Will Work For Love Read online

  Will Work For Love

  by

  Amie Denman

  Will Work For Love

  Copyright © 2012, Amie Denman

  Digital ISBN: 9781622370801

  Editor, Jacquie Daher

  Cover Art Design by KJ Jacobs

  Electronic release, November, 2012

  Published by Turquoise Morning Press for Smashwords

  Turquoise Morning, LLC

  www.turquoisemorningpress.com

  Turquoise Morning, LLC

  P.O. Box 43958

  Louisville, KY 40253-0958

  Smashwords Edition, License

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the publisher, Turquoise Morning Press.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author's imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  This edition is published by agreement with Turquoise Morning Press, a division of Turquoise Morning, LLC.

  Will Work For Love

  When Hurricane Destiny sweeps across the island of St. Thomas in September, the East family isn’t worried about their vacation home. After all, a property management company handles insurance and repairs. Just to be sure, though, they send maid of honor Whitney Oliver to St. Thomas for a two-week vacation just prior to the Christmas Eve wedding of their daughter Taylor.

  Instead of a tropical vacation, Whitney finds an estate heavily damaged and untouched by the contractor who cashed the checks. With only two weeks to pull the venue together for a wedding in paradise, she accepts the help of a sexy islander with an amazing skill for construction. Chris Maxwell, owner of Blue Isle Construction, is blown away by Whitney the moment she arrives on the island. Putting the East family estate together board by board is the only thing he can do to help Whitney—and himself.

  Working side by side and day and night by the sparkling blue water’s edge, Whitney and Chris fall hard for each other. Hurricane Destiny brought them together, but will secrets surrounding Chris’ construction company tear them apart?

  Chapter One

  Brilliant pink and coral streaked the evening sky outside the windows of the small aircraft. With a rush of relief, Whitney Oliver watched the line of passengers ahead of her shuffle toward the open door. Warm island breezes and sea air wafted toward her down the narrow aisle.

  “Welcome to St. Thomas,” the stewardess said as Whitney exited the plane. “Happy Holidays.”

  “Thank you.”

  A man at the bottom of the metal steps pointed the passengers toward the small building to retrieve their luggage and get island transportation.

  “Vacationing alone?” he asked, his sun-browned face wrinkling into a friendly smile.

  “Wedding,” Whitney said.

  “Lucky man.”

  It felt like a vacation as she crossed the tarmac at the tiny airport. She paused outside the doors of the small building where the man directed the passengers. The warm evening air and ocean smell were a sharp contrast from cold wintry Boston. Whitney didn’t want to go into the airport building quite yet. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and called Taylor.

  “Did you make it okay?” her friend asked as soon as she picked up.

  “I’m standing here on beautiful St. Thomas at sunset.”

  “And how is…did you see any damage?” Taylor paused. “Is everything okay?”

  Whitney laughed. “I haven’t seen your estate yet, but stop worrying. You think about your fiancé and that tiny baby. I’ll get everything ready for your wedding.”

  “You’re the best maid of honor in the world.”

  “I know. Enduring two weeks at an estate on a tropical island…it’s going to be rough.”

  “Call me every day,” Taylor laughed, “or I’ll think you ran off with a hot islander.”

  “Right. Then I’ll be the one having a shotgun wedding next Christmas Eve.”

  “Do you think my father will bring a shotgun?”

  “Your father would make his chauffeur carry it,” Whitney said. “And he couldn’t be happier about your wedding.”

  ****

  Christmas music—tropical style with steel drums and a reggae undertone—played in the lobby as Whitney searched the luggage pile for her large red suitcase. It was stuffed full and embroidered with the name of her company, OutWhit Outplay Sportswear, in looping white letters. She flipped the suitcase onto its wheels and headed toward the revolving door next to a sign advertising rental cars just outside.

  She approached the revolving door and stepped briskly into it, expecting her suitcase to roll behind her obediently. Chronic over-packing finally caught up with her, though, and her overstuffed red suitcase got firmly sandwiched in the door. The whole revolving door ground to a stop and refused to move even an inch.

  She dug in her heels and pushed harder. Several people waiting to either enter or leave the lobby looked at her curiously but without a whole lot of sympathy. They were probably thinking a girl with a suitcase of that size should never have attempted the revolving door.

  Whitney tried a new tactic. She braced herself firmly against the inside of her glass triangle and put one foot on her suitcase. If she could shove it backward out of the door, she might get the whole thing moving again. A small bead of sweat rolled down the back of her neck. An entranced crowd of people gathered to watch the lady with the red suitcase fight the revolving door for freedom.

  “It’s not working,” Whitney said aloud. She noticed that not one of the many fascinated tourists in the airport was doing a thing. They are going to stand there and watch me die in this damn door, she thought, as she planted both feet against the side of her suitcase and shoved as hard as she could.

  Again, nothing. Whitney lowered to the floor and closed her eyes. Some maid of honor I am. I’ll still be stuck in this damn revolving door in two weeks as my best friend sways down the aisle on her parents’ estate. Taylor deserves better than this. Deserves a friend who would finalize her wedding plans and not get stuck in a door at the airport, trapped forever to endure a horrible death by the weight of her own luggage.

  Her feet were still propped against her suitcase when, miraculously, she felt it start to slide. She opened her eyes and looked into a set of blue eyes the exact color of the tropical waters she’d just flown over. Had death come quickly, floating her toward heaven on a wave of sparkling water? The blue eyes belonged to a guardian angel who was going to free her from her sweat-drenched body and the burden of her earthly possessions in an awkward red suitcase now missing one-half of a zipper.

  “You might want to get up,” the angel said.

  Whitney had never actually seen an angel, but she was pretty sure that a seraph wouldn’t have a jaunty scar over one eye, dark blond hair a touch too long, a rakish grin, and shoulders wide enough to shoulder all her earthly burdens. Of course, this angel came with a big benefit. He was bracing those broad shoulders in the door and dragging her suitcase out the opening. One giant tug and the suitcase surrendered to the tall blond man. The door swung freely
, and Whitney sprang to her feet. In one fluid movement, she swept out into the warm tropical air.

  The man balanced her suitcase on one shoulder and stood on the pavement outside the door staring at her. He moves fast. Whitney took a deep steadying breath of the fragrant island air.

  She must be a heck of a sight. Her long brown hair was tamed into neat waves when she left Boston that morning, but a lengthy layover in Atlanta and her epic battle with the door encouraged a chunk of half-grown-out bangs to sweep across her face. A white T-shirt with her company logo silkscreened in fading navy blue letters from her stock of second-string shirts. And tan linen pants. A wrinkled mess.

  Despite the way she looked, the man who loomed with her suitcase looked her over from head to toe with obvious approval. Was it the bangs occluding her vision in one eye or did he start over with a second full-body look? His square-jawed grin was impossible to resist, especially when it lit up those tropical blue eyes, now looking straight into hers.

  “Same thing happened to me last week,” he said. “Lucky for me, there was a clown convention on the island and everyone just thought I was part of the show.”

  His deep voice and massive shoulders made two weeks alone on St. Thomas start to look more interesting than she’d originally imagined. Perhaps.

  Whitney flashed him the full force of her smile. “Do you suppose any of those tourists think I’m just live entertainment?”

  “Sorry.” He shook his head. “Your performance was too convincing to be anything but the real thing.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” she said. “I’m Whitney.”

  “Chris,” he said as he took her extended hand.

  Maybe it was the glow of the sunset, the smooth island air, and the joy of being free of the door, but Whitney was sure she felt the slight tinkle of fairy dust when his large hand enclosed hers. Like that moment at Disney World when the fireworks explode over the castle and everyone believes in magic for a few seconds.

  “Welcome to St. Thomas,” he said, still holding her hand.

  “Thanks,” she said. “You live here?”

  “Yep. Can I give you a ride?” he asked with one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth raised just enough to imply there was a little more to his question.

  “I have a rental car reserved,” she said, “but thanks for the offer.”

  He nodded. “This way,” he said as he took her hand again and led her down the sidewalk which ran along the front of the airport. He carried her heavy suitcase easily on his shoulder. She wondered why he didn’t roll it behind him, but he seemed like the kind of man who did things his own way. He was nearly a foot taller than she was, and she had to hurry to keep up.

  He stopped in front of the one and only rental agency with an open sign.

  “Name?” the clerk asked Whitney.

  “Whitney Oliver.”

  The clerk scanned his computer screen and hesitated. Adjusted his glasses and rubbed his jaw, eyes darting from the computer screen to an open register book and back. Chris towered next to her, still holding her suitcase.

  “It might be under Taylor’s—”

  The clerk’s face brightened. “Here it is. Black Jeep. Two week rental.” Business or pleasure?” the clerk asked, handing over the keys. The kind of question he asked everyone without any expectation of getting an interesting answer.

  “Wedding,” Whitney replied.

  A smile lit up the young clerk’s face and he glanced from Chris to Whitney. “Congratulations!” he said.

  “Oh, we’re not—” Whitney began, but Chris interrupted her.

  “Thanks,” he said as he took the keys the clerk shoved across the small desk. Chris pocketed the keys and took her hand. He started across the parking lot to the only black Jeep. When they got to the car, he unlocked it, put her suitcase in the back, and silently handed her the keys.

  “Congratulations,” he said quietly.

  “Thanks,” she said automatically and then realized her mistake. “I mean…”

  She wanted to tell him she wasn’t getting married and she’d be happy to ride off into the approaching sunset with him if he’d just get in the Jeep. The way he looked leaning on the side of the car with one arm propped way over her head, she figured she’d even let him drive despite what the rental agreement said. He looked at least twenty-five. Probably even had car insurance. Yep, he could drive her car any time he wanted to.

  Instead she just stood there looking at him and wondering how a day that started at the sedate Boston airport could evolve into this—standing in a parking lot at sunset with an incredibly handsome stranger congratulating her on her upcoming imaginary wedding.

  It was time for her to get in the car and find her way to Taylor’s family estate to do what she was here for. She had only fourteen short days until the wedding.

  “Thanks for your help with my…uh…luggage,” she said.

  “Any time,” he answered. The look in his eyes as he leaned just a fraction of an inch too close made his words seem like he absolutely meant them.

  ****

  Whitney knew the road to East Pointe well enough from previous visits. But the headlights bouncing along did not illuminate what she was most anxious to see. She was tense and watchful on the drive to her friend’s estate.

  How much damage had the September hurricane three months ago caused? The only reports the East family heard were from the property management company on the island. Taylor’s parents were in Europe enjoying their first grandchild, but they planned to arrive in time for the wedding. They were confident everything would be fine.

  Certainly the damage was not as bad as the company had reported, Whitney thought, and the insurance company sent a check promptly to an island contractor. Whitney was flying in as a precaution only, and she was probably going to find the estate was more than ready for Taylor’s wedding on Christmas Eve.

  She thought about the bathing suits, sarongs, sundresses, and shorts stuffed into the oversized red suitcase lying on the seat behind her. She hoped to spend the next two weeks making a few simple wedding plans and soaking up lots of sun. After all, she was determined to be the best maid of honor in recorded history. If that involved an all-expense paid vacation and a great tan, why fight it?

  As soon as the sun comes up tomorrow morning, she thought to herself as she pulled in the driveway of the estate, I’ll check out the house, the patio, the wedding pavilion, and the gazebo. Then, I’ll spend the rest of the day right there on the warm sand. If she happened to run into the man with the sexy blue eyes and rakish grin, she might just have a date for the wedding after all.

  ****

  The light from the setting sun was almost gone when Chris Maxwell drove his Blue Isle Construction Company truck slowly past the row of modest houses and shops nestled along the north side of the island. Far from the eyes of the tourists, this was where the other half lived. The taxi drivers, housekeepers, and bartenders who made vacations fun and intoxicating had to live somewhere. And it wasn’t at the five-star Marriott or the sumptuous estates that dotted the coastline and bulged with money from wealthy owners who visited twice a year.

  Tourists seldom saw this part of the island, and they went home happier as a result. Chris slowed to a stop in front of a one-story rough-sided house with a missing front window and a blue tarp covering a chunk of the roof. The early September hurricane that swept over the island spared the southern and western parts of St. Thomas. The main ports of call for tourists endured a few downed palm trees and broken shutters which were quickly cleared away before they ruined anyone’s vacation. Some resorts and homes on the north and east side weren’t so lucky. Nor were the homes, schools, shops, and churches in this small village.

  He stopped his truck and began to unload the wood he’d picked up at the airport half an hour earlier. Most of his construction materials came in on one of his boats, but sometimes, like today, a cargo plane delivered supplies.

  “Help you with those,” a rusty v
oice behind him offered. “A good lookin’ young man like you ought to be out havin’ fun on a Saturday night.”

  Rick Churchill stepped out of the shadows.

  “Figured you’d gone home already,” Chris said.

  “’Bout to, just wanted to get that window in on the north side.”

  “New front window’s not in yet,” Chris said as he and Rick silently worked together to unload a pile of construction materials from the back of his truck. The scrape of plywood coming off the truck and the slight crunch of their shoes on the broken shells lining the driveway were the only sounds punctuating the silence for a few minutes.

  “Got quite a load of stuff here,” Rick finally commented. “Must be costin’ you a pretty penny to fix up these houses.”

  Chris nodded, stepping into the bed of the truck to get a few boxes of nails that had slid to the front.

  “Sometimes I’m not sure how you manage to come up with the money,” Rick continued. His tone was friendly, but serious. “Folks are tellin’ me you’re not lettin’em pay.”

  Chris set the box of nails with the stacked lumber and pulled a tarp over it. He secured the tarp with a couple of large rocks and then straightened up.

  “It’ll all work out,” he said.

  “I’ve known you long enough not to doubt that,” Rick replied. “Just wanted you to know I’d help anytime if I could.”

  “You already do more than I’m paying you for,” Chris said. He leaned against the door of his truck and watched the last streaks of the sunset. “It’ll work out,” he repeated. And he was sure it would. If he could just buy a little time.

  Chapter Two