Relapse In Paradise. Roxanne Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ The lack of a schedule and sense of urgency was like having the floor shift beneath her feet with nothing to hang on to. No tether. No one waited for her at the hotel, no one expected her at a function downtown, and no one clamored for her expertise.

      Emily caught herself smiling, despite the disheartening thoughts of her ex-husband. No consultations. No meetings. No pencil skirts, panty hose, or sensible black pumps.

      She glanced at her pin-striped pencil skirt and slide-on loafers.

      Okay, first her hotel room. Then, a gratuitous shopping venture for a vacation wardrobe. She must’ve gone into autopilot when she dressed for the flight and wore what she always wore. She’d even taken to wearing slacks on the weekend because why buy jeans to wear one day a week? She didn’t recall if she even owned a pair anymore.

      Emily stopped at the conveniently placed Starbucks kiosk outside the terminal exit and ordered a tall caramel frappe. It was downright decadent compared to the coffee she’d suffered on the plane. With her indulgent coffee in one hand and her luggage handle in the other, Emily navigated her way through swarms of travelers to a cabstand outside.

      A native woman greeted Emily with a friendly welcoming smile and a lei of white, heavenly-scented flowers. She inhaled deeply and let the floral aroma take over her senses.

      Her shoulders relaxed. This must be the island vibe people talked about. An ocean breeze from the west blew the fine hairs around her face into a playful dance. Even the humidity enticed her. Such rich air. So tropical.

      She came to a dead halt that nearly sent the scalding contents of her coffee flying. Without blatantly staring, Emily recovered herself and tried to get a better glimpse of the man standing near the cabstand with her name on a sign.

      She double-checked the placard.

      Yep. Emily Buzzly-Cobb. That was her name. Pretty unmistakable except for the time she’d gone down on a reservation list as Buzzing Cod. Or, more facetiously, the time she’d been addressed as Fuzzy Knob at a school fund-raiser with her nephew.

      She regarded the man holding the sign.

      Definitely homeless. His unwashed sun-streaked blond hair was a few tangles away from becoming dreadlocks, pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His ragged red shorts were hacked off so the hem frayed around his shins, and he wore a tight-fitting faded T-shirt of indeterminable color. It might’ve been tan or even a light blue at one time. His heavy-duty black hiking sandals with tread like a tractor tire appeared to be the only thing on his person of any value.

      His smooth face surprised her. Where did a homeless guy get a good shave?

      And why would Quinn hire someone like this to drive her to the Hilton? The last bit of the unsettling image came from the tattoos on the man’s arms and legs. Several more on his torso were noticeable through the worn fabric of his shirt.

      Emily suppressed a shudder and smoothed her hair into place. Merely examining his made her want to run a comb through hers. Luckily, he hadn’t seen her yet and wouldn’t recognize her. She made to walk past him.

      He pinned her with pale blue eyes the size of half dollars. “There you are.”

      Her body froze mid-stride. “Excuse me?” The flat question came out sounding like an accusation. She inwardly cringed.

      The man didn’t seem fazed by her tone or dumbstruck manner. He was probably used to people reacting strangely to him. He stuck out his hand. “Emily, right? I’m Boston. Your ride.”

      She took his offer of a handshake like she would any CEO’s and silently thanked God for the automatic responses her career had ingrained in her. “Boston.” This time she was careful to keep her tone neutral. “That’s an interesting name. How did you know what I looked like?”

      “Quinn sent a photo.” He gave her a sort of cockeyed half-smile. Not the genuine article by a long shot, but not quite a smirk, either. A pair of aviator sunglasses kept hair from falling onto his face. He slid them back on his nose, and his cornflower blue eyes vanished behind the reflective lenses.

      Cornflower? Really? It was some nonsense Quinn might use in one of her books. Didn’t make a lick of sense. Corn didn’t grow flowers and if it did, they certainly weren’t blue. “Very thoughtful of my sister,” Emily mumbled.

      At least she wasn’t the only one sending out prickly vibes. She blamed Boston’s unfriendly bearing, which she gauged by his forced smile, on her choice of attire. It gave away everything about her.

      She was one of them.

      Suits. Working stiffs. Nine-to-fivers.

      Otherwise known as someone who worked for a living.

      She didn’t much care for him, either, which made his dislike easy to stomach. Indeed, the feeling was mutual. Emily only had to survive the ride to the Hilton, and they could dust off their hands and part ways.

      Boston offered to carry her bag, and she let him. He could do something to earn his tip besides harbor barely contained displeasure with his fare.

      Wordlessly, Emily followed as he guided her though two levels of the parking garage, and her thoughts turned to Quinn. How best to tell Quinn and Jack they sucked at making travel arrangements? They obviously hadn’t done their research on cab companies, or they wouldn’t have sent a homeless man to pick her up from the airport.

      Eventually, Boston pointed them toward a late model white van with a simple logo pasted on the passenger door.

      Wonderful. A ride in a nondescript white van with a total stranger.

      Emily hadn’t realized she’d come to a halt until Boston paused one stride away from the vehicle. He made a lazy about-face with an amused grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter? Does my van creep you out?”

      Heat flew up from her chest like a rash and spread over her face. Boston had to notice the furious blush on her pale skin, which made it worse. Didn’t he know anything about tact? “No, no. Of course not. I was, uh, admiring your company motif.”

      He gave a doubtful glance at the circle drawn with The Island Experience printed in bold maroon script inside. “Whatever you say. You can sit up front if you prefer.”

      She hitched her chin up a notch and started for the van. “I believe I would, yes. Thank you.”

      The polite response irked her. She used manners to diffuse social awkwardness, an old defense mechanism. The more dismissive Boston became, the stiffer she’d get. It had worked so well during her marriage she and Blake were on the same sickly sweet polite terms as two soccer moms at a bake sale by the time the lawyers were called in.

      She rolled her shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tight muscles. Why’d she care what this bum thought of her, anyway?

      “Mahalo.” He tossed her bag in the backseat of the van.

      She paused in opening the passenger door. “What?”

      “It means ‘thank you,’ among other things.”

      Boston smoothly navigated the twists and turns of the airport with the practiced ease of a veteran driver. At least he knew his way around, and they wouldn’t СКАЧАТЬ