Touch of Fate

Adam was already shaking his head. “Camille loves to laugh. I like to oblige her when I can. But seriously, Aunt Alma, what is it you think we can do with this place? And why us? If you already own the property you could just hire contractors to refurbish the place for you. Then you could hire staff to run it, make an income off it for yourself. You don’t really need to get us involved.” He shrugged.

“Oh, but I do,” she said, pulling out a folder full of old photos. “This is what the house looked like when I was a little girl.”

Adam took a few pictures then slid some to Max. He looked down at what struck him as a house right out of history. Big, palatial, like an old Southern plantation. Wraparound porch, miles of grass, big magnolia trees lining the walkway. He was instantly taken back to a time and place before he was born, when African Americans didn’t have the right to read, much less own a house of this magnitude.

“And you say your great-great-grandfather, Eustis, owned this house and this land. Was this documented?” he asked.

“Of course it was documented, Maxwell. Don’t act like we’re thieves or liars. Because we’re not. I come from much more dignified stock than that.”

Justly scorned, Max nodded. “Okay, so the land is legally yours now. Does the house still look like this?”

“Somewhat, but not really. Jessa had the idea that she could change the house into a resort like the other big ones down in Hilton Head now, but she failed. Just like she failed in everything else she did.”

“Because she didn’t have enough money,” Adam guessed.

“That and because she didn’t have a lick of sense. You can’t run a resort if half the occupants are no-good drunks out to use you for the little bit you have. Jessa was always being used. I suspect because everybody could see she didn’t have it all going on upstairs,” Alma said, tapping a finger against her temple. “Anyway, that’s all done. The good Lord saw fit to carry Jessa on home with the rest of her family. Now, it’s in my hands and I’m so thankful that I’ve been blessed enough in my lifetime to be able to do it right.”

“You want to keep it as a resort?” Max asked, thinking he could see where his mother was going with this.

“That’s right.” Alma nodded. “But I want it to look like this again,” she said, pointing to the pictures in front of them.

“There’s acres and acres of land here, Aunt Alma. Do you want to build on some additions? Increase the number of guests that can be accommodated?”

“No, I want it to remain exactly the same size. I think it’s about ten rooms as it stands now, upstairs and down, not including living quarters for the staff.”

“The staff doesn’t have to live there. They can live elsewhere on the island, increasing the rooms to be rented out,” Max said but Alma was already shaking her head.

“No, I want it like it was when I used to go as a little girl. There was always somebody in that big house. People who took care of it all the time, faces I’d seen so much I thought they were related as well. They lived there so it made it all the more important to take good care of the space. And it was a home away from home. Not a hotel. Everybody felt comfortable there. We had breakfasts together in the big dining room, lunch usually out on the porch. Dinner back in the dining room. It was all timed and respected. The land was always well tended. Nice green grass, bright white magnolias and lots and lots of flowers in the gardens around back. The children had space to play while the grown-ups tended to their business. It was like a haven away from the rest of the world. That’s what I want to give vacationers. Not golf and yachting or expensive shops and boutiques. I want to give them some old Southern comfort.”

Max sighed as he remembered the conversation. Looking around the room at the peeling paint and ragged wood planked floors he rubbed his neck. Bringing his mother’s dream into this reality was going to be tough. But they could do it. She believed in him and Adam—in the business they had built. So much so she’d given them free reign and a limitless budget to get the project done.

So Max was determined to do just that. No matter how much his nightmares haunted him.

She’d messed up again.

That’s what her family would say.

Deena Lasharon Lakefield propped her feet onto the balcony railing and sat back in her chair. The warm South Carolina air massaged her skin as she closed her eyes, ticking off the events of the past week.

Reviews for her first romance novel, Until Tomorrow, were flooding in and were all good. She was a success, or at least her story was with the readers. Financially, her editor had advised she’d have to wait a couple months to see how sales went. But Deena was optimistic, always.

She deserved a vacation. Her older sister, Monica, had dutifully made the observation that Deena’s entire life was a vacation. Even more according to duty, Deena ignored her.

In Monica’s eyes, Deena was the immature sister, the careless and carefree one. So there was no surprise that every opportunity she had Monica was reprimanding her for something. But even if Deena tried to be more like her older sister—which she definitely did not because the world didn’t need another coldhearted workaholic woman mad at the entire male species—it just wouldn’t work. Deena wasn’t cut out to be a businesswoman. Her talent was to create.

As for her other sister, Karena, Deena admired her strength and her latest decision to cut down on some of her work hours and enjoy life. That could be due to the very handsome Sam Desdune, who’d worn Karena and her misguided ideas about relationships down.

In the supermarket she’d seen a brochure tacked onto the community board. She’d taken it down because she loved the scene of an old Southern plantation boasting sandy beaches, cool water and relaxation from the moment she stepped onto the grounds. It had taken her another hour to get home and book her room. The next day she was packed and heading to the airport.

Now she was here, sitting on the porch and for all intents and purposes enjoying the Southern air and relaxing.

It was only when she opened her eyes to see the poor conditions of her room and the sad state of the grounds at Sandy Pines Resort that she began to rethink her decision in coming here.

It wasn’t so rundown that she couldn’t stay. Truth be told, the place had potential. It just didn’t look well maintained. But her sheets were clean, the food was good and there was a pool that she could use twenty-four hours a day. There weren’t many guests so she had plenty of peace and quiet to work on her next book. All in all, Deena would say it was working out well. Despite the discrepancies in the brochure and what Sandy Pines actually was.

To take her mind off the resort and her sisters, Deena decided to run herself a bath. Afterward, she lay in the king-size bed staring up at the ceiling, sleep successfully evading her. After about an hour of this she’d sighed and climbed out of the bed. Either she could work until she fell asleep or she could go for a swim. She decided to do both, in a roundabout way.

Plotting the great romantic love affair was a hell of a lot easier than experiencing one of her own, she thought as she padded down the wrought iron stairs on the back side of the big house. That’s why she wrote fantastic love stories and took her own love life for what it was—good for the moment. Did she want the same happily ever after she wrote about? Of course she did, but she wasn’t about to spend every waking moment searching for it.

Dropping her towel and room key onto one of the lounge chairs she stepped out of her shoes. It was a quiet night, the sky above was dark, yet calm and welcoming. The air was balmy with a slight breeze as she shrugged out of her robe and walked toward the water. Monica would put a toe in to test the temperature. Karena would probably sit on the side with her feet fully submerged first until she felt comfortable. Deena just jumped in.

That’s how she did most things in her life. Made a decision and went for it. Some would call that impulsive. Her father called it irresponsible. Deena figured there was no other way to be and so far it was working just fine.

The water had a slight chill to it, but it didn’t bother her as she swam from one end to the other. It was refreshing, cutting through the water as sleek as a fish, her mother would say. Each stroke had her mind emptying of where she was, or any of the other issues that plagued her life. All she could think about now was Joanna, the heroine in her new book.

Joanna was looking for love. Not desperately looking, but hoping it would come sooner rather than later. She was twenty-eight, the same age as Deena, and had never really been in love. Of course, Joanna had boyfriends and fell in lust a couple of times but she was certain that love had never resided in her heart for a man.

They say new authors write what they know. This was not the case for Deena. She could write about falling in love, write about lasting and satisfying relationships, but had yet to find one of her own. There was irony in that somewhere, only she didn’t see it right now.

Instead she envisioned the perfect man for Joanna.

Tall, surpassing six feet. Good looking was a given, drop-dead gorgeous an added bonus. More importantly, he had to be compassionate and love life as much as Joanna did. He had to appreciate and support her or their life together would never work. Success and money didn’t matter that much to Deena, much to her father’s consternation. But this was a romance novel so he’d have a steady job and be a basically good guy.

With each stroke Deena thought more and more about creating Joanna’s hero, so much so that she had to pause … was she thinking about the perfect man for Joanna or the perfect man for herself?

Max’s mind was on a snack. As he was on the steps that creaked when you walked down, inhaling the stuffy humid air walking through the house, in his head he ticked off an endless list of changes as he moved into the large kitchen and flicked on the light.

He didn’t expect what he saw.

A butterfly, full-colored wings and lavish detail, drawn on skin the exact color of a milk chocolate bar.

On impulse his body tightened with arousal.

But when she turned around, smiled and said, “Hello,” all the air deflated from his lungs, his mouth momentarily going dry.

“Hello,” he finally managed when he realized he was standing like a mute.

“I was just getting a glass of water,” she said then turned back to the cupboard where she was reaching for a glass.

They were on the highest shelf and he thought, thank you, Lord, as the hip-riding shorts she wore over her bathing suit bottom didn’t reach upward with the rest of her body. The butterfly he’d first noticed, which was strategically located just above her buttocks, was again noticeable.

He could hear his cousin Trent saying now, “There’s nothing hotter than a tramp stamp.” That’s what tattoos in this particular location on a female were called. And right about now, no matter how rare an occasion it was that he actually agreed with Trent, Max felt his cousin’s words were the honest truth.

Not only was this tattoo hot, but the tight little body it was attached to was pretty damn spectacular as well. She wasn’t tall, maybe five feet four inches. But she was shaped like a woman definitely familiar with a gym. He noted her toned legs and well-defined arms. Her bottom was tight and round and his mouth was watering.

Clearing his throat, Max reminded himself that he was thirty-five years old, not sixteen.

“It’s late,” he said finally.