Jesse didn’t begrudge them their good time. Most of the renters were polite and responsible. Every once in a while, he’d meet someone truly interesting. And a couple of times, he’d lucked out with a group of beautiful women escaping their minivans and office cubicles for an all-girls week of mischief.

Jesse swallowed hard, thinking of Cammy. She’d seemed so sweet and real. And yet, she was neither. To this day, it still amazed him how months of pain had been the price he paid for a few nights of pleasure. Jesse shook his head. Never again would he do something so profoundly stupid. If he wanted to remain sane and solvent, Renter Chicks would be forever off-limits—no matter how pretty they were. No matter how sweet and real they seemed.

Jesse returned to the cool shade of his own little private oasis and locked the gate behind him. He couldn’t help but smile. Yes, the steady stream of tourists was part of life in Key West, but it was worth it. He got to call the most unique city in the United States his home.

Though he’d been in the cottage for two years now, it still gave him a rush of pride every time he stood here, on the walkway, looking up at the original Batista homestead. He’d put a huge chunk of money into the place and poured his heart and soul into returning it to its original beauty, and now it suited him perfectly.

Of course, he hadn’t always been thrilled with the prospect of owning the place. When grandmother Ella left it to him five years before, he felt put-upon. He didn’t want the hassle or the responsibility. Just because he was a well-known author didn’t mean he was filthy rich, and it was obvious that restoring the dilapidated house and grounds would be an enormous undertaking.

But the cottage was his family legacy, and if he didn’t take it on, who would? His brother who lived on a ranch in Wyoming? His brother’s chronically broke ex-wife, Lelinda, who hustled a living off the tourists? His unemployed cousins in Miami?

So Jesse set out to save what he could—the bathroom’s original vintage tile and claw-foot tub, some of the exterior clapboard and all the Dade County pine flooring, the rosewood fireplace mantel, the carved front door and the ornate wrought iron from the upstairs back veranda. Everything else was gutted and rebuilt, and as soon as work was completed, he sold his condo.

Though the Queen Anne cottage was now a historic landmark and part of most of the city’s architectural walking tours, to Jesse it was simply home. It was where he let his imagination run free, where he slept with the windows open to the sea breeze whispering in the banyan tree and where he wrote. It was his retreat. His heart. The cottage was his place in the world.

Jesse went to the side of the house to ditch the trash and recyclables and check on a hurricane shutter that was coming off its hinges, making a mental note of what tools he’d need to repair it. He went back around to the front and climbed the porch steps, opening the door to a view of gleaming floors and an elegant center staircase. It never ceased to amaze him that his great-great-grandparents came from Cuba with nothing, yet within a generation the Batistas had become one of the most influential families in the Southern Keys.

And to think—Jesse was the last local descendant of the original clan. He was the proverbial end of the road.

The phone in his pants pocket began to ring. It was Fred Luna’s number on the caller ID. Jesse knew what this meant, and his heart sank in sadness—Fred’s wife, Yvette, was probably back in the hospital and he needed Jesse to captain the boat. Of course he’d do it. Spending an evening as “Captain J.D.” on the sunset cruise was the least he could do for his lifelong friend. As a bonus, a night in the company of drunken tourists almost always gave him an idea for a future fictional character. Between the occasional captain gig on Fred’s party boat and helping Lelinda with her walking tours—one of which, unfortunately, he’d long ago promised to do first thing tomorrow morning—Jesse was never hurting for inspiration.

“No problem, man. Of course I will,” he told Fred. I’ll be at the dock at four. Give Yvette my love, and let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

HOLLY HAD DECIDED SHE’D make the best of it. It wasn’t as if she had much of a choice. The way her mom had put it, it was either spring break in Key West, with her coming along as chaperone, or spring break in Beaverdale, also with her as chaperone. Duh! Holly and Hannah talked about it and decided they could work with that first option.

A guy they knew in Honors Biology knew a guy at the college who could get fake Pennsylvania IDs custom made for fifty bucks a pop. Holly and Hannah scrounged up the cash and were quite pleased with the results. (Holly’s claimed she was twenty-three years old and a resident of Philadelphia.) They had the IDs packed in their suitcases, along with their new bikinis, anklets, suntan lotion with body glitter already added and all kinds of cute outfits and sandals.

At first, Holly’s best friend was really worried the trip wouldn’t be any fun. Hannah had all kinds of questions, but Holly had convinced her to give it a try. What if Key West didn’t have the same all-out party scene as Daytona or South Beach? she’d asked. (Then they’d make their own party scene.) What if the guys were older? (That might be a nice change of pace—older guys tended to have more money anyway, right?) And how would they possibly be able to slip under the Mom Radar to have any fun?

That one had been the easiest for Holly to deal with.

First off, Holly assured her friend that her mom wasn’t the worrywart type. “She trusts me completely. I’ve never given her any reason not to.”

Hannah laughed. “You just haven’t been caught.”

“Exactly. And anyway, you know my mom’s asleep by nine every night. As long as we’re home by sunrise, she’ll be clueless.”

So at that moment, as the plane descended onto what already looked like a tropical paradise surrounded by a neverending blue-green sea, Holly and Hannah gave each other a wink and a thumbs up.

Let the partying begin.

Chapter two

OH, YESSSS.

Gail pulled the chain on the ceiling fan, and the wide rattan blades began to whir. She placed her glass of lemonade on the wicker table, along with the stack of brochures she’d collected at the airport, then settled into the porch rocker. She pulled the cotton sundress down over her thighs and wiggled her toes in the shade provided by the big palm tree. This was hard to believe. For ten glorious days she and the girls would be relaxing in this adorable, tidy little house on Margaret Street. What luck it was to find this place at the last minute—and right in the heart of historic Old Town! The rental agent said a family called to cancel only six hours before Gail made her inquiry.

“It must be fate,” the woman had said.

Whatever it was, the place was idyllic. They had their own inground pool out back, where the girls were already swimming, reggae music pumping out of a pair of outdoor speakers. They had a gas grill, a big-screen TV with cable and DVR, and in Gail’s master bath she had a Jacuzzi tub and a shower stall! It was heaven on earth! Now all she had to do was decide which activities they’d do when they weren’t relaxing at the house. They could choose from snorkeling, water scooters, sailing trips, deep-sea fishing, swimming with dolphins and all kinds of historical tours.

Sure, this vacation was pricey, but it had been a snap to justify the expense. Since this was the first vacation Gail had taken in six years, she’d calculated that she’d spent only $447 per year on vacations during that time. If that wasn’t thrifty, she didn’t know what was.

Gail took a sip of the ice-cold lemonade, savoring the complexity of the sharp sweetness as it slid down her throat. As she rested her head against the rocker, she felt a lock of hair stick to her damp neck. She was perspiring. Already. This was fabulous! Thanks to the miracle of flight, she’d been picked up in a bone-chilling Philadelphia rain and dropped off in the subtropics.

Gail let go with a sigh of relief, the stress falling away like a shell, her dry winter skin sucking in the humidity like a sponge. Her chest and bare arms were gently tickled by the ceiling fan’s breeze.

Oh, how she’d needed this chance to unwind. Kim had been absolutely right.

“What the goddammed fucking hell?”

Gail’s head popped up and her ears perked. The man’s voice was so close it sounded as if he was right on top of her.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

She swiveled her head to her right. She saw movement on the other side of the thick screen of foliage separating her yard from the house next door. Then she heard a few banging sounds, like someone taking a hammer to metal.

“This is patently absurd,” said the baritone voice in the next yard. “I pay twenty-five bucks each for historically accurate reproduction shutter hinges, and this is the kind of substandard crap I get? In less than two years? Does no one have a sense of pride in their artistry anymore?”

Gail leaned forward on the edge of the rocker and peeked between two large flowering bushes, looking to see if the man was speaking to anyone. She determined that he was alone over there, which made her even more curious. What kind of man would buy historically accurate reproduction shutter hinges and then talk to them? Curse at them? While using words like “patently” and “substandard,” no less?

She craned her neck. She could almost see him. If only he’d turn to his left a bit…almost there…now just a little bit more…