A Suite Life (Suite Love Series Book 2)

by Sue Gibson

  She'd only shared this bit of her life with her parents and Lily before, but the gentle lapping of the wake against the pontoon and Trey's evident understanding of the artist's world gave her confidence to speak. "After graduation and at my very first showing, the paintings that I'd poured my heart and soul into were given a horrible review by a renowned Toronto art critic. A man whose words I'd trusted"

  "You must have felt terrible, Delaney. But that was only one man's opinion."

  "You don't understand" She turned away and stared blindly at the distant shore. The spiky tops of a spruce stand blurred against the moonlit horizon as she blinked rapidly to bank back tears. "Nobody does, really."

  "Probably not," he said.

  His matter-of-fact words satisfied her. In making no attempt to minimize her pain with a perfunctory platitude, he'd shown respect.

  "So what happened then?" he asked.

  "So I rented the old five and dime shop and opened up the Art Gallery."

  "Kudos on your business acumen, Delaney. Exactly what this little tourist town needed."

  "Right, except the only time it operated in the black was the summertime."

  "So, that explains the hairstyling salon."

  "Exactly. I took the hairdressing course in Kingston and set up shop. My plan worked. And as they say, the rest is history. And as of last week, really history."

  Trey was looking at her with something like pride on his face. "Good for you"

  His compliment emboldened her to go on. "Most people around here think I'm crazy to close shop and move to Paris. Why ruin a good thing for a shot in the dark," she said, rolling her eyes for effect. Even her parents had tried to talk her out of making such a risky decision.

  "Hey, life is all about risks. The people who take them live bigger, rise higher, faster. And judging from the paintings stashed in your back room, you're not risking all that much. You've got talent."

  Her heart flip-flopped. "Like that little peek the day of the auction told you that? What are you, some kind of psychic?" The slightly sarcastic tone she effected contradicted the goose bumps rippling down her forearms in anticipation of his answer. It was crazy how much she needed him to defend his position.

  He released her hands and moved his to rest on her shoulders. "It's a gut thing." His smile faded, but his tone became more animated. "They drew me in immediately. I wanted to see more"

  She lifted her chin to order to see his eyes. The clear truth she witnessed there told her to trust this man.

  "Oh," she said, exhaling slowly. "Thank you. Too bad you didn't write art reviews for the national papers" It still made her sick to think how, four years ago, she'd allowed a mean-spirited critic to redirect her life.

  The boat rocked gently as it crossed the wake from a small fishing boat, and her balance shifted. Instantly, strong arms circled her body to hold her steady. Up close and personal, he smelled of a sweet, musky cologne. Why do all the guys around here smell like Dad's Aqua Velva, when this stuff is bottled and sold too?

  She turned her head toward the lake and Lily's tiny, rock-strewn property, Osprey Island.

  "Did you know that's where Ethan proposed to Lily?" They both blurted out. Pulling apart, their laugh ter spilled overboard and traveled across the lake to a couple sharing drinks on a dock. Everyone waved.

  "Lily says it was the best day of her life."

  "Ethan too"

  Men friends talked about stuff like that too? Interesting. They both fell silent for a moment.

  "I think our best days are still ahead of us," Delaney said. "Me, showing my work at a prestigious gallery in Paris. You, I'm guessing, heading up some new supersize hotel somewhere exotic. Maybe developing a chain, the way Ethan created the Nirvana chain."

  A smile stretched across his face. "You're good. Yeah. I'd love to head up a Weatherall group of my own"

  He paced the boards of the tiny deck. "I've worked every job, from the bottom up, from busboy to lead marketing executive. I know the hotel business inside out. I live and breathe this stuff."

  Delaney didn't doubt his words for a minute. Trey worked as hard as he played, according to Lily.

  "I've taken on every assignment thrown at me. No matter where or when. Roland Weatherall knows he can count on me for just about anything, anywhere. There are not many executives in our corporation with that kind of flexibility."

  "Sounds like you'd be the obvious choice," she said, caught up in his mood.

  He stopped directly in front of her and placed his hands on the sides of her face. Her cheeks flamed hot under his touch. "I can almost taste it, Delaney."

  His face moved closer. It wasn't cologne, she decided, his irresistible musky smell was aftershave. His lips brushed hers, softly, tentatively. The space between them disappeared. And then they were kissing.

  One of his hands cradled the back of her head as his mouth explored her lips. He no longer smelled even a little bit like Flo's twin boys, but exactly like an amazingly provocative grown-up man.

  She melted into his chest. Her arms crept up and around his neck. The motor's buzz, the steak's sizzle, the cry of the circling seagulls faded to background filler as she lost herself to the kiss.

  By the time his hand slipped to the nape of her neck, to the small of her back, her ears were pounding with the heavy beat of her pulse. Can he feel my heart thudding, she wondered, the way I feel his?

  Never before had a kiss electrified her senses, sparked her adrenalin like this one.

  They lingered in each other's arms. The boat dipped and swayed gently as it rounded the end of the lake. The sultry evening air wrapped around their bodies like a smooth satin sheet, shielding them from intrusion.

  As her heartbeat slowed her head cleared, and she realized she didn't want to move from his arms-or couldn't. Her brain directed her to step away but her body was having none of it.

  She closed her eyes for a second, willing herself to step back from his body, hoping to weaken his effect. Nothing. A second shift backward. Still no change. For heaven's sake, my knees are actually weak.

  "Dinner is prepared," their chef intoned softly. "If you will kindly take your seats, I'll serve the first course"

  With his hand burning a hole in the small of her back, they moved toward the linen-covered table for two set against one side of the boat. Trey pulled back her chair, and she settled in to admire the table setting. No shortcuts here. Fresh flowers in a heavy pewter vase anchored the cloth, flanked by two cut-brass lanterns from which light danced and flickered across their plates.

  Delaney reached for her napkin and spread it across her lap. Looking up into Trey's face and beyond to the lake, shimmering beneath the early moon, she knew she'd never forget this magical night.

  She looked again to the lake, her gaze following the low waves undulating from the rear of their boat to the blackened shapes of rock cluttering the shoreline. Would a new life in Paris dim this memory? she considered. Would the touch of his lips fade to become just a kiss, the stars just a bunch of constellations in the sky again?

  She watched Trey for a moment as he talked with the chef. His gaze caught hers and he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  Paris better be all it's cracked up to be, she thought, reaching for her fork.

  Aspray of cool water pulsated down on Trey's head as he worked shampoo into his hair for the second time in the same day. His fingers attacked his scalp, creating a cap of frothy shampoo bubbles. Women. Used to be they wanted a guy to fall hard for them, commit.

  After sharing a second, long kiss with Delaney at her suite's door, he'd strode down the hall to his own suite and headed straight for the bathroom.

  Man, this was going to be a lot harder that he'd bargained on, he thought, slamming his palm against the faucet to shut off the water.

  "Keep it light. Just a bit of fun, a couple of laughs. We'd even shook hands on the stupid pact," he mumbled to the empty room. He grabbed a bath towel and wrapped it around his waist.


  And to make the matter even worse, Delaney seemed to be having no problem with holding up her end of the deal. What's up with that? Used to be women chased commitment, men chased women. But all through dinner she'd talked nonstop about Paris. How she couldn't wait to visit all the famous art museums and brunch at little cafes with other artisans. What did she call it? Oh yeah, steeping in the ambience of art. "Humph."

  He plunked down in an overstuffed armchair placed conveniently near the floor-to-ceiling window and stared unseeingly through the glass. Knowing she was just on the other side of his suite's wall was killing him. But he'd better stay clear, he knew.

  He considered his options and decided that having Delaney around for the remainder of the month was better than sticking it out without her. But if she knew what a hard time he was having keeping up his side of the deal and that it was taking everything he had to keep from charging over there, scooping her off her feet and into his arms, she'd run back to Flo and the twins.

  But he hadn't counted on the attraction turning into.... whatever it was he was feeling tonight. Not just desire. Something he couldn't put a name to.

  He sat up straighter and gave his head a shake. He grabbed his laptop from the ottoman and fired it up. The little red flag indicated he had e-mail. From Ethan, he guessed. He clicked on the icon. Sure enough.

  Hey, Buddy,

  Hope the Nirvana is still in one piece. Lily and I are leaving for sunny Morocco tomorrow. Bunking in at the Weatherall hotel for a few days and planning to check out the expansion plans with the manager. It's likely my father will call on your expertise there soon. You lucky son of a gun. Keep you posted. Let me know how you and Delaney are making out.

  Ethan

  Trey stared at the e-mail's last line and felt the hot flush of blood rushing to his face. How the heck did Ethan know about the kissing tonight? Had Delaney already e-mailed Lily? What had she said? He was breathing hard. Stupid Internet.

  He squinted into the screen and reread the message, slowing when he reached the last line. Relief relaxed his shoulders, and he settled into the chair's pillowed back. Get your head in the game, you idiot. Like Ethan would even ask that question.

  His breathing settled. That's it. Tomorrow he and Delaney had planned to visit a local artists' guild together. He'd focus on work. Be all business. And when he got back, he'd dig out his background material on the Moroccan job, just in case Weatherall Sr. calls. Regain perspective.

  He snapped the laptop shut and rose, determined that tomorrow he'd have his head in the game. Just like Delaney-in control, eyes on the prize. He drew himself up and sauntered toward the bed. Two could play this game.

  Leaving Trey's shiny black Porsche parked in the underground garage, they headed north in the hotel's allwheel-drive SUV. The dusty road circled Loon Lake in a seemingly haphazard fashion, the rough terrain dictating its winding route.

  For a city boy Trey handled the narrow, graveled road like a pro, keeping to the far right on the sharp turns.

  They passed no permanent homes, just a roadside corn stand set up at an intersection and a listing sugar shack resting in the shade of a grove of maples.

  "It's the next left. Turn at the big red apple" She pointed at an enormous apple-shaped sign where the names of the studio artists were painted in bright primary colors. The sign stood out in a sea of plain, weathered cedar boards whose owners had neatly stenciled the name of their cottage retreat.

  The road narrowed even more before opening to a flat, grassy parking lot.

  Trey threw the vehicle in Park and turned to Delaney. "Now this is exactly why I hired you. An outsider could travel these back roads for days and never end up here"

  Delaney reached for the door handle and smiled, happy that he was satisfied with her performance so far. After all, she was accepting an enormous salary from this man and intended to earn every cent. "Just wait until you see what's inside."

  They walked toward the building. His arms swung easily at his sides, and she couldn't help but wonder why he seemed to be avoiding physical contact with her. She expected to feel the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, or a pat on the arm maybe, but he'd been reserved since they'd met earlier in the lobby. His tone certainly had been friendly, but not crossing the line to intimate.

  Centered in a ring of spruce trees, a large prefabricated-style A-frame rose grandly from the dirt. The back door stood open. A small fan hanging in the doorway pushed a whiff of paint toward the car.

  "The guild is made up of eight artists that share this studio. They alternate days, with four coming in at a time," Delaney said.

  "They make a living from their work, way out here?" Trey pointed vaguely toward the trees and rocks that surrounded them. "Where's the market?"

  "Co-ops are common in rural areas. This group operates a storefront in Tay Falls, a town about twenty miles from here. They take turns manning the store. And I managed to sell a bit in my art gallery as well."

  Trey nodded his head in approval. "Super way to operate. Low overhead. No paid employees."

  "Delaney!" A petite, redheaded woman dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt and covered with a coating of fine white dust beckoned them in from the doorway. "I was so sorry when I heard about the fire at your house. And the timing!"

  "Alison! Great to see you again," she said, hugging her friend. "Yes, the fire was an annoying setback, but the cleaning crew will handle it as soon as they finish up the hospital." The day after the hospital's minor fire, she'd volunteered her services, but the hospital staff had politely informed her that they were flooded with offers of help and had alternatively suggested she donate to the hospital fund.

  "Well, you wouldn't be here at the Co-op today if it wasn't for the fire, so I guess there is a silver lining behind every cloud."

  Alison's optimism shone through words-and her work, Delaney recalled.

  "I've brought my camera," she said, patting the leather bag looped over her shoulder. "I'm taking you up on your suggestion to take photos of the pieces."

  Delaney introduced Trey all around and they began the tour. The room was an onslaught of color, making it hard to know where to look first.

  Large, nubby tapestries hung high from the rafters like laundry on a clothesline. Rows of stoneware vases and free-form sculpture climbed from the floor on sturdy plank-and-cement block shelves. Closer to the lake-view windows, several easels supported works in progress. One, an ethereal landscape, the other a bold abstract of the same view. Delaney retrieved the camera from the case and took a few shots. Perfect for rooms 325 and 327.

  Fired up by the abundance of possible purchases, Delaney spun around to face Trey. The undisguised admiration on his face assured her he was impressed. "So, what do you think?"

  "I think you were dead-on in your proposal. This room is loaded with talent." His eyes darted from one exquisite piece to another, resting for a moment here and there before returning to her face. "Why don't you continue photographing and recording the pieces you want to buy," he said, nodding toward her camera and notepad. "I'm going to circle the room and pick out a few pieces for myself."

  Well, that's a sign he knows talent when he sees it, Delaney considered. She remembered last evening and his praise for her own work and her chin lifted. She smiled toward Alison, clicked the end of her pen, and got down to business.

  An hour later they settled into the SUV's bucket seats and Delaney took one last look at the solid, wooden studio. The thick walls of the plain structure held its secret well.

  Did Trey feel the pull of the place too? She sneaked a peak in his direction. He was staring with displeasure at his nonoperational cell phone. She sighed. Okay, it was just her. Her gaze returned to the building.

  "Why don't you paint here?" Trey asked.

  Her body stiffened in defense. She'd answered that question, in various forms, too many times. It was em barrassing to admit that she was afraid to work beside these incredible artists who'd conquered their vulnerabilities and brave
ly allowed their work to be scrutinized by strangers.

  "Been too busy, I guess. You know, making a living in my shop. That's why I'm leaving for Paris, remember? I've finally decided to make space for myself in my life. And you might find it interesting to note that most of the Co-op members aren't locals. It's common for artists to want to explore another world, step outside their box and escape what they know, in order to grow creatively."

  His look was at first skeptical before softening to something more like disappointment. "I guess that makes sense," he said, turning to look out his window.

  Silence hung heavy between them.

  "I'm starving," he announced, breaking the awkward pause. "How about lunch?"

  Happy to change the subject, she nodded her acceptance. "Sounds good to me. I only had time for coffee in my room this morning." She'd overslept and her plan to order up the continental breakfast had been scuttled.

  "Let's hit the Bluebird Cafe," Trey said. "Tuesday is fish and chips, right?"

  "Y-yes. It is." He'd only been in town for a couple of weeks and his office was just steps from the Nirvana's sumptuous buffet, yet he'd obviously been to the Bluebird at least a couple of times. Strange beast, this Trey Sullivan.

  He popped a CD into the player, and she sat silently enjoying the soft, jazzy tunes as he expertly maneuvered the turns on the return trip.

  "Look at that, a spot right by the door. It must be our lucky day," he said as he slid the SUV into the empty parking spot right in front of the Bluebird Cafe.

  "Apparently so," she murmured as she reached for her purse and sneaked a peek toward the restaurant's front window. Sure enough, Hilda, the leader of the Gadabout Girls, was holding court at the largest table. A ring of blue-gray heads swiveled to check out the new arrivals.

  Trey sprinted around the vehicle and opened her door, apparently unaware of the free show they were providing the townsfolk. She quickly edged past him and grabbed for the perky wooden squirrel that passed for a handle and pulled the door open.

  A blast of warm, grease-laden air washed over her, reminding her of what she wouldn't be missing while in Paris. "There's an empty spot, Trey," she said, pointing to a small table in the back, near the washrooms.