Page 4 of Last Ticket to Paradise

The bartender smiled and wiped the counter in front of Georgette. “Yes. I’mNigel. I’ve been here since the Palumba Falls opened ten years ago. First day here?”

She’d always heard bartenders were talkative. Not that she’d know. “I just arrived. My sister’s staying here, too.”

He polished a glass. “A family holiday?”

She sipped her lemonade, puckering her lips as the cool, sour liquid spiked her tongue. “It will be once she returns. Maybe you served her. Jamie Lawson?”

Nigel’s eyes flickered. He drew the glass close to his face, squinted at it, and then rubbed a circle on its side. “Jamie. Straight blond hair, about this high?” He held his hand under his chin.

He left off the part about the beautiful wide blue eyes and the curvy figure, but he was close enough. “Yeah, that describes Jamie. You noticed her, then?”

He shrugged. “It was hard not to notice her. She wore the skimpiest bikini bottoms, drank the most exotic drinks, laughed the loudest, and generally was the life of the party out here.”

Georgette grimaced. Yep, that was Jamie all right.

Nigel tipped his chin toward the pool. “She spent a lot of time at the resort, by the pool. They all do...the tourists, I mean. Safest place on the island.”

Georgette narrowed her eyes. From what she’d read in the travel books, Palumba was considered safe—low theft, friendly locals, and not much violent crime. “The island isn’t safe?”

He spread his hands. “Tourists are very safe on our island, except for price-gougers. As you know, the resort fee is all-inclusive, and the boss prides himself on offering the most luxurious accommodations and the best food, but he won’t put up with vendors taking advantage of his guests.”

“The boss?” That was the second time she’d heard that phrase.

The bartender swept his arm across the expanse of the pool and the beach beyond. “The man who owns all this.”

Georgette dumped some sugar in her drink. “So, when did my sister leave?”

“I don’t know. She was here one day, gone the next. Like all tourists.”

Gone but not checked out? The bartender probably didn’t know that. “Did she hook up with someone special? A group? A man?”

The bartender dropped his eyes and pushed back from the bar. “Look, Miss...”

She held up her hand. “It’s okay. It wouldn’t be unusual for her. I won’t be offended.”

His gaze slid to the right and to the left, and he hunched over the bar again. “Your sister hooked up with a lot of men while she was here. She attached herself to a large group of young international tourists, mostly French. Seemed very friendly with all the men in that group.”

And probably didn’t distinguish the married ones from the single ones. “Could she have gone off with one of them?”

The bartender plucked another drink order from the waitress’ hand. “Yes, that’s probably what happened.”

Georgette scanned the pool crowd. French tourists? Maybe one would know if one of their members took off with Jamie.

She slipped off the barstool and sauntered over to a group lounging on the steps of the pool, her eyes avoiding all the gleaming, golden, bare flesh. She asked them in French if they knew her sister. They didn’t. She talked with a few more of the guests and came up empty each time. Perhaps that whole group had already left, and Jamie had joined them on the next island.

Okay, that was enough work for the day. Georgette kicked off her flip-flops and dug her feet into the dry sand on her way to the ocean and its gentle waves. When she reached the water line, she sank down at the edge of the packed sand and wrapped her arms around her legs, propping her chin on her knees. The glassy blue water rushed up to the shore, its small waves tumbling over the sand.

A couple holding hands strolled by, and Georgette sighed. What a waste to be sitting alone in such a romantic spot. Not that she could ever imagine Brice here, with his pressed slacks, Oxford shirt, loafers, and tweed jacket with the elbow patches. He’d be so contemptuous of that crowd at the pool with their oiled bodies and umbrella drinks.

She ground her teeth together. She didn’t want him anyway. Even when he’d come groveling back to her, she’d looked down at him—which had been easy because he was only five nine and she’d been wearing low heels—and told him it was over.

She raked her fingers through the wet sand, packed balls of it in her fists, and chucked them out to sea.

“It’s no use. It’ll just keep coming back.”

She craned her neck around to see a tall figure standing behind her, blocking the sun. He dropped down beside her. The man from the airplane.

He had on a different pair of shorts and a freshly pressed white shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal strong forearms. He’d lost the scruffy sandals somewhere along the way. His wet hair curled at the ends, and Georgette inhaled the same fruity scent from her own complimentary shower products.

---