Last Call for Love Read online

  LAST CALL FOR LOVE

  Maggie Marr

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About This Series

  Also by Maggie Marr

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  An Excerpt from One Night for Love

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  http://maggiemarr.blogspot.com/p/maggies-newsletter.html

  The EligibleBillionaires Series

  This book is dedicated to Maria Seager.

  Maria, you’re every right thing that a good friend should be.

  Thank you for sharing your gift of friendship with me.

  Chapter 1

  “It’s so tight.” Ryan couldn’t stop now. He needed this. He had to get what he wanted.

  “Harder.” Charla bit her bottom lip. “Can you do it harder?”

  Ryan grunted. His breathing shortened. He placed Charla’s hands around the base. He sucked in air. “Come on, baby. Come on, for me …”

  The pressure built, and with one more hard squeeze, the lid for the giant jalapeno jar slid loose.

  “We got it.” Charla grinned.

  Ryan’s heart pulled a bit with her happiness. He’d worked with Charla now for just over two weeks. She had a great smile. Joy took over her entire face and danced into her blue eyes. The splashes of freckles across the bridge of her nose seemed to laugh when she was happy. Charla pulled a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

  He wiggled his eyebrows and set the jar on the bar. “Finally. Took both of us. Maybe I need to hit the gym more often.”

  “Right, Mr. Muscleman, like I don’t see you running on the beach every darn day.”

  Ryan grabbed a rag from the hook beside the sink and scrubbed the bar top. Running reduced the mental pain and chased away the memories.

  Charla turned back to the cutting board, where she prepped fruit and other garnishes for the multitude of drinks they would serve to Mesquale guests today.

  A gentle breeze swept off the bright blue Pacific and across the sand. Mesquale was paradise. A warm, lush, tropical paradise. Ryan slid his gaze along the beach and the still-empty cabanas. People came to Mesquale to escape. He certainly had.

  Rain. Slick pavement. Lights. Blood. He shook his head.

  “You okay?”

  “All good.” He walked to the end of the bar and flipped on the banana leaf fans that hung low from the thatched roof. The fans slowly turned. According to every bartender at Mesquale, The Banana Boat Bar was the best bar to work. The loudest, hippest spot at Mesquale. Ryan had gotten the shift by covering for his roommate Trevor.

  The Banana Boat began service at ten a.m. with Bloody Marys and piña coladas and Mai Tais. They served all the way to two a.m. Mesquale never slept. The resort rocked 24/7/365.

  Ryan tossed the washcloth into a laundry bag under the bar. Towels and washcloths were used once. Mesquale was the epitome of cleanliness. And while The Banana Boat Bar was meant to seem easy-peasy casual, this beach bar was still located within a five-star luxury resort where the elite of the world came to play. Luxury was one of the main reasons Ryan had chosen Mesquale.

  “Ryan, may I see you please?” Antoine Antigua, the general manager of Mesquale, stood just inside the door of the bar. With steel-grey hair, tanned skin, sharp blue eyes, and a well-tailored handmade suit, Mr. Antigua exuded professionalism. Only perfection was tolerated at Mesquale. “Half an hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Antigua turned on the heels of his perfectly polished shoes and walked away from the bar.

  “Wow. What’d you do?” Charla mumbled. “Didn’t think you’d been at Mesquale long enough to get on Antigua’s radar.”

  “Why? Should I be worried?”

  Charla raised her shoulder, and the knife she held slid through the rind of a plump lime. “I mean, maybe not worried. Antigua is demanding, but fair. He’s definitely one of us.” Charla’s gaze trailed across the open-air bar and toward a couple that walked along the beach. Diamonds dripped from the woman’s ears, wrists, and fingers. She carried what Ryan had learned was a ten-thousand-dollar handbag. “Not one of them.”

  Ryan moved closer to Charla. She smelled like citrus and honey and the ocean. Her hair was still damp from the early morning waves he’d seen her riding before work. “What do you mean one of them?”

  Charla put the freshly cut limes in a jar on the bar. “You know.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Like us. Good. Kind people who have to work for a living.” Her brows tightened over her pug nose. Ryan followed her gaze toward the long and lean botoxed woman, who settled onto a beach chair.

  “People who understand what it’s like to struggle, to feel. People who aren’t handed everything on a silver platter.” She picked up a silver tray and placed two glasses of lemon water and four napkins onto it. “You know, like I’m doing now.” She smiled and wiggled her eyebrows, and broke the tense mood that came with her words.

  “Doesn’t everybody work?” He handed her a bowl of fresh strawberries. “Even rich people?”

  “Hah! You are new to Mesquale. No, not everyone works. Especially not people like her. They’re completely different than us. Believe me, I know firsthand how different those people are. I’m pretty certain just by looking at both of them they’re total trust-funders with a couple million in the bank.” Charla’s gaze landed on Ryan. “I can spot them. Plus they’re thick as thieves at Mesquale.” She lifted the tray. “That’s why us proletariat toilet-scrubbers got to stick together.” She held out her hand in a fist, and Ryan bumped his fist to hers.

  Charla turned and sauntered toward the couple, now lounging on their chaise in the increasing warmth. She wore the short sarong and strapless top that was the uniform for all the female bartenders and servers who worked the outdoor cafes and bars at Mesquale.

  Ryan tapped the pedometer on his wrist and checked the time. Just enough to finish setup and get to Antigua’s office. Better to be a bit early than late.

  A few minutes later Charla set the tray on the end of the bar. “They’re good right now. Reading, sunning, and snoozing in the lap of luxury.” She returned to cutting the fruit needed for morning drinks. “So what’s your story?”

  “Me?” Ryan pressed his hand to his chest.

  “Well, aside from the duo in the sun, it’s only us for probably another fifteen minutes or so. There was a late-night party in the disco last night. I’m guessing we won’t see many guests until after eleven.”

  “Right, the Angels and Devils party.”

  “Did you work it? Management relies more on staff veterans for that sort of event.”

  “No, no, no.” Ryan shook his head. “Didn’t work it.” He needed to be more careful about what he said and how he said it.

  “Are you American?” Charla asked. “Your accent kind of gives it away.”

  “As does yours,” he said, and deflected the conversation back to Charla. “What part? I’m guessing maybe …” Ryan tapped his fingertip against his lips. She was very good-looking, with that southern California sort of blonde hair and surfer look, but Charla seemed a bit too down-to-earth for a SoCal girl, plus she was always on time for her shi
fts and sometimes ridiculously early. “The Midwest? Indiana? Illinois?”

  Charla’s gaze jolted away from the pineapple she was cutting. “How did you know that?”

  “Good guess,” Ryan said. “I’ve spent a lot of time all around the U.S., and you strike me as a Midwestern-type girl. Although I’m guessing that most people say San Diego.”

  “Bingo.” Charla smiled and nodded. “Central Illinois but got to Mesquale by way of San Diego. You’re good at this.” That lovely smile again.

  A tingle flashed through him, a tiny jolt he’d not felt in close to eighteen months. How strange. There were hundreds of beautiful women at Mesquale at any given time, and yet he’d not felt any kind of attraction to a woman since—

  “Now it’s your turn. Where in America are you from?”

  “You’ll have to hold that thought.” Ryan backed out from behind the bar, thankful Antigua had requested a meeting. “I don’t want to be late for Mr. Antigua.”

  “No, you definitely don’t want to be late for a meeting like that.”

  Chapter 2

  Charla hustled through the growing crowd toward the beach lounger just at the edge of the water. The Angels and Devils party must have been a hit, because guests arrived to the beach much later than the norm. Two more bartenders had started their shifts, but she hadn’t yet seen Ryan return from his meeting with Mr. Antigua. Geez, hopefully he didn’t get fired. She’d worked with him at the poolside bar most of last week. He seemed like a good guy. Spectacularly cute, although a bit dodgy about his past. Not a surprise really. It seemed nearly every staff member at Mesquale came to escape something. Whether it was their past, their families, their heartbreak.

  She stopped next to a man who lounged in a pair of board shorts and a lightweight hoodie. With bright blue eyes and scruffy blond hair, he looked as though he’d just stepped out of an Abercrombie ad by way of J. Crew. Must be daddy’s money that he was surfing on at Mesquale, because he definitely didn’t have the dough to be here on his own. How could anyone who looked this young have enough money for this resort?

  “Hey, doll.” He tilted his sunglasses. His gaze traveled the length of her body.

  A cool shiver crept up her spine. She swallowed the sharp and unkind words she wanted to say. She remembered this guest. He’d done the same thing with his eyes yesterday. Most of the guests at Mesquale, while wealthy and high-maintenance, were at their best respectful of the staff and at their worst dismissive. Then there were men like this guy. The men who eyed her as though she were an a la carte item Mesquale offered.

  “I saw you yesterday.” His gaze latched on to her breasts. “I remember.”

  Breathe. Breathe and smile. Charla settled a napkin onto the table beside the lounger. Her memory served her just as well. This fellow had run up a monstrous tab, run her around from bar and back most of the day, and left her not a smidge of tip. All while staring at her breasts and trying to touch her ass.

  “May I get you something, sir?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “What did you have in mind?”

  Definitely not what you’re thinking. “Perhaps a mojito? A Bloody Mary?” Yesterday he’d begun by drinking Patrón at ten a.m. and hadn’t stopped until he left well after dark.

  “You’re Carla, right?” He seemed quite pleased that he’d remembered her name.

  “Charla, sir.”

  “Yes, Charla.” His eyes continued to roam her body. The day before he’d used his hands in the most inappropriate of ways to try to cop a feel. He’d dropped napkins and peered down her sarong while she bent over to get them. He’d asked her to pick up his sandals so that he could stare at her ass. He’d even been brazen enough to request she put suntan lotion on his shoulders and back. Which she’d boldly refused. Just now, his gaze was locked on her breasts while she stood beside him, tray in hand, trying not to hit him over the head with it and stomp off, job be damned.

  “Let’s start with a mai tai this morning.” He held out the drink menu. “I’m feeling like something a bit sweet.” Again leered her breasts, then her belly, and finally her thighs. “You’re sweet, Carla, are you not?”

  She took the menu from his hand, and he grasped her fingers. “So very sweet,” he said.

  Charla pulled her hand away from the guest. While other women at Mesquale might enjoy and even encourage this type of attention, she didn’t. But she did need her job. Her teeth ground tight, and she forced a smile to her lips.

  “If you’re looking for something sweet, sir, perhaps some fresh fruit or a muffin?” Her stomach jolted as the words came from her mouth … a muffin? Had she just offered this letch a muffin? A term laced with sexual innuendo.

  “A muffin, Carla? Oh yes, I do indeed think that I might enjoy your muffin.”

  Charla pressed her lips together. Heat flushed up her chest and throat. Her stomach pitched forward. “Excellent, sir. I’ll bring both.” She would not let on that she realized what a gaffe she’d made. For a second day, she would ignore his inappropriate behavior. She turned toward the bar.

  “Call me Josh,” he yelled after her. She turned, and his gaze was locked firmly on her ass.

  “Thank you, sir. Back in just a moment with your mai tai and your—” she couldn’t say it, simply wouldn’t say it, “—breakfast item.”

  She could hear him snickering all the way back to the bar.

  *

  Ryan walked to the window in Antigua’s office and looked out toward the ocean. Below, on the beach, Charla carried a tray filled with drinks toward two couples in a cabana. “Have you managed to take care of the challenges that I alerted you to in maintenance?”

  “I have.”

  “And housekeeping? The entire staff is to get a raise. I was clear on that when we discussed the changes to that department.”

  “Yes, sir, very clear.” Antoine paused. “Mr. Murphy, how long do you intend to keep up this …”

  Ryan turned toward Antoine, his director of operations at Mesquale. The man was all old-world sophistication and charm, and Ryan watched as he searched for the correct word, the word that would not offend the new owner of Mesquale and yet convey the accurate assessment of what exactly Ryan was attempting to do.

  “Your research, sir. On Mesquale.”

  Ryan smiled. Antoine was so very diplomatic. And patient and loyal and knowledgeable. Antoine Antigua was one of the primary reasons why Ryan had purchased Mesquale. Well, that and grief and the desire to flee America and every memory he had of Paloma and their fairytale life together. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned back toward the brilliant-blue view of the sky and the ocean and the waves and the miles and miles of shoreline he now owned.

  Paradise.

  There could be no paradise without Paloma. But there had to be something in Ryan’s life. This, Mesquale, was to be Ryan’s something. His silly and sad attempt to forget he’d been engaged to the woman of his dreams, to forget that she’d carried their child in her goddess-like body, to forget that one rainstorm and a horribly slick street had destroyed his entire future.

  There could be no paradise. No love. But there could be work. Work had always been Ryan’s refuge, and while he could no longer stand to be a part of Metro Media, the company he’d built while Paloma was in his life, he could turn his back to all that was in his past and try here. Try to find a reason to live.

  “My research is meant to help me understand Mesquale.” Ryan glanced over his shoulder at Antoine. “In my attempt to make certain that Mesquale is the finest resort in the world.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. But as you know, Mesquale’s service and staff has always been known as top notch. Impeccable, really.”

  “Yes,” Ryan said. “However, as with any business, any system, there are unknown weaknesses. Those weaknesses are often only experienced by workers and accessible to those who deal with the weaknesses each day. Were you aware of the problems maintenance was having with the part supplier out of Hong Kong?”

  “No
, sir.”

  “Most likely because of the head of maintenance’s alcohol problem. Now, we’ve seen to his recovery, and once he finishes rehab, he’ll come back to a job. Plus we’ve found a new supplier. Thus, a problem that was unknown to management, but very real to staff, has been fixed. Freeing up staff to utilize their time and talents with regards to their job and not having to develop constant workarounds for problems they shouldn’t have.”

  “I do understand, and I do appreciate what you’re doing, but what about employee trust?”

  Ryan’s brow crinkled. “Trust?” He turned away from the million-dollar view and back toward Antoine. He walked toward the couch in the center of the office and waved his hand, inviting Antoine to sit with him. “Please, what do you mean?”

  “For your maintenance position and your housekeeping position, you utilized elaborate makeup and hair, but with this position, in the food and beverage section, you aren’t using any kind of disguise.”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Am I to assume this will be your final non-managerial position? I mean, sir, you are a person of note—”

  “Of note?” Ryan shook his head, and his lips pulled tight. “Of what note am I? I worked in media, and now I own a hotel—”

  “—and are one of the wealthiest single men in the world.”

  Ryan leaned back into the cushions of the couch.

  “Perhaps you’re unaware, but there is public interest in you and in your life.” Antoine leaned forward. “Just last week I witnessed two of our paralegals giggling over an article about you in one of those very unseemly magazines.”

  Ryan’s heartbeat picked up speed. Seriously? What could he learn about the staff at Mesquale if he was outed as Ryan Murphy? The jig would be up.