Evan squinted through the shadows behind him. A framed poster of a nude female caught his attention. The girl in the gold-tone poster was staring back over her shoulder. She appeared to be emerging from a musical instrument. Or was it a flower? Evan took a step closer.
Holly flicked on the light switch. "Go on. Get a good look. Everyone else has," she snapped.
He knew he should be looking at Hilary, but he couldn’t help himself. He kept staring at the poster. The naked beauty with the strawberry- blonde hair fanning around her shoulders was emerging from a honey-colored morning glory. An unquestionable quality of candor dominated the composition. He noted the deliciously imperfect circle of her mouth and the glinting green of her eyes looking back over her shoulder. From the tilt of her right hip to the graceful way she was splaying her fingers on the velvety petal, the model had definitely been caught off guard. And she was mad as hell!
"Hilary? Is that—that is you!"
Holly picked up her sunglasses from where he’d dropped them, then shoved past him and out of the room. Hurrying out to the landing, she shouted, "Just how dumb do you think I am? How dare you trick me into trusting you when all you wanted was to get your hands on the Glory Girl!" Grabbing the top of the banister she twisted around and shouted even louder. "You were watching me on the beach all afternoon planning this whole thing. Go ahead, admit it!"
There was no answer. The slightest tremor of curiosity pulsed through her. Why wasn’t he out in the hall apologizing or lying some more? What was he doing in there?
"Evan Jamieson, the least you can do is be man enough to answer me."
He did. The longest, loudest wolf whistle she’d ever heard cut through the silence. Lifting her chin, she drew on her pride and marched down the stairs. She’d actually allowed herself to think this Jamieson character could be someone special. "Kismet," he’d said. What a card-carrying romantic fool she was turning into. She snatched her belongings from the countertop and headed out the glass sliding doors. The little cottage across the brick patio never looked so inviting.
"Wait a minute. I remember you. Sports Illustrated. Green suede thong on the beach in Mykonos." Evan stepped out of the bedroom. "Right?" The only answer was a door being shut. He crossed the landing to watch her from the back window. Her squared shoulders and determined stride would have made a perfect exit, except that she managed to trip over the garden hose on the way. He shoved the window open. "Hey, we have to talk."
Without responding, she reached the screened porch of her cottage and jerked the door open. A pronounced bang soon followed, and then another as she entered the cottage. Evan leaned both hands on the windowsill and smiled.
"Dinner in an hour, Hilary," he said quietly. She hadn’t heard him. He hadn’t meant for her to. Not yet, anyway.
Looking around his beach house, he welcomed the old memories as they rushed back in. He shook his head. He’d never sell the place, no matter what his accountants had recommended. One day, when he had children of his own… Allowing the unfinished thought to linger, he returned to the threshold of the guest room and stared at the poster again. The photo, candid as it appeared, was definitely the work of a professional photographer. The expert lighting, the morning-glory prop, and the perfection of Hilary—no one had skin that flawless—proved that.
What had she called herself? The Glory Girl? Well, the Glory Girl was more than a girl, she was all woman. What couldn’t be seen could well be imagined. Evan cleared his throat, turned out the light, and shut the door. Poster art had come a long way since his college days.
Time for a shower. A cold shower, he amended, making his way to the master bedroom. Absolutely no one had skin like that.
Making a check-in call to Air Service International, he was informed his business had not dropped off the stock exchange since he’d left it last evening. None of ASI’s testier clients had called to ask for him either. Contract renegotiations were about to begin with one, and Evan wanted them handled with kid gloves.
"This is your vacation, Mr. Jamieson. Please see to it that you enjoy it," Ashlee, his secretary, instructed him.
Evan glanced out his back bedroom window at the cottage. "I fully intend to, Ashlee. Call me, though, if—" He didn’t bother to finish his sentence. Ashlee had hung up.
Stripping off his clothes, he reached into the linen closet and pulled out a towel and bar of soap. He started to tear the wrapper from the soap, and there she was again, the Glory Girl. Only this time the trumpet of petals was mint green and, compared to the poster, offered a very modest profile of her head and shoulders. Beneath the picture on the wrapper were the simple words Morning Glory Soap, a glorious way to start your day… and end it. He chuckled to himself as he headed toward the bathroom.
Showering quickly, he dressed in khaki shorts and a T-shirt, shoved his phone in his pocket and headed downstairs. He whistled a tune he’d heard but didn’t know the name of. A tune that matched his mood perfectly. It was time to start the grill; he had a glorious evening planned.