LITMIR.BIZ

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and his wife Leigh’s baby, would be born in three weeks, and they had always loved children. Therefore, it made sense that Ellie chose the loving Stepanov family for her victims—a stealthy way to get to Mikhail and torture him as only she could do.

      And for some unexplained reason, Mikhail’s parents delighted in hearing of his clashes with Ellie. Their interest in his battles with Ellie was only exceeded by his younger brother’s teasing. Jarek liked her, and before his marriage to Leigh, Jarek and Ellie had played a flirting game that they both knew would go no further. Mikhail had sensed that they did so to torment him.

      His ex-wife’s games and torments had made him immune to flirtation from self-serving women like Ellie.

      Outside, the black swells of the Pacific eased to caress the shoreline, fog curling around the piers, creeping up the steps to enfold the massive Amoteh Resort, caressing it like a lover.

      An offshore buoy sounded softly, warningly, as Mikhail opened the window for a breath of the crisp, salt-scented air he had loved all his life. Soft lights shone in his parents’ home, a jutting wood and rock structure with sprawling porches that overlooked the ocean and, a distance away, his brother Jarek’s new home with Leigh.

      Just north on the coastline was Strawberry Island. In another century a Hawaiian chieftain, captured and enslaved by whalers and shipwrecked on this island, had died. Bitterly alone and longing for his homeland, Kamakani had placed a curse on Strawberry Island: only a woman who knew her own heart could dance before his grave and remove that curse.

      Mikhail decided that Ellie was his private curse. He’d known it from the moment he’d met her eleven years ago in Paul Lathrop’s Seattle office, expensively dressed for a tennis game, and—on the company payroll—laying out her day of saunas and beauty shops and a party that night. He’d known she was a curse when the Amoteh opened and Ellie held a private party in her suite. Mikhail had been called to break up the brawl between two rich playboys competing for her favors. Playing her games, she had sent a pack of equally spoiled women after Mikhail. Ellie had told them that just-divorced Mikhail was on the lookout for a new wife.

      One wife of the same spoiled social set as Ellie was enough for Mikhail. At thirty-nine years old, he had one love—the Amoteh Resort.

      He turned to Ellie and frowned slightly as she eased off the black leather jacket she had been wearing to reveal a buttoned-up white sweater that fitted her curves perfectly. She arched and stretched sensuously and looked drowsily at him.

      Mikhail inhaled sharply, surprised at the impact of that look. He jammed his hands into his pockets; they had a sensation stirring in them—how would her breasts would feel cupped in his hands? “Try that on someone else,” he said briskly. “I’m immune.”

      She yawned and stretched again, a feminine contrast to the heavy walnut Stepanov furniture in his office. “I’m not playing games with you, Mikhail. I’m too tired. But thanks for the invitation.”

      Ellie knew just where to place the barbs. “I wasn’t inviting,” he said. “You are not welcome at the Amoteh.”

      That his parents’ home was another matter grated.

      She turned to him, her expression set, eyes narrowed and glittering like steel, just as it was when she was determined to have her way. Her word was a slashing order. “Reconsider.”

      “Not a chance. Every time you’re in the vicinity, bad things happen. There was that botched deal at the last minute—it cost Paul a prime chunk of prospective Cannes real estate and hours of negotiation. Brawls, staff quitting, food tossing, midnight swimming contests, that sort of thing. You have no regard for the schedule your father’s staff must keep. This incident is an Ellie classic—You were angry with Paul once and distracted a business meeting at corporate headquarters in Seattle by bringing a dog fashion show right into the conference room. He had to donate money to the animal shelter on the spot, just to get rid of the menagerie causing havoc during an important meeting. It was simple blackmail.”

      “That little Yorkie loved you and you know it.” Ellie bared her teeth in a smile. They gleamed, all perfect and sharp. “I promise to be good,” she singsonged softly.

      Mikhail refused to respond; he had seen Ellie in action. Paul Lathrop’s daughter was a life-seasoned fighter, holding her own. She knew how to blend femininity with steel, how to cut and slash and bargain, and she always landed on her feet, taking care of herself. She might not know it, but in Paul’s hard heart, he respected her. Mikhail had seen Paul and Ellie, toe to toe, in an argument, yelling, verbally hitting at each other, and she was very good at getting what she wanted.

      She was not getting what she wanted this time.

      She frowned slightly, her voice low, all humor erased, just stating facts, summing them up in a neat package as though she had thought carefully about each one. “Everyone knows that you’ve got one thing on your agenda, and that is the perfection of the Amoteh. You’ve pushed Paul into putting one of his Mignon International Resorts into a bit of isolated beach with nothing to offer, off the main interstate. You’re determined to make the resort succeed, drawing in trade for the townspeople, and supply the rooms with Stepanov furniture, made by your family. My father is using your setup here as a model for his other resorts—you’re his star high-achiever. You’re a man he respects.”

      Mikhail let that remark pass. Paul’s personal ethics did not agree with Mikhail’s, but the owner of the worldwide resort chain was a good businessman and he could be made to listen. An orphan who came from the harsh city streets, Paul Lathrop had built a worldwide chain of resorts. Mikhail understood the desperation for respect—as an immigrant, Fadey had been desperate to prove himself worthy of Mary Jo’s wealthy Texan family. “Whatever you want—no.”

      “Listen, bud,” Ellie said slowly as she rose to her feet. “I’m dead tired and in no mood to present my problem in a sensitive, logical way. I need you to help me. You’re the only man who can. I’ve tried everything else, and you’re my last resort. Do you actually think I would humiliate myself in front of you if I had any other choice?”

      She smiled weakly as if admitting defeat to herself, and for the first time, Mikhail noted the taut lines of her face, the fatigue shadowing her eyes. A little of the brittleness shifted into a softness he hadn’t expected. “See you in the morning, bud. And try to be a little more pleasant for my daughter, will you? Tanya is an innocent in this whole mess.”

      Daughter. Whoever had given birth to the child, it wasn’t Ellie. Mikhail remembered her body in that sleek, black maillot suit and pressed close against him as she taunted him; it wasn’t maternal just over four years ago. While he was turning that thought, Ellie slowly, tiredly made her way out of his office. He followed her to the doorway and frowned when she braced a hand against the wall, slumping. She turned to the wall, placing both hands flat against it, as if she had nowhere else to go. She looked fragile and wounded and too tired to go on.

      “I hate you. You’re so much like him,” she whispered as he came close and supported her with an arm around her waist. Without the feline arrogance she usually tossed at him, her body seemed terribly light and fragile.

      And then he saw that she was crying—tough, willful, spoiled Ellie was crying. Not racking, hard sobs, but the soft sound that said she was trying to withhold her burden and couldn’t.

      The hair on Mikhail’s nape lifted warningly. He might dislike Ellie, but he wasn’t immune to a woman crying. And Ellie Lathrop never cried—she pushed and shoved and threatened and sulked and maneuvered and haunted, but she never cried.

      With a sinking feeling and mental warnings flashing in the softly lit corridor, Mikhail eased her gently into the Stepanov Furniture display room and closed the heavy door. Ellie seemed to sink to the massive bed created by Fadey. With shoulders slumped, she brushed her hands wearily against her face. In the next moment, as though she feared he would see too much, she was on her feet, standing taut as if held upright by strings. She smiled too brightly. “Got to go. Talk with you in the morning.”

      He didn’t trust her. Was this a new act? Something she’d

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