Honeymoon Hotel Read online

  Honeymoon Hotel

  (The PAX Series – Book 2)

  A Contemporary Romance Novel previously published by Harlequin

  by

  Barbara Bretton

  PAX: Share the adventure!

  Praise for USA Today Bestselling Author Barbara Bretton

  "A monumental talent." --Affaire de Coeur

  "Very few romance writers create characters as well-developed as Bretton's. Her books pull you in and don't let you leave until the last word is read." --Booklist (starred review)

  "One of today's best women's fiction authors." --The Romance Reader

  "Barbara Bretton is a master at touching readers' hearts." --Romance Reviews Today

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 1988, 2012 by Barbara Bretton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by Barbara Bretton

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Excerpt from Playing for Time (Book 1 - The PAX Series)

  Excerpt from A Fine Madness (Book 3 - The PAX Series)

  Chapter One

  "Mirrored ceilings are a necessary evil," said Alistair Chambers, as he reached for his brandy. "Utterly unavoidable."

  "Hah!" Holland Masters stabbed the innocent strawberry tart on her plate with a silver fork. "Only if you're twenty-two and perfect. Who wants to see cellulite and spider veins in 3-D?"

  The beautiful redhead shivered delicately and, across the table, Maggie Douglass chuckled into her chocolate mousse.

  For the past hour Maggie had been refereeing a lively discussion on the relative merits of interior design a la the Pocono Mountains.

  Her debonair Uncle Alistair had come down squarely on the side of water beds and champagne-glass whirlpools for two, while the bohemian Ms. Masters had surprised both of them by casting her vote for the more conservative pleasures to be found in candlelight and roaring fires.

  "You're a snob," said Alistair to his ladylove.

  "And you're an unrepentant rake." Holland, an actress, launched into a detailed and dramatic explanation of his more libertine tendencies that on another day might have tickled Maggie's sense of the absurd.

  But not today.

  What was the matter with those two anyway? Any fool knew that when it came to seduction, the name of the game was chocolate.

  Especially the Bronze Penguin's chocolate mousse.

  There wasn't a man alive who could compete.

  At least that's what Maggie thought until the moment he strode into the restaurant.

  She stopped dead, her third spoonful halfway to her lips, and stared as the handsome stranger followed Claude, the imperious maitre d', to the VIP table near the French doors – the same table the surly Claude had patently refused her not one hour ago.

  There weren't many things on earth that could take her mind away from chocolate mousse with freshly whipped cream, but a gorgeous man in was definitely one of them.

  It wasn't often you saw men in Savile Row suits in East Point, Pennsylvania – not even at the venerable Bronze Penguin, the Poconos' answer to Lutece.

  To see two Savile Row suits in the same place on the same day – well, that was definitely worth a second look.

  Not that Maggie wouldn't have given him a second look anyway. Men like that belonged to her other life, to dinners at Maxim's and summers in Monte Carlo.

  East Point was nestled snugly in the midst of the Pocono Mountains, and most men as gorgeous as this one usually came with a brand-new blushing bride in tow. To see a tall, handsome stranger who was obviously alone was nothing short of extraordinary.

  No wonder Claude was tumbling over his wing tips with excitement.

  "My favorite table," Maggie mumbled, covering up her own ardent interest with righteous indignation. "And to a perfect stranger, no less!"

  Holland halted her discourse on heart-shaped bathtubs long enough to follow Maggie's gaze. "Definitely perfect," she drawled in the same throaty voice enjoyed by millions, five days a week on Destiny, the nation's number one soap. "He gives new meaning to the cliché, tall, dark, and handsome."

  Alistair, the owner of the other Savile Row suit on display that Wednesday afternoon in August, cleared his throat and motioned for brandy all around. "I'll concede two of your three observations, but one can scarcely tell if the gentleman in question is tall while he's seated."

  "He's tall," Maggie said, looking away as the stranger met her eyes.

  Her uncle turned to Holland. "He's seated. How does she know he's tall?"

  "Trust her, darling," said Holland. "There are some things a woman just knows."

  Maggie glanced back in time to see Claude present the man a menu with a flourish reserved for visiting royalty.

  "I live in this town," Maggie grumbled, attacking her defenseless mousse again."Shouldn't that count for something?"

  "To the rich belong the spoils," said Alistair. "The way to Claude's heart is through his wallet. Obviously your perfect man is not above bribery."

  As the owner of The White Elephant, the least well-known honeymoon resort in the Poconos, Maggie was hard-pressed to pay for this lunch. She certainly wasn't in any position to add an arrogant maitre d' to her payroll.

  Leave that to the mysterious new owner of Hideaway Haven with its patented Love Cottages that came complete with flocked velvet wallpaper and hot- and cold-running Jacuzzis. The way rumor said the new owner was raking in the bucks, he could afford Claude's blackmail money.

  "Stop mumbling like a country girl," Holland said, sipping her brandy. "You've been here in the backwoods too long, Maggie. In Manhattan maitre d's rule the world."

  "This isn't Manhattan."

  "Really?" Holland murmured, her green eyes twinkling. "I hadn't noticed."

  Maggie laughed despite herself. Let Claude enjoy his power trip. She wouldn't trade her lunch companions for the best table in the house.

  Not even if that gorgeous stranger came with it.

  #

  The second the lanky maitre d with the Charles de Gaulle profile oiled his way over to him, John Adams Tyler knew he should have gone to McDonald's instead.

  But McDonald's wasn't any safer, any more than Burger King or Sizzler or any of the other middle-class bastions of fast food were safe. If he wanted to avoid the men who were dogging his steps, he would just have to put up with this kind of pretentious garbage.

  He glanced around the place and stifled a groan as somewhere in the vastness, a champagne cork popped.

  He hated fancy restaurants. He hated French food. And, more than anything, he hated maitre d's.

  "Tyler," he said as the man scanned his reservation book. "Table for one."

  Claude took a long look at John, obviously checking for signs of wealth. His gaze slid over the expensive silk suit and the de rigueur gold watch, then stuttered over the longer-than-average hair that tickled John's col
lar.

  That stutter was quickly smoothed over when John pressed a twenty-dollar bill into Claude's eager palm.

  "Ah, yes!" The bill disappeared into the pocket of Claude's trousers. "Your name is indeed on the list." He closed the book and gave John a courtly, if obsequious, bow. "This way, sir."

  Social snobbery in the Poconos, where Love Tubs and Magic Fingers were the ultimate status symbols?

  Amazing.

  Yet the most amazing thing of all was that John Adams Tyler, aka The Animal, had been quick enough to play by the same rules he'd poked fun at a million years ago.

  Maybe that's why he'd ducked out of the last meeting and hidden away here at the Bronze Penguin where none of the people who mattered would ever look.

  He needed time to think. They'd been dogging his steps for months now, trying to pull him back into a past he wanted to forget.

  Old memories.

  Old debts.

  Saying no to them wouldn't be easy.

  Claude hovered around like a bird of prey. "Are you certain this table is to your liking, m'sieur?"

  John unbuttoned his suit jacket. "The table is fine."

  "I can bring you our master wine list."

  He shook his head. "Not necessary."

  "We have a superb Riesling you might consider. I can ask Gerard to bring one up so you can –"

  "No Riesling," said John. "No master wine list. No Gerard. Just bring me a Bud and the menu."

  Claude scurried off, muttering something about peasant taste, and John laughed for the first time that day.

  Peasant taste? He thought about pepperoni pizzas and meatball heroes and BLTs, hold the mayo. The Bronze Penguin still had a lot to learn when it came to food.

  He'd just spent three of the most boring hours of his life in conference with lawyers and money men who seemed to derive great pleasure out of telling him things couldn't be done.

  The family ski resort in New Hampshire couldn't be done.

  It grossed three million dollars its first season.

  The chain of video stores featuring classic films was doomed to failure.

  A front-page story on its success graced last month's Forbes.

  Now they were trying to convince him that he should sell Hideaway Haven and its patented Love Cottages to the hungry multinational corporation that had been gobbling up much of the Pennsylvania countryside.

  He'd probably own the state before it was all over.

  He nodded as the affronted Claude deposited a bottle of Bud on the table before him and made a show of pouring it into a heavy crystal mug. A young, dark-haired waiter barely missed bumping into Claude as he hurried through the room with a tray piled high with steamed lobster.

  What the hell did the money men know anyway? Facts and figures on cold white paper didn't mean a damn thing. Gut instinct was the only thing worth counting on, and when it came to following his gut instincts, John Adams Tyler was a pro.

  Sell Honeymoon Haven?

  Hell, no.

  He'd keep it and bet that by October he'd have another cool million with which to drive his accountant up the wall in search of tax shelters.

  Grinning, John raised his beer mug to his mouth and was about to take a long slug when he saw her.

  A woman with a cloud of long, coppery-gold waves tumbling over her bare shoulders was looking straight at him. She wore a white cotton sundress that was more style than substance, and it shimmered pale against her tanned skin. Her gaze was level and deliberate, no coy flutter of the eyelashes, no hint of flirtation.

  She was seated with a brutally well-tailored man and a gorgeous redhead of a certain age who were holding hands beneath the table. They looked familiar. Hadn't he seen them around Hideaway Haven?

  If so, where was the younger woman's husband?

  And, if there was a husband, what the hell was she doing making eye contact with him?

  Intrigued, John prepared to lift his glass in salute, when the young waiter bumped against the back of his chair and a splash of beer hit John right between the eyes.

  Claude swooped down on him like a heat-seeking missile. "Clumsy fool!" said the maitre d'. "Not you, sir, of course." His dream of a hefty tip obviously teetered on the brink. "Please forward your dry-cleaning bill to me, and I'll attend to it personally."

  "No damage." John wiped the beer off his face with his napkin. "Just bring me another."

  Across the room the vision in white was once again engrossed in lively conversation with her table mates, her curiosity in John long forgotten.

  The kamikaze waiter made another pass around the room and left another casualty behind.

  John leaned back in his chair and opened his menu.

  McDonald's next time, no matter how dangerous it was.

  #

  Maggie couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed a lunch the way she was enjoying this one.

  Her Aunt Sarah's death had hit Alistair hard. Her uncle had suddenly aged right before her eyes, and Maggie had despaired as he threw himself deeper into his work – and into danger.

  His work with PAX, an international antiterrorist organization with a low profile and a high rate of success, had always bordered on obsessive, but since he had shared that obsession with Sarah, who had also been a PAX operative, Maggie hadn't been aware of how deep his commitment ran.

  After Sarah's death, there was no question.

  PAX had sprung to life during World War II as a way of opening communications between the Allies without risking detection by the enemy. Alistair and other faceless couriers moved from battle zone to battle zone, sometimes behind enemy lines, to ensure that vital information made it into the right hands.

  Some historians said D-Day would never have happened had it not been for those courageous men and women but the truth of the matter had long been erased from the history books.

  After the war, PAX had continued, and Alistair had continued along with it. The rebuilding of Europe after the war was a delicate business, and the organization, with its multinational members and superior technology, was a necessary factor in restoring a semblance of normalcy to ravaged lands.

  It was dangerous work then, and it was dangerous work now, and when his Sarah died it seemed Alistair had made it his business to take on the riskiest assignments available. He had grown older, more jaded with every passing day, and Maggie's heart had ached each time she saw him.

  But since meeting Holland Masters two years ago, Alistair Chambers had become a walking advertisement for the fountain of youth. Who would have imagined it was hidden right in the heart of Manhattan?

  Alistair would never see sixty again, and Holland was floating delicately in the region of forty-plus, yet every time Maggie was around them, she caught the unmistakable scent of orange blossoms and the thrill of young love in the air.

  Not that the scent of orange blossoms wasn't everywhere in the Poconos. For over forty years, couples from every part of the country had been converging on those quiet Pennsylvania mountains to spend a blissful week in one of countless honeymoon hotels scattered throughout the countryside.

  Although they seemed better suited for the Swiss Alps, Alistair and Holland obviously liked the all-American Poconos. They'd come up from Manhattan three times in the past three weeks, treating Maggie to wonderful dinners and delightful conversation.

  Maggie couldn't help but wonder if there was some deeper reasons for this sudden interest in honeymoon hotels but, knowing her uncle as she did, she'd find out soon enough.

  As it was, Maggie was savoring the opportunity to enjoy the very romantic courtship of her favorite uncle and his ladylove who, at the moment, seemed to have an unholy fixation with mirrors and lights.

  "Okay," Maggie said, gesturing with her dessert spoon. "Why all this talk about mirrors on the ceiling? The White Elephant doesn't have mirrors on the ceiling. The only way you could –" She stopped at the guilty expression on her usually unflappable uncle's face. "You didn't!"

  "I'm afraid
we did," said Alistair.

  "You went over to the competition?"

  "It seemed a marvelous idea at the time." He glanced at Holland for support. "How better to understand what battles you've yet to face? A little discreet investigation seemed apropos."

  "I fought the good fight," said Holland. "I brought up family loyalty, moral rectitude and possible public humiliation." She shrugged eloquently. "Nothing worked."

  Maggie polished off her last spoonful of chocolate mousse and took a quick, longing peek at Holland's strawberry tart. "My own flesh and blood goes over to the enemy camp."

  "Don't you want to know what the competition is doing, dear girl? Holland and I can give you an on-the-spot description of everything that goes on at the Love Cottages."

  Holland blanched visibly. "Not everything."

  "We can supply you with demographics on the clientele."

  "We didn't see any of the clientele all weekend."

  Alistair winked at Maggie. "We can supply pictures and –"

  "Oh, no, we can't," Holland broke in "Not unless I retouch the negatives."

  "Go ahead," said Alistair, puffing on a Gauloise. "Ask me anything about the Love Cottages."

  Maggie, who was consumed with curiosity, feigned indifference. "Purple shag rugs and lava lights aren't my idea of class. I have loftier aims for The White Elephant."

  Alistair pierced her with a look. "Some people find purple shag rugs very romantic."

  "I'm not some people."

  "Do you find anything romantic these days, Maggie?"

  She faked a swoon at the sight of the dessert cart rolling by their table. "Be careful, Holland," she said. "Your strawberry tart is in peril."

  "Don't change the subject," said her uncle. "I'm concerned. Certainly there must be some eligible men here in honeymoon heaven."

  Maggie groaned. "I get enough of the romance-is-where-you-find-it routine from the Douglass clan."

  "And well you should. You're much too young and beautiful to bury yourself in that monstrosity you call an inn. When was the last time you were out on a date?"