Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (10 page)

"It’ll be okay. Do you think you can drive in this mess? My truck has a tendency to conk out anytime the motor gets wet, which I’m sure you gathered from the disaster at the bridge this morning."

Amusement showed on his face. “Yeah, I can make it. I’ll pull the car around. Stay here."

“Thank you.” Having her stay dry while he battled the rain and brought the car curbside—he was a rare breed of male, and she was beginning to like his polite mannerisms. A lot. That didn’t mean she had to bed him. It just meant she appreciated his kindness. That was all.
 

Kendal poked Sam’s back. “Nice score, he's a keeper.”
 

Mazy just looked at him like he was from a different planet.

"He's nice,” Leah crooned in Sam's ear as Brock headed outside. "You really lucked out."

Sam glared at Leah. "Lucked out? I'll be homeless in six weeks. Yeah, I really lucked out."

Kendal put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. "Stop being so melodramatic. We'll help you find a new place. Meanwhile, hubba hubba."
 

"Are you out of your curly head?" Sam couldn’t believe this was Kendal talking.

Kendal’s eyes crinkled as she drew her lips into a smile, displaying so many straight, white teeth at once Sam blinked from the brightness.

"No. But you must be out of your head if you don’t go for him. He's awesome.” Kendal pulled her hair into a ponytail and slipped an elastic band around it.

"So what. I've been with gorgeous men, and look where that's gotten me. Thanks, but no thanks. My life runs much smoother without sexy men mucking up the works. I'm only being civil to him because I don't want to get thrown out on the streets before I find a new place. That's all there is to it.”

"That explains your stance, but why is he being so nice to you?" Kendal seemed proud of herself for putting Sam on the spot.

Sam thought for a moment. "He's British. They're all about manners and proper decorum."

"Sure. That's it. He can't help himself. It's how he was raised. That's the only reason he wants to give you a ride home. The only reason he’s being such a gentleman. Keep telling yourself that." Kendal smirked.
 

“Hey, he was your knight in shining armor tonight, not mine.”

Kendal lifted her chin. “He was fabulous, wasn’t he?”

Sam bit her tongue. She wasn’t going to be tricked into admitting Brock was incredible.

With a quiet little laugh, Kendal said, “What’s wrong? Scared to say it out loud?”
 

It was so unlike Kendal to be snarky. That was Sam's job.
 

Brock pulled up, and Sam ran out of the restaurant before she said exactly what they all wanted to hear—the man was Prince Charming incarnate.
 

But after receiving that eviction notice, added onto all the other crap life had thrown her way, one thing was clear—she didn’t have a fairy godmother, and if she were to ever wear glass slippers, they would shatter.
 

When she slid into Brock’s car, jazz was playing on the radio.
 

"Thanks,” she said as they pulled out onto the street. “I didn't know you liked jazz."

He gave her a there’s-a-lot-you-don’t-know-about-me look. "This is the only station I could get to come in clearly. I was hoping to find out more about the storm."

“Gotcha. You don't have to listen to this if it annoys you." She reached up to turn the dial.
 

He placed his hand over hers, and a shiver ran through her. "I never suggested it annoys me. I’m not that familiar with this style of music is all, but it's growing on me, especially after hearing you play it. My God, you’re brilliant. I’m in awe.” He pulled his hand away, and the warm sensation of his touch lingered.

“Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to say. He was undeniably sweet, and she wasn’t used to it, at least not from such a burly, manly man.
 

She put her hand back on her lap and studied his profile, noting the way his skin pleated at the corners of his eyes as he strained to see through the sheets of rain on the windshield. His jaw flexed, and he ground his teeth. The muscles in his arms and thighs rippled beneath his wet clothing.
 

She'd been with many fine looking musicians, but none of them had been extremely muscular. There was something about Brock that made her feel delicate, which wasn’t an adjective she'd ever associated with herself. She had to confess, she liked the feeling.

She went gooey inside sitting so close to him, his warmth radiating, awakening areas that hadn’t been touched by a man in five years, and never by a man anywhere near as valiant as Brock. She was star-struck by him, and she’d never watched rugby in her life. No wonder he had so many fans.
 

She’d love to have his autograph. Yep, he could sign his name with a sharpie right across her....

She crossed her legs. She had it bad. Try all she might, there was no denying he did it for her. Somewhere deep inside, a voice kept saying,
Maybe he’s different than the others
. That was one dangerous voice, and it was persistent. She’d never be able to keep up the pretense of being gay for six weeks, not living in the same house with this man. Chances were she wouldn’t even make it a week at this rate.

Heavy rain hit the convertible’s ragtop with such force Sam feared the fabric would give way. The windshield wipers swooshed back and forth at top speed without doing much to improve visibility. How Brock was managing to drive in this downpour amazed her.
 

She leaned forward and squinted. “Here. Turn here.” She’d never been so happy to see that ugly fish mailbox and those tacky flamingo-shaped reflectors at the edge of the driveway.

The rain pounding against the car abruptly stopped as they pulled into the flooded carport. For a brief moment, relief and the sense of being safe rendered her calm.

That sense of safety died when she opened the passenger door and the wind jerked the handle out of her grasp, causing the door’s hinge to pop like a dislocated joint.
 

She jumped. Brock reached over and placed a comforting palm against her shoulder. The warmth of his touch helped her racing heart lull into a steady rhythm once more.
 

“Are you all right?” His caring tone felt like a warm blanket for her nerves.
 

She gave him a nod, and then stepped out of the vehicle into the puddle—more like tidal pool—that was the carport. Despite her three-inch heels, the water reached her ankles. She’d never seen the carport flood like this, and she’d been through many storms. Had the waves swelled worse than ever? If so, why wasn’t there water standing in her neighbor’s yard?

She and Brock slogged to the guest quarters. Once inside, they moved Sam’s personal belongings from the floor to the countertop, tables, dresser—higher ground of any kind. Clothes floated around them like colorful logs on a river. Brock scooped some of her wet clothes into his arms and dropped them onto the fold-out sofa.

Any plans she had for living in the apartment were gone now, and she was too stunned by the whole damn day to even react to the new turn of events. She’d taken one blow after the other since she got out of bed, and the hits kept coming. Fate had it in for her. That’s all there was to it.
 

She couldn’t think about that now, though. She had to focus on protecting the house from further storm damage. If they didn’t get upstairs and take care of those windows, the rest of the house would flood too.
 

Sam touched Brock’s arm. His hot muscles writhed beneath his drenched shirt. “Don't worry about it. We need to board up.”
 

Truth be told, she didn’t own anything extremely valuable beyond her bass, and that was safe and sound at the restaurant.

He cradled one last armful of her clothes and used his chin to signal her to lead the way upstairs. She waded through the cold water and trudged to the carport. Rounding the corner of the house, she clutched the handrail and pulled herself onto the first step. Her feet squished and slid around in her wedge sandals as she climbed the stairs. The gusting rain threatened to throw her off balance.
 

Brock followed her into the laundry area and dropped the wet clothes onto the tile floor. “I think we can wash them, and they'll be okay."

"Of course." There was that considerate nature of his again. As much as she wanted to tell herself he was evil, his actions proved otherwise. She knew she needed to find a way to thank him for his kindness.
 

Sex was out, gay and all that. Cookies were out. She didn’t bake. Sex and cookies. Her favorites. Damn.
 

A loud crash followed by the tinkle of shattering glass came from the dining room. She rushed toward the noise but staggered back when stinging pellets of sand and saltwater struck her flesh.

"Christ.” Brock pulled her to him, shielding her from the flying debris. He put one of his big hands on the back of her head, his thick fingers tangling in her hair.

She curled into the shelter of his arms and closed her eyes. Could he really be as wonderful as he seemed? Maybe fate was trying to tell her something she was too stubborn to hear.
 

With her body flat against a mass of muscle that smelled like rain mixed with what was becoming her favorite cologne of all time, her hands settled on each side of his waist—clutching his wet shirt. She trembled, and her pulse thudded in her ears like the rapid footfalls of an Olympic runner sprinting across the beach.
 

His granite arms tightened around her, and his velvet lips brushed against her forehead. “I’ve got you.” His voice was hoarse and sexy.

She soaked in the comfort of his embrace briefly, then snapped to her senses and tore herself away. Shards of glass clung to the frame of the front window, and an unfamiliar surfboard that must have crashed through the window laid in pieces on the dining room floor. Rockers and wrought iron furniture clattered against the planks of the deck, and the two hammocks in each corner twisted into knots. Loud creaks and hollow groans poured from the house itself. Just beyond the deck, monolithic waves devoured the shore like a ravenous monster.
 

She had to yell to be heard over the howling wind. “We've got to get boarded up fast.” Her dress whipped around her legs, and her hair flogged her face and neck as she leaned into the wind and forced her way to the storage closet where the window boards were kept.

She pulled out the board labeled dining room window. Brock pocketed a hammer and nails then grabbed the board and dragged it onto the deck. He lifted the large piece of plywood over the broken window with one hand and nailed it into place. Dear Lord, he was strong.
 

He wiped his face with his shirtsleeve. “Next board?”

The lights flickered twice then the power went out. Sam reached out to get her bearings and felt Brock’s hot chest beneath her fingers. She took a step back, and glass crunched under her shoe and made her jump.
 

He grabbed her hands and pulled her close. “You’re okay.”

Whew. Standing so close to him, she was anything but okay. “I’ll get flashlights.”
 

He didn’t let go of her hands when she took a step backward. He said, “I can go with you.”

“No. Stay here.” He didn’t seem to understand she needed to put some space between them. And even though her brain understood why she needed to keep her distance, her body wanted to keep him as near as possible.
 

She slipped her hands from his and went to the kitchen, blindly rummaging through a junk drawer next to the fridge until she located a couple of small flashlights.
 

The storm had triggered anxiety she tried desperately to keep under control. Her experience with panic attacks taught her to recognize the chemical taste of adrenaline in the back of her throat. Nasty. Bitter. She staggered and reached for a barstool for balance as she took a few deep breaths until her dizziness subsided.

When she returned to Brock on the deck, they made quick headway with the boarding. The windows along the side of the house were fairly protected by the close neighbors that blocked most of the wind, and all they had to do was tape x’s on the glass in case of breakage. Hurricane shutters shielded the windows on the street-side of the house. Sam showed Brock how to work the mechanism, and they pulled all of the shutters snug against the sills and locked them down. With every window tightly closed, darkness fell around them. The banshee wind—a howling demon clawing to get in—shoved the skinny-legged house like a bully.

Sam shined her flashlight around the living room and located her ocean breeze scented candles. She fished a lighter from a glass bowl on an end table and lit the candles. The room quickly filled with a soft glow and an aromatic spa-like scent.

The lines in Brock's rugged face seemed to deepen in the candlelight, making him all the more chiseled and distinguished.

He sat on the couch. “What sort of damage should I expect?"
 

His question was obviously referring to the damage caused by the storm, but Sam couldn't help but wonder what sort of damage she should expect if she and Brock were to become physically intimate.
 

After all the disasters from her past, she was due something good. Could he be her something good?
 

Her gaze moved from the lines of his handsome face and traveled over his muscular chest and broad shoulders. A few dark, wiry curls stuck out through the opened neckline of his translucent, wet button-down.
 

She imagined undoing those white, plastic buttons and trailing her fingers from his Adam’s apple to his belt buckle.
 

He cleared his throat. "I suppose if you've ridden out worse there's nothing for me to fear."

That astute observation made her laugh. "I've ridden worse and survived."

A mischievous smile played on the edges of his mouth. "Then we've nothing to be concerned about. I turn the reins over to you."