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A Taste of Paradise

ARABESQUE BOOKS

Chapter One

Jillian Gray got into the face of the olive-skinned clerk behind the reception desk, daring him to answer her.

Unperturbed, he flashed even white teeth and said, "I'm sorry, Madam, but you've arrived early and there simply isn't room."

Jillian huffed in a breath and stared at the Jimmy Choo shoes on her feet. A big mistake that was, flecks of a pinkish liquid were splattered all over the expensive beige pumps. She took a step forward and one shoe stuck to the woven mat. Miraculously she managed to lift the foot up.

No one had bothered to clean up the liquid on the tile floor, a sure sign of a hotel in rapid decline. Glancing about her, she took in the oversized Tikki hut with its faded upholstery and rickety rattan chairs. Gigantic vases held orchids that must be several days old. It was no wonder the Bula Resort in Taveuni, Fiji, had lost two of its stars.

"There's fruit juice on the floor," Jillian pointed out. "You really should do something about it."

The hotel clerk grimaced at the mess. "House-keeping has already been notified. I'll call them again if you like."

Not if she liked. It should have been second nature to clean up the spill, if not for aesthetics at least for liability's sake.

"While you're at it," Jillian snapped, "get your manager down here. He'll find me a room."

The clerk blinked in shock, looking at her as if she were an annoying bug he'd like to squash.

"My manager cannot manufacture a bure if we don't have one," he said.

"Bure?"

"Cottage."

"We'll see about that."

Jillian knew she was being high-handed. But no way was she about to be dismissed and sent off to find lodging elsewhere. She'd arrived at the Bula Resort one day earlier than expected, counting on the element of surprise to be on her side. Her purpose in doing so was to see how the hotel really performed. So far it had failed miserably. There was no heartfelt welcome and certainly no warm "hello," as the name "Bula" signified.

Jillian was director of property acquisitions for the Elite Resorts chain. It was her job to find ailing hotels with promise and see if a lucrative deal could be made. She would perform due diligence, then take her findings back to Michael Rosen, her boss, who then presented them to the owner, Peter Fontaine, with a recommendation to bid or pass.

Based on what Jillian had witnessed-no visible bellhop at the door, a lobby that desperately needed refurbishing, so-so ser vice, and non-existent air conditioning-the Bula was ripe for the picking.

The front desk clerk was shaking his head and making "tssking" sounds, infuriating Jillian even more.

"My shoes are ruined," she said, bending over to remove the pricey pumps and plant them on the counter. "Now what are you going to do about them?"

The clerk shrugged and swept the pumps aside. He sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. Clearly he was not empowered or didn't care about resolving the situation.

Jillian was not normally impatient or arrogant. But jet lag had kicked in, making her cranky and intolerant. She longed for a shower and something to eat, not necessarily in that order. Now all of her exhaustion was being directed at an indifferent hotel clerk whose monthly wages were what she made in a day.

Jillian's fingers smoothed her tightly cropped hair. She fingered the pearl in one earlobe and prayed for patience. Because she traveled frequently, she opted for a low-maintenance look. She'd just had a nail biting flight on a puddle jumper, crawled off the plane in sweats, ducked into the airport bathroom, and changed into the austere business suit.

Peter Fontaine, Jillian's employer, the aging scion of Elite Resorts, still ran his business as if it were the 1960s. Employees were forced to adhere to a strict dress code. Despite the humidity, Peter expected his executives to dress as they would for a stuffy boardroom.

It still amazed Jillian that a man so mired in tradition had hired a thirty-two-year-old African-American woman to be his director of property acquisitions, a role that came with incredible stress and many responsibilities.

"Do you have comment cards? A resolution process? A manager?" Jillian asked the still gaping clerk.

She fingered the pearls around her neck and tried her best to ignore the cotton shell now soaked with perspiration. Giving up, she tugged off the tailored pinstriped jacket and dangled it off one finger.

The employee was still frozen and the line of impatient vacationers waiting to check in began to complain.

"Are you the only one on?" a crotchety female voice said from behind Jillian.

"How long are we supposed to wait for service?"

"Get your manager," Jillian insisted. "I need a room and I'm not moving from here until one is found. These people need service."

Something about her tone must have prompted the man from inertia, or maybe it was the sight of a tall woman in stockinged feet that signaled she just might be crazy. Whatever it was, he picked up the old-fashioned phone, dialed and jabbered away in rapid Fijian.

The conversation done with, he pecked at his keyboard, his demeanor quickly changing when he read something on the screen. All of a sudden his hospitality kicked in and a slow smile broke.

"Oh, Ms. Gray," he said in dulcet tones. "I am so sorry. You should have identified yourself. Of course we will find you a room. Go to the bar, they may still be serving lunch. Our manager, Marlon Hinds, will join you shortly."

Not even an offer of a complimentary drink, just a wave of the hand in the direction of what Jillian assumed was an outdoor restaurant.

Jillian gestured toward the sweating bellman leaning against a brass trolley with her stacked Ralph Lauren luggage. "My bags? What is he to do with them?"

"I'll hold your things until we find you a room."

She managed a curt nod. There was nothing further to be gained by standing there. The people behind her, judging by their snorts and sighs, were close to erupting. Reclaiming her ruined shoes, Jillian vowed to take up the matter with Marlon Hinds, the property's manager. No way would she incur one dollar of expenses for something that wasn't her fault.

Squeezing the once spotless Jimmy Choos back onto her swelling feet, Jillian minced off in the direction of the outdoor restaurant bar.

Outside, the hot sun beat down on her face. Jillian followed a pebbled path lined by flowering shrubs, eyeing with distaste the untended gardens. Massive fan palms and tubs of bougainvillea were haphazardly positioned throughout. Even the pink and white hibiscuses swaying in the humid breeze couldn't keep the grounds from looking shabby.

The Bula might have been something in its heyday, but not now. Now it looked like a middle-aged woman who'd run out of steam.

Fumbling through an oversized Kate Spade bag, Jillian found and withdrew her Palm Pilot, bound and determined to take notes.

"Don't tell me you're working?" a male voice said from behind her.

Turning, she smiled at an overweight couple. Both were dressed in loud tropical gear.

"I am."

"No one conducts business during the warmest time of the day," the man said, sidling by her, tugging his companion along.

"You're right, shame on me."

Jillian shoved the electronic gadget back into her bag. Three weeks at the Bula Resort would give her plenty of time to record her observations.

She continued down the path, her eyes bugging out as she caught her first glimpse of a white sand beach and a bluer-than-blue ocean. She'd give anything to peel off her clothes and jump into all that cool water. But that would have to wait.

Looking around, she could see the property's four pools and water gushing from a platform of rocks. The pool area needed new chaise lounges, cabanas were needed on the beach, and updated water sports equipment wouldn't hurt either. More importantly, the employees needed customer service training. With a little sprucing and some innovative thinking, the Bula Resort could be a world-class resort again.

Jillian came to a Tikki hut that was a larger version of the lobby. A good-sized crowd sat finishing lunch. The bar held a combination of locals and tourists drinking and acting as if they didn't have a care in the world.

Ignoring the curious glances thrown her way, she slipped onto a barstool. The day's specials were written in chalk on a blackboard behind the bar and Jillian mentally made her selection.

"Something to drink?" a rotund bartender asked, a smile creasing his face.

This was more like it, at last she was getting a warm welcome and experiencing the famous Fijian hospitality she'd read so much about. What a big difference from the terse greeting and uncaring attitude of the clerk at the front desk.

"Kava," Jillian responded, opting for the popular local drink. She'd been told it used to be prepared by virgins who chewed the root into a soft pulpy mass.

Another smile told her she'd won a new friend. "Good choice," the bartender said. "Now what about lunch?"

"Lunch sounds like a great idea."

He beckoned to a beautiful Indian woman wearing a hibiscus behind one ear.

"Madam wants lunch," he said, tossing another smile her way.

The man's hair was woolly and his features an interesting mix of Melanesian and Tongan. Anywhere else he would easily have been mistaken for African-American.

Jillian chose a local dish, figuring it might be worth sampling the chef's specialty to see if he was worth keeping. Property inspections were usually tough. Once the staff knew who you were, and knew that their jobs were in danger, they pulled out all the stops.

"I'll have the kakoda," she said to the waitress.

"Fish steamed in coconut cream," the woman translated, jotting down her order.

She left to wait on another table, and as was the custom, Jillian lifted her glass and downed the kava in one quick swallow.

"You drink like a native," the bartender said, another wide smile creasing his face.

"It's delicious."

Her answer drew agreeable nods from those openly listening. The man next to her raised his bottle of Fiji Bitters in salute. "You'll fit right in. Soon you will be one of us."

Jillian doubted that. She'd be much too busy to become a native.

An animated game of volleyball was being played on the beach. It looked like locals had erected a tattered net on the sand. Whoops and hollers floated her way as one side or another scored a point.

Even watching the teams play made her sweat. Jillian longed to strip off the severe business suit, discard the uncomfortable pantyhose and shed her expensive pumps for sandals. What she wouldn't give to soak her feet in the cool ocean. Peter Fontaine and his sycophants would never find out. Yes, she decided, the hose had to go. She would not endure the confining nylons for another minute.

Jillian grabbed her purse off the bar. She'd seen the sign for restrooms somewhere. It was doubtful lunch would arrive before she got back.

Wending her way through crowded tables, she eventually found the ladies room. The offending pantyhose was quickly discarded and stuffed into her bag. She splashed water on her heated face and tried to envision herself in shorts and a halter top.

When she emerged again, a man in a crumpled linen suit was walking around. Jillian guessed this might be the missing manager, Marlon Hinds. She gave a tentative wave to which he responded with a nod.

She'd certainly expected a more effusive welcome. Marlon Hinds had to know who she was. As she was about to introduce herself, a huge uproar came from the beach as several players chased an escaping volleyball. It bounded toward her and Jillian leapt up onto her toes, preparing to catch the wayward ball. It ricocheted off one wall and diners ducked. Jillian chased after it until the heel of her pump caught in the hemp mat. She pitched forward and broke her fall with her palms.

"Oww!"

"Are you okay?" the man she thought might be the manager asked, crouching down beside her.

"I'm fine, just had the wind knocked out of me." Jillian still had one arm around the ball.

The man eased her into a standing position and Jillian tried putting weight on the now aching foot. "Ooow!"

"No, you're not. Sit." She was shoved into an empty chair. Her rescuer beckoned to someone she couldn't see. "Bring me ice."

Still holding onto the ball, Jillian closed her eyes and fought the pain.

Another voice, an American voice, dreamily familiar, and with a compelling cadence to it, said, "I'd get rid of the other ridiculous shoe if I were you."

Jillian's eyes flew open. A bearded, shirtless man, droplets of sweat glistening on his copper back, knelt at her feet. One large hand held her leather sole. He pulled off the remaining pump and tossed it across the room. Then his rough palm cupped her sole, examining the throbbing ankle.

"Yup, Marlon, she just might have a fracture," he confirmed. "I'd have her see Doctor Charles."

The man spoke as if she didn't exist or wasn't worth addressing. Despite the pain, Jillian decided that she could not and would not simply sit there as if she were an inanimate object.

"Let go of my foot. Who are you?"

The new arrival sat back on his heels, regarding her with a chagrined golden gaze. The beard and bandanna he wore added to his pirate look. Only his slightly crooked nose and chipped front tooth kept him from being pretty. She had the feeling those eyes had raked over her before. But that was impossible. He was comfortable on the beach and clearly uncomfortable with her.

"Does it matter?" he asked, slowly releasing her foot and unfolding his body from his subservient position. "The ball, please." He gestured to the volleyball Jillian still clutched.

She gaped at his wide expanse of chest; a hint of gray hair dusted his solar plexus. He had to be in his early forties, she guessed, though his muscular body didn't indicate that. Mesmerized, she dropped the ball and watched it roll across the woven mat covering the restaurant's floor.

With one long stride, the stranger scooped up the rolling ball.

"I'll be back," he said, sauntering off.

"Who was that?" Jillian asked, staring after him. "And who are you?"

A crisp beige business card was produced and deposited on her lap. "Marlon Hinds," the strapping Caucasian man confirmed. "And you are Ms. Gray?"

"Jillian Gray, the acquisitions director for Elite Resorts. If you'll give me a minute I'll find my card."

The manager quickly masked his surprise and said smoothly, "That can wait. Right now we need to take care of that foot."

As if by magic the bohemian from the beach reappeared carrying a small towel-wrapped bundle.

Continues...

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Excerpted from A Taste of Paradise by Marcia King-Gamble Copyright © 2005 by Marcia King-Gamble. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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