Thirty-two-year-old Joanna bent down so the uncompromising morning sun caught her full face. She pointed toward a few fine lines at the outer corners of her blue-green eyes and the faintest of creases on her forehead.
"Battle scars." She watched Holland's face, "I've had them since I was nineteen." They were vivid reminders of exactly what could happen to a woman when she let herself believe in happily-ever-after.
"You're gorgeous," Holland said matter-of-factly. "You can afford to have a wrinkle or two. It's the rest of us mere mortals who have a problem." She smoothed the furrows on her forehead with an index finger. "Don't you have any potions in your bag of tricks that could make me look ten years younger?"
"Actually I'm looking for a way to add wrinkles."
Holland's expression was priceless. "I'm calling Bellevue."
"You surprise me, Holland. I thought you'd call Saks for industrial strength face cream."
"Be serious. Wrinkles are no laughing matter."
"I am serious. Benny Ryan wants me to do some special effects for a commercial he's shooting next week." Although Joanna was technically on a sabbatical, that didn't keep the offers from pouring in. Saying no hadn't been a problem until Benny's call came in the day before. Disguising a young man as his older self was too fascinating a proposal to ignore.
When it came to disguises, Joanna Stratton was in her element. The more successful she became at creating masks for others, the better the mask she created for herself. In fact, some of her best work was seen every day in the smooth and lovely face she presented to the world.
The struggle to piece her life together after the sudden, violent end of her teenage marriage didn't show. The years of study and apprenticeship, the insecurity and loneliness that were her birthright the same as her beauty – none of these were visible. Not even to her closest friend.
The nomadic life of a free-lance theatrical makeup artist – disguises, a specialty – suited Joanna perfectly. By never staying too long in one place she never ran the risk of growing seriously attached to anything or anyone.
And if lately she'd begun to feel the need for something more tugging and pulling at her coat strings – well, she had only to look at her much-married mother to know how slim her own chances really were for the little cottage with the white picket fence.
It made a hell of a lot more sense for a woman to buy her own little cottage than to wait for Prince Charming to come along and make a down payment. These days, Prince Charmings were in short supply.
The mention of a job possibility had caused Holland to sit up straighter. "Anything in it for me?"
Joanna shook off her pensive thoughts. "Only if you want to play a man who ages fifty years waiting in line for a bank teller."
"Forget it."
"Not even for your art?"
"Not even if it comes with a Tony, an Emmy and an Oscar." Holland shuddered. "Why would you want to take on such a depressing job?"
"I think it's intriguing," Joanna countered. "I've spent the last ten years making septuagenarians look like teenagers. Why not see if it works the other way around?"
"You're perverse."
"Maybe, but think what fun I'll have." Holland reached for her concealer again and Joanna grabbed it from her. "I could show you how you'll look thirty years from now."
"Bite your tongue!"
"Why this sudden panic over a few laugh lines? You weren't like this when I saw you back in October."
"I wasn't forty-two in October."
"I doubt if your social life has suffered because of it." Holland always had a string of eligible and not-so-eligible men vying for her favors.
"Well, I haven't joined the Sisters of the Celibate Poor, if that's what you mean."
Joanna ignored the jab at her own currently dull social life. "Level with me, Holland."
Holland sighed. "I need more sleep, more makeup, and a hell of a lot more guts to make it against the competition these days, Jo, both on and off the stage." She turned slightly and looked out the window. "And it's scaring the hell out of me."
Joanna was quiet.
She'd spent the past few months in Europe doing the makeup for three top American stars who were filming a miniseries in between temper tantrums and anxiety attacks.
America's insane devotion to youth and perfection had turned three supremely gifted adults into neurotics. However, the fear in Holland's eyes was something else again. It wasn't a performer's fear; it was a woman's fear. A fear Joanna had seen in her mother's eyes, a fear that went deeper than the bone.
"When's the audition?"
"Tomorrow morning." Holland turned the magnifying mirror facedown. "Can you perform a miracle?"
"Let me look at you."
Joanna studied Holland's flawless cheekbones, clear green eyes, and thick auburn hair. Laugh lines or not laugh lines, Holland was a classically beautiful woman and was destined to remain so well into old age.
But Joanna knew that was the last thing her friend wanted to hear and the last thing she would believe.
"I don't know," Joanna said with a smile. "It'll be a tough job."
"I'm shameless," Holland said, "You make me beautiful and I'll take you to lunch."
"Tavern?"
Holland winced. "Would you settle for Jake's on the East Side?"
"You're buying?"
"I'm buying. Miracles don't come cheap."
"You're in luck," Joanna said, reaching for the Pure Beige 004. "Miracles just happen to be my specialty."
He was her competition
She is the love of his life
Maggie Douglass is a former spy turned innkeeper
John Adams Tyler is a rocker turned major mogul
Between them, they own 317 bedrooms in the honeymoon paradise called the Pocono Mountains
So why can't they find a room to call their own?
HONEYMOON HOTEL
The PAX Series - Book 2
by
Barbara Bretton
Chapter One
"Mirrored ceilings are a necessary evil," said Alistair Chambers, as he reached for his brandy. "Utterly unavoidable."
"Hah!" Holland Masters stabbed the innocent strawberry tart on her plate with a silver fork. "Only if you're twenty-two and perfect. Who wants to see cellulite and spider veins in 3-D?"
The beautiful redhead shivered delicately and, across the table, Maggie Douglass chuckled into her chocolate mousse.
For the past hour Maggie had been refereeing a lively discussion on the relative merits of interior design a la the Pocono Mountains.
Her debonair Uncle Alistair had come down squarely on the side of water beds and champagne-glass whirlpools for two, while the bohemian Ms. Masters had surprised both of them by casting her vote for the more conservative pleasures to be found in candlelight and roaring fires.
"You're a snob," said Alistair to his ladylove.
"And you're an unrepentant rake." Holland, an actress, launched into a detailed and dramatic explanation of his more libertine tendencies that on another day might have tickled Maggie's sense of the absurd.
But not today.
What was the matter with those two anyway? Any fool knew that when it came to seduction, the name of the game was chocolate.
Especially the Bronze Penguin's chocolate mousse.
There wasn't a man alive who could compete.
At least that's what Maggie thought until the moment he strode into the restaurant.
She stopped dead, her third spoonful halfway to her lips, and stared as the handsome stranger followed Claude, the imperious maitre d', to the VIP table near the French doors – the same table the surly Claude had patently refused her not one hour ago.
There weren't many things on earth that could take her mind away from chocolate mousse with freshly whipped cream, but a gorgeous man in was definitely one of them.
It wasn't often you saw men in Savile Row suits in East Point, Pennsylvania – not even at the venerable Bronze Penguin, the Poc
onos' answer to Lutece.
To see two Savile Row suits in the same place on the same day – well, that was definitely worth a second look.
Not that Maggie wouldn't have given him a second look anyway. Men like that belonged to her other life, to dinners at Maxim's and summers in Monte Carlo.
East Point was nestled snugly in the midst of the Pocono Mountains, and most men as gorgeous as this one usually came with a brand-new blushing bride in tow. To see a tall, handsome stranger who was obviously alone was nothing short of extraordinary.
No wonder Claude was tumbling over his wing tips with excitement.
"My favorite table," Maggie mumbled, covering up her own ardent interest with righteous indignation. "And to a perfect stranger, no less!"
Holland halted her discourse on heart-shaped bathtubs long enough to follow Maggie's gaze. "Definitely perfect," she drawled in the same throaty voice enjoyed by millions, five days a week on Destiny, the nation's number one soap. "He gives new meaning to the cliché, tall, dark, and handsome."
Alistair, the owner of the other Savile Row suit on display that Wednesday afternoon in August, cleared his throat and motioned for brandy all around. "I'll concede two of your three observations, but one can scarcely tell if the gentleman in question is tall while he's seated."
"He's tall," Maggie said, looking away as the stranger met her eyes.
Her uncle turned to Holland. "He's seated. How does she know he's tall?"
"Trust her, darling," said Holland. "There are some things a woman just knows."
Maggie glanced back in time to see Claude present the man a menu with a flourish reserved for visiting royalty.
"I live in this town," Maggie grumbled, attacking her defenseless mousse again."Shouldn't that count for something?"
"To the rich belong the spoils," said Alistair. "The way to Claude's heart is through his wallet. Obviously your perfect man is not above bribery."
As the owner of The White Elephant, the least well-known honeymoon resort in the Poconos, Maggie was hard-pressed to pay for this lunch. She certainly wasn't in any position to add an arrogant maitre d' to her payroll.
Leave that to the mysterious new owner of Hideaway Haven with its patented Love Cottages that came complete with flocked velvet wallpaper and hot- and cold-running Jacuzzis. The way rumor said the new owner was raking in the bucks, he could afford Claude's blackmail money.
"Stop mumbling like a country girl," Holland said, sipping her brandy. "You've been here in the backwoods too long, Maggie. In Manhattan maitre d's rule the world."
"This isn't Manhattan."
"Really?" Holland murmured, her green eyes twinkling. "I hadn't noticed."
Maggie laughed despite herself. Let Claude enjoy his power trip. She wouldn't trade her lunch companions for the best table in the house.
Not even if that gorgeous stranger came with it.
#
The second the lanky maitre d with the Charles de Gaulle profile oiled his way over to him, John Adams Tyler knew he should have gone to McDonald's instead.
But McDonald's wasn't any safer, any more than Burger King or Sizzler or any of the other middle-class bastions of fast food were safe. If he wanted to avoid the men who were dogging his steps, he would just have to put up with this kind of pretentious garbage.
He glanced around the place and stifled a groan as somewhere in the vastness, a champagne cork popped.
He hated fancy restaurants. He hated French food. And, more than anything, he hated maitre d's.
"Tyler," he said as the man scanned his reservation book. "Table for one."
Claude took a long look at John, obviously checking for signs of wealth. His gaze slid over the expensive silk suit and the de rigueur gold watch, then stuttered over the longer-than-average hair that tickled John's collar.
That stutter was quickly smoothed over when John pressed a twenty-dollar bill into Claude's eager palm.
"Ah, yes!" The bill disappeared into the pocket of Claude's trousers. "Your name is indeed on the list." He closed the book and gave John a courtly, if obsequious, bow. "This way, sir."
Social snobbery in the Poconos, where Love Tubs and Magic Fingers were the ultimate status symbols?
Amazing.
Yet the most amazing thing of all was that John Adams Tyler, aka The Animal, had been quick enough to play by the same rules he'd poked fun at a million years ago.
Maybe that's why he'd ducked out of the last meeting and hidden away here at the Bronze Penguin where none of the people who mattered would ever look.
He needed time to think. They'd been dogging his steps for months now, trying to pull him back into a past he wanted to forget.
Old memories.
Old debts.
Saying no to them wouldn't be easy.
Claude hovered around like a bird of prey. "Are you certain this table is to your liking, m'sieur?"
John unbuttoned his suit jacket. "The table is fine."
"I can bring you our master wine list."
He shook his head. "Not necessary."
"We have a superb Riesling you might consider. I can ask Gerard to bring one up so you can –"
"No Riesling," said John. "No master wine list. No Gerard. Just bring me a Bud and the menu."
Claude scurried off, muttering something about peasant taste, and John laughed for the first time that day.
Peasant taste? He thought about pepperoni pizzas and meatball heroes and BLTs, hold the mayo. The Bronze Penguin still had a lot to learn when it came to food.
He'd just spent three of the most boring hours of his life in conference with lawyers and money men who seemed to derive great pleasure out of telling him things couldn't be done.
The family ski resort in New Hampshire couldn't be done.
It grossed three million dollars its first season.
The chain of video stores featuring classic films was doomed to failure.
A front-page story on its success graced last month's Forbes.
Now they were trying to convince him that he should sell Hideaway Haven and its patented Love Cottages to the hungry multinational corporation that had been gobbling up much of the Pennsylvania countryside.
He'd probably own the state before it was all over.
He nodded as the affronted Claude deposited a bottle of Bud on the table before him and made a show of pouring it into a heavy crystal mug. A young, dark-haired waiter barely missed bumping into Claude as he hurried through the room with a tray piled high with steamed lobster.
What the hell did the money men know anyway? Facts and figures on cold white paper didn't mean a damn thing. Gut instinct was the only thing worth counting on, and when it came to following his gut instincts, John Adams Tyler was a pro.
Sell Honeymoon Haven?
Hell, no.
He'd keep it and bet that by October he'd have another cool million with which to drive his accountant up the wall in search of tax shelters.
Grinning, John raised his beer mug to his mouth and was about to take a long slug when he saw her.
A woman with a cloud of long, coppery-gold waves tumbling over her bare shoulders was looking straight at him. She wore a white cotton sundress that was more style than substance, and it shimmered pale against her tanned skin. Her gaze was level and deliberate, no coy flutter of the eyelashes, no hint of flirtation.
She was seated with a brutally well-tailored man and a gorgeous redhead of a certain age who were holding hands beneath the table. They looked familiar. Hadn't he seen them around Hideaway Haven?
If so, where was the younger woman's husband?
And, if there was a husband, what the hell was she doing making eye contact with him?
Intrigued, John prepared to lift his glass in salute, when the young waiter bumped against the back of his chair and a splash of beer hit John right between the eyes.
Claude swooped down on him like a heat-seeking missile. "Clumsy fool!" said the maitre d'. "Not you, sir, of course." His drea
m of a hefty tip obviously teetered on the brink. "Please forward your dry-cleaning bill to me, and I'll attend to it personally."
"No damage." John wiped the beer off his face with his napkin. "Just bring me another."
Across the room the vision in white was once again engrossed in lively conversation with her table mates, her curiosity in John long forgotten.
The kamikaze waiter made another pass around the room and left another casualty behind.
John leaned back in his chair and opened his menu.
McDonald's next time, no matter how dangerous it was.
#
Maggie couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed a lunch the way she was enjoying this one.
Her Aunt Sarah's death had hit Alistair hard. Her uncle had suddenly aged right before her eyes, and Maggie had despaired as he threw himself deeper into his work – and into danger.
His work with PAX, an international antiterrorist organization with a low profile and a high rate of success, had always bordered on obsessive, but since he had shared that obsession with Sarah, who had also been a PAX operative, Maggie hadn't been aware of how deep his commitment ran.
After Sarah's death, there was no q uestion.
PAX had sprung to life during World War II as a way of opening communications between the Allies without risking detection by the enemy. Alistair and other faceless couriers moved from battle zone to battle zone, sometimes behind enemy lines, to ensure that vital information made it into the right hands.
Some historians said D-Day would never have happened had it not been for those courageous men and women but the truth of the matter had long been erased from the history books.
After the war, PAX had continued, and Alistair had continued along with it. The rebuilding of Europe after the war was a delicate business, and the organization, with its multinational members and superior technology, was a necessary factor in restoring a semblance of normalcy to ravaged lands.
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