Barefoot in Pearls (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 3) (8 page)

She tried to draw back, but he held her tight. “I’m not afraid of lightning,” she assured him, and after a second he loosened his grip, but kept his arms around her.

“You’re different from most females, then.”

“Ditto.”

“I’m not like any females,” he teased, his low laugh somehow sexy and sweet in the dark.

Heat rolled through her, settling low in her belly. This time, she let out a soft grunt of frustration.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her.

A better question would be, What’s right? “I’m just disappointed that this couldn’t be…easier.”

He made a tiny circle with the palm of his hand on her back. “Who said it has to be difficult?”

Arielle nearly melted into him, reminding her that she hadn’t been intimate with a man for a long, long time. Maybe that was why he felt so right.

“I just wish I’d met you at the wedding, had a great connection, so we could flirt, laugh, talk, kiss, and let nature take the course that nature loves to take,” she admitted wistfully. “All this other stuff about the land…”

“Is just stuff,” he said, dipping his face ever so close to hers. “Let’s pretend it didn’t happen.”

She closed her eyes, longing for that possibility. “But it did.”

He moved one of his hands up her bare arm, leaving chills in its wake. “Right now, in this place, during this storm…” He stopped talking while a rumble of thunder vibrated the walls around them. “What if there isn’t any of the other stuff for a few minutes? We’re just two people who met at a wedding, had a great connection, got to flirt, laugh, talk, and…what was the rest?”

“Kiss.” She barely whispered the word, looking up at him, leaning in as she felt her eyes grow as heavy as the pearls around her neck. If only she hadn’t found them…

“That’s right, kiss, and what else did you say? Oh, I know.” He closed the last inch, his lips a breath away from hers. “Let nature take the course that nature loves to take.”

His lips pressed against hers, so light it was more of a tickle than a kiss. The lightning was inside her now, like a shot of fire and need, pushing her into him.

“You’re a fan of nature, right, Arielle?” he whispered against her lips.

“I am,” she admitted. “Big fan.”

As if she had to voice her own opinion, Mother Nature sent down one more bolt of lightning, a freakish flash that seemed to last for three seconds, highlighting Luke’s surprised look like a klieg light, accompanied by a cannon boom of thunder that rattled everything, including their bones.

All the hairs on her arms and neck shot to attention and tingled as she clutched Luke’s arms.

He tightened his embrace and looked beyond her out the door. “Shit. We got hit.”

Confirming that, thunder rumbled and reverberated like an angry drunk stumbling through the house.

He eased her away. “I better check for a fire. The wiring in this place is ancient, and lightning in the system could fry us. Fry us more,” he added softly. Suddenly the whole lower half of the closet was bathed in a golden glow that emanated from his hand.

“You have a flashlight?” Ari asked.

“You think I was going to get out of my truck and traipse through the night without one?”

“Why didn’t you use it?”

“I was trying to follow your let’s-play-in-the-dark game. I thought I might win.” He took her hand. “Come with me while I check the damage.”

She let her hand be engulfed in his, peering into the beam that shed light on exactly how bad a hovel they were in. His flashlight scanned the floor, the walls, and the main room, highlighting the torn and stained carpet, cigarette butts, and pizza boxes, and two empty whiskey bottles that said old man Balzac’s wrecked home had been the place for local kids to party.

Maybe the general seediness explained the shudder that rolled through her. “If I’d known what was in this place, I might have taken my chances to get back to the truck.”

“Not with that lightning, you wouldn’t have. Demolition is scheduled for next week, but I’d rather avoid the hassle of a fire. Talk about red tape.” He urged her along. “Stay right next to me while I find the fuse box.”

She hesitated for a moment, still torn between…what was tearing her apart? Heart and head? Body and soul? Right and wrong? Real and imagined? Everything about Luke McBain was a paradox to her. So, she took his hand and let him lead her, intent on figuring out what this sensation was and why it was so powerful.

As they walked toward the kitchen, Luke stopped and touched the walls.

“What are you doing?”

“Feeling for heat. Lightning can travel right through the electrical system.”

“I don’t think there’s any electricity in this house, Luke.”

“Doesn’t need to be on for lightning to shoot through the wires and start a fire. The box is in here, if I recall.” He pushed open a door to what looked like a small walk-in pantry in the back of the kitchen.

Something scampered inside. Ari inched back with another shudder.

“We are not alone,” Luke droned ominously.

“Of course we aren’t,” she said. “A man died in this house.”

He turned and threw her a look, his eyes hooded in the shadow from the flashlight. “You’re not going to tell me I can’t tear this place down, too, are you?”

“It’s not the same as the hill.”

“Why not?” He leveled the beam on an ancient fuse box hanging out of the wall.

“He’s not buried here.”

Another look from Luke, this one more cynical than the last. “Would you, um,
feel
it if he was?”

She wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or just asking. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

The skepticism in his eyes melted as he patted the walls around the box, sticking his head closer to examine each wire. “Nothing’s warm. We may be okay.” He flattened his hand against the wall again, leaning into it as he sniffed. “I don’t smell smo—”

He suddenly slipped as his whole arm went straight through the wall to the elbow.

“Shit!” He yanked his arm out, and when he did, the whole sheet of drywall came right off with it.

“Oh!” Ari backed up, out of the pantry, certain that half the rodent and roach population of Mimosa Key would come scurrying out at her.

“What the hell?” Luke moved in closer, shining his light on the exposed studs and moldy wood. “At least it won’t be hard to tear down.”

Ari’s gaze dropped low, partially in trepidation that a nest of rats lived in the walls—she liked nature, but not
that
much—and her gaze landed on the top of a wooden crate revealed by the broken wall.

“What’s that?” she asked.

He pointed the light on it, showing faded lettering across the top, the gray outline curved across the top. “Rueckheim & Eckstein,” he read. “Whatever that is.”

“Cracker Jack.”

He looked over his shoulder, half-smiling at what he probably assumed was a joke.

“Rueckheim & Eckstein was a candymaker in Chicago that invented Cracker Jack.” She inched closer, a frisson of excitement and anticipation prickling her skin. Something was in that crate. Something…important. She could feel it. “Please open it, Luke.”

“So you can eat hundred-year-old Cracker Jacks?”

“So I can see what the old man was hiding in his walls.”

Without arguing, he crouched down and put his hand on the side of the crate. “It’s nailed shut.”

“Which makes me want to open it even more.”

He laughed softly, handing her the flashlight. “Hold this.”

She aimed the light on the box as he bent over and hoisted it up. “Heavy,” he said with a grunt. “Not big enough for a dead body. Books, maybe? Buried treasure?”

He glanced around for a tool of some sort but, finding nothing, simply dug his fingers under one side and gave it a pull. The wood snapped up and popped off. Ari came even closer, pointing the flashlight into the box, which was full to capacity with cream and brown—

“Looks like a bunch of seashells,” Luke said.

“Are you kidding?” Mesmerized, Ari dropped to her knees, her hand almost shaking as she reached out. “These are not seashells. This is art. This is history. This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

Chapter Six

She was freaking nuts. There was no other explanation for this woman with the overactive imagination who saw things that weren’t there. Art? History?

They were sticks, rocks, stones, and, mostly, seashells.

He reached toward the box, but she grabbed his hand.

“Don’t touch anything!” Arielle ordered. “You could break one.”

Half of them were already broken, by the looks of it. “It’s just a bunch of seashells, Arielle, which are in fairly plentiful supply around here.”

“Can you carry it out? Very, very carefully?” she asked, either ignoring him or not hearing what he’d just said. She aimed his flashlight on the shells, her other hand hovering over the crate like she was instinctively protecting the contents.

“Getting a vibe?”

She shot him a vile look. “That you’re being a jerk?”

The accusation hit, and he gave his head an apologetic shake. “I’ll drag it to the truck if you want to keep it.”

“No, that could damage…” She widened her eyes as though she just realized what he said. “If I want to keep it? Luke, this belongs in a museum.”

He looked from her, back to the shells, and to her again, trying hard as hell to take this as seriously as she did. “I’m definitely not seeing what you are.”

Her lids shuttered as she let out a sigh and gingerly—as if she were plucking a diamond from ashes—lifted one of the smooth, creamy shell stones.

“My guess is this is an arrowhead,” she said, reverence in her voice.

“Really.” He worked to sound like it was remotely feasible, when inside, he guessed he was looking at a shell worn into a triangular shape. Obviously, she knew more than he did about this.

She carefully set it down and pointed to another. “And this is likely a knife. That one”—she indicated a round shell with sharp edges—“was probably used to skin fish.”

Not very neatly.

She leaned back on her heels. “These are
tools
, Luke. Ancient tools that might date back two or three or four
thousand
years. They belong in the Smithsonian, not the kitchen of a house that’s going to be torn down.” She gave a little shudder as if the idea physically hurt her.

Four-thousand-year-old tools? He honestly couldn’t see one thing in the crate that didn’t look like someone simply picked it up during a walk on the beach and stuck it in an old box.

“You were so right,” she continued. “Up on that hill today, you said, ‘It’s history,’ and you were so, so right. It is beautiful, glorious, magical history.” Sighing again, she actually sat on the floor, clearly no longer skittish about the critters they’d seen and heard. “God, I miss my grandma. She’d know exactly what everything in this box is.” She tenderly touched another shell. “Other than spectacular.”

But he couldn’t share her rapture. Instead, he closed the box as if tamping down his frustration. Why had she come up here and found that necklace and started all this?

He didn’t dare ask. He knew her answer would be kismet or destiny or some great act of ancient gods.

“Okay,” he said, fighting to keep any emotion out of his voice. “I’ll put them in the truck. And when we demolish this structure, I’ll be sure to look for any other boxes of similar buried treasure. I’ll double-check the paperwork and assure you that every necessary inspection and survey are complete before we level the hill and landscape the sweeping grounds the owner wants out to the sea.” Just saying it made him feel better. “But that’s it. That’s all I’ll do.”

She stared at him for a long time. Too long. And, damn it, he could have sworn there was moisture in her eyes. His gut clenched a little, and his whole chest squeezed.

Wasn’t she going to say anything?

He looked down at the faded lettering of the Cracker Jack company, mostly to avoid her slicing gaze. Putting both hands on the sides, he started to stand and bring the box with him, expecting her to rise, too.

But she stayed firmly on the filthy ground, staring straight ahead, the flashlight still on her lap.

“Let’s go to the truck,” he said.

Silence.

“Come on, Ari.” He hoisted the box higher. “The worst of the storm’s passed.”

The one outside, that was. The one in her eyes was brewing pretty hard.

“I promise I’ll be careful with it,” he added, thinking that was her problem. When she didn’t move, he puffed out a breath. “And I’ll put it in the back cab, so it won’t get wet.”

Because God forbid
seashells
get
wet
.

His arms were starting to burn from holding the box, but she stayed as motionless as a statue. All this over a box of fucking rocks!

Giving up, he pivoted and marched through the house, trusting instinct and good luck not to trip, stepping into the night where the rain had slowed to barely a drizzle. He walked to the truck and set the box down—
carefully
—and opened the quad cab door so he could wedge the crate in safely.