Where the Heart Is

By Priscilla Brown

Men are off recently-divorced Cristina’s essentials list, so no way does romance figure in her expectations of her working holiday at Lovers’ Lagoon, a luxury Caribbean resort. She wants to discover why the resort has not settled a huge three-year outstanding debt to her father, previously its Australian representative.

Meanwhile, she’s fighting attraction to the resort’s pilot, who aims to put himself at the top of her list. Can this zany charmer break through lovely Cristi’s defenses and set free her warm and funny persona? Or is he merely a playboy who knows more than he’s telling?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jan 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9780228600350

Priscilla Brown

Based in regional New South Wales, Australia, Priscilla has a varied career history, with seven different jobs to date. Some have been worked concurrently, while writing is always a part of her life. These, along with her love of travel in Australia and overseas, and a passion for craft galleries and people watching in cafés, inspire ideas, characters and settings for her contemporary romantic fiction.For more information about Priscilla's books including blurbs, reviews and purchase links, please visit her website: http://priscillabrownauthor.com

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Where The Heart Is

By Priscilla Brown

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-0035-0

Kindle 9781772990935

PDF 978-0-2286-0036-7

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0037-4

Copyright 2016 by Priscilla Brown

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction: names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, events, locales or organizations is coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Chapter One

If that long streak of a guy with the gorgeous legs was the pilot, and that matchbox-with-wings thingy claimed to be the aircraft, no way would Cristina Zanzi go anywhere with either of them.

Gorgeous legs? She was so over gorgeous legs; she’d made one gorgeous legs mistake and never again. As for her mode of transport, surely it must be the weirdest object ever designed to become airborne. Presumably that had been the designer’s intention, though—she glanced at her clenched hand gripping her carry-on bag—a white-knuckled passenger could be forgiven for mistrusting that intention. Its wings met on struts over the cabin, where they supported two engines. It stood on wheels, but floats clung to its sides. Lagoonair, on a float and a prayer, she read on its nose. Someone’s wacky idea of confidence boosting? She nibbled the tip of her thumb.

Okay, terrific legs and eccentric flying machine aside, she had zero options here, if she didn’t want to squander the opportunities she hoped for in the next three weeks. Opportunities that didn’t include any male, gorgeous anything. She’d talked herself into temporary work at Lovers’ Lagoon Resort on Champagne Island in the Eastern Caribbean, but now, one short flight away, she doubted her sanity.

Sane, she wouldn’t be liquefying in this afternoon heat, shuffling behind a service agent and eight other passengers across the tarmac at Barbados Airport, toward that frog-green contraption. She’d be home in springtime Victoria, Australia, putting her life back together. Tugging her broad-brimmed hat further down her forehead, she waited to board.

The midget aircraft looked as if a child had constructed it, and it waited for a child to play with it. And this character collecting boarding passes at the bottom of the four steps looked like an overgrown schoolboy. She watched him chatting with each passenger. Hurry up, please! Don’t you realize we’re melting? One more minute and you’ll have puddles instead of passengers.

The attendant in Lagoonair’s classy departure lounge had said the pilot would collect the passes. Couldn’t the airline afford ground staff? Couldn’t it dress its crew in a proper uniform? On the series of sleek international jets between Melbourne and Barbados via Los Angeles and Miami, the pilots had worn formal uniforms. Now she had to entrust her life to someone whose corporate wardrobe consisted of a wide-brimmed hat that would be at home in outback Australia, knee-length black shorts, black boots and socks, and a T-shirt the same green as the bizarre-looking plane. The front of his shirt featured a stylized white seaplane, matching the logo on the machine’s tail, and when he turned to help a passenger up the steps, she saw the shirt’s back carried that ridiculous admission about a float and a prayer.

At last the pilot finished yakking with the passengers, and had helped them all—average age at least seventy, she guessed—into the cabin. She held out her pass.

Surely the mischievous grin he directed her way was not the smile-to-order recommended in aircrew handbooks. As a hotel employee, she knew about duty smiles, contrasted with those that flashed an I’d like to see you later message. This guy’s smile would win first prize in the latter category.

Ms. C. Ward. He took her pass and ticked his manifest.

Cristi flinched at her married name. Zan— she began. But he didn’t need to know her reservation showed Ward only because there hadn’t been time after her divorce to change her passport back to her single name of Zanzi.

Welcome to the Caribbean. A long way from Melbourne.

He spoke with a soft American accent, in a voice with a vibrant edge as if he might chuckle any second.

Um… She tried for a smile, a strictly I’m just a passenger smile, but, thanks to the effect of his wide mouth flashing another full throttle grin, her facial muscles let her down. Yes, well, she managed, thirty hours, and the planes keep getting smaller. How do you know where I’ve come from?

Then he did laugh, an easy laugh that rolled from his throat as if laughing were a habit.

The resort manager told me. Your name’s Cristina. You’re a hospitality professional bilingual in English and Italian, working with us for three weeks especially to help with an Italian-American conference.

She frowned. Bruno Poli, the Italian manager, had emailed translations for her to complete, and interviewed her in Italian by telephone. An American cruise company was due to host its Italian agents for four nights. The agents would bring an interpreter, but at almost the last minute the Americans had asked the resort to provide a second. Bruno had sounded a nice man; and why would he discuss her with a mere pilot?

That’s right. Um… She waved her hand at the plane. Supposing I get there in one piece.

You don’t like flying?

I have preferred modes of travel.

Cristi gave herself a mental shake. She’d sounded certainly stuffy and probably rude, and her stomach, barely returned to base after her previous flight, looped itself into knots again. She read his name badge, and attempted an improvement on her social skills. Cameron Maxwell, Lagoonair. Hi Cameron. I’m usually called Cristi. You said working with us?

Nice to meet you, Cristi. Lagoonair’s under contract to the resort. His mouth quirked at one corner. I’m chief pilot.

Chief? She should feel relieved she didn’t have to fly with some tenderfoot who got his licence yesterday. Is the other pilot already on board?

No other pilot. I’m it.

Panic rose in her throat. Maybe he read it on her face, for he gave her quite a different kind of smile, one that seemed to say Trust me.

Relax, he said softly. I’ve been flying for ten years, and I do this by myself almost every day. How have you been so far?

No laughter now, and she warmed to the concern she heard. He seemed an easy person to talk to, and one stomach knot unkinked.

Existing. Counting the hours. I’ve managed not to have hysterics during take-off and landing, and I haven’t needed that little bag. She spoke flippantly, to cover up for herself the real reason flying made her panicky. If he thought she got airsick, that was all right with her. Though a pilot may understand…

Believe me, you’ll be fine. This airplane may look odd to you, but she’s an amphibian, and one great lady. The weather’s clear and calm. You’re in One A, the individual seat by the door.

He shot her the non-pilot grin again. She felt hot enough without being on the receiving end of a sizzler like that.

Aboard, she crammed her hat and bag into the narrow overhead locker and wiped her damp hands down her skirt. Loosening her hair from its scrunchie, she pushed her fingers through it. Maybe she should have made time to have it cut for this heat, but she did like the different style options shoulder-length gave her. She fixed the scrunchie back on, and glanced around the cabin. There seemed more space between the rows than on some big jets. Although not a tall person, on other flights she’d often almost had her knees under her chin, and once lost her meal into her lap when the passenger in front reclined his seat. She slid her sandals off, and wiggled her toes on the dark green carpet. Amazingly soft, after the tough stuff underfoot in other aircraft cabins, and after the blistering unyielding tarmac on the walk from the terminal.

She fingered the immaculate fabric covering the seats. Light green this time, with—with what on it? Frogs? Big ones, miniature ones, all kinds of frogs. Settling into the comfort of her seat, she considered the luxury of this cabin. The fittings seemed upscale for an island hopper, except for those cheeky frogs. And Cameron had referred to the machine as a lady.

The pilot hauled the steps into the cabin, fixed them against the bulkhead, and secured the door. He looked about twenty-five, but he’d said he’d been flying for ten years and she doubted they let fifteen-year-olds loose around the controls. According to him, he did this trip every day, but situations could suddenly change. This was October, hurricane season, and while the sky looked innocent, who knew what could happen? And they had to put down on a lagoon. Buckling her seatbelt, she pulled it tight. She twisted her fingers together, nails cutting into her palms.

Cameron hooked his sunglasses into the neck of his T-shirt, and hung his hat on the armrest of Cristi’s seat. This small woman, her brown eyes large and apprehensive in her pale face, looked as if she’d rather be somewhere, anywhere, else. Passengers didn’t come much more nervous than she clearly was, and he wished he could massage her tense hands during take-off. He liked his passengers to enjoy any flight he piloted, but in her case the sudden need to cheer her up puzzled him with its intensity. He pointed at her fingers, and bent his head to speak to her.

Loosen up.

Cristi relaxed her mouth enough to speak. Landing, if that’s the word, on the sea? It’s a first for me.

That smile from him again. Eyes shiny and dark, like warm chocolate icing.

The lagoon’s so smooth, you’ll hardly notice. He turned to face the passengers.

Welcome aboard Lagoonair. I’m Cam Maxwell, chief pilot. Thank you for choosing to vacation at Lovers’ Lagoon Resort. You’re flying there in The Frog Princess. If you know your fairy tales, the reason for the name will be obvious—an ugly, yet beautiful, amphibian with a great future.

Several passengers laughed, but Cristi clenched her hands more tightly. Whatever kind of pilot would name an aircraft after a fairy tale, and what kind of company would let him? Things must be done differently here. She remembered the story, and ran the picture through her head of the frog turned into a prince by the kiss of a princess.

This Cameron Maxwell, with his rangy build, ordinary face—except for the extraordinary eyes—and wavy copper-coloured hair was no centrefold, but neither was he a frog. Therefore, he didn’t need kissing to change into a prince.

Kissing? Who mentioned kissing?

And she was no princess. Only a few weeks into their marriage, her ex-husband had made it clear he didn’t consider her royalty. He’d wanted a trophy wife in public, and a Cinderella at home. She hadn’t found it in her to meet either requirement. And then he’d cheated on her.

Your seat pockets contain information on the safety features of this airplane, the pilot continued, but please watch the demonstration on video. Collecting his hat, he whispered to her, I promise you’ll get there.

She twitched her lips into a wobbly smile. Thanks.

Lagoonair seemed to have most of the bells and whistles, Cristi thought, as the video started. A young West Indian woman, strikingly attractive, with a dimpled smile and wearing a uniform identical to Cameron’s, explained the life jacket, the inflatable rafts, and water safety.

When it finished, the pilot spoke over the PA. We’re due for take-off in five minutes. I’ll give flight information as soon as we clear the airport. Please make sure your seatbelts are fastened, seatbacks upright, and tray tables stowed.

Icy fingers clawed at her stomach as the plane gathered speed along the runway. But in a much shorter time than she’d expected, they were airborne. She risked a glance out of the window, observing the many greens of Barbados, how sugar cane and cornfields patchworked the island, and creamy sands fringed the coast. Then they were over the sea. Imagination had pictured the Caribbean as a glassy azure brightness, but below her stretched an indigo quilt stitched with navy and tipped with fragments of white lace. She’d never flown as low as this. Surprising herself how comfortable she felt looking down, she watched the aircraft’s tiny silhouette keeping pace with the machine above, while cloud shadows forming and re-forming on the water fascinated her.

Our flying time is thirty minutes to St. Vincent where we land to clear Immigration, the pilot announced. Then we’ll sightsee over the island before the last eight minutes to Champagne Island. We come down on the lagoon at the resort. Now, Lagoonair is pleased to offer in-flight service. Cristi, could I ask you to deal with this please?

The sound of her name jolted her. What was wrong with her concentration? Service how? Were cups of coffee going to descend from the ceiling as oxygen masks apparently did? She unclipped her seatbelt, awaiting further instructions.

In the compartment next to the steps, he went on, you’ll find an esky of cool drinks and ice. There’s an urn of hot water, nibbles, and everything else you need, with a pullout shelf to work on.

Esky. An Australian word. How did he know this? Had he used it because he knew she was Australian? In the esky, she found a brown bottle like a beer bottle with a screw top, labeled in large black letters Cam Maxwell, his hooch. Curious, she unscrewed it, poured a drop into her palm and licked. Aware the others were watching her, she showed them the name on the bottle.

Tea, she said. Cold tea.

One man wiped his forehead in mock relief, and two or three others clapped. She prepared juices, teas, and coffees in glasses and mugs emblazoned with the Lagoonair seaplane logo. As she served, she introduced herself, saying she’d be working in reception, and the guests introduced themselves to each other. Taking the pilot’s bottle to the cockpit, she found the door locked and beside it an intercom marked PILOT.

She pushed the speak button. Cristi. Would you like your tea?

A click, and the door unlatched. Not knowing the protocol, she put the bottle on the floor and turned to leave. But he waved her to stay, and passed a headset to her. With it on, she heard him speaking to what must be traffic control. He finished his conversation, flicked a switch, and turned to smile at her. Please watch where you’re going!

Thanks for working. All okay back there?

Yes. Top marks for service on such a small plane.

Doesn’t always happen. Depends who’s on board.

So I look like a trolley dolly? Realizing this might sound curt, she tugged an apologetic small smile in place.

Cameron laughed. And straightened his expression, as he recognized her effort. No, Cristi, you look like someone who’s been flying too long. Lovers’ Lagoon will perk you up. Thanks for bringing my drink.

Tea. I couldn’t help checking.

I’m addicted. He pursed his lips. I hope you didn’t even consider it might be alcohol. I’m a pilot, and apart from that, I never touch alcohol. Whenever anyone linked him with alcohol, however vaguely as on this occasion, the memory haunted him of the accident that snowy night in Chicago almost three years ago. He’d had only one beer; reason, as well as the court case verdict, told him his mother was right when she emphasized nothing could be his fault. But reason couldn’t relieve the guilt lurking in dark recesses of his soul.

I’m not suggesting it’s rum or whatever the drink of choice is around here. Cristi wondered why he felt the need to make an issue of it. Just curious, like I’m curious why you left it in the cabin.

Usually, I have it here, but this flight…

His seriousness evaporated as quickly as it had arrived. If she hadn’t been so hot already, she could warm her hands by his grin. This flight, she prompted.

This flight, I left it for you to bring.

If that’s a pickup line, it is at least original. But surely flirting with a passenger was not in a pilot’s job description. And experience had immunized her against pickup lines, however creative.

As he took his bottle from her, she noticed his hands. Graceful was the surprising adjective that came to mind. His long arms were tanned an attractive caramel colour like his handsome legs. Uh huh, Cris, pay attention to the scenery outside instead of inside. She pointed at the panorama ahead, where land smudged the horizon.

Is that St. Vincent? Isn’t there a volcano?

Yes and yes. A lot of these islands have volcanoes. Most of them haven’t erupted for years, and Champagne’s is small and dormant.

She gripped the back of the second pilot’s seat. That question about the volcano had just popped out, but she wouldn’t pursue it by asking if the airport was near the mountain. She had to get over this fear.

Cameron had heard the sudden anxiety in her voice, and he noticed her fingers tensed on the seatback. Something about flying, possibly to do with a volcano, had distressed her. Because he’d been hooked on it since his very first flight, he always wanted to help those who hated it. Too, apart from that, he wouldn’t mind seeing more of this elf of a woman from Australia. He’d been looking forward to talking with someone new, and the fact that she appeared around his age, say twenty-eight or nine, could be a plus. Even if they did spend time together, her stay would be too short to discover the part of his background that sour experience had taught him to conceal.

We’ll fix your flying problem while you’re here, he said. Explore other islands, and you can sit in that seat.

Cristi felt her throat constrict. She supposed she should do some sightseeing, but…she heard what she guessed was air traffic control calling him, and listened to his professional response.

But sightsee with him in this float and prayer job? She could take a double dose of tranquilizers—whoa there. Reason kicked in. She had missions for her stay at Lovers’ Lagoon, and spending spare time with men wasn’t one of them. Not even, especially not, ones like Cameron Maxwell, with smiles in their voices and sexy eyes.

Mission one, for her father, the search for two million dollars and a man named Ralph Nicol. Cameron, as just a pilot, would not be any use to her in her quest to unearth the truth about Island Resorts, Lovers’ Lagoon’s previous owner. She burned with bitterness every time she thought about this company, run by Nicol, that almost three years ago had apparently collapsed. The debt owed her father, then its Australian representative, had almost bankrupted him and permanently affected his health.

Mission two, for herself, a break in different surroundings. She hoped to pull herself out of the spiral of self-doubt she’d been struggling with since the humiliating mistake of her short marriage. She needed to revitalize, and return to the confident spirited Cristina she hoped had only hidden, not gone forever.

Cristi.

She hadn’t realized the pilot had ended his conversation. Oh yes, the sightseeing idea. Right, she’d give this a go. She could always change her mind. Thanks, I’d like to do it. Better continue my duties now.

Collect the mugs and glasses. Make sure everything is stashed away how you found it, and doors fastened.

Of course. Taking the headset off, she left the cockpit.

Now, while her mouth seemed unusually dry, she had no time for tea for herself. As she double-checked that she’d done everything, she considered the pilot. How could he casually invite her to go flying? Didn’t he have a schedule to keep to? What would his boss say if he took every stray female who came his way joyriding around the Eastern Caribbean in a company plane?

Cameron announced landing. She fastened her seatbelt and wrapped her arms around her chest. Only when they were on the ground at St. Vincent did she realize her stomach hadn’t risen to her throat as usual.

They cleared Immigration and Customs. Tensed for take-off, how quickly they left the ground again startled her. No time to think about it, as when a jet trundled along a lengthy runway. As they circled the island, Cameron gave a commentary. She held her breath when she saw the volcano. Wisps of cloud—or smoke?—drifted around its crater and rainforested slopes, but she had to admit it looked harmless. Then the Grenadine islands threaded southwards like a necklace of opals.

We’re approaching Champagne, the pilot announced. Look for the shape of a champagne bottle, with its top almost off.

She spotted where a lagoon formed the gap between the top and the bottle, at the southwestern end of the island. They flew over hills clad in rainforest, along the rugged eastern Atlantic coast where black sand beaches squeezed between claws of rock, around to the icing sugar sands of the western