IN OVER HIS HEAD Read online

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  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

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  Prologue

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  Lexie Webster looked at the vast array of purses in the department store display case and sighed. Turning toward her best friend she said, "Darla, I don't need a new purse."

  "Of course you don't," Darla agreed, pulling her toward the designer handbags. "I do. What you need is sex."

  The sales associate glanced at them, and Lexie shot Darla "the look." "No, what I need is to get back to the resort. I have work to do."

  Darla held up a brown leather bag for inspection. "It's Sunday. Your day off."

  "I'm booked to teach a private scuba lesson at three o'clock."

  Darla set the brown bag back on the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. Fashionably dressed in a pale blue pin-striped Ralph Lauren suit, her shoulder-length tawny hair pulled back in a chic chignon, Darla looked, as she always did, as though she'd just stepped off a page from Vogue. Lexie looked down at her own attire and winced. Plain white tank top, faded jeans, and Nikes that had seen better days. It wasn't that she didn't like to dress up—she did. But one hardly wore Ralph Lauren to read the newspaper on the deck, and that's what she'd been doing when Darla had come by after spending the morning with a potential buyer and commandeered her to go shopping.

  "That's exactly the problem, Lex," Darla said. "You're working yourself into the ground. You need to take some time for you."

  "You worked today," Lexie pointed out.

  "I'm a real estate agent. We work on Sundays. Except when we need to have a serious conversation with our best friend. Then we go shopping and talk."

  Uh-oh. Based on Darla's earlier "what you need is sex" comment, Lexie had a pretty good idea where this conversation was headed. "Look, Darla, I know you mean well, but—"

  "No buts. Consider this an intervention." Darla planted her hands on her hips and jutted out her chin at a stubborn angle. With determination glinting in her green eyes, she reminded Lexie of Xena: Warrior Princess—or at least Xena's beautiful, tawny-haired, Ralph Lauren-clad sister. "Here's the deal, Lex. I'm not letting you leave the handbag department until this is settled."

  "Great. I wouldn't mind so much if you'd picked the shoe department instead," Lexie joked.

  Genuine concern softened Darla's fierce expression and she reached out to clasp Lexie's hands. "Lexie, I'm worried about you. You're working yourself to the bone."

  "I'm working extra hours because this is the resort's busiest time of the year. I have to take on the extra work while it's available. You know I need the money. When that plot of land I've been saving for comes on the market, I'll need all the cash I can lay my hands on to buy it." In an effort to erase the worry still puckering Darla's brow, she teased, "You realize the only reason I keep you around is because I want that land and you've got real estate connections."

  "And the only reason I keep you around is because you get me great discounts at the resort's spa." Darla's eyes narrowed. "You know, the spa—a place where people go to alleviate their stress. I would suggest you go, but in your case, more drastic measures are needed. A simple massage and a facial just aren't going to cut it. You need a full-fledged, hot, steamy—"

  "—sauna?"

  "Fling." When Lexie didn't reply, Darla plunged on. "I don't even want to think about how long it's been since you've had sex."

  Eleven months, two weeks and three days. Lexie didn't want to think about it, either. And she sure wasn't going to add fuel to the fire by reminding Darla.

  "You're under a lot of stress, Lex."

  "I'm busy."

  "Working yourself to death for that piece of land."

  "Because I want a home. A real home. On that cove."

  "I understand. And I'll let you know the instant the owner is interested in selling. But in the meantime you have got to loosen up."

  As much as Lexie hated to admit it, Darla had a point. "I guess I have been sort of tense lately."

  "Sort of tense?" Darla shook her head and made tsking noises. "You're a volcano on the verge of eruption. If I looked up 'tense' in the dictionary, your picture would be right there. You need stress relief like no one I've ever met before. And believe me, the best stress reliever in the world is sex. Why do you think I'm always so relaxed?"

  "I thought it was all that time you spent in the spa with my discount."

  Darla laughed. "Facials and massages are great, but sex is better. Trust me. A couple of bouts of steamy sex and you'll be a new woman. Good Lord, your body must be literally starved from all this celibacy. You are primed for a fling."

  Lexie sighed. "Maybe. But I don't want a serious relationship."

  Darla wrinkled her small nose. "Of course you don't. Relationships are highly overrated, as you and I both well know. I'm talking strictly a fling. No-strings-attached sex to get you out of your rut. Fling rules apply."

  "And what are those?"

  "There's only three." She released Lexie's hands and counted the rules off on her fingers. "It has to be fun, wild and temporary. Think you can handle that?"

  Fun, wild. She hadn't done anything like that in a long time. And temporary? She'd never done that—at least not in a premeditated fashion. It sounded … intriguing. And exciting in a way that had her hibernating hormones peeking open their eyelids.

  "You know what, Darla? I think I can handle that."

  Darla's smile lit up her heart-shaped face. "Excellent. Now all we have to do is find the right man."

  Lexie groaned. "That's going to be a challenge. It's not as if terrific guys are falling at my feet."

  "You don't need a 'terrific' guy. We're not looking for husband material. He only has to be fling-worthy." She leaned closer, as if she were about to impart some great secret. "You're just using him for sex."

  A grin tugged at Lexie's lips. "He might not appreciate that."

  Darla straightened then favored her with her best give-me-a-break look. "Yeah, right. Men just hate it when attractive women seduce them. Especially women who aren't expecting hearts, flowers and diamond rings. Believe me, we won't have trouble finding a willing man."

  "But I don't want just any guy."

  "Don't worry," Darla said. "You'll know the guy when you meet him."

  "How?"

  A devilish gleam sparkled in Darla's eyes. "He'll be the one you can't keep your eyes—or hands—off. Once you see him, just let nature do the rest. Remember—fun, wild and temporary." Darla held out her hand. "Agreed?"

  Lexie took a deep breath. Darla was right. It was time to take a break from her all-work-and-no-play life. Since her breakup with Tony almost a year ago, she'd lived like a monk.

  Well, she wasn't a monk. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman who badly needed some fun, wild and temporary in her life. And thanks to Darla's pep talk, she was primed and ready to take the plunge.

  Grasping Darla's hand, Lexie shook on it. "Agreed."

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  Chapter 1

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  With his heavy canvas duffel digging into his shoulder, Josh Maynard watched the taxicab that had just deposited him at his destination disappear into the distance. Pushing his favorite Stetson back a few inches, he turned in a slow circle to survey his unfamiliar surroundings.

  Whew. He sure wasn't in Montana anymore. Not a mountain or stately pine tree insight. Instead flat green land greeted his gaze and palm trees soared toward the cloudless azure sky. And man, it was hot. And humid. This heavy, damp Florida air surrounded him like a sticky, wet blanket. The moist heat radiating upward from the asphalt made him feel as if he were rotating on a barbecue spit.

  He turne
d his attention to the hotel that would be his home for the next few weeks. Bright turquoise lettering on the gleaming white stucco exterior proclaimed Whispering Palms Resort. Colorful pink and orange blooms climbed up wooden trellises, and what seemed like hundreds of flowers and shrubs dotted the verdant lawn and well-manicured grounds.

  But the resort was more than just a place of beauty, which is why he'd chosen it. Based on the Internet research he'd conducted and the enthusiastic recommendation of his travel agent, the Whispering Palms boasted a reputation of running the most comprehensive water activities program in the area. Their staff was reported to be professional, with impressive credentials.

  He also liked that the resort was located a bit off the beaten track—close enough to Miami to be convenient, but far away from all the crowds. And he'd liked the more intimate size of the place. He hadn't wanted one of those mega-resorts with thousands of guest rooms.

  He breathed deeply and his nostrils twitched at the unusual scents. Not a whiff of horseflesh, leather saddles or rodeo arena anywhere. This air smelled … tropical. Fruity and sweet, with the underlying tang of the ocean. He rocked back on his boot heels. Nope, this place was nuthin' like home.

  But that was the whole point.

  He eyeballed the minimally dressed guests wandering in and out of the resort's open-air entrance, then glanced down at his own attire. No doubt about it, he looked as out of place as a tumbleweed among hothouse flowers. His long-sleeved denim shirt and Wranglers would definitely have to go. He'd stood outside here less than two minutes and already an uncomfortable trickle of perspiration dampened his back.

  His gaze lowered to his feet, and he heaved a sigh. His beloved Tony Lamas would have to go as well, he supposed. Not much call for boots on the beach. Good thing he'd bought himself a pair of Nikes before leaving Montana, although he couldn't say he much cared for them. Still, a man had to do—or in this case, wear—what a man had to wear.

  He'd waited a long time to start on this adventure, and he wasn't about to let a little thing like trading in his comfortable Western wear for surfer-boy beach clothes scare him off. No sir. Sure the obstacles were high, but he'd conquered higher. Had the gold belt buckles from the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association—and the scars—to prove it. Except for that last competition, of course. Damn it, coming in second to Wes Handly still chapped his hide. If only—

  Josh sliced off the irritating thought before it could take root. That part of his life was over. He'd hung up his spurs and it was time to conquer new worlds. Such as this beachy, suntan-oiled, palm-treed, flowery, mountainless, oceany-smelling … place.

  Inhaling a fruity-scented resolute breath, he adjusted his Stetson, settled his duffel higher on his shoulder, then walked toward the entrance of the resort, his senses trying to take in all the new sights, sounds and smells at once.

  A huge birdcage dominated the parquet-floored lobby. The largest parrot Josh had ever seen—not that he'd seen many—sat perched on a wooden swing, its long, bright red, yellow, and green tail feathers cutting a colorful yard-long downward swath. Big-leafed plants sprang from porcelain urns painted with tropical scenes featuring flamingos and multihued fish. Salmon-colored walls glowed behind the long, dark green granite reception desk. Craning his neck to look beyond the reception area, he caught a glimpse of a sparkling pool, then the white beach and blue ocean beyond. A pleasant breeze blew through the lobby, cooling his overheated skin.

  By God, Dad would have loved this place. The bright colors, the salty air, the squawk of gulls. And wouldn't he have just gotten the biggest kick out of that huge parrot? A sharp pang of regret stabbed Josh, halting his steps, hitching his breath. His fingers clenched around his duffel strap, the coarse material and metal clasp biting into his palm. Damn it, would the grief ever stop sneaking up on him? Hitting him like a bull's kick to the head? Most likely not. But maybe after he'd accomplished what he'd come here to do … maybe then the ache would lessen.

  He looked out toward the sandy beach and deep blue water and swallowed hard. Yup, Dad had wanted his whole life to come to a place like this, but he'd never even gotten the chance to see the ocean. His dad's crinkle-eyed smiling face rose in his mind's eye, and his raspy voice echoed through his mind, so clearly it seemed as if Bill Maynard stood next to him. When I retire from ranchin', I'm gonna satisfy this itch of a wanderlust, son. Learn to sail, then buy me a boat. Go places and see things I've only ever read about or seen on TV. I'm gonna sail around the Mediterranean. Eat whatever I catch for dinner.

  A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Josh's mouth as he recalled teasing his dad. Eat whatever you catch for dinner? You'd better add "learn deep-sea fishing" to your list of things to do, Dad, or you're gonna starve. Won't be the same as pullin' trout from a mountain stream.

  I plan to learn, son. And you can learn with me. I can picture it now. The two of us sailin' on the crystal-clear water, grillin' up the day's catch.

  I look forward to it, Dad. But I'll bring along some steaks. Just in case.

  A loud parrot squawk roused Josh from his thoughts and he resolutely tucked his memories away. It was time to check in, unpack his bag, throw on some beach-wear, and start fulfilling the dream Dad had instilled in him three decades ago.

  Squaring his shoulders, Josh approached the registration desk. He would set about conquering the seven seas, just as he'd conquered the inside of countless rodeo arenas. With hard work, determination, perseverance and heart. Don't worry, Dad. I'll see all those places you wanted to see, all those places we talked about. And that sail we dreamed of taking together? Well, it's as good as done.

  Of course, in spite of all the reading he'd done about sailing, he'd still need to start with the basics. But it shouldn't prove too difficult. The staff here was topnotch, and he was an intelligent man. Had the college degree to prove it. And he was a world-class athlete. Had those gold belt buckles to prove that.

  His gaze skimmed over the turquoise pool, then settled on the azure ocean beyond. A ripple of unease trickled down his spine, but he firmly pushed it aside. Nothing to worry about. The waters here were advertised as calm and crystal-clear.

  Besides, how the hell hard could it be to learn to swim?

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  Lexie smiled and waved goodbye to her class of young swimming students. "See you tomorrow," she called after them. The youngest, four-year-old Amy, turned and blew Lexie a kiss.

  Lexie snatched the invisible offering from the air. "Got it!" she said, planting the "kiss" on her cheek, much to the child's delight. She would definitely miss adorable Amy when her family left the Whispering Palms at the end of the week.

  Hoisting herself out of the pool, she grabbed her towel and dabbed at the water clinging to her skin as her gaze wandered over the beachfront landscape she loved. Dozens of people frolicked in the gentle surf while a group of youngsters built an enormous sand castle. Parents, singles, honeymooners and teenagers reclined on aqua-and-yellow-striped lounge chairs, sunning themselves, reading, napping, chatting, sipping frothy tropical drinks, complete with paper umbrellas, each enjoying their vacation in their own way.

  As Activities and Sports Director at the resort, she took great pride in the wide variety of activities the Whispering Palms offered its guests. Water sports ranged from tame snorkeling and inner-tubing, to the more adventurous sailing, waterskiing, kayaking, scuba diving and parasailing. Was exercise your thing? Aerobics were offered twice daily. Biking? Single and tandem bikes were available, as well as tricycles for the tykes. Trampoline? Got it. Beachcombing walks? Check. Water or beach Volleyball? You betcha.

  Yes, indeed, everything an "in need of rest and relaxation" vacationer could possibly want was available at the Whispering Palms, and pride filled Lexie that she'd played a major role in setting up, then implementing, the activities program. Of course, now that the tourist season was ending, things would slow down until they picked up again around Thanksgiving. She'd miss the hectic pace and the jovial crowds, and s
he'd definitely miss the additional money she earned during the summer by working evening and early morning hours at the resort's Camp Kid's Club or giving private swimming and scuba lessons. She squirreled away every dollar she could, waiting for her piece of heaven to be listed for sale.

  An image of the palm-shaded, waterfront cove she'd fallen in love with rose in her mind's eye. It was private, peaceful, perfect. And when it was finally listed for sale—she refused to consider that it wouldn't eventually be—her piece of heaven would definitely be pricey. And according to Darla, once that prime strip of land was listed, it wouldn't last long. Lexie would need to have enough money ready to act fast.

  Speaking of acting fast … Lexie glanced at her trusty waterproof Timex. She was scheduled to accompany a snorkeling group in half an hour. No time for daydreaming if she hoped to grab some much-needed lunch at the outdoor Marine Patio. She finished drying off, slipped on her neon-green T-shirt that read Whispering Palms Activities And Sports Director in bold black letters across the front, the matching shorts, then crammed her wet "pool hair" under her favorite Florida Marlins baseball cap. She was about to reach for her water shoes when she halted, her attention grabbed by a masculine figure standing in the breezeway leading to the lobby. Pushing her Ray Bans higher on her nose, she peered through the dazzling sunshine, then pursed her lips in involuntary appreciation.

  He'd clearly just checked in as he held the colorful trifold pamphlet outlining the resort's amenities and containing the room key-card given to new guests at the reception desk. Decked out in a Stetson hat, long-sleeved shirt, snug jeans, what appeared to be the biggest belt buckle she'd ever seen and cowboy boots, he wasn't dressed for the beach, but even at this distance there was no doubt he filled out those denims very nicely.

  She squinted at him, but the shade cast by the brim of his hat prevented her from seeing his face. Just then, he turned and headed across the lobby toward the bank of elevators leading to the guest rooms. Hmm. He filled out those jeans as nicely from the back as he had from the front. However, since the temperature hovered somewhere near ninety-five in the shade, hopefully Mr. Cowboy would change into something cooler before venturing outside.