Linda Goodnight - Rich Man, Poor Bride

The hairs on Diego’s arm rose to attention. No man, regardless of his status, had a right to speak that way to a woman. And he sure had no business hitting on the waitress in a posh restaurant. If the fellow didn’t shut up, he might have to cut his vacation short to visit an orthodontist.

“Sir.” The waitress’s voice, though strained, remained ever so polite. “I would appreciate it if you’d let go of my arm.”

He had hold of her arm!

Diego fisted his napkin, thrust it onto the table and started to rise. Fire boiled in his belly.

“Diego?” Sharmaine looked up at him with startled blue eyes. “You look positively fierce. Whatever are you doing?”

“I’m going to instruct the man at the next table in some badly neglected manners.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” She waved off his concerns. “Girls like that know how to take care of themselves.”

He wanted to ask what she meant by “girls like that,” but he was much too focused on the other table. “She shouldn’t have to.”

Before he could think the matter through he was standing next to the waitress glaring down at a twenty-something surfer boy with I-get-what-I-want written all over him. “Is there a problem here?”

The blond man snarled. “Butt out, buddy.”

“Please, Dr. Vargas, don’t concern yourself.” Her soft drawl was laced with tension, her pretty green eyes worried. “Return to your table and I’ll be with you shortly.”

“Not until this guy takes his hands off you.”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t make a scene,” she said firmly. “Everything here is under control.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me.” He speared the surfer boy with a challenging glare. “Hands off. Now.”

The man let go of her arm and scraped his chair back. He was at least six feet tall but looked as soft as an old pillow.

The young woman’s eyes widened in alarm. “Gentlemen, please sit down before the manager is alerted and we disturb other guests. This is a restaurant, not a barroom.”

“That’s right, Vargas. If Ruthie here wants to spend some extra time with me, that’s our business. Right, Ruthie?”

“Mr. Peterson, if you’ll take your seat, we’ll talk again after your meal. Okay?”

The surfer considered her suggestion for a moment, posturing a bit for Diego’s benefit, then he shrugged. “Sure, baby. Why not? Later works better, anyway—if you get my drift.”

Fire still burned inside Diego. He really wanted to punch the insulting little twerp, but Ruthie seemed bent on making peace.

“Dr. Vargas, let me escort you to your table and pour you another glass of wine.”

Reluctantly, Diego turned back toward his table but couldn’t resist a final glare at the other man. Ruthie was at his elbow.

“Please, sir,” she hissed, green eyes wide and anxious. “You’re going to get me fired.”

Incredulous, he stopped and stared at her. “I was trying to help you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Didn’t sound that way from where I was sitting.”

“Keeping guests happy is part of my job. If one of them has a few too many cocktails and misbehaves, that’s my problem. I cannot afford to offend a guest.”

Diego couldn’t believe this woman. “You’re making me the heavy?”

“I’m just asking you to please stay out of my business. First you insult me in your suite and now you’re jeopardizing my livelihood.”

“I didn’t order those towels.” The denial sounded petulant, childish.

“Well, somebody did.”

“Then I owe you an apology.”

“Apology accepted. Would you care for an appetizer before dinner?”

Smooth as silk she brushed him off and left him feeling like an idiot for offering his help. Sharmaine was right. Ruthie could take care of herself.

Tension knotted in his neck, he settled back into his chair.

Ruthie topped off his wineglass as if nothing had occurred, but her hand shook the tiniest bit.

When she moved away, Sharmaine pouted. “Really, Diego, you’ve paid more attention to that waitress tonight than you have to me.”

He couldn’t deny the truth. He had been far more attuned to Ruthie than he had to his lovely date. And he could offer no logical explanation for his behavior.

“That, sweet lady, is because the waitress served the prime rib.” Tilting his head, he gave her his most charming and disarming grin. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had prime rib?”

Sharmaine found that amusing. “So,” she said, “the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach?”

Diego struggled to keep his mind on the conversation and off the most disturbing urge to follow Ruthie into the kitchen and apologize again. Considering Ruthie’s reaction to his offer of help, he was not on her list of all-time favorite males.

“That’s what they say.”

“Oh, pooh. Now I’ll have to learn to cook.”

“Or hire one.”

Sharmaine responded with a throaty chuckle, and Diego knew he’d been forgiven for being less than the perfect dinner partner. To tell the truth, he was hard-pressed to understand himself tonight. He was sitting with a beautiful woman who fit into his social world. A woman who obviously enjoyed men and who would lead him on a merry chase if he would let her. Her game was clear. There was no subterfuge, and his heart was in no danger.

But he couldn’t take his mind, or his eyes, off a certain green-eyed waitress.

“Ruthie, the craft class needs more hot-glue sticks.” Merry Montrose pushed a package at her. “And afterward drop this off to Miss Parris Hammond in Room 17. She’s been waiting, rather impatiently I must say, for it to arrive. It’s a donation, I think, for the charity auction from some pro football player in Miami. Then take these flowers up to Miss Coleman and tell her Dr. Vargas sent them.”

“Is there a card?” Stomach dipping at the doctor’s name, Ruthie took the package and the flowers. “I saw Miss Coleman heading for the tennis courts about twenty minutes ago.”

“Really?” Merry’s blue eyes flamed with interest. “Was Dr. Vargas with her by any chance?”

“No. She was with another guest.”

“Male or female?”

“Male. Mr. Plinkton, I believe.”

“Drat. Have I chosen wrong again?” The manager mumbled an incomprehensible sentence under her breath. Jabbing at the numbers on her cell phone, she waved Ruthie away impatiently. “Go on, then. Leave the flowers in the room. I’ll have to try something else.”

What in the world was Miss Montrose talking about? She acted as though she had some hand in getting Diego and Sharmaine together. With no real clue to where this conversation was going, Ruthie opted not to ask for clarification. The less she knew of Diego Vargas the better.

“I’ll take these things right up,” she said, and started out of the small office.

“And one more thing, Ruthie,” the older woman called. “You’ll be working at the pub from nine to closing tonight.”

Except for frequent stops to check on Naomi, Ruthie had run constantly from one task to the other all morning. With the tourist season upon them the resort was really hopping. She hated to admit it but her feet and body ached for rest. Though unwilling to turn down the offer of work, she was really too tired to tend bar tonight. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately.

First, there was the constant worry over her mother-in-law and finances. Dr. Attenburg had extended credit at the clinic, but Ruthie had to come up with that money soon. And if that wasn’t enough to ruin a good night’s rest, now her mind was experiencing flights of fancy. After last evening in the Banyan Room, she’d dreamed of Diego Vargas, the kind of dreams that made her blush to remember them. To add to the craziness, she saw the man practically every time she turned a corner on her way to the next job. More than once, as she’d come out of a guest room, the handsome doctor had appeared in the hall or the elevator. Each time she’d scurried away like a timid mouse until she’d come to both dread and yearn for those frequent encounters.

When he’d played rescuer in the restaurant, she’d vacillated between horror and thrill. Horror that the management would think she had insulted the drunk and lecherous Mr. Peterson in some way. And thrill that a man like Diego would intervene on her behalf.

And now Miss Montrose had to mention his name and start Ruthie thinking about him all over again.

As quickly as possible she completed the errands, then hurried down to the café to pick up the special Mexican lunch she’d ordered for Mama.

In minutes she had the disposable box in hand and hopped onto the elevator. The spicy scent of enchilada filled the small space. Carry-out was a luxury, but Ruthie would pay any price to see Mama eat a hearty meal again. After lunch they had an appointment with Dr. Attenburg. Twice weekly, now that the kind doctor had given them an extension, they’d go to the mainland for the IV treatments. The outing always left Mama exhausted, but Ruthie was hopeful that these symptoms would soon disappear with the new, more powerful drugs.

As she entered the suite, her pager beeped. Accustomed to the summons, she waved at Naomi while sliding the meal carton onto the table and went directly to the phone.

When Ruthie had replaced the telephone receiver, Naomi asked, “Work again, yes?”

“A guest wanting his in-room bar restocked.”

“Will you have time before we go inland?”

Ruthie checked her watch. “It won’t take long. I’ll do it now.”

“But you have not eaten lunch.”

“I’ll grab a bite later, Mama.” She kissed the older woman’s cheek. “You eat. I’ll be back in less than an hour to take you to the clinic.”

Whistling softly, Diego slapped a towel over his hot, sweaty shoulder and headed for the stairwell. Nothing like a game of beach volleyball to stir the senses, relax the muscles and elevate the bad mood he’d awakened with.

The stairs were empty as usual, a fact that amused him. Resort guests exercised like crazy to lose weight and keep in shape but opted for the brief elevator ride to their rooms. In the military, good physical condition kept a man alive, and even though in Diego’s job he was generally well protected, the extreme conditions in Third-World countries required optimum health in order to function. He took two steps at a time, listening to the hollow echo of rubber against metal as he thundered upward.

When he approached the second floor, he hesitated. According to the resort information in his room, a hot tub was on this landing. Figuring his muscles could use a few minutes of soothing whirlpool, he pushed open the heavy door that led onto the carpeted hallway and stepped out.

From his left, a door opened and movement caught his attention. His pulse jerked, reacting in a clinically abnormal manner. Ruthie, the waitress-maid-lifeguard, pulled a door closed behind her and turned, catching sight of him.

“Hello again,” he said. She looked fresh and professional in creased navy walking shorts and a crisp, white polo. Her blond hair was slicked back into a charming ponytail that made her look young and innocent.

“Dr. Vargas,” she replied politely. Even from several feet away he could tell she was reluctant to speak to him, but she’d avoided him long enough. He needed to clear the air.

“Diego,” he corrected as he tossed the towel around his neck and anchored it on each side with his hands. “Still mad at me?”

She shook her head, and the glimmer of a smile lit her face. “Actually, I should apologize.”