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Trouble in paradise
If Lindy Bell had her way, she’d still be in L.A., partying and angling for her next acting job. But a crisis at the family’s resort has surfaced, and who can ignore the call of duty? Still, duty would be easier to take if she didn’t have a bratty kid making trouble. Too bad the dad, Gabe Weston, can’t seem to put down his phone long enough to see his daughter needs his attention.
When Lindy points out to Gabe the error of his ways, sparks fly and she has his undivided attention. Unexpectedly, the three of them—Lindy, Gabe and his daughter—bond in a serious way. Such a serious way, in fact, that Lindy may be auditioning for a new role she never considered before....
“I don’t do casual.”
Gabe’s solemn expression added weight to his warning.
“And I don’t do relationships...at least not well,” Lindy amended with a subtle frown. “So what do we do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? I don’t think that’s going to work. We’re both dealing with some hefty attraction, right? I mean, I know I’m not in a one-sided situation in this. So...maybe we should just kiss and get it out of our system and see what happens.”
“I know where kissing leads,” Gabe said, his eyebrow lifting in a sexy yet sardonic arch that Lindy found insanely attractive. “Don’t you?”
“I have an idea,” she murmured, biting her lip against the surge of arousal that followed his silky statement. “And that’s bad?”
Dear Reader,
Lindy and Gabe...what can I say about them, other than wow. Simply put, I loved writing their love story because both needed to grow and change before they were ready for the commitment of a relationship. And they did so, beautifully.
Peeling back the layers of complex people is one of the perks of my job as a writer, and I had a ball exposing these characters’ vulnerable spots for all the world to see. It’s a deep, soulful journey that I hope you will enjoy as you spend some more time at Larimar with the Bells as they live and learn as a Family in Paradise.
You won’t want to miss Lilah and Justin’s story, Something to Believe In, coming in January 2013.
Hearing from readers is a special joy. Please feel free to drop me a line via email through my website at www.kimberlyvanmeter.com, or by snail mail at Kimberly Van Meter, P.O. Box 2210, Oakdale, CA 95361.
Kimberly Van Meter
Kimberly Van Meter
Playing the Part
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberly Van Meter wrote her first book at sixteen and finally achieved publication in December 2006. She writes for the Harlequin Superromance and Harlequin Romantic Suspense lines. She and her husband of seventeen years have three children, three cats and always a houseful of friends, family and fun.
To my firstborn son, Sebastian,
as he finishes one journey to start another.
I hope you find every success out there
in the world. I love you.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT
CHAPTER ONE
LINDY BELL STARED in growing horror, the plunger dangling from her fingertips ineffectual against the choking, gurgling and overflowing toilet that was burping water all over the tiled floor of Bungalow 2 at her grandparents’ resofrt, Larimar. She jumped out of the way before disgusting toilet water washed over her flip-flops. Oh, yes, most definitely, without a doubt—this was hell. And she was going to kill her sister for dragging her here and then putting her on maintenance detail just because she knew the difference between a Phillips head screwdriver and a flat head.
Normally, Heath Cannon—her sister’s boyfriend—was in charge of the maintenance but he’d fallen off the roof and banged himself up pretty bad so he wasn’t going to be any help for a while. It wasn’t that she minded pitching in—hell, she was here, wasn’t she?—but right now, she wanted to murder someone.
She caught movement at the corner of her eye and turned just in time to see a small blond head duck and disappear as light laughter tinkled after her.
“You monster,” she muttered, dropping the plunger to chase after the girl, not caring at the moment that she was supposed to be the adult because she was about to tie the little nuisance to the nearest tree. “What did you stick down there this time?” she shouted, rounding the corner and nearly skidding into a tall man who was sheltering the aforementioned monster in his arms as if Lindy were the villain and the kid was actually a victim.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, rubbing the girl’s back with soothing and gentle motions, as if Lindy had traumatized her. If anyone was suffering from an emotional upheaval it was Lindy. Being dragged to Cruz Bay in the Virgin Islands on family business and forced on janitor duty was punishment for crimes she hadn’t even committed yet. Unemployment sucked but unemployment in the entertainment industry was downright brutal. Her last gig had lasted only a few months and now she was on the hunt again, or rather, her agent should be hunting. In the meantime she had no choice but to stick it out at the resort with her sisters. At the moment she was looking at troubleshooting a clogged toilet—joy of all joys—that seemed to have been filled with sand, by the looks of it.
“May I ask why you’re chasing my daughter with murder in your eyes?” the man asked.
“Probably because I want to kill the little brat,” Lindy quipped, her kicked-up heart rate keeping time with her temper. “She filled the toilet with sand.”
“How do you know it was Carys?” he asked stiffly, but Lindy suspected it was an act. Anyone with a kid that wretched had to know they had the devil’s spawn on their hands. “Maybe the problem is simply the fault of the plumbing.”
“Yeah, sure. It can’t have anything to do with the beaches’ worth of sand she poured down its throat. Or the fact that this isn’t the first time maintenance has been called for problems with your toilet. Last week we fished five ties—presumably yours—from the trap.” At his startled look, she smirked. “You ought to check your underwear drawer. She might be throwing your boxers away next.”
“She’s lying, Daddy,” the little heathen shouted before burying her face in his Hawaiian shirt. Nothing said I’m on vacation more than a rayon shirt with giant magnolias on it. Lindy looked away in disgust as the girl fervently assured her father. “I didn’t put the sand in the toilet, Daddy. I swear it.”
“This is the first I’m hearing about the previous incident,” he answered, having at least the grace to look discomfited by the revelation. “Five ties?”
“Yeah. Five. Expensive looking, too. We threw them out because they were mangled.” Ugh. That kid of his was a great testament as to why some animals ate their young.
“Perhaps it was an accident....”
“Whatever,” Lindy said, exasperated and severely annoyed by the whole situation and the man’s inability to admit that his precious daughter was a nightmare. Turning on her heel, she added over her shoulder, “Expect to see a plumbing bill on your invoice. Thanks for staying at Larimar. Please feel free not to come again.”
Lindy stomped away from the two, her temper still percolating, and abruptly changed direction toward the beach. One of the perks of living on a tropical island was the ready access to paradise and right about now, she needed a good dose of calm before she dealt with any more resort issues.
As she walked the path to the private beach belonging to Larimar, she realized someone was calling after her.
She turned and groaned. Great. Little Miss Perfect’s Deaf Dumb and Blind Father. What she wouldn’t give for a guilt-free plane ticket back to Los Angeles. “What?” she asked when he’d caught up to her, thankfully sans the hellion. Maybe he’d dug a pit and pushed her into it. Ha. One could dream but she wasn’t holding out hope. She couldn’t help the irritation in her voice or her expression. Too bad his kid was such a pain in the ass. He wasn’t half-bad-looking for a lawyer type, which wasn’t her type, per se; she liked rugged guys whose trucks were usually crusted in mud from four-wheeling through rough terrain. This guy, with his clean cuticles—probably got manicures—and short-cropped dark hair—probably paid a fortune for that look at some high-priced salon—likely drove some overpriced European number—either a Saab or an Audi—and paid a valet to park it. But even with all those points against him, Lindy had to admit...he wasn’t hard on the eyes.
* * *
GABE WESTON STALKED after the striking long-haired honey-brown brunette, choosing to focus on his ire rather than the fact that she was wearing a lemon-
yellow bikini top that lovingly cupped her breasts and a sarong that hugged the womanly swell of near-perfect hips. She pushed her white, wide-rimmed sunglasses atop her head and fixed him with a look that was both appraising and annoyed, if there was such a thing.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked, mentally cringing that he’d actually said those words. He sounded like a pompous ass but her casual dismissal poked at his ego and frankly, after the situation with Carys, the filter he usually reserved for his mouth had fallen off, allowing him to spout crap he wouldn’t under normal circumstances. But seeing as he was already making a fine impression, he might as well go all the way. “My name’s Gabe Weston and I’m the one spending gobs of money at your resort right now during a down economy so I think a little respect or at the very least professional courtesy is warranted. An apology wouldn’t be out of line, either.”
“I agree. Your kid is a brat. I have a feeling there’s probably a long list of people she ought to apologize to.”
He didn’t appreciate her quip—it hit too close to the truth. Carys was a handful and nearly everyone she came into contact with wanted little to do with her for long. Secretly, it horrified him that his daughter had become such a terror but he couldn’t seem to find the answer as to how to return her to the little girl she’d been before his wife died.
“I want to speak to your manager,” he said quietly.
“Good idea, and while you’re at it make sure you let her know how your kid flushed a pound of sand down the toilet and how it’ll likely take three plumbers to figure out how to unclog it without having to rip open the sewage line. It’ll save me a trip.” She smiled. “Somehow I think I’ll be forgiven for my less-than-courteous delivery. And if not, oh well. My family owns this resort. So, do your worst but don’t get your hopes up. Like as not, I’m here for the duration.”
“That doesn’t give you license to abuse your guests,” he said.
“And it doesn’t give our guests license to be destructive. Listen, we don’t have a whole lot of rules here at Larimar but when your kid is doing her best impression of a rock star by trashing the place, someone has to say something and—lucky me!—I got the short straw. So, get control of the kid or we’ll have to ask you to find another place to chill. We savvy?” She slid her sunglasses back in place, obviously finished, and continued down the sandy walk to the beach, both him and his daughter seemingly forgotten.
Gabe stared after the woman, half tempted to follow but what did he have to say? Not much. His daughter was a hellion. And he didn’t have a clue as to how to change that fact.
Biting off a string of silent curse words, he returned to the bungalow, hoping against hope that Carys hadn’t destroyed something else in his short absence.
He found the bungalow eerily quiet, something he’d grown to mistrust, and went to Carys’s bedroom door. “Are you in there, honey?”
“I didn’t put sand in the toilet,” she called out with a watery sniff. “That woman was lying.”
He sighed. Yeah, he suspected someone was lying but it wasn’t the brunette who had every right to be pissed off.
In a Time magazine article about the modern-day shark in the boardroom, Gabe, CEO of Weston Enterprises, was once described as being a man who ate his competition with all the violent, single-minded focus of a great white. In short, he bit and chomped and what he left behind wasn’t enough to feed a goldfish.
And yet, as he struggled to rein in the desire to pound on the bedroom door of the rented bungalow, he was most certain an eleven-year-old girl was going to be the death of him.
Or more specifically—an eleven-year-old girl who bore half his DNA and was bound and determined to turn every single strand of his hair gray.
“Carys Deanne, I’m not playing around. We need to talk about this latest stunt,” he said, feeling more than a bit foolish for speaking to a door but unwilling to invade his daughter’s privacy. “This is very serious business, which will likely be very expensive to fix. You’re lucky we have two bathrooms in the bungalow or else we’d be in a jam when either one of us needed to use the restroom.”
“I said she’s lying! I hope she drowns in the ocean for what she’s saying about me,” shrieked his daughter in a shrill voice, eliciting a frown from Gabe. “Why do you believe her—a stranger—over your own daughter?” There was a short pause, then a barely audible, “Mom would’ve believed me.”
He winced even as he recognized the ploy to manipulate him. “Carys, leave your mother out of this,” he said sternly. “The issue is about the property damage. You’re going to apologize.”
“Will not.”
“You will.”
“You can’t make me. I’ll spit in her face. Try me.”
“That’s not very nice, sweetheart,” he chided her gently. “I know you don’t mean what you’re saying.”
“I do mean it. And if you try to make me, I’ll stay in my room until I die,” Carys said with the theatrical flair that had always made him and his wife laugh when she was smaller. But since Charlotte’s death a year ago, Gabe had found little to smile about when it came to his daughter’s antics.
He’d brought them to Cruz Bay, St. John, with the hope that a change of scenery would help his daughter’s increasingly bad attitude. But she’d just managed to terrorize and scare away the second nanny in as many weeks and he wasn’t sure what to do any longer. He’d hoped to find a way to channel her destructive behavior into something productive but she’d sabotaged the art classes, sulked through the native dancing classes, and flat-out ditched the music lessons he’d managed to find on the small island.
He was plain out of ideas and patience. “Carys, you will apologize even if I have to drag you from that room and plop you in front of the woman you’re so adamant is the one lying. Your behavior is out of control. Time to get a grip, kiddo.”
“You can’t make me!”
“Yes, I can,” he said, tight-lipped. He sent a quick look toward the heavens where he liked to think his wife was watching and chuckling over his bumbling attempts at being mom and dad and muttered, “I need a little help here.... At this rate, she’s not going to live to see twelve!”
He stalked away from the door before his temper got the best of him and went to the kitchen to find a bottle of water. What was he going to do with her? His daughter’s behavior was nearly beyond his ability to handle.
He knew she was grieving—losing Charlotte had been a blow to them both—but it didn’t seem as if Carys was even close to healing. His daughter was mired in anger and plenty comfortable in her own little mud pit of sorrow. He cracked the top of the plastic bottle and swigged the water. The humidity was brutal that day. It was hurricane season in St. John, which meant temperamental weather. One minute it was sunny and hot, the next it was time to batten down the hatches and tie down the patio furniture.
His smartphone buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out. A work call. He paused a moment, torn between taking the call and having another conversation with Carys, but the decision became easier when he heard something hard and heavy thump against Carys’s closed door. His little darling had just thrown something. He closed his eyes for a brief second and then walked away. “Hey, Gary,” he answered, switching gears almost gratefully. “How’s the Mercer and Jones acquisition coming?”
Standing at the helm of a multimillion-dollar company was easier by far than handling the fickle emotions of one eleven-year-old girl.
Heaven help him.
CHAPTER TWO
“SERIOUSLY?” LINDY gaped at her older sister, Lora, both incredulous and irritated all over again. “Did you not hear what I said about the toilet? The same toilet that the plumber fished five ties from?”
“Yeah, I heard you. She’s a terror, I get it,” Lora said, pinching the bridge of her nose and pulling her long, thick black hair into a quick ponytail to escape the smothering humidity of St. John. “But we can’t afford to be scaring off patrons, especially during the off-season. If you’d take a minute to sit down with me and look at the numbers you’d see we need every penny. Larimar is in serious trouble, Lindy. It’s time you set aside your natural inclination to say and do whatever you like and go apologize to Mr. Weston for calling his kid a brat.”
“She is a brat,” Lindy countered mulishly. “And I’m not apologizing.”
“Lindy,” Lora warned, looking as exasperated with Lindy as Lindy was with the whole damn situation. A few weeks ago she’d been cruising Mulholland Drive with freshly colored hair to lighten her natural mousy brown, living the Hollywood dream—or nightmare, depending on the day—and now she was back home in St. John, working with her sisters to save the family resort because she didn’t have it in her to say sayonara to the whole situation. To make matters worse, after a few weeks in the Caribbean sun and salty water, her very expensive dye job was going to turn into an ugly mess. So much for making an investment into her future.
Okay, so she wasn’t as cavalier about some things as she’d like to let on, she grumbled to herself. But Lora was on her last nerve and making it increasingly difficult to keep from boarding a plane back to California, right now. “C’mon, is it really so hard to just say the damn words?” Lora asked.
Lindy shot her sister a cool look. “I don’t know. How hard is it for you to apologize?”
Lora had the grace to flush, effectively ceding the point but she didn’t give up. “Yes, the kid is a monster, but do you realize Weston is paid up for the entire month? That’s serious cash and we need serious cash. The next IRS payment is due around the corner and I can’t liquefy any more assets without steep penalties. So, in order to keep the peace and keep Weston from taking his money and going elsewhere, I suggest you march your ass to his room and put those acting skills to work and pretend that you’re contrite.”
Lindy clenched her fists, fighting the urge to stomp her feet like the kid in Bungalow 2. “This is bullshit,” she spit out just as her twin sister, Lilah, drifted into the room humming. She stopped short when she saw the standoff.
“What’s going on?” Lilah asked, her sudden frown marring the clear, dewy skin of her twin’s face as she played nervously with the long strands of her blond hair. Although many thought Lindy and Lilah were identical, in truth they were not. While Lindy’s hair color came from a bottle, Lilah’s was simply sunkissed naturally. Lindy had often wondered how Lora had been graced with such dark hair while Lindy and Lilah had landed on the lighter side. In their most heated spats, Lindy had often tried to convince Lora she’d been adopted. It might’ve worked if their faces weren’t so similar. “Anything wrong?”
By the anxious tone to her voice, Lindy knew Lilah was fearful of the answer. Lilah hated confrontation and generally avoided it, but as of late she’d gotten a bit tougher it seemed, if only marginally so. “The little demon spawn in Bungalow 2 has been up to her usual antics.”
“What’d she flush down the toilet this time?” Lilah asked.
“Sand. Lots and lots of sand,” Lindy answered.
Lilah made a face. “What are we going to do? Should I have Celly call the plumber again?”
“Yes, please. And while you’re doing that, our sister dear is going to apologize to the demon spawn’s father for being so rude,” Lora said.
Lindy narrowed her stare at Lora. “If you want an apology, why don’t you go give one and say it’s from me and call it a day? I’m afraid if I go near the kid I’ll commit a felony.”
Lilah shared a look with Lora—and the fact that her twin seemed ready to side with the big bad older sister gave Lindy momentary pause—then said, “Lindy, I know you don’t want to but Lora’s right, we can’t afford to lose him as a patron. Larimar needs his money. I’m sorry. Just get it over with and then I’ll make sure to handle the calls for Bungalow 2 from now on if you think that would help.”
“Forget it,” Lindy muttered with a scowl. “I’ll do it. But I just want to go on record as to say that this sucks and you both suck, too.”
“Duly noted,” Lora said drily, then gestured. “Go before they start packing.”
Lindy bit down on the impulse to tell Lora where to stick it and headed toward Bungalow 2. It wasn’t Lora’s fault that Larimar was sinking in financial quicksand. Lindy understood they were all doing what they could to save a beloved sinking ship but Lindy was not above feeling a bit emotionally manipulated into helping when she had her own life to live.
In Hollywood, it was crucial to be seen. How was anyone going to see her here? Before leaving L.A. she’d been hoping and praying that she’d landed the national commercial gig she’d auditioned for but she’d been sorely vexed, as the St. John locals would say, to discover the part had been awarded to the woman who’d no doubt said yes to the director’s vulgar suggestion that had involved her mouth and his genitals. Disgusting little pig of a man, she thought, remembering with a shudder. Oh, who cared? Who wanted to be in a tampon commercial anyway?
Lindy trudged through the sand to Bungalow 2 and, drawing a deep breath, knocked on the door and tried channeling a calm and peaceful vibe when in fact, she was still sporting a distinctly uncooperative attitude.
The little bugger herself opened the door. What luck, Lindy thought drily. Just get it over with, she told herself.
“Is your dad here?” Lindy asked, forcing a smile that she didn’t feel.
The girl, Carys, had the look of a child accustomed to getting her way at the expense of others. Lindy knew this look because half the kids in Hollywood wore it well. “What do you want with my dad?” she asked, lounging idly against the door frame. “Gonna tell him more lies about me?”
Lindy ignored that and bared her teeth in a wretched facsimile of a wider grin. “So, here or not?”
“Your hotel sucks,” Carys announced, watching for Lindy’s reaction. “We’ve definitely stayed in better, you know. In places with toilets that actually work,” she added with a sly look. The brat was trying to bait her. If Lindy collected a paycheck she would’ve said she didn’t get paid enough to deal with this crap.