Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (11 page)

What was he implying? Was it what she thought? Was he suggesting she take the lead here? "I don't need reins. I have a whip and spurs."

"Ouch." He laughed.

Good grief. Why did she say such a stupid thing? He'd get the impression she was into dominance and pain. Well, she was into dominance if a hunky guy was doing the dominating. Say...silk ties binding her wrists to the bed posts. Pain on the other hand. Safe word—hellno. That about summed it up. Pain was not on her "to-do" list.

Damn it all, now she felt as awkward as a teen who’d accidentally walked into the boys bathroom, found herself secretly excited, was unsure where to look, and was unable to get out of there fast enough.

Music, that was what they needed. She sauntered over to the kitchen counter and unplugged the boombox. There were plenty of fresh batteries in the junk drawer by the refrigerator. She popped a few Duracells into the back of the radio and flipped it on. Static crackled. She fiddled with the antenna, trying to get something to come in, but everything was muted with white noise. She checked the CD compartment. Her favorite Miles Davis CD was loaded. She turned up the volume and let it rip.

Primal tones of an acrobatic trumpet filled the room, and the atmospheric energy surrounding them changed. The raging winds outside blended with the electrifying jazz and created a boldly organic and passionate rendition of “Giant Steps.” The music made a sensual, heady rush come over her, and she began to sway.

Brock rose from the sofa and moved closer to her. “What is it about this song that brings out that look in your eye?”

She responded without giving much thought, “This music is unleashed and contagious." She looked into his eyes and fell silent for a beat, distracted by the fluttering in her belly. She had to do something to snap herself out of this, or she’d pounce all over him.
 

“It brings out the shaggy beast in me." She tried to emulate the voice of Jessica Rabbit as she batted her eyes coyly, making a joke out of the sexual undertones.

His brows lifted. "Let it out. I've got a shaggy beast of my own."

A loud clap struck the roof. She fell backward into her favorite chair. Another crash sounded above them. She pulled herself to her feet and scrambled upstairs, Brock right behind her.

At the top of the stairs, she looked up to see a huge, gaping hole in the ceiling. Rain poured in. This leak wasn't something you could catch in a bucket or collect in pots. This was a deluge.
 

Brock rushed down the stairs.
 

She called after him. "Where are you going?"

He didn't answer.
 

She chased him. He stopped at the lower-level storage room and pulled out several tarps, a box of nails, and a hammer. “Do you have a long extension ladder, the kind a fire fighter would use?”

Extension ladder...where was it? Oh yeah, it was hung on the side of the house. She led the way outside and around the corner, barely able to keep her balance as the wind and rain slapped her body and face, causing her long dress to cling, making it difficult for her to move. He handed her the items he'd retrieved and yanked the ladder down.

She yelled over the demonic noise created by the storm. “What are you doing?" Surely he didn’t plan on going up on the roof now.

"I'm going up there and covering that hole."

"You can't do that right now. You'll get yourself killed."

He gave her a fierce determined look and jerked the tools from her grip. Ladder over his shoulder, tarps and equipment in his fists, he marched to the side of the three-story house and extended the ladder until it reached the edge of the roof. “Hold this still while I climb up."

Was he out of his ever-loving mind? The winds would tousle him around and send him flying like a dislodged beach umbrella tumbling end over end.

His nostrils flared, and his jaw twitched. There was no reasoning with a bull. She grabbed the base of the ladder and watched as he shimmied up three stories. His foot slipped, and he slid back down a few feet before grasping a wrung and catching himself.
 

The gusts died down slightly. Thank God. He got his feet back under him and continued his ascent. She clamped her eyes shut to protect them from the needle-like rain pricking every exposed surface of her body. She felt the ladder shift and looked up as he stepped onto the roof.
 

With the empty ladder in her white-knuckled fists, her stomach clenched into a hard, nauseated stone. She couldn't see him, couldn't help him. All she could do was hold on and pray he'd make it back down safely. Holding her breath and straining to hear the hammer strike, she heard a bang. She told herself that was him nailing the tarp onto the shingles. But the bang was much louder than just a hammer and nails. Frozen in place, she wrestled with the decision to run inside and see if he’d fallen through the hole or stay put to man the ladder so he could get back down.

She bit her salty lower lip and ground her teeth against the grit that had blown into her mouth.

“Sam...." Brock’s voice was distant and edged with pain.

No sight of him. She shouted up at the sky. “Brock, are you all right?”

"Sam, go upstairs."

She let go of the ladder. It smacked against the house next door and became wedged between the two buildings. With her dress hiked to her hips, she ran upstairs.

Brock hung by one hand from the hole in the ceiling. His feet dangled less than five feet above the floor. Rain poured in on top of him. Why didn't he just let go and drop?

"Let go, you crazy man."

"I can't."

"What's wrong?"

As soon as the question left her mouth, she saw blood running down his arm, staining his sodden white shirt.
 

"You're hurt. Oh God, Brock. What have you done?"

"My hand is pinned. I need something to stand on." His voice was strained to a grunt.

She wrestled a chest of drawers over and placed it beneath him. He was able to put his feet on top of it. He groaned and yanked his hand free. In a blur of movement, he hopped down from the chest of drawers, bolted to the bathroom, and slammed the door behind him.

She knocked. "Are you okay? Let me take you to the doctor."

He emerged from the bathroom, bare-chested, shreds of his shirt tightly wound around his hand. He'd rinsed his arm, and it looked clean, but the white cloth bandage was quickly turning crimson, which told her he was still bleeding.
 

She hated herself for lusting at this moment, but she couldn’t help it. The sight of him shirtless, with his rippling abs exposed, made her quiver. She focused on the droplets of water sliding down his torso. She could lap those droplets up and die happy.

He turned slightly and she caught sight of a red scar on his shoulder. She could tell whatever caused that scar had happened recently. “What happened to your shoulder?

He glanced at his shoulder. “Surgery. I had a rugby injury that required some doctoring. Nothing to worry about.”

She didn’t like how nonchalant he was about injuries. "We've got to get you to the hospital."

“I'm fine." He shrugged it off so easily. Maybe he wasn’t hurt as badly as she thought, not that he seemed to care what she thought. Pigheaded man. Mr. Perfect did have a fault after all.

He went back downstairs, and she trailed after him. He ripped the ladder free from its wedged position and leaned it against the house again. "Hold it still.” Every speck of the bandage on his hand was now red.
 

“We're going to the hospital. Now."

"Hold it still, I say.”

He’d found his sexy drill sergeant voice. It made her nipples salute. Yes, sir.
 

Arguing with this man was pointless. She did as he instructed, and he climbed back up the ladder. She soon heard the tapping of the hammer. The wind died down enough so the rain no longer stung when it hit her.
 

Within five minutes, Brock stood at her side under the carport with a proud grin on his face. "I got her all covered up. We'll be fine."

"What about you? I'm more concerned about your injury than the roof."

He looked down at his hand. “Might require a stitch or two. No bones broken.” He rubbed his left shoulder, sucking in a breath. “I’m going to check upstairs again.”
 

He was a complete madman. She followed him and shined the flashlight at the ceiling. No more leak.
 

They went down to the living room, and he collapsed on the sofa, a satisfied look on his face. She got him a beer.
 

He took a long pull. “Ahh.”

His dark, wet hair glistened like onyx in the candlelight. He slouched, rested his head against the back cushion, and closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell with slow steady breaths.
 

She sat across from him and watched in awe at how peaceful he seemed after such an ordeal.

He lifted his head and smiled. “Thanks. That was fun."

"Fun? You call that fun?"

He laughed. "Yeah. Most fun I've had since...." A pensive expression replaced his smile.

"Since what?”

"No matter." He looked down at his hand and chewed his bottom lip. “I think my fingers are starting to swell.” Then without missing a beat, he turned the beer up to his mouth and chugged the remainder of the bottle. “American beer sucks.”

She laughed. “What kind of beer do you prefer?”

“I’m a fan of a bitter.”

She wasn’t familiar with this term in regards to beer. The concept of a bitter drink didn’t sound good to her.

He truly didn't seem to care that his hand was nearly ripped off. What was there to say to a man that psychotic?
 

And why did she find his disregard for pain...sexy?
 

The little devil on her right shoulder found everything about him to be hot and sexy. Funny how her little devil sounded like Paris Hilton. The little angel on her left shoulder was dressed in lingerie and wasn’t saying a word. She was just biting her lower lip and looking at Brock like she had a dirty secret.

Sam needed to fire them both. Neither one was doing her a darn bit of good.

Sam slipped away to put on dry clothes and Brock sat alone on the sofa.
 

His injured hand throbbed. Swollen and purpling fingers protruded from the makeshift bandage he’d wrapped around his wound. Wiggling his bratwurst fingers, a searing pain shot through the heel of his hand, the area that had been sliced open by a jagged edge of metal flashing on the roof.
 

He regretted the drink he’d consumed earlier.
 
A Vicodin for the pain wasn’t an option. Had he known he was going to come so close to ripping his hand off, he would’ve opted for the Vicodin instead of the alcohol.

His left shoulder prickled with heat. It wouldn’t be long before that heat would seemingly grow talons that would tear into his flesh. That was the best description he could think of to convey the excruciating agony that plagued him since the surgery—a surgery that was supposed to rebuild his shoulder.

His mind drifted to the fated event that drove him to retirement. He had been inches from scoring the winning point for the Griffins when a rookie from the opposing team rammed him from the side. The young man plowed into his shoulder and a sickly, wet pop ensued, followed by a series of crackles like the crunching of an empty paper bag—only the noise was made by the snapping of tendons and ligaments. The rookie collapsed in an unconscious heap. Unable to stop himself, Brock tumbled over the young man and landed directly on his injured shoulder.
 

The impact of the fall was the blow that shattered bone into splinters that pierced deep into muscle, barely missing arteries. He blacked out from the intense pain. When he awoke, he learned the young man was expected to make a full recovery and would be playing again in a couple of weeks. He, on the other hand, would never play rugby again, at least not professional rugby. Bloody rookies. All brawn and no brain.

His days as a star rugby player were over. Throughout his lengthy career, he’d suffered many injuries and bounced back, but not this time. No, this time, the doctor said he may have to undergo several surgeries before the pain eased enough to be considered bearable.
 

As soon as Brock announced his retirement, Karen, his girlfriend of four years, broke up with him. She quickly hooked up with another rugby player, who just happened to play for the opposing team. He should have seen it coming. Karen was a camera hound. Nothing made her happier than being tailed by paparazzi and having her picture splashed all over the paper.

During their four year relationship, she’d never pressed him for a marriage proposal, which may have been the main reason he’d stayed with her. A fact he wasn’t proud of, but it was what it was.

 
He’d had his share of fame whores latching onto him and his wallet ever since he was picked up by the Griffins at the tender age of twenty.
 

He had one of the longest careers in the sport. Apparently, it wasn’t long enough to wake him up to the fact that women couldn’t see past the cameras and the money. At least none he’d met. Fame was a cancer and he was glad to be rid of it.
 

Truth be told, he’d used Karen as much as she’d used him. They were never in love with one another. She was smart, pretty, good in bed, knew just what to say when interviewed, gave him his space during training, and never caused him any scandal—with the exception of their breakup.

Karen was a safe and comfortable option during a time when Brock needed to keep his focus on his career instead of his love life. She kept his bed warm without distracting his mind from the game. In return, he provided the lifestyle she craved. It was a fair trade, but it wasn’t love. He wasn’t sure he was capable of love. In all his thirty-eight year
s
, he’d never experienced it first hand, and he blamed his mother. She’d taught him to create a tough rind around his heart, just like hers.