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  Chapter 4

  “Are all the cabins full?” Layla asked, sipping on her mojito.

  Desiree, her husband, Lincoln, and Layla were seated at the on-site bar relaxing and catching up while listening to the backdrop of soft jazz and calypso floating in from some unseen source.

  “We have three vacancies, for now. But they’re already booked. Of course everyone isn’t staying for the entire season. The majority are here for about two weeks,” Desiree said, then popped some peanuts into her mouth.

  “Surprisingly, business has remained pretty good, even in the off-season,” Lincoln said.

  “During hard times people need some kind of escape, even if it’s only temporary,” Layla added.

  “True, that’s why we work really hard to keep the prices down and the service up,” Desiree said. “And at least once every quarter we have a half-price weekend special with all amenities included.”

  “That must really help to draw in the business and make people want to come back.”

  “It does. And of course Melanie recommends all of her clients to come and visit. When she has functions up at her place and clients want to stay over, some of her guests will stay here.”

  “Can’t wait to see Mel. I haven’t seen her since the wedding,” Layla said.

  “She’s out of town but she should be back early next week. She insisted on hosting our anniversary party, so I know she will have plenty to do when she gets back. And she has a long list of very eligible men she wants you to meet.”

  “Meeting men is not on my list of things to do. I came here to get away from the city, help you out and get some sun in. That’s it.”

  Desiree and Lincoln shared a quick “sure you’re right” look, between them.

  Layla pushed out a breath and slowly gazed around at the tranquil setting. Singles and couples walked along the beach, gathered beneath umbrella covered tables or swam in the pool. Several guests were entering the restaurant and the sound of happy voices filled the air. She could easily get used to living like this. The whole notion of not having to think about where she was going to park her car every day was more than worth the price of admission.

  “Did you show Layla her place?” Lincoln asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Love it,” Layla said. “I get the feeling that the two of you have intentions of me being around for a while.” She looked from one guilty face to the other.

  “We just want you to be happy and comfortable,” Desiree offered, putting on her sweet as syrup voice.

  Lincoln draped his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “And if you decided to stay,” he hedged, “you’d be all set up already. As a businessman I have to always think ahead.”

  Layla deadpanned the two of them and then laughed. “You two are a mess.”

  “We try,” they said in unison.

  “Listen,” Lincoln pushed back from his seat. “I’m going to leave you ladies to do whatever it is that you do and I’m going to check on some inventory.” He leaned over and gave his wife a slow, sweet kiss and whispered something against her lips that Layla couldn’t make out, but whatever it was it had Desiree’s face flushed with heat.

  Desiree’s gaze followed Lincoln until he was out of sight. She sighed deeply. A light smile softened her lips.

  “You two are still as hot for each other as boiling oil.”

  “Is it that obvious?” Desiree teased. She reached for her glass of white wine.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  The friends laughed.

  “So when did you want me to start? Did you let your guests know about the new massage therapy services yet?”

  “I’ve been working on a small flyer to hand out, but I wanted your input first to make sure I had all the details right and I wanted you to have a couple of days to unwind and relax.”

  “Girl, around here, I could get too relaxed and you wouldn’t get any work out of me!”

  “I know the feeling. But that’s the kind of atmosphere Lincoln and I want at The Port. A real getaway, you know what I mean. If you look around, you don’t see anyone hunched over laptops and checking BlackBerries and iPhones every five minutes. They’re actually here to enjoy themselves. At least that’s what I see when they come out of their rooms,” she added as a caveat.

  Layla nodded in agreement. “In that case,” she raised her hand to get the attention of the bartender, “another mojito please.”

  * * *

  Layla couldn’t stay in bed a minute longer. And as much as she wanted to simply loll around on the sandy shores like a careless beach bum, the urge to be busy grabbed hold of her. She was actually anxious to get her massage room ready and her fingers moving. All night she’d dreamed of how she was going to set up her space and the atmosphere she would create. This would actually be the first time that a work space would truly be all hers and not the vision of whomever she was working for. A twinge of memory tried to pull her back to those times with Brent, with him teaching her the techniques that made her successful, that they practiced on each other late at night. She shook off the vision. That was the past she reminded herself once again.

  It was barely seven a.m. and she was bathed and dressed. She tucked her iPad into her tote bag and headed out.

  The morning was simply exquisite. The sun was at a perfect pitch. The sky was clear enough to see for miles and the gentle warmth that blew in from the ocean was invigorating. She spotted several guests jogging along the shoreline and there were already a few out for an early morning swim in the pale blue ocean.

  Layla drew in a long breath and smiled. Whatever reservations she may have had about packing up and leaving the city were fading fast.

  Desiree had given Layla the key to the massage suite the previous evening after their cursory tour. It was during the night that her wheels started spinning and she woke up knowing exactly what she wanted.

  She let herself in and stood in the center of the room and looked around. She took out her iPad and opened it to the Notepad icon and began jotting down a list of the things that she would need, from thick towels, to oils, literature on massage therapy, robes, slippers, lighting and music. She would also need cases of water and a place to keep them cold.

  Lincoln and Desiree didn’t cut corners on design layout or expense. Connected to the therapy room were shower stalls and a sauna room.

  Layla guessed that what Desiree said was true; that if she didn’t take this spot someone else would. And she would be right. It was perfect and she couldn’t wait to get started.

  She could already envision the space as a full-time operation with a staff. She grinned, knowing that she was getting way ahead of herself. The first thing she needed to do was make a list and then go shopping for supplies before she started reviewing resumes.

  Layla switched off the lights and locked up, her mind on the task ahead as she came around the short corner and came face-to-face with Maurice Lawson.

  She came up short, and started to apologize for nearly causing a collision, but the words hung somewhere in the back of her throat, stuck there with all the air that refused to move of out of her lungs and fuel her brain.

  Her center ignited and she could feel the fine hairs on her arms and along the back of her neck begin to rise. Good Lord, the man was…was…

  It was her. The woman that he’d spotted yesterday. She was real. “Sorry,” he said.

  The two-syllable word sounded like a love song in her ears.

  “No, you’re fine…it’s fine. Really.” Did she just say that? “I’m always in a hurry,” she babbled. She couldn’t think straight, not with those haunting dark eyes staring at her and that chiseled upper body encased in a sleeveless white T-shirt that outlined every muscle that begged to be touched.

  Maurice shifted his walking cane from his right hand to his lef
t and shook hers. “Maurice.”

  Her hand was enveloped in the warmth of his. “Nice…to meet you I mean. You’re a guest?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Yes and no. I’m a working guest. I’m the new massage therapist. Layla Brooks.”

  “Hmmm.” He nodded his head.

  They stood there momentarily frozen in that “what now” moment that was mercifully broken by another guest needing to squeeze by in the narrow corridor.

  “Nice meeting you,” Maurice said.

  “You, too.”

  He moved past her and tried to ignore the pain in his leg and limped away with as much dignity as he could summon. He wanted to vanish and not have her watch him as he tried to pretend that he was as whole as any other man.

  Layla didn’t realize that she’d stopped breathing until a burst of air rushed from her chest. Her heart was beating triple time and although she was much too young for hot flashes, her entire body was flushed with heat.

  “Humph, humph, humph. That is one specimen of a man, cane and all,” she whispered. She definitely wanted him to sign up to be on her client list so that she could see for herself just how hard those muscles really were. She gave a short shake of her head to clear it.

  It was still a little too early to drive into town. She took a slow stroll around the property, reacquainting herself with the layout and then around to the back of the main building to the outdoor lounge, drawn by the aroma of breakfast. Her stomach responded.

  A few of the white circular tables were occupied and the waitresses were busy filling juice glasses and coffee cups. She found a table that was near the buffet, put down her bag and walked over to check out the breakfast offerings. She started down the length of the table and filled her plate with fresh fruit, eggs and wheat toast. She walked back to her table and was thinking about her close encounter with tall, dark and handsome Maurice when the plate in her hand rattled. He was on the other side of the buffet table.

  Maurice was settling down in his seat. Alone. He braced his cane against the table and she could see from where she stood the relief wash over his expression as he took the weight off of his leg.

  She wondered what had happened to him. Was it an accident? Surgery? She watched the expression on his face tighten. For a moment he closed his eyes while he massaged his thigh. What would that thigh feel like under her expert fingers? She knew she could take the pain away.

  “Um, excuse me.”

  Layla blinked. A smile flickered across her mouth. “Oh, sorry. I’m daydreaming,” she said to the couple standing behind her that was waiting for her to move along. She walked with her plate back to her table, taking furtive glances in Maurice’s direction.

  He was reading the paper and sipping on a cup of coffee. Maybe she should go and join him. No sense in the both of them eating alone, she thought. A dozen different scenarios played in her head on how she should approach him and what she should say and what he would say to her in return. The minutes ticked away.

  Maurice put down his coffee cup and turned slightly in her direction then away before doing a short double take and looking back again. He lifted his chin in salute. Layla waved. Her heart pounded. Maybe he would come over. Maybe he would ask her to join him. Should she go over and sit down? What if he was waiting for someone and she looked silly?

  Maurice folded the paper, finished off his coffee and reached for his cane.

  He was going to come over. She could hardly breathe. She swallowed over the tightness in her throat.

  Maurice stood slowly offered her a brief smile and walked out.

  Layla felt as if she’d been pumped full of air and then suddenly stabbed with an ice pick. As the air in her balloon dissipated, so did her appetite. She pushed her food around on her plate until it was sufficiently cold then gathered up her things and went out to get her car for the drive into town.

  Maurice returned to his room. He’d wanted to say something more to Layla. But what was the point. He tossed his cane into a corner. He plopped down on the couch. Even if he was attracted to her, what would she want with him? She probably felt pity for him just like everyone else.

  He stretched out his injured leg and absently massaged the never-ending ache.

  It had been longer than he would have liked since he’d been with a woman, through choice as well as circumstance. After his injury and then rehab he continued to struggle with what happened that night. The guilt was almost as painful if not more so than the injury that ended his career. The therapy sessions helped, but only so much. He still could not get beyond the feeling that had he done something differently, lives would have been saved and he would be one hundred percent man. Without his career as a Navy SEAL, the job he’d worked so hard for, trained for, lived for—all of that was gone. Being a SEAL defined who he was. The loss of that combined with his debilitating injury was almost more than he could stand. He didn’t feel like a man anymore. And if he didn’t feel it, what woman would feel it? He leaned his head back against the cushion of the couch and closed his eyes against his inescapable realities.

  Layla spent the better part of the morning shopping for supplies for the suite. Her car’s trunk was loaded and it took several trips back and forth to unload and get everything inside the suite. She’d purchased plants, artwork, oils, lotions, CDs, mats, small bowls, oil burners, hand sanitizers, disinfectant, cases of fruit juice and water, and soft lightbulbs. She’d placed an order for a dozen terry cloth robes and shower slippers. The boutique where she’d made her purchases promised that her items would be delivered within the next two days.

  She spent the next couple of hours organizing her supplies and rolling towels to be stacked. She hung pictures and poured the aromatic oils into the burners. Aromatherapy was just as important in creating the perfect atmosphere as the treatments.

  Layla took a look around and was finally satisfied with what she’d accomplished. She took some pictures of the space for the flyers, then locked up and walked back to the main building in search of Desiree.

  “It looks fabulous,” Desiree was saying. “Let me download them to my computer.”

  Layla touched a few icons on her iPad and sent the images to Desiree.

  Within moments Desiree was loading them into her graphics program. “You’ve been busy,” she said while she worked.

  Layla laughed. “To keep my mind off of other things.”

  Desiree looked up at her friend for a moment. “Other things like what? Don’t tell me New York.”

  Layla sat on the edge of Desiree’s desk and folded her arms. “No. Not New York.” She leaned closer. “Do you know that guy…with the limp?”

  Desiree frowned in concentration. “Limp?”

  “Yes and gorgeous.”

  Desiree grinned. “Oh, Maurice Lawson.”

  “Him.”

  Desiree crossed her legs. Her right brow rose with her question. “What about him?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Hmm, not much. He checked in about three days ago. Booked his cottage for six weeks. That’s about it really. I see him around from time to time.” A slow smile moved across her mouth. “And you want to know all this because…”

  Layla blew out a breath. “I wish I knew. Well, maybe I do know. It’s hard to explain. I mean, I only saw him for a minute a couple of times…but…” She looked away as if searching for the answers somewhere in the corners of the room. Finally, she shrugged. “No big deal. Forget it. He looked like he’d rather be alone.”

  Desiree stared at Layla’s profile. “Hey, this is the twenty-first century, girl. If a woman is interested in a man she doesn’t have to stand on protocol and wait for the man to make the first move anymore.”

  Layla slowly shook her head. “That is so not me. In my head I’m bold and aggressive. But then reality sets in.�
�

  Desiree reached out and touched Layla’s hand. “Bold and not standing on protocol is you. Brent screwed up a perfectly good relationship. But you can’t let what he did diminish you. Every man is not like Brent.”

  Layla hopped down off the desk. “I know that. I’m over Brent.”

  “Are you? Really? I’m not saying that you still have feelings for him, but I am saying that what he did messed with your confidence, challenged your womanhood.”

  Layla snapped her head away. She tightened her arms around her waist. The words to refute Desiree’s assertion were on her lips. They lingered on her tongue. She couldn’t say them. What Desiree said was true. It was painfully true. It had been a year since she’d come home to have him tell her that he was leaving, that he no longer loved her. But there wasn’t a day that had gone by that she didn’t remember how small and insignificant she’d felt; how could he so easily stop loving her. It wasn’t until months later that she found out why.

  She’d gone over that night a million times. In some versions she threw a lamp at Brent and then dumped all of his clothes out of the window. In another he came running after her, begging her to forgive him. But in all the versions, in the end, she was alone. Probably what stung the most was that she’d heard from their mutual acquaintances that Brent and Grace—his assistant—the woman he’d stopped loving her for—were still together and there was talk of them getting married the following spring.

  There was no way that she could get around the feeling that it was something she’d done or didn’t do or that she wasn’t appealing enough. Something. The feeling of inadequacy was not as bad as it had been, but it hovered and sat on her shoulder waiting patiently to whisper in her ear.

  “I remember the Layla Brooks that would walk into a minefield with high heels and a smile on her face, who could step into a room and every head would turn, who could have a conversation with the Secretary of State as easily as the woman who owns the dry cleaner on the corner. That’s the Layla that I know.”