Larissa Learns to Breathe (4 page)

Was it her imagination, or had he winked at her in return?

CHAPTER FOUR

He blamed that damn blouse.

As Tommy led Larissa down the path toward the southwest end of the island, he chastised himself. This had to be one of his dumbest ideas yet. When Larissa saw the Honeymoon Suite…well, no sense hastening his doom. If only she hadn't been wearing that blouse, which mysteriously turned completely transparent the minute it came into contact with water. It was like his thirteen-year-old self's dream come true, like he'd been wearing the X-ray glasses advertised in the back of the comic books that were the only entertainment his overprotective mother allowed during his asthmatic childhood.

Hell, if thirteen-year-old Tommy had been told that one day he would be stranded on a tropical island with a half-naked, beautiful woman, he wouldn't have believed it. Back then, he'd never have believed he would one day grow out of his asthma and into his scrawny frame, a transformation that had begun during his senior year of college, a little too late for him to find a girlfriend or switch his major from Biology to something less geeky, where he might actually meet some girls. Instead, he'd taken the research job he'd been offered by his faculty advisor and spent the next eight years working for the Ballard Oceanographic Institute on their Key Grande facility, researching evidence of climate change in coastal deposits, until the grants dried up and the facility was shut down earlier in the year.

Tommy had a little money saved, but by then he'd fallen in love with the ocean. His on-again, off-again girlfriend, a fellow researcher, found a new position in Denver and told him he had to choose between her and the ocean. It hadn't been a hard choice, even if things had gotten a little lonely after that. Tommy found work with a shrimping crew, and had been spending his days with a couple of crusty old gentlemen with Vietnam-era tattoos, when the mysterious invitation had showed up in his lunch pail one day.

He'd asked Rafe any number of times, over the speakerphone—Rafe refused to Skype—how and why he'd chosen Tommy for the job of Director of Beachside Recreation. Rafe only chuckled and changed the subject, which Tommy and his fellow staff had learned was Rafe's way of avoiding questions he didn't feel like answering.

However he had come to be chosen, Tommy was grateful. Working construction allowed him to be out in the salt air and warm sunshine, getting some exercise and discovering how much he enjoyed working with his hands. When the resort opened, his new job would bring even more challenges, but Tommy felt ready.

What he did not feel ready for was showing Larissa Lawson where she would be spending the night.

“So here's my cabin,” he said, aware that he was talking too much. Chalk it up to nerves. Even Bluebell seemed anxious, but that was probably because he'd leashed her for the walk over, so that she wouldn't scare Larissa any further.

Larissa glanced over at the cabin, which was similar to the rest of the staff housing except for the fact that it was isolated at the far end of the beach, past the public area and the boathouse. He unclipped Bluebell from her lead. “Budweiser,” he mumbled, hoping Larissa couldn't hear him.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Er,
Budweiser
,” he repeated a little louder as Bluebell just stared at him, ignoring the command. Realizing she was free of the hated leash, she ran in a circle around the two of them, wagging her tail and barking joyfully. Then she bounded off in the wrong direction to chase a gull.

Larissa was watching him with a quizzical expression.

“It means
go to your pen
,” Tommy explained, embarrassed. “Long story.”

To his surprise, Larissa burst out laughing. “I'm sorry. It's just that I didn't think there was anyone as bad with dogs as I am.”

“Oh don't say that. You're just inexperienced. If you spent some time around dogs, you'd get used to them.”

Abruptly, her laughter died, and the same pinched expression came back. She started walking away from him.

“What was that, anyway, back on the boat?” he asked. “That you were yelling at Bluebell?”

Pink crept up her neck. “
Platz
,” she mumbled. “It means ‘stay' in German. I thought…well, I thought it might work since she didn't know ‘stay.'”

“You speak German?”

“Which way?” she asked pointedly. Apparently she wasn't up for idle chitchat. Ahead was the boathouse. To the left was the footpath through the dunes.

“Okay, I should probably explain something before I take you down there,” Tommy said.

“Don't worry,” Larissa said, striding ahead of him. “I'm not going to be put off by a circular bed or a bathtub shaped like a champagne glass. We're both adults; we can…”

She had reached the crest of the dune and was staring down at the other side, where waves lapped against the slim crescent of white sand on the private beach. It really was one of the most stunning, and certainly the most private, places on the island.

Which was why, Tommy had always believed, the first Raphael Westermere had chosen it to build his viewing hut all those years ago. Built from limestone he'd had shipped from Indiana, just like the manor itself, it was a small, simple building, with a roof that could be retracted so Westermere could look up at the stars with his telescope. The telescope was long gone, a victim of theft or looting no doubt, along with the roof. All that remained behind was an old iron cot and a few shelves bolted to the wall. Generations of kids looking for privacy had carved their names in the stone. Tommy had cleared out beer cans and fast food wrappers when he first happened on the place.

A few of the guys on the construction crew, locals who'd grown up on Key Grande, told Tommy that the place was nicknamed “the honeymoon suite” because of the amorous nature of the activities for which it was sometimes used. Tommy gave the place a thorough cleaning and pilfered an extra mattress from the housekeeping staff. He replaced the roof with some spare shingles and wood, and brought his sleeping bag out here on nights when he wanted to fall asleep to the sound of the surf.

“That's—that's—I can't stay there,” Larissa said, horrified. “It doesn't have a
door
.”

“It has a door
way
,” Tommy said lamely. He went ahead of her down the rock path, then held out his hand. Even her “sensible” shoes weren't cut out for much other than an office building; they might be flat but they were shiny and flimsy and decorated with flower cutouts.

She hesitated before taking his hand, then mumbled something that he didn't quite catch. But at least she came with him, picking her way carefully between the pebbles and shells. Tommy helped her over the stone steps and into the tiny enclosure. It smelled of brine and salt and sunlight, his favorite smells in the world—and then Larissa squeezed through the doorway next to him, her wild curls brushing against his cheek, and he realized he had a new favorite scent.

It wasn't just her perfume, which was exotic and expensive smelling, but…he almost felt like he could sense her conflicting emotions through her scent. She was afraid, that much was clear, and she was trying so hard not to let it show. When she'd snapped at him earlier, it hadn't bothered him a bit; Tommy had never had a hard time getting along with people. He'd had great relationships with everyone he'd ever worked for, from old Mrs. Pemberton who paid him fifty cents to mow her lawn, to his research advisors, to the old vets who owned the fishing boat, to Bill Watts. It wasn't going to bother him to work for Amelia, who was kind of a kick with her upper crust manners and that mischievous twinkle in her steel-blue eyes, and he actually thought working for Larissa might be kind of…hot, in an X-rated sort of way.

Larissa was strong and tough, anyone could see that. Rafe had said only that she was a former entrepreneur, and Tommy knew how hard it was to get a business off the ground, so he expected she'd learned all kinds of things. Except she was fragile, too…fragile like the wild petunias that bloomed along the shore, opening so bravely to the sun but losing their lavender petals in the sand at the slightest gust of wind.

She turned to glare at him, hands on her hips. She'd put on a dress to replace the ruined blouse, which was a loss, except that it was a pale shade of pink that made her skin look rosy and creamy at the same time. Whatever makeup she'd had on earlier was gone, a victim of the long day and the dunk in the ocean, and her golden eyes were unadorned and wide and looking directly into his.

“A doorway is not a door,” she rebuked him.

“You should always wear your hair like that.” He reached for one of the curls, and gave it a gentle tug to see what would happen when he released it. It bounced back into place, a coil of wheat-colored strands. “It's…pretty.”

“It is
not
,” she snapped. “It is completely out of control.”

Tommy shrugged. “What's so great about control, anyway? Never mind, I'm sorry, forget I said that. Look, I have an idea. I'll stay down here, and you take my place. I mean, I'll have to come in to shower and get my clothes, but you can have the bedroom. We'll get your place sorted out tomorrow, the next day at the latest. And I've got an early start tomorrow and plenty to do, so you'll hardly see me.”

He could tell she was considering his offer. He knew she longed to refuse, but she was weighing her options and realizing there were no good choices. She could sleep in the lobby of the manor, but the couches were still wrapped in the plastic in which they'd been shipped. She could stretch out on one of the chaises by the pool, but work on the pool area would begin at the crack of dawn, and she'd have no privacy.

But then it occurred to Tommy that he had an ace in the hole: a woman like Larissa—a woman who used her appearance to telegraph her authority, and to cover up her insecurity—what would she want most of all, after the day she'd had?

“Come to think of it, I can just move my stuff to the outdoor shower,” he said. “It's got a privy and a shaving mirror…you can have the bathroom all to yourself. Plug in your hair dryers and all those things you ladies use, I won't bother you a bit.”

She swallowed. Hesitated. And he knew he had her.

“Really?” she asked in a very small voice.

“Really.”

“Because I would love to just….take a shower and…”

To his alarm, her eyes went shiny with tears. “It's been a hard day,” she concluded in a wobbly voice.

Impulsively, he pulled her into a hug. “It's gonna be okay,” he said. At first she stiffened, and then she relaxed in his arms, and he could feel her heart beating like a hummingbird's against his chest. He rubbed his hands over her back, trying very hard to ignore the bra straps, which made him remember how she'd looked in lingerie.

A commotion outside made her pull away from him. “What's that?”

“Probably just the gulls. They like to dig around in the rocks.”

He was still holding her, looking down into her eyes. The sun had sunk lower in the sky, signaling a late November sunset and casting its silvery rays across the back of the little house. One sunbeam caressed her face, and he noticed a faint dusting of dots on her cheeks. He'd wager they were the evidence of carefree summers long ago, before she decided she had to be tough to be a success, before she started spending all her time working and none of it outdoors.

“Once you get a little sun, those freckles will pop right back out,” he said, touching one—very gently, with his fingertip.

Later, he would realize he was halfway to kissing her right there in Raphael Westermere's secret hideout. Instead, Bluebell burst into the house, fresh from a dip in the ocean, and shook joyfully, spraying them both with seawater.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tommy Reid's private residence was not exactly what Larissa expected. For one thing, there was no beer can pyramid in the kitchen. The bedroom floor was not strewn with dirty socks and underwear. The garbage was not overflowing and the furniture was not covered with dog fur.

When he'd opened the door to the cabin and ushered her in, she was struck with the scent of citrus and a view of the ocean through his picture window. Simple, tasteful furniture in bare woods and earthy fabrics was accented with a few modern paintings with bold lines and jewel-like colors. A few clean dishes sat in the drainer next to the sink. A book was lying face down on the chaise, and several more were stacked on the coffee table. In the corner, a big round plaid dog bed sat next to a basket of chew toys.

“It's just two rooms,” Tommy had said apologetically. “Your cabin has an office area too, don't worry. I've got my office over in the boathouse, so I don't need the room.”

He slid open the French door to his bedroom, which was just as tidy, and then showed her the bathroom.

Paradise.

Larissa had been making do with the sort of New York City bathroom that came with a studio apartment she could actually afford, which was to say a tiny space in which the door didn't close and she could barely turn around in the shower and couldn't put on her mascara without bumping against the toilet. If she wanted to dry her hair she had to run an extension cord from the kitchen, and half the time she blew a fuse if her neighbor was using the microwave.

Tommy's bathroom was big and inviting and bright, all white marble and shiny nickel and sea-glass tile. A waterfall shower took pride of place in a glass-doored enclosure. A broad stone sink had space for all of her toiletries, with room left over. Thick white cotton towels were stacked on a wicker shelf, and outside the open window, jasmine blossoms infused the air with their scent. And best of all—there were
two
outlets, enough for her hair dryer and flatiron and MP3 player all to be plugged in at once.

“I'll never leave this room,” Larissa gasped. “Tell them to bury me here when I die.”