his booming voice projected from the outdated speakerphone, and each time Oliver would announce plans to test or install some new aspect of the island's infrastructure. And Rafe would wish him well. If there was a hint of mischief in his voice, perhaps it was only because he was pleased that his young guru was well occupied.

Tommy did wonder how things would play out when actual paying guests arrived—guests who expected their luxuriant lodgings to feature television and wireless connectivity. Guests who expected to make phone calls and check their emails and watch the news and check on their investments. Some, he expected, would be duly frustrated.

But maybe others would be pleased. Certainly, after the initial grousing, none of the staff missed the constant connectivity. Short-range walkie-talkies took care of the needs of the construction staff; bicycle messengers turned out to be surprisingly effective to fill the gaps.

“Good morning, colleagues,” Rafe said, his customary greeting. “Good morning,” the assembled voices chorused.

“I'd like to extend a warm welcome to our newest staff members. Amelia, Larissa, I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

Silence filled the room as everyone looked to Amelia—and then searched for Larissa.

Tommy felt his face redden, even though no one could know that he was the last person to see Larissa—literally—in the flesh.

“Good morning, sir,” Amelia's cultured voice rang out. “Amelia here. Everything is quite satisfactory. I'm sure Larissa would agree, but she was unfortunately detained.”

She smiled placidly at the speakerphone, not meeting any of the curious gazes. Tommy had to admire her chutzpah—and her loyalty. His estimation of the woman rose a few notches.

Rafe began his usual status inquiries, not pressing Amelia for further details. So that was a bullet dodged, in more ways than one. Had no one emailed Rafe to let him know about last night's fiasco? He wondered if he'd underestimated his colleagues; had discretion won out over the urge to gossip?

In Tommy's experience, that was rarely the way things played out. The people he'd worked with—even at the world-renowned research facility—couldn't resist the temptation of gossip and conjecture. The newest employees usually had to endure some minor hazing, even if it was as innocent as getting stuck with the worst shifts or the smallest cubicle. But as the various department heads checked in to let Rafe know about their progress toward opening day, he noted that not one of them had anything unkind to say. There were no subtle jabs or snubs. Everyone seemed to be truly pulling together toward the common goal of getting Cupid Island open for business.

“Tommy Reid,” Rafe's voice carried through the room. “How are we doing with the beach outpost?”

Tommy snapped out of his reverie and updated Rafe on what he'd already shared with Bill: the kinks in the water supply to the beach shack had been worked out; the industrial coolers were on pallets, waiting to be installed; and the matching fabric for the chaises had been located and the outdoor cushions were being fabricated in Miami on a rush order.

“How's that lab of yours, Tommy?” Rafe asked, and Tommy found himself reporting that Bluebell was fine, and the conversation had moved on to other things before he even realized that he didn't remember ever telling Rafe what breed she was.

But he had more pressing things to focus on. Larissa still wasn't here, and the meeting had been underway for nearly thirty-five minutes. What's more, he hadn't heard Bluebell's telltale woof in quite a while, even though the windows were open and one of the gardeners had promised to keep an eye on her.

Something was wrong. He caught Amelia's eye, and noted that she too looked worried. And maybe a little bit disappointed.

Was it possible that even Amelia was wondering whether Larissa had simply given up and gone home? Without apologizing, without trying to explain?

That couldn't be right. Granted, Tommy had known Larissa only for a short time, but in that time he'd seen her laugh and cry, hold everything in and bare her heart, fear the worst and be brave in the face of fear. Larissa might like to believe she was the soul of discretion, but she was also an open book…at least to him.

Tommy was extremely good with data, but he liked to believe he was pretty good with people, too. It was one of his better qualities that he saw the best in people, but he was realistic. There were plenty of people in the world who were short on courage, but Larissa—despite what she might think—was not one of them. It took a lot of guts to reinvent herself a second time only months after launching a new career. And a woman who was capable of that was certainly capable of facing up to her mistakes.

When Larissa had told him that she'd be at the meeting, she hadn't been lying.

Tommy looked out at the ocean, at the brilliant November sun slicing through the last of the morning mists, shining down on the white beach and the neat rows of cabanas that would be his responsibility in six days when they were filled with guests. He always felt a sense of pride that the view from the conference room was of his corner of the island, and while he might be biased, he thought it was the finest view around.

Except today, the sky was not the unbroken blue it had been all week. Near the western end, so that he had to crane his neck to see, the sky went from blue to an angry purple. The ocean was churning, waves crashing against the beach. The palms bent down, blown by a wind that hadn't been there when he walked over. As he watched, one of the changing tents with their gaily striped awnings shivered violently and then pulled free of its stakes and went tumbling toward the water like a plastic bag caught in a draft.

His timing perfect, Rafe's voice asked, “How are preparations for the storm?”

What storm? His colleagues looked at each other in confusion. There had been no warning in the forecast.

But November was storm season. In all the years Tommy had spent on Key Grande, they'd gotten a few big ones every fall. But there hadn't been any warning signs early this morning. And after that…well, after that there might as well have been a plague of locusts, for all he'd been paying attention.