Page 7 of An Heir Made In Hawaii (Hot Winter Escapes)

They both turned to see the clerk, who was standing just behind the desk with a wide grin on her face, her head swiveling back and forth as if she were taking in a tennis match instead of two people about to kill each other in her lobby.

“Yes,” Anika said quickly. She stalked past Nicholas and sat down on a leather bench in front of the TV. Nicholas debated for a moment before he sat next to her.

“There’s plenty of other seats.”

“So pick one,” Nicholas replied casually. “This has the best view and room for three or four people. I want to make sure I get all the safety information needed to enjoy this trip.”

She grumbled something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like how she was planning to murder him on said excursion, but he ignored it. The clerk hit a button on the remote, shot them another silly smile and walked back to the desk as images of turtles swimming through the ocean filled the screen.

“I think the clerk might be playing matchmaker.”

Anika snorted and he bit back a laugh. He didn’t know a single woman he’d dated who would have made such a derisive, uninhibited sound in his presence.

“Perhaps one of us should tell her that has as much chance as a snowball in hell.”

“Snowball in hell,” he repeated. “Another of your American euphemisms?”

“And an accurate one. Tell me,” she said as her smile sharpened, “how does Hawaii measure up to the Caribbean? That was where you went after our last meeting, right?”

“Keeping tabs on me?”

“Hard to not overhear the maids gossiping about the fight you had with your girlfriend at a beachside restaurant. You were even trending on Twitter.”

He grimaced. “Ex-girlfriend.”

Ex-girlfriend and one of his few mistakes. Sadly, it had been a catastrophic one. Susan, a textile heiress, had entertained ideas of changing her status from millionaire to billionaire through marriage. An idea she hadn’t shared with him until she’d slipped “insider information” to a magazine that Nicholas Lassard, the renowned bachelor, would be proposing within the year. He could have easily told her he had no interest in proposing. Had she bothered to ask him, he could have told her all of it in a private conversation instead of a public display on the beach of his latest resort. He’d tried to escort Susan to his office, but she’d insisted on being out in the open.

He scowled. He should have known she would have arranged to have the entire debacle photographed by a paparazzo. She hadn’t gotten a ring out of him, but she’d gotten some photos of her looking elegantly tragic, soft blond curls framing her face, tears on her cheeks and her hands clasped together in front of her ample bosom as her white dress fluttered around her.

He suppressed a shudder. The thought of being tied down to Susan until death did them part was enough to make a grown man weep. The woman thrived on drama, on being catered to and taken care of, a quality that had initially drawn him to her. He enjoyed playing the role of hero. He just hadn’t planned on doing it all the time for such a self-obsessed woman.

“I’m sorry.”

His head snapped around. Anika was still staring at the screen, but her expression had lost its edge.

“For?”

“The breakup. Whether it was amicable or not, breakups are hard.”

“Thank you.” He took another sip of coffee to hide his surprise at the genuineness in her tone. He never would have described Anika as compassionate. Yet here she was, offering her sworn enemy words of comfort. “This one was for the best.”

“Didn’t lose the love of your life?”

“I will never have a love of my life. Susan, unfortunately, did not understand that.”

Anika’s body tensed next to him. He glanced over in time to see something flit across her face, something that made him feel, uncomfortably, like he had just disappointed her.

“Well, isn’t she lucky you corrected her in that assumption.” Before he could reply, she stood. “Enjoy the trip.”

She walked out of the room without a backward glance.

CHAPTER THREE

STUPID,STUPID,STUPID!

Anika resisted the urge to physically smack herself as she stretched out on the trampoline mesh stretched between the hulls of the catamaran. The boat skimmed across the ocean, the sparkling blue waters of the Pacific passing by a dozen feet below her.

She was in Hawaii on the kind of trip she had always imagined. But instead of staring in awe at the islands dotting the horizon or the sharp, jagged peaks of the Na Pali coast drenched in vivid green with waterfalls tumbling down from jaw-dropping cliffs, she was thinking, once more, about Nicholas Lassard.

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