“I’m afraid the infamous Timothy has struck again.”
Rob had to fight to restrain a growl from emerging. Timothy had served as the reservation clerk for one month, until it came to the attention of Pierre, the hotel manager, that he was inputting all the information into the computer wrong. As a result, none of the reservations taken during the idiotic man’s four weeks of employment had been recorded.
“I thought we’d taken precautions against this.”
“Yes, sir. We hold back four rooms every night just in case. This weekend I kept eight rooms open, however, with it being so busy—”
“You’ve already given away all of those rooms.”
“And then some,” Pierre confessed. “I just sent a couple to the Wakefield Resort. I’ve called all over the island and there truly isn’t another room to be had. I was just thinking to myself that perhaps we were safe when she walked in.”
“Terrific.” Rob rubbed his hands over his face. He’d been in negotiations to purchase property in New York all week. Delay after delay kept him from leaving until this afternoon. With the ink still drying on the contract, he’d headed for his private jet, ready for some serious rest and relaxation. The last thirty-six months had been nonstop business meetings, conferences, and charity events and he was taking some well-earned vacation time. Glancing at his watch, he considered leaving the woman to her own devices for a split second before turning and making his way toward the hotel bar.
The bar was quiet. Rob could only assume most folks were resting up for the festivities set to begin tomorrow. He found her in a quiet corner, nursing a drink and shivering. Stopping by the bar, he asked Todd, the bartender, for his usual.
“And another one of whatever that young lady is having.”
Todd smiled at his request. “Yes, sir. A martini and another Scarlett O’Hara.”
Picking up the drinks, Rob studied her as he approached her table. She was truly lovely, with a wholesome, girl-next-door look he found surprisingly appealing. Spending so much of his time with women who paid a small fortune for cosmetic surgery, personal trainers, and makeup, he thought her natural appearance was refreshing. Her long, blonde hair was still damp from her run in the rain, but as it dried, natural ringlets appeared and he imagined it was quite thick and soft. She had a healthy red glow on her cheeks, no doubt from the running or perhaps the cold. Rob felt an instant attraction to her, something he couldn’t recall feeling in a very long time. The older he got, the more jaded he was. She shivered again and Rob shook himself out of his reverie.
“Excuse me.” He graced her with the most charming, least threatening smile he could muster. No doubt, he had some making up to do.
“Hello, again.” Her voice was soft, her tone distinctly friendlier than he expected.
“I was hoping I could join you for a few minutes.” He gestured to the two drinks in his hands.
Nodding, she pointed to the seat across from her. “Sure.”
“Peace offering.” He placed the red drink he’d bought in front of her, hoping his joke might work.
Moving her empty glass out of the way, she smiled. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“I’m afraid it was,” Rob answered. “My driver’s actions were reprehensible.”
“No, please, you don’t have to apologize. I’m terribly embarrassed by my behavior. I’m sure you won’t believe this, but I’m typically not such a hateful bitch.”
“I didn’t think you were anything of the sort.” Her apology surprised him. If anyone was in the wrong, it was clearly him, or at least George.
“Thank you for the drink.” She grinned before picking it up, silently toasting him and sipping it.
“Scarlett O’Hara?”
“It’s my favorite. Cranberry juice and Southern Comfort. I was planning on drinking only fruity, island concoctions, but after the day’s events, I needed something stiffer.”
Rob shifted slightly in his chair as his dick woke up, deciding to make itself stiff for her. He was clearly tired. He never had difficulty controlling his baser instincts. He cleared his throat. “Do I detect a bit of a southern accent?”
“Just a bit. I’m from Northern Virginia. Most folks there can’t decide if they’re northerners or southerners. I like to refer to myself as a middler. How about you? Where do you hang up your hat?”
“Everywhere,” he answered honestly. “My work keeps me traveling pretty much nonstop.”
“And during your childhood?”
“Army brat.” It wasn’t difficult to acknowledge that he truly didn’t have roots anywhere in the world. He owned homes on both coasts as well as in three different countries, but he never spent more than a month at a time in any of them. His home was the road.