Breathless on the Beach

“I bet your hair and nails are always perfect,” Jared teased.

“Is there something wrong with a professional appearance?”

“Not when you’re being professional, I guess. But I think—and maybe this is just me—you’d look great messed up.”

“Messed up?”

“Maybe mussed up.” Jared leaned close. “You know, tousled, disheveled …” He stroked Victoria’s cheek with the tip of his finger. “Thoroughly pleasured.”

Heat raced through her body. “Are you always this forward with women you’ve just met?”

He grinned. “Not always.”

“Most of the time, I bet you are.”

She wished she could find a reason to step away from him and not give in to the urge to touch him. Still, she laid her palm on his chest. “You aren’t my type.”

“You aren’t mine, either.”

But he wrapped his arm around her and kissed her anyway.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the beach and more tales from the Robin Hood gang! My trio of friends, like the legendary characters, are ready to fight injustice again.

But while the concept seems simple, the solution isn’t.

In this chapter, the ladies are escaping the stifling NYC heat and are off to the shore for balmy breezes, although Victoria isn’t the toes-in-the-sand, beer-in-my-hand type. She’s in beautiful, peaceful Southampton to do what else—work!

Unfortunately, her host—and a wily jewel thief—have other plans.

Victoria has the support of her best friends, of course, and the added perk of a gorgeous, adventurous cowboy, Jared McKenna, who can’t keep his hands off her, but in between moonlit cruises, she discovers everything is changing. Her perception of right and wrong, her realization of what really matters in life, and the love she might find in a very unlikely place.

Don’t miss the exciting conclusion of the FLIRTING WITH JUSTICE series: Calla and Devin’s story, Undone by Moonlight, is arriving in November.

Wendy Etherington

About the Author

WENDY ETHERINGTON was born and raised in the deep South—and she has the fried-chicken recipes and NASCAR ticket stubs to prove it. An author of nearly thirty books, she writes full-time from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband, two daughters and an energetic shih tzu named Cody. She can be reached via her website, www.wendyetherington.com. Or follow her on Twitter @ wendyeth.

Breathless on the Beach

Wendy Etherington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

1

“It is the spirit and not the form of law that keeps justice alive.”

—Earl Warren

New York Tattletale Labor Day Weekend Edition Those Who Have, Do! by Peeps Galloway, Gossipmonger (And proud of it!) Well, kids, with summer winding down, tradition dictates the posh and influential of NYC gather in Southampton for one last gasp of fun and sun.

I hear (from sources I’d have to give away my priceless collection of original Versace gowns if I revealed—not gonna happen, BTW!) there’s a new product coming from the prestigious firm of Rutherford Security that’ll change the way the rich and famous store their gems and secrets.

No doubt more will be heard by those lucky enough to have received a coveted invite to the longtime Southampton socialite Rose Rutherford’s fabulous house party.

Mrs. Rutherford’s husband, Raymond, made his money in Texas oil in the eighties, but though he met his fate nearly fifteen years ago in the arms of his stripper mistress, he had the decency to invest in lucrative beach-front property, providing Rose with the perfect locale for entertaining. Among the high-end guests will be her son, Richard (yes, everyone in the family has the R moniker), who chose the lovely and tasteful Ruthanne as a mate.

Also of interest on the guest list is the inclusion of two (yes, dos!) executives from Coleman Public Relations. Both Peter Standish and Victoria Holmes (of the Holmes Family Cardiac Wing at Midtown Memorial) are attending the weekend house party.

Is Mrs. Rutherford just that generous to PR execs or do we smell heated competition for something?

Hmm …

Certainly jealousy will rear its ugly (but column-worthy) head, which is much more fun than a leisurely cocktail hour by the pool, anyway. So stay tuned!

On the agenda are wild water excursions provided by Flaming Arrow Adventure Tours. Calls from this office by yours truly for details were unreturned (as if that would deter your loyal and tireless columnist!?!), but don’t you worry, dear readers, I’m on the case!

I’m informed that Jet Ski riding, scuba diving, boating and other activities involving the potential for bodily harm have been scheduled. (Dear heaven, count me out!) But then I hear the adventure guide is none other than Jared McKenna, and trust me, rabid followers, he is hot, hot, smokin’ hot. So maybe extreme sports are a hobby to consider after all …

Kiss and tell—please!

—Peeps

P.S. Catering to be provided by Shelby Dixon (recently highlighted in this column!)

TAKING HER FOCUS OFF THE clogged Manhattan traffic at a stoplight, Victoria Holmes shifted her hard, determined gaze between her two best friends. “I’m getting this contract or else.”

“Or else what?” Calla Tucker asked, folding up her newspaper and placing it neatly on her lap.

“Or else she blames us,” Shelby Dixon answered.

Pleased her pals had gotten the point so quickly, Victoria stared through the windshield of her Mercedes and ordered her stomach to cease its churning.

She was going to get the contract—and the promotion. Like her mother before her, she’d given everything to Coleman PR.

But your mother’s a legend, and you don’t quite measure up, do you?

Didn’t she? Victoria always worked nights, weekends, holidays. She brought in high-dollar clients with high-dollar campaigns. She oozed ambition and confidence, even though her mother had been the youngest senior VP in the history of the firm and nobody ever let Victoria forget it.

She schmoozed. She demurred when necessary. She represented the firm with the utmost in professionalism. She deserved her own senior VP title and corner office. She’d earned the right to step from behind her mother’s long shadow and prove she hadn’t clung to her coattails to attain success.

Didn’t she?

“This Rutherford contract will put me over the edge,” she muttered.

“She’s talking to herself again,” Calla said from the backseat.

“Let her be,” Shelby said. “She’s barely slept in the last week. She’s punchy.”

Victoria scowled. “You both know I can hear you, don’t you?”

Calla patted Victoria’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, sister. We’ve got your back.”

Shelby laughed. “And I’ve got your stomach.”

Despite her mood, Victoria was grateful for her friends’ support. As a caterer, Shelby was giving up the long weekend with her live-in boyfriend to serve as chef to the Rutherford house party they were attending in Southampton. Calla, a travel writer, was hoping to make good use of both her camera and her keyboard.

“You know I appreciate you guys coming with me,” Victoria said, making an effort to soften her tone. “I need these meetings to go smoothly.”

“Hey, I’m just happy to see the Rutherford estate.” Calla sounded slightly awestruck. “It’s been featured in Architectural Views countless times over the years. Maybe I’ll get my own magazine piece out of this.”

“And I’m grateful for the business,” Shelby said. “After the June bridal season it was a long, booking-free summer.”

“You were exhausted after all those weddings,” Calla pointed out. “You needed a break.”

“Why doesn’t that rich lover of yours recommend you to all his rich friends?” Victoria asked.

“He does, but he’s got a business of his own to run. Besides, just like most of the friends you recommend, the affluent have been in the Hamptons all summer. I’m too small of an operation to be hauling equipment and supplies out there every weekend.”

“I’m sure Rose Rutherford’s gourmet kitchen has everything we need,” Calla said.

“The housekeeper assures me they do,” Shelby explained. “Plus, she was willing to let my food suppliers deliver everything directly, so I didn’t have to bring the van.”

“I’m not arriving at the Rutherford estate in a catering van,” Victoria insisted, cutting between two cabs to take the next right onto East Thirty-second.

“Heaven forbid anybody thinks you have a domestic for a friend,” Calla teased.

Victoria met Calla’s gaze with a glare in the rearview mirror. “I’m not a snob. Appearance is important for getting this contract.”

“And I’m not a domestic,” Shelby stated firmly. Then added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with being one …”

Shelby turned and exchanged a meaningful look with Calla.

“I saw that,” Victoria said. “Since I’m the one who’s driving, aren’t you two worried about me being both deaf and blind?”

Shelby cleared her throat. “I was reminding Calla that this weekend is about you getting the Rutherford Securities contract, even though she could be tanning and ogling lifeguards, and I could be naked between the sheets in a beach-side hotel with my man.”

“Wow, that was some look,” Victoria said drily.

“Have you heard any more about Coleman Sr.’s rumored retirement?” Shelby asked, obviously guessing Victoria’s temper was too cutting for humor.

She nodded. “They’re announcing next week after the holiday. I got it straight from his secretary.”

“Why’d she tell you?” Calla asked.

“Because I, unlike her boss, never forget her birthday or Secretary’s Day, or that her favorite flowers are daisies or that she likes chocolates filled with caramel.”

Shelby angled her head. “How do you remember all that?”

Victoria shrugged. “I have a file on everybody. Trust me, ladies, the key to a smooth ride up the corporate ladder is making nice with the real power brokers—the assistants.”

Which she’d learned straight from The Legend, namely her mother. The reminder dulled her resentment. Victoria didn’t expect people to pity her because she had to live up to excellence.

But besides her mom, there was her attorney father, her cardiac surgeon grandfather and the Holmes foundation run by her grandmother and cousin to measure her success against. All in all, a pretty daunting yardstick.

“So when Coleman Sr. retires,” Shelby said, “Coleman Jr. inherits the long-awaited president’s position, and their valuable client Rutherford Securities is up for grabs.”

Victoria’s mouth went dry with anticipation. “And the senior VP corner office gets a new occupant.”

Shelby patted her leg. “You’ll get it. Nobody works harder than you. Don’t worry.”

But Victoria was worried.

Thanks to her influential family connections, she had been invited by the Rutherfords to their annual Labor Day weekend party. She was going to use the opportunity to talk to Richard, Rose’s son, about a strategy to promote an innovative new product that Rutherford Securities had developed.

The future of her career and her reputation among her infamously affluent family rested on the next few days.

Calla leaned forward between them. “So what cool security thing does ole Rich need a PR strategy for? I loved those commercials where the chimpanzee disables the security system by banging on the control panel.”

Victoria winced. She had a strict policy against silly animals in campaigns, particularly in a serious industry like home and business security. “That was an ad for motion sensor cameras.” One Coleman Sr. had come up with, yet another reason it was time for him to retire and let her take over the account.

Shelby looked up from the list she’d been scribbling. “Would the police or animal control have been alerted about an intrusion?”

“Both, maybe. But this new venture for Rutherford is completely different.” Victoria pressed her lips together. The idea seemed out-of-date to her, but she’d once done a campaign for bubble gum that changed colors the longer a kid chewed it. The actual product was irrelevant. “It’s a safe.”

“Safe from what?” Calla asked.

Without success, Victoria fought the blush—a blush—creeping across her face. “Not safe from anything. A safe.”

Her friends exchanged another one of those looks just before Shelby tapped her pen against her lips. “One of those big, heavy, metal things you store valuables in?”

Victoria flexed her hands on the steering wheel. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s …” Shelby began.

“Innovative,” Calla finished.

“Oh, please stop,” Victoria said. “It’s on the left side of nutty. But with banks failing and consumer confidence in traditional investments falling, it might strike a chord.”

“Better than burying your cash in the backyard,” Calla said.

Shelby nodded. “Especially since I don’t have a backyard.”

“Supposedly, this one’s got a state-of-the-art computer chip that makes the dial and tumbler thing passé,” Victoria said, aware the simpleness of the product was going to be the biggest challenge to overcome. “Regardless, Richard’s going to invest a lot of money to convince people this is a must-have electronic gadget.”

“Invest with you,” Calla said a little too brightly.

“Yeah.” Victoria got on I-495 and headed east. An old-school product with a futuristic upgrade? This was exactly the campaign that might, just might, outpace her mother’s crazy-at-the-time idea of investing in websites to promote things. “’Cause I deserve it. Don’t I?”

JARED MCKENNA WIPED SWEAT OFF his brow as he tied the fourth and last Jet Ski to the Rutherford estate’s dock.

Despite the privileged puffballs he’d be entertaining all weekend, the hard work was relished and the view appreciated. A few cottony clouds hovered in the broad blue sky. Whitecaps dotted the blue-green Atlantic and looked like a welcome respite from the oppressive heat enveloping the city and coast for weeks.

Originating from Montana, Jared wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the humidity of the East, but a breeze kicked up, cooling his face. The Jet Skis bobbed merrily in the sea, and he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Though the warmth of the sun called, he figured he’d better check in with everybody at the house.

He walked up the dock and along the sidewalk to the back door and found Marion Keegan, the housekeeper, bustling around the kitchen. “How’s the prettiest lady in New York?”

Her pale face turned red. “You’re a devil,” she said in a musical Irish accent.

He grinned. “I try, Mrs. K, I try.”

She straightened an already perfect bowl of fruit that was sitting on the center island, then pulled a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and poured him a glass. “We have a real chef coming for the weekend.”

Noting her awed tone, Jared leaned against the counter. “Do we?”

“Sometimes Lenny’s cousin comes in to help with the cookin’—he works at some chain restaurant in the city.”

“Lenny?”

“Mrs. Rutherford’s chauffeur. More usual, it’s me making chicken salad.” She paused and sighed. “Or Master Richard fires the grill.”

Since Jared had worked for Rose Rutherford several times in the past, he’d gotten a healthy, but not always pleasant, dose of her son, Richard. Wanting to be called “master” while not being one in any way described him entirely. Richard had started Rutherford Securities with his family’s money and influence, and at least had the sense to hire people who knew what they were doing. While he’d been busy decorating his office and having power lunches with his country club golfing buddies, the company became a success—heaven knew how.

He’d be eaten alive by a slow-moving, milk-producing cow on any ranch worth a damn.

“Those nights we wind up ordering from a restaurant in town,” Mrs. K finished.

“But not this weekend.”

“No.” Her expression brightened. “Shelby’s a caterer in the city, and her supplier brought the most wonderful ingredients. I can’t wait to see what she does with them.”

“It’ll be a barn burner, I’m sure.”

Mrs. K swatted his arm. “Oh, go on with ya, Jared dear, I think Mrs. Rutherford was aiming for something more sophisticated. She made it clear she wants the good silver, crystal and china set out each night.”

“Uh-huh.” Based on the range of high-energy activities he’d been hired to pull off, he thought the guests would be lucky to sit upright at the end of the day, much less enjoy elegant entrées prepared by a city chef. “So this is an adventure weekend for gourmets?”

“You know Master Richard. He likes his appearances.”

So why hadn’t the Rutherfords plopped a captain at the wheel of their yacht and taken their guests for cocktail-filled rides along the coast?

Because Richard was determined to prove his manhood.

Jared just hoped his insurance rider would cover accident by arrogance.

“I expect gourmets will be all over,” Mrs. K said, continuing her unnecessary straightening of the kitchen knickknacks. “The chef’s a friend of Victoria Holmes.” She raised her blond-going-gray eyebrows. “Quite the family.”

Jared knew the influential Holmes crowd. At the direction of Victoria’s mother, Joanne Holmes, and the family’s charity foundation staff, he’d once put on a ranch fantasy weekend for a group of their benefactors. Finding the lady cold and distant, he’d put all his effort into giving the city-born teens the country experience of a lifetime.

Despite dealing with the occasional difficult client, however, he loved his business—though he didn’t have to work at all. He had assets as solid as his weekend employers’.

But Mrs. K couldn’t know about that.

No one save his accountant, his office manager and his immediate family knew he didn’t just work at Flaming Arrow Adventure Tours, he owned it.

He’d come to the Rutherford estate for the house party because he genuinely liked Rose, and organizing wild weekends for high-powered executives was as good a challenge as any.

Fighting frustration with city people who looked down on those who worked with their hands had simply become part of the job. His hands, as well as his father’s and grandfather’s, had made them millionaires many times over. Hard work made the results all the more satisfying.

Maybe that was why Richard annoyed him so much. He always seemed determined to take the easy route.

“Where are Rose and Richard?” he asked the housekeeper.

She scrubbed a spot on the marble counter that Jared couldn’t see. “They’re gettin’ ready for the guests. Mrs. Rutherford had a stylist come out to select all her clothes for the weekend. They should be finished soon.”

A stylist who made house calls on holiday weekends and picked out a grown woman’s clothes for her as his mother had for him. When he was four. It was a strange, strange world sometimes.

Footsteps sounded on the back stairs, and seconds later Ruthanne, Richard’s wife, strolled in. Dressed in a bright floral dress and gold jewelry, and carrying a wide-brimmed straw hat, she radiated youthful energy and was the perfect contrast to her husband’s overblown self-importance.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” she asked.

“Yes, Ms. Ruthie.” Mrs. K crossed to the fridge. “I made lemonade this morning. Would you like some?”

She smiled broadly. “How sweet. Yes, thank you.”

“The Jet Skis are ready whenever you want to take a ride,” Jared said.

“We’ll probably wait until after tea.” Ruthie accepted an ice-filled glass from Mrs. K. Pausing before taking a sip, she said, “You remember the guests aren’t actual daredevils like you.”

Jared snapped his fingers. “Damn. There goes my plan to hang glide off the nearest lighthouse.”

Lemonade sloshed over the rim of her glass as Ruthane whirled. “Jared, you’re not really—”

He held up his hand. “I know how to handle tenderfoots.”

“They’re not all that delicate,” Ruthie said, linking arms with him. “You’ll like …” She stopped as she noticed the housekeeper on her hands and knees. “Mrs. Keegan, what are you doing down there?”

“The lemonade, Ms. Ruthie.” She rose and tossed the paper towel she held in the trash. “A chef’s kitchen should be spotless.”

“This kitchen is always spotless, and there’s no need to put on airs for my friends.” Ruthanne’s mouth drew into a thin line. “Though I’m not sure about this last-minute couple my husband invited.”

Distracted by the sun’s glare through the back window, Jared wished he’d followed his first impulse and laid out on the dock instead of heading for the house. He’d always rather be outside.

“Jared?” Ruthie said, drawing his attention. “You’ll like my guests. Richard has some business thing going on, as usual, but we’re determined not to let the weekend be boring. Who wants to sit around a stuffy old boardroom all day?”

“Some do.” He shook his head. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Naturally, that’s where you come in.”

“My favorite spot.”

Ruthie patted his forearm. “You’re looking fit as always. What diet are you on?”

“The Jet Ski riding, hang gliding one.”

She sighed, leading him to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. “I have to watch every bite I eat. I must be crazy to invite Shelby out here.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before the intercom on the wall buzzed. “Rutherford residence,” Mrs. K answered.

“Victoria Holmes, Shelby Dixon and Calla Tucker at the gate to see Ruthanne Rutherford.”

Mrs. K pressed a code on the numbered panel. “Yes, we’re expecting you. Come up the driveway, please.”

While the housekeeper rushed around the kitchen, wiping spotless counters, Jared rattled off the weekend activities for Ruthie. In addition to a small yacht and Jet Skis, the Rutherfords had a powerboat for pulling water skis and inner tubes. He also had scuba diving and fishing trips planned.

“It’s Friday, Jared,” Ruthie commented. “We’re going to do all that before Monday?”

He glanced at his watch. “We could do it all by sunset if you like.”

As she shook her head ruefully, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Mrs. K exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron as she shot out of the kitchen.

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Ruthie said, watching the housekeeper rush down the hall. “It’s like a celebrity coming to the house.”

Jared hoped the noted chef could cook something hearty. He wasn’t much on complicated sauces and names of dishes nobody but a native-born Parisian could pronounce. Personally, he’d enjoy a nice, thick steak.

The hallway was soon filled with female voices, and Jared rose as the group approached the kitchen. A blonde, a brunette and a redhead. How diversified.

Ruthie received hugs; he got curious stares.

At his height—six foot four in bare feet and no boots—he guessed his towering presence was a bit intimidating.

To some, anyway.

He spotted the Holmes heiress immediately. She looked like her mother, but not. Her icy-blue eyes warmed as she talked to her friends, then narrowed when aimed at him. Of the women, she was also the tallest, nearly six feet in the blade-sharp black stiletto heels she wore.

She was stunning, but not his type at all. Cool perfection wrapped in moneyed NYC sophistication. When Ruthie introduced them, her smile was as distant as a Montana winter.