Page 1 of The Last Resort
CHAPTER ONE
Aspen/Pitkin County Airport
A freezing Colorado morning
Mid-March
Catching sight of the familiar, slightly battered, red and gray suitcase as it plopped onto the baggage carousel in front of her, Rachel Little dropped into a weightlifter’s stance. Legs spread and knees bent. Core engaged. Ready to do battle.
Reaching out with her right hand, she took a firm grip of the side handle of her suitcase. The fingers of her left hand wrapped around one of the wheels.
Moment of truth.
One. Two. Three. Heave.
Sixty-five pounds of deadweight had her staggering back, the muscles in her arm screaming their protest.
The middle-aged man who’d been standing next to her waiting for his own bags, scuttled out of the way as Rachel swung the heavy suitcase round and dumped it onto her luggage cart. The case landed with a thud. She didn’t havetime to recover from her Olympic-style weightlifting efforts, her fingers quickly snatching the handle of the cart to stop it from rolling away.
One bag down, two to go.
As she turned back, searching for her next piece of luggage, a lick of sweat slid down her spine. Cancelled gym memberships and long nights spent in the loving embrace of comfort food had Rachel huffing and puffing.
Her fellow traveler gave her an odd look. She could just imagine what he was thinking, “That’s an awful lot of luggage for an Aspen ski trip, young lady.”
Rachel would have given the entire contents of her three overloaded suitcases for that to be her only problem.
Ski trip, nope. If you only knew how much I would rather still be back in Atlanta. How much I wish this wasn’t my new life.
She hadn’t arrived in Aspen for a fun-filled, skiing holiday. Courtesy of the cheapest airline ticket on offer, she was at the end—or was that the beginning? —of one of those “uproot your entire life and move across country” type of trips. The kind you see in the movies.
Where is the dashing hero I’m supposed to meet in the first ten minutes? And what about the heartwarming soundtrack? Come on, what’s a girl from the South gotta do?
But even her favorite popstar, Chloe, was yet to pen a song about a fifteen-hundred mile “let me see if I can salvage what’s left of my life” odyssey. And if she ever did, Rachel could only hope it didn’t come with a refrain that spoke of there being no chance of finding a happily ever after at the end of it.
Rachel dropped into grab and snatch mode once more as the second of her bulging suitcases tumbled onto the carousel. Two down, one to go.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d be staying in Aspen, but it made no sense to leave any of her belongings behind inAtlanta. She wouldn’t ever be going back. That life, the one she’d thought was hers, was gone. There was nothing and no one left for her to return to in Georgia.
As soon as the last suitcase finally, mercifully appeared, she loaded it onto the groaning luggage cart and headed for the main exit. A new and entirely uncertain future awaited. But Rachel Little was the star of her life’s movie and like all good heroines she’d figure it out one day at a time.
Cue the upbeat music.
Matthew Royal waited until the engines of the Royal Resorts jet had slowed and come to a complete stop before unclipping his seatbelt. He’d had a lifetime of travelling the world in private jets, and knew it paid to observe the safety rules.
Looking out the plane’s window, he took in the sight of the magnificent white snowcapped Red Butte mountain in the distance. “Stunning,” he whispered. It would be hard to find a more beautiful place in winter than Aspen, Colorado.
A small voice whispered in his mind.You are not here for the scenery. You are here to build something amazing and leave your mark on this town.
Matthew pushed the thought away. It was going to take more than an ethereal promise for him to get what he wanted.
The Royal Resorts flight attendant handed Matthew his thick puffer jacket, gloves, and Hermès woolen scarf. At this time of the year, the outside temperature barely made it above freezing, and even when it did, the wind chill factor pulled it right back down.
Matthew put his insulated gloves on first, then stuffed hisarms into the sleeves of his North Face jacket. New York City born and bred meant he knew exactly how to dress for the bitter chills of March. But this morning, he had other things on his mind.
If things went according to plan, the dilapidated ski resort he’d been trying to buy for close to two years would soon be in the hands of his family’s company, Royal Resorts. He could almost taste it. All those painfully slow negotiations had to be coming to an end.
They must be ready to sell by now. What else can they possibly want?
