As they came to the basement staircase, Derek put a hand on her arm. “Hold on a second.”
“What’s wrong?”
He pulled out his cell phone. “I’m going to call him before we go down. Reception’s better out here.”
“Just like that?” she asked.
He punched the number pad. “Just like that.”
“You know his number?”
Derek tapped his skull. “Mind like a steel trap.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I’m an amazing guy.”
The receptionist picked up.
“Marco Elliot, please. It’s Derek Reeves calling.”
“One moment please, Mr. Reeves.”
Candice watched him, and he watched her right back. Her hair seemed to sparkle in the afternoon sun. Her complexion was spring-fresh, her features delicate. He’d battled hard to keep his memories at bay, but right now their night together danced through his head in exquisite detail.
The line clicked and the elevator music ended. “Hey, Derek. How’s it going?”
“Hi, Marco. It’s good. Everything’s just great. How about you?”
“Profits are up. Overhead is down. I’m a little worried about world metal prices, but what can you do?”
Derek chuckled. “You be able to squeeze me in for a drink this afternoon?”
Candice’s eyes widened at his words. The expression reminded Derek of her orgasms, and he felt himself slide back into the memory.
“No problem,” said Marco. “After four work for you?”
“Perfect,” said Derek, his voice huskier than he’d intended. He cleared his throat.
“What are you—” Candice began.
Derek held up a finger to keep her quiet.
“The Sea Shanty sound good?” he asked Marro.
“Margarita night,” said Marco.
“Even better,” said Derek. “See you then.”
He closed the phone.
“I thought you were going to make an appointment for me,” said Candice.
Derek gestured to the basement stairs. “This is better.”
“Better how?”
He moved forward, herding her in front of him. “Marco knows me. He trusts me.”
She reluctantly started down the first couple of steps. “But your schedule.”
“Like I said, you caught me on a quiet day.”
“I can do this myself,” she grumbled.
“I know you can.” Derek typed in another quick message to his secretary as he followed Candy into the basement.
THEY SEARCHED THE REST of the basement but didn’t find anything else that excited Candy. So Derek gathered up the stack of guest registers and the old menus and loaded them into his car.
He drove Candy to the Sea Shanty. There, he found Marco had snagged a table near the rail of the covered sundeck, overlooking the beach.
The weather was unseasonably warm. The wind was calm and the tide was low. Couples and families wandered the sand, collecting shells, making castles and soaking up the last warm rays before the cool, fall weather moved in. A child’s occasional shout mixed with the background murmurs of the other Sea Shanty patrons.
“We’re researching the history of the Quayside Hotel,” said Derek after the cocktail waitress had taken their margarita order.
“How far back you planning to go?” asked Marco.
Candy jumped in, expression alight. “I found the original guest registers in the basement. I’m hoping there might be a famous person or two on the list.”
Marco smiled brightly at Candy, giving Derek a brief shot of jealousy. He shook it away.
“Like the time Prince Ivan and Princess Katrina stayed in the Roosevelt suite?”
Candy straightened. “They did?”
Marco’s forehead furrowed. “Midforties, if my grandfather’s stories are accurate.”
Candy leaned forward, propping her elbow on the smooth birch table. “What happened?”
Marco shifted his cushioned chair closer and leaned in toward her, drinking up her smile and the sound of her voice. “I believe they ordered the pheasant from room service.”
Candy’s shoulders slumped. “That’s it?”
Derek didn’t know whether to be sorry she didn’t get the story she was looking for, or pleased that Marco had disappointed her. When he planned this little get-together, he hadn’t considered they might be attracted to each other. And he sure hadn’t considered that he might care.
“Well, they took over the whole floor with their attendants and security staff.”
“No interesting stories?” asked Candy.
“Is that what you want?” asked Marco in a smooth, honeyed tone that set Derek’s teeth on edge.
“Yes,” said Candy.
“Then we should talk about David Stone and Jake Seymour.”
“The club singers?”
“The bad boys,” said Marco with a nod and a twinkle, his hand inching its way across the table.
Derek cleared his throat. “We’re planning on using these stories for the Historical Society.”
Marco seemed to suddenly remember Derek was there. “Oh.” He winked at Candy. “Better save that one for another time.”
Derek was really starting to rethink the plan of using Marco for information. It wasn’t like he could tell Marco to back off. It was none of his damn business if Marco came on to Candy, or if Candy encouraged it.
The waitress arrived with their margaritas, and Derek took a long drink of the tart lime and golden tequila.
“Got anything interesting, yet G-rated?” asked Candy.
“There was the time Adele Albingnon checked in with her seven Pekingese.”
Candy stirred her icy drink and nodded. “Now we’re talking.”
“We had a ‘no pets’ policy at the time. But when a dog shows up with a collar worth more than your car, you rethink the policy.”
The noise level on the deck started to rise as the after-work crowd grew, and Candy leaned closer to Marco, hanging on his every word.
“Each dog had a little plaid coat, a bow in its hair and its very own nanny,” said Marco.
Candy laughed.
“They ordered sautéed liver and ground filet mignon, and had it delivered on silver platters. Of course, my grandfather made sure the dishes were never used for people again.”
“Any chance they’re still around?” asked Candy.
“The dishes?”
No, the dogs. Derek took a swig of his slush drink.
Candy nodded at Marco.
He shrugged. “I don’t know how we’d find them. Though we might have some photographs back at the house. Maybe you could get some reproductions.”
Candy sat back, her eyes went wide, and she blinked in astonishment. “You’ve got pictures?”
“Some old albums from Grandpa’s attic. You want to stop by the house and pick them up?”
Candy’s tone turned reverent. “Could I?”
“I’ll get them tomorrow,” Derek quickly put in.
They both turned to look at him.
“It’s on my way,” he said to Candy.
She opened her mouth, and Derek just knew she was going to make this difficult. But Marco beat her to it. With a very calculating look in his eye, he gave Derek a two-fingered salute. “Sure thing, Derek.”
Oh, great. Now Marco had the wrong idea.
10
“I’VE GOT THE ALBUMS,” assured Derek’s smooth, sexy voice over the telephone line.
Candice squelched her physical reaction as she gave Jenna a thumbs-up signal across the reception area of the Canna Interiors offices. “Don’t you dare open them,” she said to Derek.
He laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of doing it without you. Can you do lunch?”
Candice fought a shiver. “Lunch? Sure. Jenna wants to come, too.”
“She does?” asked Derek.
Jenna shook her head, making a slashing motion across her throat.
C
andice nodded insistently at Jenna. Jenna it’s-like-a-chocolate-craving Reeves owed her on this.
It had been less than seventy-two hours since she’d made love to Derek, and the craving was back to full strength. And after her second margarita last night, he’d started looking unimaginably sexy. She didn’t trust herself alone with him.
“I can’t,” Jenna whispered.
Candice covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Yes, you can.”
“Probably the easiest thing to do is meet at my place,” said Derek.
“Your place?” Candice squeaked into the phone.
“Yeah. I left the registers and the menus there last night.”
Candice cursed under her breath. She knew she should have taken the treasures home with her. But she’d called a taxi and escaped from the Sea Shanty while Derek and Marco were engrossed in a conversation about overseas markets. She’d been afraid of what might happen if Derek drove her home.
Jenna grinned at her. “His place?”
Candice covered the receiver. “You are so coming with me.”
“I’m meeting Tyler.”
“Tough.”
“Candy?”
“Yes, Derek?”
“Want me to pick you up?”
“No. That’s okay. We’ll meet you there.”
Jenna shook her head.
Candice nodded at her again.
“Sounds good,” said Derek. “See you then.”
“Goodbye.” She hung up the phone.
“Not coming,” sang Jenna.
“Canceling on your husband,” said Candice.
“It’s our four-month anniversary.”
“Celebrate tonight.”
“He’ll be here in five minutes.”
“Then we’d better hurry.”
Jenna took a couple of backward steps into the doorway of her office. “This lust for Derek is your problem.”
Candice advanced on her. “You’re the one who told me to sleep with him.”
“You’re the one who liked it.”
“I didn’t…Okay, so I did.”
“Do it again. Can’t hurt. Might help.”
“You think I’m taking your advice a second time?”
Jenna just grinned.
The outer door to the reception area opened, and Tyler stuck his head in. “Ready, babe?”
“Ready,” Jenna called to her husband.
Candice slumped in defeat. “I’m a chocoholic,” she whispered for Jenna’s ears only.
Jenna paused to pat her on the shoulder. “We’ll get you into a twelve-step program.”
CANDICE WAS PRETTY SURE this was a bad bet for step one of her program. She parked her car in Derek’s driveway and set the brake, staring at his front door while she screwed up her courage.
She had no choice. He had the menus. He had the registers. And he had the photo albums.
Worse, Myrna West had called this morning. It seemed the Historical Society required the property owner—Derek—to make the formal presentation on Saturday. Candice needed him more than ever.
She gathered her stack of library books and two file folders from the passenger seat of her MG and wrenched the door open. Short juniper bushes lined the curving, exposed aggregate pathway to Derek’s wide front porch. She could see the lake behind his big house and guessed he had a million-dollar view from the top floor.
He probably had a European art collection and custom-made furniture. That was good. It would remind her he was one of them—a cold-hearted, mercenary man who could spit out hearts like sunflower husks. Maybe he wouldn’t look so attractive next to a million-dollar Menzuzzi painting.
She rang the bell.
A plump, gray-haired woman immediately opened the door and greeted her with a smile.
A housekeeper? Derek had a housekeeper?
Saved by his high-living ways, she smiled broadly at the woman. “Candice Hammond. Derek is expecting me.”
“Candice.” Derek strode down the polished hardwood of his long hallway.
The housekeeper gestured to the library books. “Can I help you with those?”
“I’ve got them, Mrs. Bartel,” said Derek, lifting the books from Candice’s hands. “Thanks.”
He nodded back down the hallway. “Thought we’d meet in the sunroom.”
Candice thanked Mrs. Bartel and followed Derek down the hall. The sunroom. That didn’t sound too intimate. It sounded like the place with lots of windows, bright light, a housekeeper wandering in and out all lunch hour long. She’d worried for nothing.
Derek pushed open a curtained French door and held it for her. Candice stepped through the doorway, and then stopped short. This wasn’t a sunroom, it was a full-fledged tropical garden. Stone pillars lined a flagstone path. They were surrounded by leafy potted plants and covered with woody vines.
The path led to a rock garden around a goldfish pond with a trickling waterfall. Comfortable groupings of polished wicker furniture and towering fifteen-foot palm trees were placed at intervals.
Candice turned in a circle, looking all around. “This is stunning.”
Derek smiled. “You should see it at night. The landscaper put pot lights in the fountain, and you can see the stars through the glass ceiling.”
He set the library books down on a glass table. The menus and hotel registers were already there, along with what had to be the photo albums from Marco.
“I’d love to see it at night,” she breathed, before she realized what she was saying.
“Anytime,” said Derek, gesturing to one of the ivory cushioned seats.
He sat down with her and opened the top file folder. “What’ve you got here?”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” said Candice.
“What is it?”
“The application form. I’ve rounded up some of the chronology of the building and jotted down the significant milestones. Now we need to add the amusing anecdotes.” She picked up the first of the photo albums. “Think Marco would help us out again?”
Derek looked up from reading the application form. “Why?”
Candice didn’t understand the question. “So he can tell us more stories….”
“I’ll talk to him,” said Derek with a frown.
She didn’t understand why Derek would want to waste his time? “But—”
“Don’t worry,” he cut in. “I’ll take good notes.”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
Derek went back to reading. “No trouble.”
Something was strange here. “Derek?”
“Hmm?”
“I know you’re a busy man.”
“I’ll take care of Marco.” He closed the folder. “So, what’s the game plan?”
It was on the tip of Candice’s tongue to argue some more. But she didn’t want to annoy him.
If Derek was hell-bent on talking to Marco, fine with her. As long as she got the stories she needed. “I’m going to check out the pictures. If I recognize some of the people who stayed at the hotel in the forties, I’ll talk to Marco and see if I can build the presentation around them.”
“You mean, I’ll talk to Marco.”
She placed an album on the glass table between them and opened it up. “Fine.”
Derek scooted his chair a little closer.
The pictures were old, mostly blurry black and white, stuck into the album by black paper corners. They were captioned in white ink, and pages crackled as she turned them.
Even blurry, it was a treasure trove.
Candice gasped and exclaimed and speculated on person after person, until Derek finally picked up the phone and put Marco on speaker to answer her questions.
She scribbled notes for nearly an hour, laughing and marveling at the stories Marco told her as her confidence in the presentation grew. Then Marco had to leave for a meeting, so Derek hung up the phone.
“You like Marco, don’t you?” he asked.
“He’s currently my hero,” s
aid Candice, flipping through the pages of notes. “These are fantastic. But I don’t know how we’ll use them all.”
“He’s got a reputation as a womanizer, you know.”
Candice looked up. “Huh? You mean Martin Spain?” Martin Spain was an industrialist who stayed at the hotel during the sixties. He brought along an endless parade of starlets, models and debutantes.
“I mean Marco,” said Derek, looking annoyed.
“I wasn’t planning to write about Marco.” Candice realized they couldn’t present any of the stories of sex and debauchery to the Historical Society. Myrna West and her blue-haired friends would probably faint dead away.
“I meant for you,” said Derek, voice gruff.
She turned to stare at him. Things had been going so well. She’d almost forgotten about his unpredictable temper.
“Have I stayed too long?” she asked. Maybe she’d made him late for a meeting.
She started to stand, gathering up the scattered books and papers. “I can get out of your—”
Derek stood with her. “We haven’t even had lunch yet.”
“But if you’re late…”
“I’m not late.”
She paused. “Then what’s wrong?”
Derek crossed his arms, looking huge and imposing. “I don’t want you getting mixed up with Marco.”
Candice blinked. Now she was really confused. “But you introduced us….”
Derek looked away. “I know. But he’s no good for you.”
Candice moved her head so she was looking Derek in the eye again. “I’m using his stories, not dating him.”
Derek pinned her with a piercing gaze.
Comprehension dawned. “Ohhh. You think I’m interested…”
“Aren’t you?”
Candice fought a grin, shaking her head. “Not in the least.” Marco was a nice guy and all. But he was a little like an untrained puppy, all bounding energy and scattered enthusiasm. The kind of guy who went through women like rubber chew toys.
“You sure?” asked Derek.
Oh, yeah. Candice was sure. She’d met dozens of Marcos in her time. Derek didn’t need to warn her off.
She crossed her arms, imitating his pose. “I’m working on a business presentation, Derek. Sex is the furthest thing from my mind.”
Now there was a lie. As she stared at Derek’s stern face, her skin started to get that familiar itchy feeling. The sound of the waterfall rose in her ears, and she realized that sex with Derek was exactly what was on her mind.
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