Will Work For Love (2 page)

It was time for her to get in the car and find her
way to Taylor’s family estate to do what she was here for. She had
only fourteen short days until the wedding.

“Thanks for your help with my…uh…luggage,” she
said.

“Any time,” he answered. The look in his eyes as he
leaned just a fraction of an inch too close made his words seem
like he absolutely meant them.

****

Whitney knew the road to East Pointe well enough
from previous visits. But the headlights bouncing along did not
illuminate what she was most anxious to see. She was tense and
watchful on the drive to her friend’s estate.

How much damage had the September hurricane three
months ago caused? The only reports the East family heard were from
the property management company on the island. Taylor’s parents
were in Europe enjoying their first grandchild, but they planned to
arrive in time for the wedding. They were confident everything
would be fine.

Certainly the damage was not as bad as the company
had reported, Whitney thought, and the insurance company sent a
check promptly to an island contractor. Whitney was flying in as a
precaution only, and she was probably going to find the estate was
more than ready for Taylor’s wedding on Christmas Eve.

She thought about the bathing suits, sarongs,
sundresses, and shorts stuffed into the oversized red suitcase
lying on the seat behind her. She hoped to spend the next two weeks
making a few simple wedding plans and soaking up lots of sun. After
all, she was determined to be the best maid of honor in recorded
history. If that involved an all-expense paid vacation and a great
tan, why fight it?

As soon as the sun comes up tomorrow morning
,
she thought to herself as she pulled in the driveway of the estate,
I’ll check out the house, the patio, the wedding pavilion, and
the gazebo. Then, I’ll spend the rest of the day right there on the
warm sand
. If she happened to run into the man with the sexy
blue eyes and rakish grin, she might just have a date for the
wedding after all.

****

The light from the setting sun was almost gone when
Chris Maxwell drove his Blue Isle Construction Company truck slowly
past the row of modest houses and shops nestled along the north
side of the island. Far from the eyes of the tourists, this was
where the other half lived. The taxi drivers, housekeepers, and
bartenders who made vacations fun and intoxicating had to live
somewhere. And it wasn’t at the five-star Marriott or the sumptuous
estates that dotted the coastline and bulged with money from
wealthy owners who visited twice a year.

Tourists seldom saw this part of the island, and
they went home happier as a result. Chris slowed to a stop in front
of a one-story rough-sided house with a missing front window and a
blue tarp covering a chunk of the roof. The early September
hurricane that swept over the island spared the southern and
western parts of St. Thomas. The main ports of call for tourists
endured a few downed palm trees and broken shutters which were
quickly cleared away before they ruined anyone’s vacation. Some
resorts and homes on the north and east side weren’t so lucky. Nor
were the homes, schools, shops, and churches in this small
village.

He stopped his truck and began to unload the wood
he’d picked up at the airport half an hour earlier. Most of his
construction materials came in on one of his boats, but sometimes,
like today, a cargo plane delivered supplies.

“Help you with those,” a rusty voice behind him
offered. “A good lookin’ young man like you ought to be out havin’
fun on a Saturday night.”

Rick Churchill stepped out of the shadows.

“Figured you’d gone home already,” Chris said.

“’Bout to, just wanted to get that window in on the
north side.”

“New front window’s not in yet,” Chris said as he
and Rick silently worked together to unload a pile of construction
materials from the back of his truck. The scrape of plywood coming
off the truck and the slight crunch of their shoes on the broken
shells lining the driveway were the only sounds punctuating the
silence for a few minutes.

“Got quite a load of stuff here,” Rick finally
commented. “Must be costin’ you a pretty penny to fix up these
houses.”

Chris nodded, stepping into the bed of the truck to
get a few boxes of nails that had slid to the front.

“Sometimes I’m not sure how you manage to come up
with the money,” Rick continued. His tone was friendly, but
serious. “Folks are tellin’ me you’re not lettin’em pay.”

Chris set the box of nails with the stacked lumber
and pulled a tarp over it. He secured the tarp with a couple of
large rocks and then straightened up.

“It’ll all work out,” he said.

“I’ve known you long enough not to doubt that,” Rick
replied. “Just wanted you to know I’d help anytime if I could.”

“You already do more than I’m paying you for,” Chris
said. He leaned against the door of his truck and watched the last
streaks of the sunset. “It’ll work out,” he repeated. And he was
sure it would. If he could just buy a little time.

Chapter Two

Whitney wandered downstairs in her flimsy nightgown.
Last night, the empty house was almost eerie, but she was tired
enough to fall into a deep sleep. Only one dream invaded her rest.
It involved her rowing a very large red suitcase away from a
sinking ship and then being rescued by a dashing sea captain with
blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a scar over his left eye. Freud
would love that.

“I’m starving,” she muttered to herself as she dug
through kitchen cabinets that were expensive but empty. “Damn.”

A quick run into town looked like a necessity. She
needed coffee and doughnuts to get her vacation started off right.
Whitney ran back upstairs to her guest suite, a room she had stayed
in many times, and turned on the shower in the bathroom. She put
minimal effort into her hair, knowing from experience that the
humid air made it uncontrollably curly anyway. She threw on a
T-shirt, faded shorts and sandals, and checked herself out in the
full-length mirror. A tan was all she needed.

She headed out the kitchen door and made it almost
to the driver’s seat of the Jeep when she stopped dead in her
tracks. How on earth did she miss that last night? A large palm
tree lay against the back wall of the house. Practically hung over
the kitchen door she entered in the dark last night. Now that it
was daylight, what else was she going to find?

Whitney put the keys and her purse on the hood of
the Jeep and took a deep breath. She stepped onto the curving
sidewalk leading around the side of the house. It would take her
beachside to the impressive front façade, the terrace, and the
manicured gardens wandering down to the ocean. A gazebo and
pavilion had been built when she and Taylor graduated from college
and she could still taste the champagne that flowed at the party in
their honor. As soon as she rounded the corner of the house, she
would see the familiar pavilion and it would be all right.

Whitney gasped. The sun was out, the birds were
singing, and the blue water at the edge of the long lawn sparkled
with the promise of a new day.

Aside from that, total wreckage.

There were several palm trees down on the lawn, the
gazebo leaned to the side like some giant had reclined on it and
pushed it halfway over. The beautiful pavilion with its open
trellis and trained vines was where the bride and groom would walk
down a flower-strewn aisle in less than two weeks. But boards were
splintered, dangling, or downright missing. It looked dangerous to
even walk under.

She had thirteen days until Christmas Eve. A tremor
raced over her skin as she realized how she would be spending that
time. It was obvious that no construction company, insurance
payment or not, had touched this place since Hurricane Destiny
swept through almost three months before. Whitney balled up her
fists, her heart pounding in her chest.

There was no way she was going to suffer in silence.
She would find the owner of that construction company and there
would be hell to pay. She spun around and headed back into the
kitchen. Last night, she couldn’t face the pile of mail dumped
through the slot in the kitchen door. As far as she knew, the local
property management company usually forwarded mail directly to
Taylor’s parents. At least that’s what was supposed to happen.

Dread sniped at her stomach as she surveyed the
letters and junk piled under the mail slot. Something wasn’t right.
She knelt, sorting envelopes into toss and keep stacks. There were
several from Tropical Property Managers, one from an insurance
company, a few early Christmas cards, and some advertising
flyers.

But none of it should be there. What happened to
TPM? Why wasn’t all this forwarded to the Easts or at least kept
downtown at the property office? She stacked the keep pile on the
kitchen table and sat, the chair’s hollow creak echoing in the
empty kitchen.

Insurance envelope first. Maybe it would explain
everything. Nothing would erase the mess on the lawn, but it might
tell her where her first phone call would go. She scanned the
statement, its staggering amounts for damage repair arresting her
attention as she looked for a clue.

Blue Isle Construction, address right there on the
island, had received a substantial down payment for repairs two
months ago.

And they hadn’t done a damn thing.

Blue Isle Construction. Supposedly specializing in
quality building and repairs. Right. That’s why her best friend’s
home and wedding venue still looked like it had been hit by a
hurricane.

It was seven a.m. on a Sunday morning, but gale
force winds wouldn’t keep her from calling and unloading at least a
piece of her mind. First up, the East family. They had a right to
know, but she hoped some miracle would help them keep the news from
Taylor. It would take a miracle to pull off her best friend’s
wedding, but damned if she’d let anyone take that away from
her.

A new hurricane named Whitney had just swept into
town, and those thieves at Blue Isle Construction weren’t even
going to get a storm warning.

****

Whitney drove to town for breakfast even though her
first look at the condition of East Pointe nearly killed her
appetite. One angry phone call to Blue Isle Construction helped her
work up a hunger again like a ten-mile run. She decided she needed
to keep up her strength for the long haul ahead. If that estate was
going to be
bellissimo
for the wedding, she needed to stay
in fighting shape.

There weren’t many places open early on a Sunday
morning. The tourists were probably eating at their hotels, the
locals at home or at church. She found a swinging sign painted with
Bistro Sol
and figured anything promising sun was a good
start to the day.

“What’ll you have?” The woman behind the counter was
dark haired, with beautiful olive skin and a welcoming smile.
Probably in her mid-twenties like Whitney.

“Coffee for sure,” Whitney said, scanning the
overhead menu of pastries and breakfast sandwiches. She started to
order efficiently and step to the side, just like at home, but she
was the only one in the small café. No rush necessary. Island time
for the next two weeks.

Still perusing the menu, she heard the little bell
tinkle on the door and sensed someone standing in line behind
her.

“Maybe I’ll just get the coffee for now and decide
in a minute what I’ll have,” she said quickly.

“Please don’t hurry on my account,” a familiar voice
said behind her.

She turned and looked squarely at the collar of a
blue T-shirt. Didn’t even need to raise her eyes to his face to
know it was the man from the airport. She knew from the tremor
racing over her flesh. He grinned at her like someone had just
given him the combination to the store safe.

“I
am
hungry, don’t get me wrong. And the
food is awesome, but I don’t want to rush you,” he said.

Whitney turned fully around so her back was against
the counter and there were only a few inches between her and Chris.
He could easily read the menu over her head, but that wasn’t what
he was looking at. The scent and the sight of him filled her
senses. All of them. She vividly recalled the blue eyes spicing her
dreams last night.

“Chris,” she said.

“Whitney,” he said with a grin and nodded at her.
“Patron saint of revolving doors and red suitcases.”

She laughed. “I should buy you breakfast to thank
you for your heroism yesterday.”

“I do that all the time,” he said with a shrug of
one massive shoulder.

“I don’t doubt it,” she answered playfully, “but how
about breakfast anyway?”

His grin disappeared and he looked rueful. “I’d love
to, but I’m getting mine to go. I have to work today.”

“You work too much, Chris,” said the pretty girl
behind the counter.

Whitney turned back to the girl and the menu,
suddenly feeling very much like an outsider on the island.

“Why don’t you go ahead of me,” she said to Chris,
“I’ve got all day.”

Whitney picked up her cup and wandered over to the
small table by the window. Tried to focus on a copy of the local
newspaper while taking a cautious sip of hot coffee. It wouldn’t
have mattered if the headlines declared world peace and an end to
global warming. She couldn’t think about anything but the handsome
man ordering several breakfast sandwiches and at least one
pastry.

What was he doing? He stepped behind the counter and
climbed up a stepladder. Tired of looking out of the corner of her
eye, Whitney turned to watch him. He changed a light bulb while the
girl behind the counter smiled up at him adoringly. Chris Maxwell
was an overgrown boy scout. And man, did his backside look nice on
that ladder.