Dr. Stanic took a right outside the clinic, and I followed. Left would have taken us away from town, the narrow coastal road that eventually curved behind a rise of land. In the direction we were going, the two-laner wound through the hodge-podge assemblage of structures and then continued along the cove and disappeared around a bend.
Luka was not what I expected. I’d pictured Jimmy Buffet with a stethoscope. Instead, I got dark and brooding. Luka was at least six feet tall, with thick longish black hair that fell over his forehead, and dark, intense eyes under dense brows. A heavy scruff emphasized the angular hollows of his jawline, and dark hair covered his arms and legs. His name and features hinted at an Eastern European heritage, maybe Croatian. Definitely vacation fling material, except he was grumpy as hell and I was here to work.
From an advertising perspective, he’d make a great spokesman—intense, charismatic, capable. The more I side-eyed hot Doctor Man, the more he reminded me of a swoony TV drama doc.
“Does this road go around the whole island?” I pulled on the straps of the backpack to lessen the drag on my shoulders. The weight of my exhaustion, combined with the pack, pressed down so heavy each step felt like slogging through mud—the kind that sucks at your foot like it doesn’t want to let go.
“Yes. Isla Tortuga Verde is only three square miles. There’s the perimeter road and then another that leads up the mountain. Lots of dead-end dirt roads off that for the inland homes and farms.”
“How many people live here?”
“Three hundred, give or take.”
“That seems like a manageable population for your clinic to serve.”
“It would be, except we’re the closest medical resource for about five times that many.” He raised his arm and pointed from one end of the horizon to the other. “There’s a dozen or so small islands like ours scattered over a two-hundred-mile area. If someone gets sick or hurt, it can take an hour to get here by boat. If it’s an emergency, we have to call for an air ambulance.”
“How often does that happen?”
“Once, in the two and a half years I’ve been here. One of the day visitors had a heart attack.”
My dad had a heart scare a couple years ago. I remember the ambulance careening away, siren blaring, rushing him to Denver Health Medical Center, less than ten minutes from our house. How scary would it be to have that happen when you were hours away from emergency care?
“Did he make it?” I asked.
“No.” Luka’s jaw clenched. “If we’d had a defibrillator, he might have survived.”
He stopped in front of single-story white stucco building and knocked on a wooden screen door. “Hello. Oz? Nina?” When there was no response, he said, “Come on.”
We went around the back of the house, up a short winding path through a patch of dense vegetation and palm trees to a rise of land where three tiny bungalows sat in a row. Each was painted a different color—sky blue, coral pink, and sunflower yellow.
“Pick one. Oz and Nina don’t have any other guests right now.”
“How do you—”
“It’s a small town.” Head cocked, eyes sharp and bright and fixed on my face, he gave me an assessing look that made my belly somersault. “Let’s go with yellow.” He crouched to retrieve a key from under a flowerpot outside the door of the tiny house, giving me an impressive view of his muscled back and shoulders under the black T-shirt he wore.
Propositioning the Care For All spokesman for a few nights of sweaty sex probably wasn’t a good idea.
He unlocked the door and set my roller bag inside.
“Give me a minute.” I shut the door, leaving him on the doorstep.
The bungalow consisted of one room with a double bed, table and chair, and private bath. The walls matched the yellow exterior, and a tall window looked out onto the town and cove. I set the backpack on the chair, dug my toiletries out of the suitcase, and freshened up. It didn’t do much for my fatigue, but at least I felt human again.
Luka was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest when I came out.
“Ready?”
We walked from one end of the cove to the other. Luka gave me a choice between Fred’s Place or Ginger’s Palace after explaining the bars, which stood nearly side by side, were owned by a divorced couple who had an entertaining love/hate relationship.
“To avoid favoritism, I patronize both.” He stood on the sand, feet shoulder width apart, hands on his hips with the fingers angled toward his crotch, as if he had all the time in the world.
“Whose turn is it?” I didn’t need to be starting trouble on my first day.
“Ginger.”
Decision made, he led the way to a bunch of wooden tables and benches grouped under a huge, weathered tarp suspended from four posts. Each was painted a bright color—red, yellow, orange, and blue. We sat across from each other, and I kicked off my sandals so I could dig my toes into the sand beneath.
“Hey, Luka.”
A tiny woman, not more than five feet tall, with a long gray plait down her back and deep creases at the corners of her friendly brown eyes bopped out from the dim interior of the bar, which was open its entire length. A long counter with stools for seating ran parallel to the front of the place. A TV with a staticky display was tuned to Spanish telenovela, the volume loud enough to catch an occasional phrase from the actors on the screen.
So far, we were the only people in the place.
“Hi, Ginger. How’s Fred?”
“Validating my decision to divorce his skinny behind.” Ginger dropped a peck on Luka’s check, brushed a bit of sand off the table, and bent her leg to kick the bench behind her back into place. She looked me up and down. “Is this the advertising chickie? I thought they’d send someone older. With balls. They always think the ones with balls can get the job done better.” She shook her head and winked at me. “Women do it just as well as men, except backwards and in high heels.”
She reminded me of a hummingbird—suspended in mid-air as if unmoving until your eyes found the blur of their wings. She darted around the table, pulled my fingers into a quick handshake, and then zipped back into the restaurant.
“People around here really do know everyone else’s business.” I looked around for a laminated page or chalkboard listing options. “Is there a menu?”
“There’s a drink menu for tourists in search of cocktails like a Painkiller, Hurricane, or Pina Colada. If you like beer, they have Corona. If you want something different, something light and refreshing, I’ve got you covered. As far as eats, there’s jerk chicken, burgers, conch fritters, pulled pork, or fish tacos.”
“Order for me. Nothing too exotic and no mayonnaise. I hate mayo.” Just saying the word was enough to make me shudder.
“I like to dip my fries in it.” His eyes gleamed, as if he’d made the comment to deliberately taunt me.
Ginger came back with chilled bottles of water and a basket containing napkins, plastic eating utensils, and condiments.
“We’ll have the fish tacos and bellinis.” Luka opened his water and took a swig, his tanned throat rippling with each swallow.
Ginger whizzed away.
Watching his Adam’s apple bob emphasized his masculinity. Maybe it was the setting or maybe it was the man, but Luka’s virility was raw and real, stripped down to the core of his manhood. His hands were big and strong, callused and capable. The muscles in his arms and legs were well developed and wiry, clearly earned through hard work, manual labor, and sweat equity. Walking over to the bar, I’d noticed how his khaki shorts hung off lean hips and the sculpted plane of his abdomen revealed by the close fit of his T-shirt.
I went for guys who were meticulously groomed and maintained a nice physique by working out three times a week in an air-conditioned gym. Sophisticated urbanites who paid as much for their skincare products as I did. Ambitious white-collar professionals who wanted the same things I did—a luxury condo in one of Denver’s up-and-coming neighborhoods, a summer vacation to somewhere exotic and a winter vacation to one of Colorado’s ski towns, kids after thirty, a strategic investment plan that allowed for the purchase of a second home and retirement at fifty.
“Do you ski?” The question popped out before I knew I was wondering.
“No. Never had an interest.”
Ginger returned and plunked down two tumblers filled with an orange liquid topped with a fizzy froth.
“I thought bellinis came in champagne flutes.” I lifted the glass and examined it.
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” He raised his drink in a mocking salute.
“Bellinis are a girly drink. The kind of thing served at brunch or a baby shower.” Or a gender reveal. “You seem more like the type to order a Red Stripe or shots of tequila with a side of lemon and salt.”
“Can’t a guy show his softer side?” He took another sip and smacked his lips. “I like the bubbles and the sweetness of the mango. Ginger plucks them from a tree out back and juices them by hand.”
“I’d love to see you order a bellini during happy hour at the sports bar back home.” I swirled the Prosecco and mango puree.
“Would never happen. The mangos you get in a grocery store are a poor comparison to ones still warm from soaking up the sun. Try it.”
I brought the glass to my lips, tilted it back, tasted the drink, and moaned. “Oh, my God. That is sooo good.”
Luka’s heavy lids dropped, hooding his eyes, but not enough to disguise his reaction to my X-rated sound effects.
“Told you.”
The husky dip to his already gruff baritone twisted my nipples into tight points. Something melted low in my belly, puddling into instant want.
Not good, warned Master Po.
Damn, I hated when the old Chinese dude with spooky white eyes was right.
Backpedal! Backpedal!
“So…I understand a Doctor Rodriquez has been the go-between for you, Care For All, and the Seymour Agency. Did he fill you in on the campaign details? Let you know what I’ll need while I’m here?”
What I needed had nothing to do with advertising or philanthropy…
“Yeah, Doc gave me the basics.” His mouth twisted and his icy disdain washed away any sexual undertone. “I’ll make sure you get what you need.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted anything from Luka if it was delivered with loathing reluctance. His furrowed brows and scowl left no doubt he’d been strongarmed into his role as spokesperson.
People were beginning to wander into Ginger’s Palace, filling seats at the bar and a few of the outdoor tables. They waved or nodded to Luka but didn’t interrupt. Aware of the small-town scrutiny, I dropped the conversation and enjoyed the mango bellini until Ginger scurried out with two large baskets in hand.
Luka ordered another round of drinks, and we munched through the meal in a not unpleasant silence.
Okay, so maybe Isla Tortuga Verde had a few redeeming qualities. The fish tacos with papaya salsa were the best I’d ever had. The jeweled sunset gilded the ocean gold and bronze, with nary a skyscraper to block the view. And while moody Dr. Stanic was off limits, that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy my time with him.
Even Master Po couldn’t argue with that logic.