Page 2 of Last Ticket to Paradise

Chapter One

Georgette clutched the arms of the airline seat, feeling naked. Her breasts jiggled beneath the thin cotton of her halter top as the tin can hit another air pocket. She’d never worn a halter top in her life. She hadn’t been braless since she was thirteen...make that fourteen. She was a late bloomer.

She raised her eyes from her toes tipped with coral-pink nail polish. Was anyone else worried? Her gaze darted around the small aircraft, alighting on the backs of heads. Nobody jumping out of their seats. Nobody screaming. The lone flight attendant browsed through a magazine in her jump seat.

Georgette took a deep breath and loosened her death grip on the armrests.

“That’s better. Turbulence is normal in these small planes when they start descending.”

Georgette jerked her head to the side. A man sprawled in the seat across the aisle from her, his broad shoulders spanning the width of the back cushion. One of his long legs extended into the aisle, and a bare foot rested on top of a scuffed Huarache sandal. His white teeth gleamed against sun-kissed skin.

She’d noticed him before—how could any womannotnotice this man? But he’d fallen asleep before the plane had even left Miami.

She dipped her head once in acknowledgment. Probably a tourist with a manmade tan like hers. Of course, that didn’t explain his longish brown hair streaked blond by the sun, unless that was artificial, too. Could be one of those party-hearty beach bums, indulging in drinks and good times across the Caribbean.

Just like her sister.

Her stomach rolled, but it wasn’t from the turbulence. Was Mom right? WasJamiein trouble? Wouldn’t be the first time. Georgette pursed her lips and thumbed through her magazine, the ink staining her sweaty palms.

That would be when eighteen-year-old Jamie was caught in bed with one of her married university professors. Big sister Georgette, older by a whole twelve minutes, had come to the rescue by rounding up other young women who said they were compromised by this professor.

Georgette had suspected these women of lying—or worse, being paid off by Dad—but the threat had been enough to stop the administration from kicking Jamie out of school. She’d dropped out later anyway, and the professor had been forced to resign his tenured position. Georgette didn’t have one doubt in her head that the teenage Jamie had seduced the clueless professor to secure a passing grade in his class.

The man probably hadn’t known what hit him, but Georgette hadn’t wasted any sympathy on him. He should’ve known better.

She shoved the magazine into the seat pocket and pulled Jamie’s last postcard from her purse. She studied the clear azure skies over topaz waters, palm trees arching over the white sand. Palumba was Jamie’s most recent exotic destination on a whirlwind trip paid for with Dad’s life insurance. Jamie got the cash, and Georgette got the care and feeding of the bookshop...and Mom.

She flipped the card over. Jamie’s loopy scrawl hinted at wild times with a ritzy international crowd and included a joke about getting in over her head. Mom could never take a joke where Jamie was concerned. Jamie’s correspondence had ended after that postcard, and Mom had spiraled into a tizzy.

Itwasunusual. Not one for texts or emails, Mom had insisted that Jamie send her postcards almost every day on her travels, keeping her up to date on her whereabouts, detailing her activities, describing her new clothes, her recent conquests. Georgette jammed the postcard back into her bag. Jamie had a lot of conquests.

Georgette pressed her nose to the cold window as the clouds parted and revealed water as blue as that postcard, lapping at the shore of a lush, green, heart-shaped island.

Her fingertips buzzed. Even if she had to spend time hauling Jamie out of another scrape, she planned to enjoy herself the rest of the time. She’d dreamed about traveling for a long time. Of course, her dreams starred London, Paris, and Rome, for the theater, art, and history, but the island of Palumba wasn’t a bad substitute. She planned to take in the archaeological dig and the museum that cataloged Palumba’s flora and fauna. Not that she’d find Jamie in either of those places.

The prop plane’s wheels touched down on the runway, bounced up once, and then churned across the asphalt. Georgette peeled her eyes open one at a time when the plane came to a jerky stop.

The sun-drenched man across the aisle stood up, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling of the plane. The muscles in his back visible through his thin cotton shirt, he hauled a duffel bag out of the overhead bin and dropped it at his feet.

Georgette wrinkled her nose. Definitely some kind of itinerant party boy working his way through the islands and spending his time working out. You didn’t get muscles like those without working out.

The party boy gestured to her overhead compartment. “Can I help you with your bag?”

“No, thank you.” She reached up to click the compartment open and felt his eyes on her back. As her low-slung capri pants dipped even lower, she cursed her best friend, Linda, under her breath for insisting Georgette buy new clothes for the trip. Georgette had argued that a woman attracted a better quality of man with her brain as opposed to her body.

Yeah, likeBrice?

She tugged at her bag and stumbled backward. A large, warm hand caught her around her bare waist, encircling it. Fingers skimmed her hipbone, and she lurched forward, almost falling into her seat face first. The hand flattened against her tummy, setting her back on her feet. One of those fingers nudged against the low waistband of her pants, sending shivers down her thighs. Brice’s touch had never had that effect on her, even when she was stark naked. Georgette spun around, waves of heat flooding her cheeks.

Mr. Beach Bum grinned. “That’s an awfully big bag for a little lady like you.”

Georgette widened her eyes. Little lady? She stood over five feet ten in her stockinged feet, towering over her petite sister and mother.

Was she just going to stand here gawking at this male specimen of prime beef? Linda had advised her to practice her flirting skills on the other tourists. Even if they weren’t her type.

Georgette’s eyes dropped to the man’s thighs bulging with muscles in his khaki shorts and traveled up to his wide chest, a sprinkling of hair visible through the open neck of his shirt. And this man, exuding alpha male scent like he bathed in it, was definitely not her type.

She raised her eyes to his. They tilted up at the corners, as if he found the whole world amusing. As if he found her amusing. Nobody found her amusing.

---