us for barging in so early. We should have waited, but the gals were impatient.”
Mags nodded. “We were expecting the Raffertys.”
“Sorry. It’s just me.” Through the Holidays Away agency, Alice had swapped vacation homes with a man named Sean Rafferty, who was a state trooper from Massachusetts. He’d written in one of his e-mails that the condo belonged to his retired parents, who used it for vacations. “I don’t actually know the Raffertys. I’m staying here on a house swap.”
The group was taken aback. “A swap! My goodness,” Mags said.
“I’ve heard of them,” said the woman in the tequila shirt. She pursed her lips, which made her narrow face look even narrower. “Then where are the Raffertys?”
“At my house. On Osprey Island. But it’s not the Raffertys, it’s only their son.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Raffertys. They always have their grandson from California come to visit while he’s on summer vacation. What did you say your name was?”
“Alice Potter. The, um, Prince Montez management is fully informed. I have the keys and a letter of agreement.”
The third woman patted Alice’s arm. “I’m Mary Grace Malone. Alice is such a sweet, old-fashioned name and I can see it fits you. Don’t mind Harrie. She was a private investigator for thirty-eight years. Nothing happens in the resort without her getting the details.”
Harrie winked. “Harriet Humbert, at your service. If you need a clue.”
Alice laughed. “I…well, I probably do.”
“You’ll learn your way around soon enough,” she sympathized.
“What did you call this place?” Alice asked. “Some nickname?”
“Wrinkle Resort,” said Walter, spreading expansive hands to encompass his elderly cohorts. “You can see why.”
Alice gulped. The median age was as she’d suspected. “Are there any younger people around?”
“Sure, up at the hotel,” Harrie said. She wiggled her narrow hips. “Every night, at the club and the bars.”
Walter scowled. “We get a bunch of families, too, especially with the new water park. Hellions, most of ’em. Between them and the Pool Sharks, you’ll want to avoid the pools in the peak hours.”
“Oh,” Alice said.
“Look at her.” Mags pinched Alice’s cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. There’s plenty going on for the young singles, too. Anytime you want, get yourself all gussied up and Wally will drive you up to the disco in his golf cart.”
Alice imagined making an entrance on the arm of the large and blustery Walter. “We’ll have to do that one of these nights.” She smiled and crossed her fingers inside the robe’s deep pockets. “But for now, I’ve got a busy day planned.” Potentially.
“Then we’ll leave you to get dressed.” Mary Grace moved toward the door. The others reluctantly followed.
“Just remember,” Walter said, “you’re welcome to join the Cocktail Shakers anytime.”
“We’re the fun bunch,” Harrie put in. “Always a good time.”
“Tonight’s Margarita Madness,” crowed the Panama hat man, using a bad Latin accent. “Five o’clock, under the umbrellas by the pool. We’re clearing out the Sharks if we have to attack with water guns.”
Walter backed out, hands cupped around an invisible martini shaker at shoulder level. He gave it a vigorous shake. “We do a different cocktail every evening. You’d be a fine addition to our merry band, Miss Potter.”
Alice nodded. “Thanks, Mr. St. Gregory. I appreciate the invitation. I promise to stop by eventually. I’m here for two weeks.”
“Call us Wally and Mags.”
“Reg and M.G.,” called Panama hat from the breezeway, his arm around Mary Grace.
“And don’t forget Harrie!”
“As if I could.” Alice laughed and waved and shut the door. She stared wide-eyed at the empty room before letting out her breath.
Okay, so maybe there wouldn’t be a lot of glamour and adventure to her vacation. Maybe, even after all her resolutions, she’d end up doing crossword puzzles and drinking strange cocktails by the pool. She was still determined to enjoy herself.
Don’t surrender yet. According to the brochures, the resort offered horseback riding, off-road biking and hiking, desert-jeep tours. Even skydiving.
Staying on the ground seemed like a good idea for now. She’d already made one big leap of faith.
“H OWDY, THERE , ma’am. Now ain’t yew a fine filly?” The stablehand pushed a battered straw Stetson to the back of his head. “Y’lookin’ for a bronc?”
Number fifteen. Alice ran her palms down her jeans before extending a hand. Meet a cowboy. At this rate, she’d have to come up with a new list before the first week was out.
“I’m Alice Potter. Chloe sent me.”
“You mean that sweet li’l gal with the blond ponytail?” Plastering a wide grin across his tanned face, the man shook her hand. He was straight from central casting: handsome weathered face, golden-brown lock tumbled across his forehead, clear green eyes, shoulders as broad as his cowpoke accent. A white tank and low-riding jeans clung to his lean hard body. His boots were pointy-toed and emerald green. Bought to match his eyes, she’d just bet.
Alice nodded. “Chloe said you would set me up with a lesson or two. I’ve already signed on for a trail ride, but I’d like to learn a few techniques first so I know what I’m doing. I’m a beginner.”
The cowboy slid an arm around her shoulders and gave her an encouraging hug. “Don’tcha worry none, li’l lady. I’ll have you gallopin’ ’cross the desert in two shakes of a rattler’s tail.”
That startled her—how did he know she dreamed of galloping across the desert? Did everyone have the same secret desire? She tried to squirm away. The cowboy smelled of leather, cologne and pungent sweat. The proximity of so much male made her stomach swirl. She stepped out from under his arm and looked into a stall, pretending an interest in the four-legged occupant. The stable was quiet and dark. At the other end of the building, a lone female stablehand shoveled out one of the stalls, pitching forkfuls into a wheelbarrow.
“That there bay’s name is Loco,” said the cowboy. “Y’think you’d like to climb aboard?”
An extremely large brown horse stuck its black nose against the upper rails of the stall, nostrils flaring as he snorted the way Alice imagined a charging bull might. “Heck, no.”
The cowboy slid open the stall door. The horse swung around to greet him, its long black tail swishing across its hocks. “Pay the name no mind, ma’am. This old fella’s gentle as a lamb.”
She stayed far back as he led the horse out into the aisle. “What about you? Have you got a name?”
“Y’can call me Denver,” he said, nodding and grinning. His eyes swept her up and down with obvious approval. “If I can call yew Allie.”
Denver the cowboy. Perfect.
A little too perfect. Especially the lingo. She supposed he’d been hired to give the guests a show.
“My name’s Alice,” she said, thinking he’d misheard.
“Maybe so, but yew look like an Allie. Y’know—all cute ’n sassy.”
“Me?” Her hair was caught up in a clip and she’d knotted her sleeveless checked blouse at the waist. Did that qualify as sassy?