To Ruthie’s horror, he whirled around and demanded, “What do you want?”
As she slowly backed toward the doorway, she thrust the towels at him. He ignored the offer and continued to stare at her.
“I’m the maid, Mr.—” She searched her memory for the man’s name. Had it been on the pager? At this point she couldn’t remember her own name, much less his. Mortified, she thrust the towels in his direction one more time, hoping, praying he would take them. “I didn’t know—I thought you were— Please excuse me.”
Ripping the towels from her grip, the man had the belated decency to hold them over the proper area. Still, she was in the same room with a handsome, mostly naked stranger. The heated blush moved from her face to her ears and clear down to her toes. Ruthie was certain if she looked down, her naked legs would be fiery red. Never had she walked in on an unclothed guest.
From somewhere his name appeared in her mind.
Dr. Diego Vargas. That’s who he was.
“I’ll just leave now, Dr. Vargas.” Backing up, she twisted one flip-flop, felt the rubber sandal slip from her foot and was forced to stop. Eyes never leaving his because, Lord knew, she dare not look lower, she fished around the floor by feel until her toes found their way back into the thong.
“Wait,” he demanded, coming toward her. “Who are you? Why are you in my room?”
Was the man deaf? “Maid service, sir. Towels.”
He frowned and one black eyebrow arched in disbelief. “Do all the maids in this hotel wear bathing suits?”
Oh, no. She’d forgotten how she was dressed. The blush deepened and her pulse thundered in her ears. Swallowing, she tried to explain. “I’m the lifeguard.”
The other eyebrow went up.
“And a waitress, and a bartender and—” She was stuttering now. How did she explain—with her brain shorted out from encountering the most fascinating male body she’d seen since Antonio Banderas played Zorro—that she worked at anything and everything within the confines of the resort. Anything to earn the money for Naomi’s expensive treatments. “And the spa girl.”
“Really?” A cynical twist of sculpted lips said he wasn’t buying any of her babbling explanations. Those incredible black eyes raked over her, taking in every inch of her five-foot, five-inch body, most of it as nude as he was. She’d had no time to toss on a cover-up before delivering those towels, and though her one-piece suit was modest, under this man’s appraisal, a nun’s habit would feel risqué.
“You’re a busy girl,” he mocked softly. “And just what other services do you provide for your guests?”
Somehow she’d managed to back all the way through the living room, past several couches topped with throw pillows, past a fireplace, over an oriental rug, and to the entryway. She couldn’t find anywhere decent to look, and staring into those onyx eyes did strange things to her insides. Her gaze moved to his chest—a mistake, she knew, the moment a glistening water droplet trickled from the hollow of his throat down through a smattering of dark chest hair, past a small gold cross necklace dangling from a leather cord, over a six-pack stomach…and beyond.
Eyes glued to that one drop of water, she hardly heard the words tumbling out of her mouth. “Whatever you want—I mean, anything you need. La Torchere aims to please.”
Oh, dear, that didn’t come out right at all.
“Anything?”
“Yes. No. I mean—” She’d never been this tongue-tied in her life.
Every humiliated, fascinated pore in her body wanted to respond to his insulting tone, to explain in lucid terms they both could understand, but two things stopped her. Trouble with a guest could cost her this desperately needed job. And her brain had turned to tapioca pudding.
With the grace and dignity of a wounded buffalo, she did the next best thing. She headed for the nearest exit.
Diego followed the mysterious woman all through the suite determined to discover the real reason why she’d suddenly appeared in his room. He hadn’t called for more towels. And though he’d been in luxury accommodations all over the world, no maid he’d encountered had ever worn a bathing suit. And none had stuttered out so many different job descriptions that she was impossible to believe.
He had, on the other hand, endured his share of women who’d do anything to capture the attentions of an independently wealthy doctor with the social standing of the Vargas family. His lip curled in distaste as he strove to control an unwanted spike of interest.
Regardless of her incredulous babblings, his male antenna had arced fire when he’d caught sight of her in the mirror—a reaction he’d learned never to trust. Hormones had lied to him before.
Never mind that she looked as nervous as a new army recruit, one hand feeling behind her for the doorknob, her green eyes wide in a fresh face devoid of makeup. Little Miss Maid-Lifeguard-Waitress might not fit the gold-digger image, but he was no fool.
There was nothing particularly seductive about the woman. Her hot-pink bathing suit was a Speedo, for crying out loud. Not purposefully revealing or sexy. But that little strip of spandex accented a swimmer’s flat belly, a hint of rounded, tempting cleavage, and long tanned legs. A sprinkle of golden freckles kissed her shoulders and nose, and her dark blond hair was parted in the middle and yanked back into a knot at her neck. She shouldn’t have looked sensual at all, but Diego’s mouth watered.
He was a physician, his observational skills honed to perfection, and in this case, those skills were giving him fits. He noticed every detail of the lovely woman standing in his room ogling his nudity with a deer-in-the-headlights kind of interest.
His hands, which never perspired, broke out in a sweat that was repeated on the back of his neck. He swiped a hand over the moisture.
No woman had made him sweat since—he gripped the back of his neck and squeezed, shutting off thoughts of Leah.
Suddenly his uninvited guest found the knob and wrenched the door open.
“I’ll just…go now.”
Her chest heaving in a way that made it impossible for him not to stare at her cleavage, she backed into the hallway, then turned and fled. The hot-pink thongs slapped against her feet as she escaped.
In her haste, the Speedo crept up, revealing more and more hip and leg. The tiny jiggle of female flesh raised the hairs on Diego’s arms. The woman’s hand snaked around and yanked at the suit as she raced for the elevator without looking back.
Tempted to follow and find out who she really was, Diego ventured two steps into the hallway before remembering his state of undress. Glad for the towel held strategically over equipment that had come to attention in the woman’s presence, he retreated into the suite and shut the door.
La Torchere was a private resort on a private island, reachable only by a private ferry. Sooner or later, he would run into the mysterious and lovely woman again. And he would get some answers. If she was a gold digger, as he suspected, who frequented luxury resorts in pursuit of men like him, he’d find out. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had appeared in his room uninvited. Nor did he suppose it would be the last time he’d be sought out for who he was and what he had.
Over the years he’d grown weary of searching for a woman who wanted him for himself. To Diego, love was a four-letter word used to manipulate and control. Human beings in general, and women in particular, were out for what they could get.
Real love may have existed