Rub It In

Marcy had no family to see. Her mother had died when she was a little girl. Her father, a hotel manager himself, had died five years ago. She had no brothers or sisters, and only one aunt on her father’s side, but the last time she’d heard from Suellen had been at her father’s funeral.

She had several close friends from college, but they were all scattered around the country. And while she talked to them as often as possible, most of them were busy starting families and building careers. Several years ago they’d given up trying to plan a girls’ week away. It was just too hard to work around all their schedules.

Some of the staff would stay. She’d spent last year here herself. In theory having the entire resort to yourself—including all the amenities the guests used but she never had time for—wasn’t a bad thing. If she’d actually taken time to use those amenities. Instead, she’d spent the entire two weeks—weeks that were supposed to be her vacation—working.

Not this year. Tomorrow afternoon she was leaving. Marcy sighed. Two blissful weeks with no Simon—the bane of her existence.

In her opinion, no laid-back surf god should ever own a resort. It had gotten to the point where just the sight of Simon’s low-riding shorts and tight T-shirts had begun to grate on her nerves. They were running a business!

Besides, no man should look that sexy while somehow still managing to appear as if donning clothing had been an afterthought. The problem with that kind of … demeanor was that most of the time she feared Simon was two steps away from shedding his clothes again just because they were annoying him. And she didn’t want that. Really, she didn’t. It would set a bad example for the employees.

She preferred men with more structured wardrobes. The kind who wore business suits every day … and liked it. If she discovered Simon owned a single pair of tailored pants or a silk tie—let alone a suit—she’d die of shock.

Before moving to the island she’d lived in cities. Lots of them. London, Prague, Chicago, San Francisco. And she’d loved them all. But her heart belonged to New York, where the men definitely knew how to wear their suits. And run their businesses.

Simon might have had the money to purchase the resort, but he didn’t seem to care much about keeping it going. Even the disheveled blond hair that notoriously hung in his dark blue eyes bothered her. She constantly wanted to sweep it out of the way, but the one time she’d given in to the impulse her hand had tingled for twenty minutes. And that was the last thing she needed.

But it was difficult, as a woman, not to recognize that Simon was an attractive man. He was tall, his athletic body moving with a grace that seemed counterintuitive considering his height. Charm and devilment mixed with his inherent sex appeal—a potentially lethal combination.

But she refused to feel attracted. Not to her boss. She’d learned her lesson the first time around that block.

“Marcy.” The two-way radio on her hip squawked. “We have a problem.”

Tom, their only remaining security person, thought everything was a problem. Since the head of security, Zane Edwards, had left to follow the woman he loved to Atlanta and his replacement had lasted all of six weeks, Tom was all she had right now. Marcy couldn’t really blame the guy for his “the sky is falling” attitude—he was so far out of his element. Tom was great at watching the monitors and keeping drunken guests in line. But at twenty-two, he was hardly ready to take on the task of head of security for a resort as large as Escape.

Marcy was hoping to fix that problem before she left, as well. On her desk sat three résumés from three very capable candidates. All were to arrive on the afternoon ferry. They’d stay the night, be interviewed tomorrow, tour the facility and then leave on the morning ferry. Simon had balked at the expense, but after Zane’s replacement hadn’t been able to handle island life, she wasn’t making that mistake again.

The last stragglers would join them. Marcy was half packed and come hell or high water would be on the last ferry.

Snatching the radio off her belt, Marcy huffed, “What is it, Tom?”

“Several men—” she could hear the hesitation in his voice “—just got off the ferry. You said not to allow anyone off.”

What she’d said was not to allow any guests off. She had no doubt, based on the falter in his voice, that the group he was referring to were her construction workers.

“Do the men have toolboxes, ladders or anything else resembling construction equipment, by any chance?”

“Yes.” He sounded surprised, and Marcy fought hard not to roll her eyes.

“Could they be the crew coming to handle the maintenance and renovations while we’re closed?” she asked patiently.

“Maybe.” He drew out the single word, telling her that he was quickly reevaluating the situation in front of him. Really, he was a good boy who could do with just a little more common sense and practical life experience. Marcy could hear a rustle as he placed his hand over the phone. Unfortunately it didn’t dampen the sound enough for her to miss as he asked the men, “Are you construction guys?”

Their yes was muffled but audible nonetheless.

“Uh, yeah, they are.”

“Great. Maybe next time you’ll ask them why they’re here first before calling me up with a non-crisis. Put them in the old bunkhouse.”

The bunkhouse was left over from the days when the island had been a cocoa plantation, though it had been updated and renovated since then. The building was rarely used, but it would serve perfectly for the next two weeks. Most of the permanent employees had either bungalows at the back of the property, like hers, or living quarters close to the job, like their chef, who had a rather large apartment above the kitchens.

Great, now she had workers but no supplies for them to actually do anything.

Blowing at a wisp of hair that had fallen into her eyes, Marcy flopped back into the executive chair behind her desk, not sure whether she wanted to scream, cry or start smashing things. Probably a little of all three.

Her to-do list was a mile long. Nothing was going right.

And she had no doubt that the minute Simon realized she was leaving tomorrow he would blow a gasket. Not that her departure should surprise him, since she’d told him in person, sent him an email and reminded him a dozen times over the past few weeks.

However, if there was one thing she’d learned about Simon Reeves, it was that his brain was like Swiss cheese and his hearing was more than selective … as in nonexistent.

But that was another thing that was his problem, not hers.

Pulling up the document she’d been working on, Marcy looked at the detailed instructions she’d written in an effort to help Simon through the next two weeks—and if the interview went well, to help her replacement. Part of her had wanted to leave him with nothing, but that just wasn’t her style. She’d put too much time and effort into the resort to see Simon ruin it the minute she walked out the door.

The document was currently sitting at twenty-two pages. Marcy was a little worried the sheer size of the thing would prevent Simon from reading it.

She stared at it for several seconds. Cut it down, orleave it as is? It was an argument she’d had multiple times over the past few days. Ultimately she came to the same conclusion she’d come to numerous times. Once again, what Simon chose to do or not do was not her problem.

And hopefully, if things went according to plan, wouldn’t ever be again.

SIMON FOUGHT THE URGE to grab the first thing and throw it at the door when a loud knock blasted through his office. The scene he was writing wasn’t working and he couldn’t figure out why. Frustration rode him hard and probably wasn’t helping the situation. Neither was the bustling noise that even here, behind the closed door of his private office, couldn’t be disguised.

The staff was happy at the prospect of having two weeks off. Frankly, he was happy to see them leave, at least for a little while. Having the place virtually to himself was going to be a godsend.

He was months behind on the deadline for his current manuscript. It was so bad that he’d actually unplugged his phone and uninstalled the mail program from his computer to avoid email from his editor and agent. If he didn’t finish this thing in the next two weeks he could probably kiss his career goodbye. Again.

Thanks to Courtney’s betrayal three years ago, the resulting plagiarism scandal and his fruitless attempts to prove the work was really his, his career had already dangled by a thread once. He really didn’t want to go through that again.

Île du Coeur and Escape were supposed to have provided him the space and seclusion to rebuild his career. Instead, they’d both become a huge time-suck.

Buying the place had seemed like a brilliant idea. He had the capital to purchase the island, and the resort would provide the necessary revenue stream for upkeep. A manager should have taken the responsibilities off his shoulders, leaving him free to lock himself inside his office to write.

Should have. Somehow things hadn’t exactly gone the way he’d hoped.

The problem was that not a soul on the island—not even Marcy—knew who he was. And he liked it that way. It protected his work. He wrote under a pseudonym and always had.

He’d wanted a clean break from the life he’d left behind. Wanted to start again and pretend the entire affair had never happened. Unfortunately, it was difficult to forget being betrayed by someone you loved.

That sort of deception tended to color your opinion of people. Always making you wonder who was going to stab you in the back next.

“Simon!” Marcy’s voice exploded through the wood of the door along with the rattling of the knob that he’d locked for just such an occasion.

Knowing from experience that she wouldn’t leave until he listened to her, Simon minimized his documents, brought up a gaming program he used to make everyone think he was just wasting time in here, and walked across the room. Yanking open the door, he lounged inside the jamb, one arm stretched across the gaping area so that she’d either have to stay on her side of the door or duck underneath his arm. She wouldn’t do that. One good thing about Marcy—she avoided coming into contact with him at all costs.

In the beginning he’d been happy. The last thing he had time for was a romantic complication with his manager. She was there to work and make his life easier, and from his experience, mixing business with pleasure rarely made anything easier. But the more she avoided him, the more he became aware of her deliberate distance. A distance that made him want to ruffle her feathers by pushing against the boundaries she’d erected. It was pointless, but he couldn’t help it.

Even now he inched his body closer to hers, crowding into her personal space just to see her spine stiffen. The infinitesimal shuffle backward was rewarding, especially when she stopped it midway, consciously determined not to let him fluster her.