“I’m supposed to meet with him Monday. He’s looking for a new label, a new slogan, a new campaign—the whole enchilada.”
She shrugged. “So what’s the problem?”
“Other than the fact that I might still be here on Monday?”
Janine nodded a little sheepishly.
“Well, excluding Winnie the Pooh, honey isn’t exactly in demand these days.”
“Oh?”
He gestured toward her. “Do you put honey on your toast in the morning?”
She shook her head. “Not typically.”
“Drizzle it over homemade granola?”
“Nope.”
“Dip your biscuits in a big warm pot of it?”
“Uh-uh.”
“See? People our age simply aren’t buying honey at the grocery store every week.” His hand fell in defeat.
“You’re right,” she said. “I buy my honey at the health food store.”
He swung back in surprise. “Really? So you do eat honey?”
“In various forms. I specialize in homeopathic medicine.”
He squinted, searching for the connection.
Her smile was patient. “Treating symptoms with remedies from natural ingredients whenever possible. Honey is one of my favorites.”
His interest piqued, he turned his chair around to face her. “To treat what?”
“Allergies, for one,” she said, leaning forward to tap his nose with her finger.
The gesture struck him as almost domestic, and it warmed him absurdly.
“Bees make honey out of pollen,” she continued, “and ingesting minute amounts of local pollen helps build immunity.”
Dubious, he angled his head at her.
Janine sat on the bed facing him, still cradling the pint of honey in her hands. “It’s the same concept that allergy shots are based on,” she said simply.
He nodded slowly, but remained unconvinced. “So, what else is honey good for?”
Her pale eyebrows sprang up as she presumably searched her memory. “Minor arthritis pains, insomnia, superficial burns, skin irritations … among other things.”
A red flag sprang up in his mind. “You mix up your own remedies and sell them to your patients?” Janine Murphy, Quack—the image wasn’t much of a stretch.
A musical, appealing laugh rolled out. “No, I just encourage patients to read up on the benefits of natural foods. So instead of pushing honey as an indulgent, fattening topping for a big ol’ plate of flour and lard, maybe Phillips should tap into its more healthful uses.”
He held up the honey butter. “Like freeing stuck toes from bathtub faucets?”
The rosy tint on her cheeks made her look even more endearing, if possible. Derek felt an unnerving tingle of awareness that drove deep into his chest, shaking him. This mushrooming attraction to Janine was downright baffling. Certainly she was a great-looking woman, but he came into contact with attractive women on a daily basis, and he’d never before lost track of a conversation.
What had they been talking about?
He glanced down at the container in his hand. Oh, yeah, honey, the medicinal panacea for the new century. Derek cleared his throat, determined to focus. “Isn’t it dangerous to make medical claims?”
She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “The medicinal uses for honey are as old as medicine itself. It should never be given to infants, and diabetics have to exercise restraint, but otherwise, it’s perfectly safe. Some people swear by honey, just like some people swear by garlic or vinegar to boost general health.” After averting her eyes, she added, “One male patient of mine insists that bee pollen and honey have improved his sex drive.”
Derek had to swallow his guffaw. “And you?”
She nodded. “I have a teaspoon in my morning tea.”
Derek swallowed. Even as his body responded to her nearness, his enthusiasm for Janine’s ideas began to shrivel. He could picture himself in front of stodgy Donald Phillips, presenting his idea for a new slogan: Have Phillips Honey for Breakfast, Then Have Your Honey for Lunch.
Suddenly her eyes flew wide. “Not that it’s improved my sex life,” she added hastily. Her skin turned crimson as she clamped her mouth shut.
Despite his best efforts, Derek felt a smile wrap around his face. Perhaps honey was her secret. From the scant time they’d spent together, he’d learned two things about Pinky—she attracted trouble, and she oozed sex. From every tight little pore in her tight little bod. “Then I guess we’re in trouble if we need a testimonial,” he teased.
She pressed her lips together, eyes wide, looking as innocent as a pink bunny rabbit. Feeling like a lecherous old man, Derek shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cast about for a safer topic. “What do you think about the packaging?”
Janine smoothed a finger over the plain black-and-white label, working her mouth back and forth. “I like the simplicity, but it covers too much of the container.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“If the honey is pure, the color will sell it,” she explained. “I like to see what I’m buying.”
“Fine, but then where would we print all those newfangled uses, Doc?”
“On the website,” she said with nonchalance, then handed him the honey. Their fingers brushed, but she must not have felt the electricity because she stood and returned to sorting through the pile of items she’d dumped out of the shopping bag, as if nothing had transpired.
On the website … of course. Not that Phillips had a website, or even a desktop computer, for that matter, but someone had to drag the man out of the Dark Ages. Derek jotted down a few notes on the legal pad.
“And what about changing the name?”
He glanced up. “Excuse me?”
“The name,” she said, tearing the tag off a pair of yellow flip-flops. “Phillips. It’s not very buyer friendly, at least not for honey.”
He stuck his tongue in his cheek, rolling around her observation. “But it’s the man’s name.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Donald.”
She made a face. “What’s his wife’s name?”
Derek shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Daughters?”
He started to shake his head, then remembered that Phillips had bragged about his daughter’s equestrian skills. Heather? No. Holly? No. “Hannah,” he said as the name slid into place.
“Perfect,” she said, dropping the brightly colored-shoes to the floor and sliding her pink-tipped toes into them. Then she spread her arms as if presenting a prize. “Hannah’s Honey.”
Creativity flowed from her like water, and she seemed unaware of her talent. With a start, Derek realized who she reminded him of—Jack. Jack, who always needed rescuing from some scrape or another, yet somehow managed to escape unscathed. Jack, who could crank out more creative concepts in one day than Derek could eke out in a month. Jack, who was notorious for his ability to make a woman feel as if she were the most important person in the world, only to disappear before the morning paper hit the porch.
Did she know how she affected him? he wondered. Was her innocence simply a clever act? Was she the kind of woman who thrived on male attention, who flirted with danger? The kind of woman who would delight in seducing a friend of her fiancé‘s? His mouth tightened. Dammit, the woman probably knew just how adorable she looked swallowed up in his clothes, with clashing shoes and toenails.
Suddenly he realized she was waiting for his response. “I … I don’t know how Phillips will feel about changing the name of his product line,” he managed to say.
“If sales were booming, I assume he wouldn’t be looking for a new agency,” she said, holding a lavender Georgia on My Mind T-shirt over her chest. “A new name for the new millennium—what does he have to lose?”
He scoffed, extending his legs and crossing them at the ankles. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“No,” he insisted, a bit flustered. Leave
it to someone outside the business world to overlook the nuances of wide-sweeping changes.
“I thought you said he was going to change the packaging anyway.”
“It’s not the same thing—”
The phone rang, and they both stared at it until the second ring had sounded.
“I could get it,” she said. “But what if it’s Steve?”
“I could get it,” he said. “But what if it’s your mother?”
Janine relented, leaned across the bed, then picked up the handset. “Hallooo,” she said in her best Aunt Bea impression, fully intending to hand off the phone if Steve was on the other end.
“You must be sick if your voice is that distorted,” Marie said, munching something fresh-and crunchy-sounding—maybe pineapple.
Mouthing to Derek that the phone was for her, she flopped onto the bed facedown. “No, I was trying to disguise my voice.”
Crunch, crunch. “Why?”
She sighed. “Long story.”
“Great, I just threw in a load of laundry, so I have plenty of time. I got your voice message that the wedding is off.”
“Postponed,” she corrected, perturbed.
“Whatever. I’m just glad to hear you’re still alive. If you believe the news, everyone up there has the African flesh-eating disease.”
Janine laughed. Marie could always lift her spirits. “No, it’s not that bad, even though a few more guests have fallen ill. Dr. Pedro of the CDC told me the hospitalized patients are responding to antibiotics. I’m hoping we’ll be out of here in another day or two.”
“Speaking of we,” Marie said, her voice rich with innuendo, “how’s your roomie? I assume he’s still there since Mother was concerned about some bellman in your room early this morning when she called.”
“You didn’t tell her, did you?”
“Of course not, and I made her promise not to call the room constantly.”
Janine sighed. “Thanks.”
“Well,” Marie demanded. “How is Mr. Stillman?”
From beneath her lashes, Janine glanced to the desk where Derek had returned to his computer, tapping away. “Uninteresting,” she said in a tone meant to stem further discussion on the subject.
“Is he still sick?”
“There’s a good chance his symptoms are allergy-related instead of what the other guests have come down with.”
“It has to be tough, sharing close quarters with a virtual stranger,” her sister probed, crunching. “An attractive man and an attractive woman, at that.”
With a last look at Derek’s handsome profile, Janine pushed herself up from the bed and stretched the phone line across the room to the sliding glass door. She opened it, stepped onto the tiny balcony and closed the door to the smallest crack that would accommodate the cord. She drew in a deep breath of fresh air—pollen be damned—relieved for a few minutes of freedom from those four suffocating burgundy walls, and from those two captivating brown eyes. Slowly she exhaled, surveying the peaceful scene below her. Except for the fact that the grounds were deserted, and that two uniformed guards stood chatting at the corner of the building, one would never suspect the resort was under quarantine.
“Sis, are you there?”
Janine snapped back to attention. “Yeah, I’m here.”
Marie resumed her munching. “You were about to tell me what you and your hunky best man are doing to while away the hours.”
She mentally reviewed the day—getting her toe stuck in the bathtub faucet, nearly having a sexual encounter with Derek, discovering she might not be in love with Steve after all… “Not much going on. We’ve barely interacted, he and I.”
“Oooooooooh. Is he the big, strong, silent type?”
“No. He’s the big, strong, mind-his-own-business type—hint, hint.”
“So he is big and strong.”
Janine rolled her eyes. “Marie, enough. What’s going on out there?”
“Well, you know Mom—she thinks the quarantine is a bad omen. She’s been lighting candles like crazy. I took an extra fire extinguisher over there, just in case.”
“Thanks for being my buffer, sis. I just can’t talk to her right now.”
Marie didn’t respond, and she’d stopped chewing. Janine waited with dread for her sister’s perceptiveness to make itself apparent.
Her sister clucked. “Are you okay, sis?”
She cleared her throat. “Other than a persistent bout of clumsiness, I’m fine.”
“What does Steve think about calling off the wedding?”
“Postponing,” Janine corrected her sourly.
“Whatever. He’s not giving you a hard time, is he?”
Not knowingly. Misery knotted in her stomach. “No, he knows it can’t be helped.”
“How much longer do you think they’ll have the place under quarantine?”
“I don’t know. The doctor told Derek worst-case scenario, two weeks.”
The announcement obviously stunned her sister into silence. After a few seconds, Marie said, “Well, you asked for something exciting, and you got it—a quarantine, mixed-up rooms, sleeping with a stranger—”
Janine yanked the phone cord tight and hissed, “I am not sleeping with him!”
“Easy, sis,” Marie murmured, “else I might think that something is going on between you and your best man.”
Opening her mouth to shout a denial, she realized she was only digging herself deeper into a hole.
“Speaking of which,” Marie continued, “where did you sleep last night?”
“If you must know, I slept in the bathtub.” She held the phone away from her ear until Marie’s laughter petered out.
“Whew, that’s a good one! So doesn’t this guy have any manners?”
“He fell asleep in the bed first, while I was trying to calm down Mother.”
“So? You put a pillow in the middle and lie down on the other side.”
“Except he was naked.”
“Okaaaaaaaay,” Marie sang, ever open-minded. “And that would be because…?”
“Because he wasn’t wearing any clothes.”
“Okey-dokey,” she said in an accepting tone. “Speaking of clothes, what are you doing for them?”
“He loaned me a few things.”
“He being Derek?”
“Yes.”
“You’re wearing the man’s clothes?”
“Marie, for God’s sake, am I talking to myself here?”
“Is this guy on the up-and-up?”
At least once today, she thought wryly. But she recognized concern in her sister’s voice when she heard it, and right now, Marie needed some peace of mind. “He’s a decent guy, sis. A little uptight, but decent.”
A knock on the sliding glass door spun her around. Derek slid the door open, his expression unreadable as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You might want to see this,” he whispered.
She covered the mouth of the phone. “What?”
“It’s Steve. He’s on television.”
*
13
« ^ »
“We had to postpone our wedding that was scheduled to take place here at the resort,” Steve was saying, looking grim, but perfectly groomed in his country-club casual garb. He stood at a slight angle, the Green Stations Resort sign visible just over his left shoulder.
“So your fiancée is trapped inside the resort?” an off-camera male voice asked.
Steve crossed his arms and nodded gravely. “That’s correct.”
“And do you know if she’s ill, Dr. Larsen?”
“The last time I spoke with her, she was feeling fine, but she’s a physician’s assistant and could be exposing herself to infected guests even as we speak.” He was incredibly photogenic, she acknowledged, his white-blond hair cropped fashionably short on the sides, longer on top. Funny, but she’d never noticed the petulant tug at the corners of his mouth.
“Are other members of your wedding party confined at the resort?”
Steve hesitated for a split second. “My best man.”
“Your bride and your best man are locked up together?” The reporter chuckled.
Clearly distressed, Steve held up a hand, as if to stop the man’s train of thought. “Not together together, as in the same room.” He laughed, a soft little snort. “That would be unthinkable.”
Guilt plowed through her, leaving a wide, raw furrow. She glanced at Derek and he was looking at her, one eyebrow raised.
“I understand you actually had a room here, sir. How did you escape the quarantine?”
He sighed heavily. “I left the property for a medical emergency unrelated to the resort, and when I returned, the quarantine was already under way.”
Janine frowned. She’d never known Steve to blatantly lie, although she understood his unwillingness to say he’d been out all night partying. Of course, she’d been lying like a rug herself lately.
The reporter made a sympathetic sound. “I assume you’re going to reschedule the wedding as soon as possible.”
“Absolutely,” Steve said, then looked directly into the camera. “This is for the future Mrs. Steven Larsen. Sweetheart, if you’re watching, remember how much I love you.” He winked, and her heart scooted sideways.
The camera switched to the reporter. “So, a cruel twist of fate is keeping the fiancée of Dr. Steven Larsen confined with the doctor’s best man.”
Janine squinted, clutching the hastily hung-up phone.
“As a result, the vice-mayor’s son’s wedding has been canceled.”
“Postponed,” Janine muttered.
“Meanwhile, there seems to be no end in sight to the quarantine now in effect at the Green Stations Resort. This is Andy Judge. Now back to you in the studio.”
The anchorwoman came on-screen. “Thank you, Andy. Keep us posted.” A small smile played on her face. “Stay with us for continuing coverage of … ‘The Quarantine Crisis.’” A menacing bass throbbed in the background as the news faded to a commercial. Janine gaped at the screen.
“Something tells me Steve’s father is not going to like this,” Derek said.
A knock sounded on the door, kicking up Janine’s pulse. In two long strides, Derek reached the door and stooped to look through the keyhole. “It’s Dr. Pedro,” he said, then stepped back and swung open the door.
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