Tropical Dragon's Destiny (Shifting Sands Resort 10)

“I’m an idiot,” Scarlet told her fiercely, then turned away. If Mal—Mr. Moore—wasn’t at the resort right now, she could conduct her usual business without fear of—

Scarlet stopped herself furiously. She wasn’t afraid.

What on earth was there to be afraid of? Mal—Mr. Moore—had no power over her. That he was here at all was an admission that all of his usual ways had failed him. The island would be hers, the resort would be hers, all of her dreams were on the brink of happening.

All of her dreams except...

Scarlet scowled and went at once to the back entrance of the kitchen, startling Darla with her approach.

The once-heiress was emptying trash into the bin, sorting out reusables, recyclables and compost from what little would actually have to be taken to the mainland for disposal. She had a handkerchief around her strawberry-blond hair and she looked up in surprise. “I didn’t hear you coming,” she said, visibly alarmed and a little afraid.

Scarlet tempered her furious expression. She wasn’t angry with Darla and the young woman already felt responsible for the lawsuit hanging over the resort. “I’m sorry to alarm you,” she said politely. “Is Chef still in?”

“He is. They’re doing some prep work for dinner.” Darla looked like she was resisting the urge to curtsy, despite being covered in trash, and Scarlet strode past to go inside.

The kitchen was relatively empty; it was always busy for the catered breakfast and dinner

, but midday was often quiet, with minimal wait staff attending the buffet.

Breck and Chef were merrily discussing the dinner menu.

“I don’t suppose he’s allergic to anything,” Breck was proposing. “I wouldn’t mind watching him get all puffy-faced and choke a little.”

Scarlet didn’t have to ask who they were talking about. “I am quite certain you are not discussing how best to poison a guest,” she said in utterly icy tones.

They both turned and looked at her. From the way they blanched, she realized she was glowering again and she forced herself resume a serene expression.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we are here to accommodate our guests, and that we will uniformly treat them with respect and cater to their various needs.” She kept her voice level and reasonable.

Breck, who was never terribly good at hiding his feelings, looked like she’d just kicked him and she knew that she’d struck a nerve. She smothered the satisfaction it gave her to think of Mal—Mr. Moore—getting Breck’s cold shoulder.

“I expect to receive no complaints about our level of service or the quality of our product,” Scarlet said firmly, including Chef in her statement.

Even he looked chagrined.

“I assure you—” he began.

“Don’t mind me,” Tex sang out from the door. “I’m just going to be up here ‘getting ingredients’ for about an hour while Mr. Asshole Lawyer cools his heels by the—” He spotted Scarlet at that moment, and Scarlet realized that she could sense Mal—Mr. Moore, dammit—on the bar deck.

That he’d gotten there without her noticing bothered her almost as much noticing him now did. Scarlet slammed a fist onto the counter hard enough to make the plates rattle, but not hard enough to dent it. “You are not to harass the man!” she snarled. “I should not have to remind any of you how to be professionals!”

The kitchen, which had been quiet, went utterly silent.

Tex finally cleared his throat and someone began noisily washing dishes near the back of the kitchen. “Yes, Ma’am,” the bartender said sheepishly.

“The dinner we serve him will be beyond reproach,” Chef assured her.

“He shall not lack for a clean napkin or fresh water,” Breck promised meekly.

Scarlet drew in a careful breath and unclenched her fist.

She was clearly overreacting.

They were all not quite looking at her and they had to recognize how unreasonable she was being. Did they think this was just because his presence meant some new bid to take the resort from her? Or did they know that she couldn’t stop thinking about how he had danced with her and how his hand had felt in hers?

Scarlet kept herself from blushing with effort and cleared her throat. “Chef, I came to ask about your breakfast plans the next few days. A few of Liam’s elders would like access to the kitchen one morning when the workload isn’t high in order to do some baking. Mrs. Salvator’s 100th birthday is coming up and they were hoping to make cupcakes.”

“We can do a pancake day the day after tomorrow,” Chef suggested. “That’s fairly simple and will leave the ovens free.”