Tailored for Trouble (Happy Pants #1) - Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Page 0,95

the rest of himself. Something he didn’t feel comfortable showing to just anyone.

She drew a deep breath, feeling nervous about whatever he was going to lay on her. But she loved Bennett. Whatever demons he wrestled with couldn’t be that bad, could they?

Taylor glanced at the clock and realized it was a quarter to ten. She took a few bites of the still warm pancakes that had been hiding underneath the metal plate cover, and then swallowed down a cup of coffee before rushing upstairs to shower and change. She didn’t have any undergarments, but the hotel had delivered a few swimsuits—black, red, and white bikinis. She grabbed the red one and slipped it on. Hey, maybe they’d go for a swim in the rain later when the weather got hotter than hell.

She slipped on a light blue sundress and brown leather flip-flops. Nothing fit quite right, but it wasn’t a total disaster either.

Just as she opened the front door, a man approached, wearing khaki shorts and a golf shirt with “Wade” stitched onto the pocket. He was an older gentleman with kind brown eyes, dark brown skin, and deep smile lines.

“Ah, Ms. Reed. You are ready. I am Wayan. I will be taking you to Mr. Wade. He has gone ahead to deal with some urgent business.”

That was odd. Wasn’t Wayan the name Bennett had mentioned in his sleep?

“Nothing bad, I hope?” she asked.

“No. Nothing our Mr. Wade cannot handle.”

Taylor grinned. “Yes, he is pretty good at overcoming obstacles.”

They made their way to the front of the hotel and got into a honking, army-green Land Rover with thick tires and a steel roof rack piled high with gear—gas can, shovel, winches, and rope.

“So where is Bennett’s estate?” Taylor asked. The moon?

“It is two hours north of here. But he is at a hamlet about a half hour up the road.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“Negotiating with a man who’s gotten cold feet,” Wayan replied.

“Is it to do with his special project?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. His special project.”

After about ten minutes of playing dodge the mopeds, which swarmed the road like angry bees (some transporting a family of four including the baby), they hit the main “highway.” It was a two-lane road lined with impenetrable lush leafy vegetation and the occasional rusted-out car or small gas station (or petrol-in-a-bottle-for-all-of-the-scooters stand) dotting the way.

Eventually Wayan pulled off onto a long, muddy road that cut through thick jungle, just wide enough for one vehicle.

“I hope no one comes the other way,” Taylor said. They’d have to back up and drive in reverse.

“Not to worry, ma’am. We are almost there.”

Indeed they were. Just as he spoke, they came into a large open space where another Land Rover was parked in a ditch. Several shacks surrounded the perimeter of the clearing along with piles of garbage.

“What is this place?” she asked. A stray dog scampered across the muddy clearing, a few equally muddy children chasing after it.

“This, ma’am, is Bali.”

CHAPTER 17

Taylor could hardly believe her eyes. Wayan explained that much of the local population lived like this. “But the resorts and tourists? Don’t they bring in money and jobs?” she asked.

“Only to the wealthy hotel owners who are mostly foreign.”

“I see.” She’d counted ten shacks sprinkled around the periphery of the clearing, but Wayan told her over one hundred people lived in this hamlet. Where? In what? These shacks weren’t big enough for ten dogs let alone one hundred human beings.

Bennett emerged from one of the larger homes—about ten by ten—and waved her in. He wore a white linen shirt, muddy khaki shorts, and hiking boots. He looked like a wilderness explorer, not some tailored billionaire.

She approached him, dodging the large drops of rain that pelted her forehead as they dripped off of the trees above.

“I trust you slept well?” he said as she approached, a shallow smile on his face.

Why did he look so…worried? It made her feel uneasy.

“I did. Thanks.” Her flip-flops made a squishing sound with each step.

“Come inside,” Bennett said. “You can meet Wayan.”

She pointed to the driver still sitting in the Land Rover. “Isn’t he Wayan?”

Bennett laughed. “Names are recycled heavily in this country—it’s a tradition.”

She smiled. “Sure. Okay.” She ducked inside and saw a woman sitting in the corner with a large metal bowl in her lap, peeling some sort of fruit. Several children, dressed in what were basically rags, played with a few rusty-looking toy cars on the dirt floor. To the other side, a man with scraggly gray