Turning It on (Red Hot Russians) (6 page)

Chapter Six

Until now, Hannah’s impression of Puerto Rico was of a quaint, touristy island. Distant. Rustic. Certainly not a place with suburbs boasting familiar big-box stores or green American interstate signs, suspended above the busy four-lane highway on which they were traveling.

They’d landed this morning at Luis Muñoz Marin International Airport in San Juan and found the promised driver waiting at the arrival gate, holding a sign that read Jack and Hana. Misspellings aside, he efficiently escorted them to baggage claim, then to a waiting—and thankfully air-conditioned—car.

Riding in the back with Jack, Hannah shifted the heavy bags at her feet. She’d worked on the plane from New York, and if there was time, planned to get a bit more done on the drive to the resort, which was on the island’s eastern coast. She leaned forward and raised her voice so the driver could hear her over the salsa music blasting from the radio. “Excuse me, how much farther?”

“Forty minutes. Not far.” He took one hand off the steering wheel and wagged it back and forth, but kept his sights on the traffic, which was still heavy but had lessened as they traveled east.

She turned to Jack. “Forty minutes was what he told us when we left San Juan. I don’t think he understood me.”

Jack shrugged. “We’ll get there when we get there. What difference does it make?”

“I thought I’d get a little more done on the way. This is supposed to be a working vacation, after all.”

“Whatever, Hannah.” Jack rolled his eyes. He carried only his tablet and had done nothing more on the plane than play Minecraft and watch basketball highlights. Then again, Big and Little Windsor had probably shipped six boxes of case files to the hotel. That might explain Jack’s churlish mood. If they were bickering within an hour of landing, what would happen once their relationship became break room fodder for millions?

Heat rose in her cheeks and she leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes and trying to force her mind away from troubling thoughts.
Be positive. Be happy. Think how good you will feel once this is over.
Calm once more, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes to the scenery, which was indeed spectacular.

To the left of the highway lay the vast Atlantic, a warmer, more inviting version than the familiar, rocky New England coastline. Though resorts and other development often blocked the view, she glimpsed beautiful white beaches, green and brown palms waving in the breeze, and the blue ocean. On the right, lush green mountains rose in the distance. The driver gestured toward the tallest peak, partially shrouded in mist.

“El Yunque,” he said.

The mountain’s name made her recall a travel article about the United States’s only tropical rain forest. They grew coffee here, too. Bits of buried knowledge began to surface and she wished she’d given as much thought to where she was going as to what she was leaving behind.

She shifted the computer bag off her foot, which was growing numb beneath its weight. Her new red pedicure peeked out of her Birkenstocks. It was the first professional pedi she’d ever had, and was glad for the silly impulse that sent her to a neighborhood nail salon on Saturday.

“You need to dress for the weather,” said Jack, cool and crisp in a tropical shirt, cargo shorts and shades.

“I’m dressed for it,” she said, admiring her feet.

“More than your toes. Like lose the scarves. We’re in the Caribbean, not Manhattan. At least tell me you brought swimsuits.”

“Of course I did.” One. Maybe not the sexiest number on the planet, but at least she wouldn’t look like a cartoon character. “But you have to remember I don’t tan, I burn. And I hate those fake tans that make people look like Oompa-Loompas.”

Again, Jack rolled his eyes and sighed.

A few miles from Luquillo, the driver turned off the main highway onto a smaller road. Through the heavy foliage of palms and prehistoric-looking shrubs with huge, waxy leaves, Hannah could see palatial homes at the ends of gated driveways. They turned onto an even smaller road, which passed a large, yet tasteful sign surrounded by flowers. “Resorte Siete Mares.”

They had arrived.

The road widened into a paved driveway that bisected a gently rolling emerald golf course dotted with... Hannah did a double take. “Earthmovers?”

“The resort suffered a lot of damage in the hurricane last fall, and it’s still under renovation,” said Jack. “That’s why the production company was able to rent it for practically nothing.”

“Won’t that look weird on TV?”

“They’re only filming in areas where construction is finished. The show is a basically a ten-week commercial for the resort, so they’re doing everything possible to create the illusion of luxury.”

The four-story hotel, painted bright Caribbean-blue-and-green with white trim, curved into a crescent that faced the ocean. The palm tree-lined driveway wound past lush gardens, a small fountain, then veered to the right, offering a glimpse at the beach and dock behind the hotel. “They have diving, fishing, catamarans, volleyball. Even a private island with a zip line course,” Jack said. “Just like summer camp, but better.”

Except Hannah never liked summer camp. Too hot. Too buggy. Too many chances to show why she was always picked last for sports teams.
Try to have fun. Try to have fun.
She forced a smile. “Sounds great.”

A wide portico jutted out over the hotel’s main entrance. As the car approached, a waiting camera crew sprang into action. One guy shouldered a video camera, while a woman held an overhead microphone from what looked like a fishing pole. Jack pushed his shades up to the top of his head and grinned. “Showtime.”

Hannah touched her humidity-frizzed hair. She wore no makeup and wrinkled traveling clothes that weren’t TV-ready. There was a large coffee stain on her white pants from where her cup had sloshed during a bout of turbulence. She gathered her bags quickly, but Jack was already out of the car and walking into the building as the cameras rolled. Hannah slung her purse and messenger bag over her shoulders, grabbed her laptop and hurried after him.

The hotel lobby was bright and airy, with sleek modern furnishings. Woven jute rugs, enormous potted plants and tropical color scheme lent a Caribbean accent. There was no one behind the long check-in counter, but an attractive young African-American woman in a pale yellow dress, wearing an ID badge around her neck, approached. “Jack and Hannah, welcome! I’m Cynthia Bishop, Renegade Productions’s associate producer.” She smiled and extended her right hand.

Hannah accepted Cynthia’s firm handshake, but felt a little disappointed that the man who’d dragged them into this...adventure...wasn’t here to greet them. “Where is Eric?”

“At the moment, he’s tied up in the dungeon.”

Hannah gaped. “Excuse me?”

Cynthia laughed. “The dungeon is our name for the downstairs production offices. With so much to do to get ready for tonight, he couldn’t get away. I promise to take good care of you, though. Can we bring you anything? Water? Soda? A cocktail?”

Jack shrugged. “Why not? I’m on vacation. I’ll take a beer, if you have it.”

“Of course. With lime?”

“Of course,” Jack echoed, his grin growing wider.

“
Per
fect,” Cynthia cooed. “How about you, Hannah?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.” Between all of her bags, she couldn’t manage another item.

Cynthia dispatched a tattooed girl with fuchsia hair and horn-rimmed glasses to fetch Jack’s beer, and then ushered them to a large desk in a corner of the lobby. “This is the production bible and a map of the resort, locations for shoots and a daily call sheet, so you know when to be where,” she said, handing them each a royal-blue three-ring binder. “Team Blue, which is you and your invitees, has the second and third floors of the hotel’s east wing. Team Red has the west wing. Both wings have a pool and hot tub patio. The main studio, where we’ll watch the episodes as they air, is located right across the lobby.”

Jack smiled. “I think it’s great we’ll be watching the show right along with the rest of America.”

Cynthia nodded. “It’s one of the groundbreaking aspects of
Last Fling
that everyone’s talking about. Cody and Eric are absolute geniuses.” She slid the binders forward. “There’s a bar and coffee shop toward the back of the hotel, limited room service and breakfast will be brought to you each morning. Rooms are private, the TVs offer free movie access, but there are no phones or Wi-Fi. We’ll also need you to turn over all of your personal devices.”

“What?” Hannah clutched the laptop bag to her chest. “Eric said I would have time to work each day. That was the only way I was able to get ten weeks off.”

Cynthia frowned. “That’s not standard practice for a reality show. During filming, contestants are allowed no contact with the outside world.”

“Well that’s not going to work for us. Especially not for Jack, since he works for the law firm that represents your company. It’s very important that he be able to stay in touch.”

Jack scoffed. “It’s not
that
important.”

She turned, perplexed. “Since when?”

“Since now.” He placed his tablet and phone on Cynthia’s desk, and sat back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. “The last thing I want is to talk to anyone from Windsor and St. Clair.”

Cynthia smiled. “That’s the attitude we want to see! Relaxed. Carefree. Ready for fun!”

“I’ll have more fun knowing I’ve got a job to go back to.” Hannah turned to Jack, desperate for support. “You know what my career means to me.”

“Too much. Look, Bettendorf Publishing isn’t going to implode just because you aren’t there.”

The tattooed girl had returned with Jack’s beer. He took a long swig, and finished off with an exaggerated, “Ahhhhh.”

Hannah fumed.

Cynthia slid a piece of stationery and pen across the desk. “Why don’t you write your boss a note, explaining the rules of the show, and letting him know that for the next ten weeks,
this
is your job. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“
She’ll
understand. My boss is a woman.” Hannah stared at the blank page, too rattled to write a coherent letter. Something like, “Help! I’m being held prisoner on a reality show!” probably wasn’t very professional. Quickly, she explained the situation, apologized for the misunderstanding and hoped it would be enough to keep from being fired.

“Perfect.” Cynthia took the letter and envelope Hannah had addressed. “We’ll make sure these get to him. Now then, we’ll be coming to interview both of you later this afternoon, and the opening party starts at seven. Your vanity teams will be up shortly, to give you plenty of time to get ready. Especially you, Hannah.” Cynthia’s gaze lingered a moment on Hannah’s stained pants, and then she smiled and produced two key cards from the desk drawer. “Jack, you’re in room 337, and Hannah, you’re in 242.”

Not sure she’d heard right, Hannah cocked her head. “We’re in separate rooms?”

“Well of course.” Cynthia gave a knowing little chuckle. “It’s kind of hard to have a last fling if your fiancé is sharing the bed.”

Jack laughed. Hannah laughed, too, but only for show. “Silly me, I never thought of that.” She rose and gathered her bags, which were lighter now that her laptop, tablet and cell phone had been confiscated. Jack was right. Bettendorf would survive without her. She needed to let go, not worry about her job so much. Instead of making her feel relaxed, the thought only made her more anxious.

The camera crew tracking them across the lobby wasn’t helping. She offered a tentative smile and wave, but made the mistake of looking right into the bright light mounted on the video camera. Dark spots danced before her eyes. At the same time, another crewmember was shouting, “Hannah, over here! Look this way!”

She turned in the direction of the voice, felt her Birkenstock catch on something and suddenly pitched forward. “Oh!”

She reached out to break her fall. The bags on her shoulders slid down over her arms, just as something—or someone—caught her.

Jack?

Five paces ahead, he turned back and shook his head. “Oh, Hannah...” He came closer, and offered an indulgent smile at her chronic clumsiness. “Guess it’s too late to say, ‘look out for the rug.’”

“Huh?” Confused, and with her heart still pounding from her almost-fall, Hannah turned to look at the man who held her arm.

He was in his midtwenties, with short dark hair gelled into a spiky style. Though he wasn’t particularly tall, his broad shoulders and muscular arms made him look strong and powerful. He wore jeans, a light blue polo shirt and a gold chain with a cross charm around his neck. Angular features, high cheekbones and a sensuous mouth curved into an amused smile defined his face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Hannah replied, though she felt even shakier and more disoriented than before. She let out a short burst of laughter. “I can be such a klutz sometimes.”

“Your shoe caught on rug. Could happen to anyone. Especially with so much to carry.” His voice carried a subtle accent, and he lifted the bags from her shoulder. “Allow me.”

“I’ll take that.” Jack took the bags from the bellhop, or whatever he was, and dismissed him with a curt nod. “We’re good here, thanks.”

But the spiky-haired guy remained where he was and shifted his gaze from Jack to Hannah. His scowling expression softened into a smile that triggered an unexpected thrill. She wasn’t the type of woman gorgeous men fell all over themselves to assist, and she knew he was only doing it because of his job. Still, there was something undeniably alluring about him. He wasn’t merely handsome; he had a powerful sexuality that was impossible to ignore. Even with Jack standing a few feet away, Hannah was inexplicably fascinated by this stranger.

His hazel eyes locked on hers. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” he said.

“I said we’re good, thanks.” Jack shouldered her bag and turned away, muttering under his breath. “Pushy help in this place.”

“Jaaaack!”

Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting squeal as Robynne Lovejoy, their dental hygienist, rushed across the lobby and threw her arms around Jack. Hannah gaped, unable to believe her own eyes and her breath came in short, ragged gasps.