by Jan O'Hara
Page squeezed back, her throat feeling thick, then released Mavis to step out of the limelight.
Avis pointed at Mavis. “What she said. But I know you’ll find the right person.”
Oliver sighed and turned to the elderly man. “Jonathan?”
The man offered a sympathetic smile. “Sorry. It’ll be the bus and voucher for me. I’m meeting my daughter in LA.”
Oliver shoved his hands in his pockets. “All right. Can you recommend another group member? I’ve already asked hotel management, and they don’t have anyone I can poach.”
“I’ll do it,” Page said. She felt the sudden weight of the group’s attention. “At least, I’ll do it as far as Vancouver. You’d have to get someone to take over from there.”
Avis clapped her hands. “I think it’s a brilliant idea. What Danielle would call a win-win. Do it.”
“Not interested, thanks,” Oliver said. “I need someone with common sense.”
“And they say compassion is dead,” Page drawled.
Mavis and Avis shared a glance as Jonathan’s eyebrows climbed.
“We’ll leave you two to work it out,” Mavis said, “but you should give it consideration, Oliver.” The three seniors headed for the ballroom, leaving Page and Oliver alone.
Oliver narrowed his eyes at Page. “All right, let’s get this over with. Make your case.”
Case. Was he a lawyer? That would explain his ability to produce legal documents out of thin air.
Page had blurted her initial offer on impulse, but the more she thought of it, the more she was warming to the idea, mostly because of the warming. To be indoors while getting paid to reach her destination on time? It would be worth violating her strict no-ties policy, even if it meant working with Oliver.
Besides, another week in Harmony would give her a chance to track down the thief.
She shed her coat and draped it over a stack of chairs, briefly steepling her fingers as she prepared her pitch.
“Wouldn’t working together be mutually beneficial?” she said. “I need transportation, you need a body on the ground. Like, for example, to locate your three missing people.”
His eyes flared briefly in annoyance, but he only shrugged.
“As for the common sense part, have you ever been stiffed by an employer? Ever counted on money that didn’t come through?”
If Oliver had, he didn’t appear to have suffered. The man’s jeans were designer, his coat had to have cost a thousand dollars, and his boots? For a man who supposedly didn’t live in Canada, they were an outrageous temporary investment.
There was an encouraging softening to the set of his mouth.
“Yes, I made a bad decision in becoming a stowaway,” she said. “I was on a tight budget and timeline. But you can bet I won’t repeat the experience.” She steeled herself. “Before you consider hiring me, though, I have a stipulation.”
Page decided to ignore Oliver’s snort. He would have blown her off by now if he had a reasonable alternative.
“Just… Look, I’m a hard worker.” She took a breath to slow herself down. “I’m not afraid of dirt. I’ll do pretty much anything you want. But if I say I can’t manage one or two of the clients—one or two in the whole group—you give me a pass, no questions asked.”
He stared at her long and hard. “I’m willing to take risks for myself, but this is my brother’s livelihood. Do I need to be concerned?”
“Absolutely not. I swear.”
His jaw worked while he thought things over, but she could tell she had him.
“I have a single pre-employment stipulation of my own.” Oliver put out his hand and dropped his gaze to her chest in a distinctly asexual evaluation.
Page sighed and rolled her eyes. She slipped her hand under her shirt and extracted the last page of the contract from her bra, laying it in Oliver’s palm.
He unfolded it, scrutinized it, nodded. “Welcome aboard.”
“I was never going to sue,” she said. Not only was she not the litigious type, you probably needed a fixed address to hire a lawyer.
All the same, as Oliver refolded the page and inserted it into his wallet, it was hard not to regret handing him her only leverage. She tilted her chin as much for herself as for the outward display of strength. “Where do we start?”
Oliver opened the door to the ballroom and swept his arm in an invitation to enter.
“We assign rooms and get luggage delivered. Double occupancy for everyone but me.” His smile held the flavor of evil. “One guess who’ll be your roommate.”
Chapter 7
Maybe it had been a dirty trick to assign Page to Mrs. Horton for a roommate, but the following morning, as Oliver knocked on their door, he acknowledged a twinge of disappointment. Just past six o’clock, and he’d already been summoned.
He’d thought Page was tougher than to call him at the first hint of conflict. He’d thought her capable of handling the old bird.
In a way, if he’d overestimated her abilities, it was Page’s own fault. She’d been so forceful and alive last night, he’d started thinking of her like one of those frozen carp: they might appear dead at first, but apply a little heat and time, and watch them swim and reproduce.
The door opened. Before he could offer a greeting, the trouble-with-blue-striped-hair reached out and yanked him inside. “You’re late.”
He shrugged. That’s what happened when you were rescuing innocent creatures. Ten minutes before, outside this very room, Oliver had found an orange tabby roaming the hallway. He’d taken it to the front desk, where the staff was working to track down its owner.
“What’s up, carp?” He grinned at her.
She gave him a look but apparently had bigger problems on her mind than rising to the bait.
Bait? Heh.
“We have a problem,” she announced, wrenching his mind to the present. She stood with her arms folded over her chest, blocking Oliver’s way into the suite. She was wearing some kind of pink robe which did nothing to disguise the outline of her breasts.
Because he had no business in noticing such things, Oliver put his hands on her shoulders and moved her to the side. Dang. The robe was every bit as soft and inviting as it looked.
He couldn’t sense a curmudgeonly presence. Indeed, as he advanced further into the suite, he could see they were alone. Mrs. Horton hadn’t been kidding about being an early riser.
“Yes, your room is a hotbed of unrest,” he said dryly. As he scanned the room, he felt his shoulders relax and a threatening headache fade.
They’d gone to bed late, risen before dawn, and Oliver’s room reflected his state of upheaval. Yet this suite, housing two people instead of one, was immaculate. He’d bet good money the rebel behind him was a neat-freak.
“That’s odd,” he said. “Your room is tidy, yet it’s too early for housekeeping.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, as if she found him a few treads short of a running shoe. “Mrs. Horton couldn’t navigate otherwise. I assume you’re opposed to hip fractures.”
He sat on the nearest bed and smoothed its cover. “Philosophically and pragmatically. But you also made the beds and that’s not necessary for mobility.” His smile broadened as she squirmed. Bingo. Neat-freak.
“It’s not rocket science,” she said in quelling tones. “When you’re done inspecting my housekeeping, can we get to the reason I called you?”
It was fun teasing her but all good things had to end. “Fire away.”
She pulled a black suitcase from the closet and wheeled it to the bed. When she bent to lift it, her biceps strained and the luggage emitted a clinking sound. Page paused with her fingers on the zipper tab. “I’m showing you this with Agatha’s permission.”
“Okay,” Oliver said. He’d obviously misread the situation. Far from being ready to tattle on his client, Page’s manner was one of protectiveness. “Don’t tell me you’ve discovered a geriatric Unabomber.”
“Al Capone, more like.” She un
fastened the suitcase and flipped it open.
Oliver was left blinking. The suitcase was full of glass bottles of varying sizes and colors, all wrapped in flowered tea towels—presumably, to limit breakage. He seized the nearest bottle for inspection and promptly sneezed. The label consisted of a dusty piece of masking tape, marked with a date and hand-drawn flower.
He started to laugh. “She packed home brew?” He appreciated how Page’s eyes lit with answering humor.
“Her daughter’s concoction. Apparently the spring of o-thirteen was a good year for dandelions.” Page pounded on his back as he choked on his own spit. “And you owe me hazard pay. It tastes as vile as it sounds.”
When he recovered, Oliver sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Page had exposed yet another gap in his brother’s process. Mrs. Horton couldn’t be the only senior who needed a reminder about border-crossing rules.
“Guess we’ll have to talk with them about international law.” Frighten them about cavity searches which could double for physical exams. He slapped his thighs and stood. “Well, you did good—”
Page shook her head. “I’m not finished. I found this stash because Mrs. Horton drinks a half-glass every night before bed. She calls it her twelfth medicinal.”
“Twelfth?” Dear God. For some reason, despite knowing Mrs. Horton was ninety-five, Oliver had figured her mule-like constitution would protect her from illness.
Page nodded as if he’d confirmed a dark suspicion. “So you weren’t aware. Which brings me to the real problem. Follow me.”
Her destination was the bathroom, which was as tidy as the rest of the suite. Two plastic containers lay stacked on the counter.
Page lifted the uppermost one. “Meet medications one through eleven.”
Standing this close in such a small space, it was impossible to avoid inhaling her scent. They’d both showered using the hotel’s shampoo that morning, yet through a quirk of personal chemistry, Page smelled delicious, whereas Oliver just smelled.
He could also see her tunic hanging dripping from the shower rod, which meant Page was wearing what, exactly, beneath her robe? Beyond the leggings peeping out from underneath it, that was.
“Oliver?” Page stared at him like she’d said something significant.
“Hmmm? Right. Medications one through eleven.” Focus, Oliver.
He pulled the organizer from her hands. It looked like a tool box but was actually a physical calendar of sorts, with the days of the week marching across the top. Along the left side were labels for four daily time slots: breakfast, lunch, supper, bed. Now that they were approaching breakfast on the second day of the trip, five slots were empty. The remaining twenty-three were occupied by pills and capsules of varying colors, shapes, and sizes.
He picked up the second organizer, which was an as-yet untouched twin to the first, and shook. It was the clattering sound of potential disaster.
“Does she have an extra one of these lying around somewhere?” Oliver said.
Page’s eyes were apologetic. “No. I’m sorry.”
“What about the actual pill bottles?”
“With her daughter in Edmonton.”
“A list of medications?” he said. “An idea of the doses?”
“Nope and nope. Because her daughter—”
“Fills them for her weekly,” Oliver said, seeing where this was going. He muttered an oath and set down the containers. Page trailed after him as he returned to the suite and his spot on the bed.
“And, Oliver, she doesn’t have medical insurance. She doesn’t remember anyone discussing it with her.”
Meaning that if Mrs. Horton went to the States and got sick, perhaps because she ran out of vital medication, she could be bankrupted. At ninety-five.
The week’s delay wasn’t Shawn’s fault, of course. Oliver’s brother couldn’t have anticipated a cataclysmic weather event that would close the highway. But to consider taking a group of seniors south of the border, with undocumented medical problems? It defied comprehension.
For a moment Oliver let it swamp him—how sick Shawn must have been to ignore this level of detail. How long he must have struggled alone, while Oliver used him as a crutch, complained about the problems in Oliver’s comparatively privileged life.
“I’m sorry, Oliver.” Page’s voice was gentle. “What do you want to do?”
She was asking whether it was time to throw in the towel. Maybe it was at that.
Yesterday Oliver had been able to adapt to events with the help of an old friend, a battalion of hotel staff, and the expenditure of a small personal fortune. But if he took this on, it would be like beginning from scratch. Who knew what else they would discover? What pertinent detail Shawn might have overlooked out of inexperience and personal crisis?
Then Oliver pictured the alternative, having to walk into the hospital room back in Edmonton.
Hey, big buddy. Yeah, that’s right, I’m back early. By the way, your brand new business? The one you put all your hopes on? Dead as a doornail before it ever began.
He sighed. “Let’s get through breakfast and see off Buck and the Edmonton crew. Then, if you can manage the group by yourself, I’ll get on my phone.”
He was about to call in every favor ever owed, which meant conversations with people he’d avoided for a year and a half, and opening a door he’d prefer to keep locked and barricaded. Even then, his efforts might not be enough. But for Shawn, he had to try.
He opened his mouth to say as much when he caught sight of a sweat droplet glistening on Page’s forehead. It slid to her cheek, then downward, where it leaped from her jaw to be swallowed up by the thirsty bathrobe. Another followed in its path. Then another, as Page scooped up her hair with both hands and lifted it from her neck.
He smiled. “Take it off, Maddux.
“What?” she said, even as the color in her cheeks rose higher and her gaze darted away.
“The reason you’re sweating to death. Haven’t you had enough of temperature extremes?”
“I like being warm,” she said.
He pushed to his feet and prowled closer. He hooked a finger in the collar of her bathrobe, which was—now that he was paying attention—cinched unnaturally high around her neck. He exposed an inch of thick, orange sweater.
“Show me,” he said.
She hesitated.
“You’re only delaying the inevitable. Use the hairdryer all you want, but that sweater in the bathroom won’t be ready by breakfast.”
She dropped her arms in exasperation. “Fine, then. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal of this.”
He grinned, feeling a hell of a lot happier all of a sudden. “Because it bothers you and I need a distraction.”
She rolled her eyes. “I bet you were the kind of boy to pull legs off spiders.”
He sat again, shifting so his back was to the headboard, and grinned when she slapped his feet off the bed.
Her fingers undid the belt and pushed the bathrobe off her shoulders in a move that was unconsciously sexy. Then she stood with her chin uptilted, daring him to find her wanting.
The sweater had come from someone with deplorable taste. It was pumpkin-colored and covered in sparkly beads in a shape that might have been a cat or maybe, if you squinted and turned your head sideways, North America. On Page, it should have been gaudy and age-inappropriate. But it clung to her body just right and fell to her thighs, where the leggings took over, revealing a pair of endless, nicely-muscled legs.
“Cute, Maddux,” he managed to say instead of swallowing his tongue. He made for the door before he could give into any explorer tendencies. He was no Columbus, and she was no New World.
“Cute? Just what every woman longs to hear,” she called after him.
“True,” he said, “but it’s better than carp.”
Chapter 8
By dinnertime, Page wasn’t the only one to notice Oliver’s phone calls had put him in a sad and pensive mood.
Now that
the remaining forty-one seniors were dug in for a week, to assist with the tour group’s cohesiveness—probably code for keep the seniors from plugging up the Thurston’s ground floor—the hotel had assigned them to the Aspen Room on the second level. The group would take their meals together three times a day, buffet-style, with staff circulating to clear plates and serve coffee and tea. Between meals, a beverage station was available 24/7. With the strategic placement of a few couches at the room’s perimeter, along with side tables and lamps, the effect was a cozy, intimate setting that discouraged wandering.
At dinner, as Page walked between the tables, tucking in a cane here to prevent tripping, picking up a fallen sweater there to prevent chill, and generally ensuring all were satisfied, her hand was caught by Avis. Page was pulled into a hug that nearly toppled her into Avis’s lap.
“How’s my favorite frozen girl?” Avis asked.
Page felt a wash of affection as she registered Avis’s pleasant squishiness, followed by a prickle of alarm. Careful, Page, she cautioned herself. Not even twenty-four hours and you’re falling in love with this crew.
“You sound like a serial killer.” Page plucked at her top. “But thanks to your loan, I’m finally warm.”
“Oh, pish. Keep it as long as you like. Mavis would be grateful if you took it off my hands permanently.”
“True.” Mavis shook out her newspaper, folded it, and set it aside. “On Page it looks chic, whereas you look like a sparkly cantaloupe. But, Page, dear, now that you’re here, whatever’s upsetting Oliver?”
The gentleman seated beside her, Mr. Conker, looked up from his mashed potatoes. His glasses hung from a cord around his neck. As he squinted at Page, his forehead dissolved into horizontal pleats, which seemed appropriate. At breakfast, she had learned he was a retired tailor who once specialized in custom suits.
“More trouble with the trip?” Mr. Conker asked. “He’s burning up the phone like there’s a national crisis.”