Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (27 page)

Leah pressed a hand to her face. “This is so cool.”

Sam’s eyes grew large, and she laugh. “Take us down, baby.”

He pressed the button and down they went. When they stopped on the ground floor, Sam unlatched the entry gate and pushed the pocket door open. She jumped out and turned around. “That’s the coolest elevator ever.”

Leah hopped out and grabbed Sam’s hand. “That’s going to make life so much easier for you.”

Sam’s gaze darted to Brock. “Is that why you installed it? Because of me?” Her face paled with worry.
 

He didn’t want her to feel indebted to him or overwhelmed by his grand gesture. Knowing Sam, that was a very real possibility. “No, love. It’s a pain in the arse to haul things up and down the stairs while I’m doing renovations. I need this. After experiencing a severe storm in this area, I simply realized I needed to take precautions to make it safe. Trust me, this elevator is something I wanted for selfish reasons.”
 

The tension lines in her brow relaxed as her face brightened. His fib paid off. Good thing he was perceptive and had learned to read her ever-changing moods.
 

Truth was, he
did
install the blasted thing with her in mind, down to every last detail—making sure it was large enough for her bass, and making damned sure she couldn’t possibly feel trapped inside it. Some of the modifications he’d made were quite costly, but it was of upmost importance that she felt comfortable using it, otherwise, there was no point in having the blimey thing.

His heart raced. He couldn’t wait to show off the new, jet-black Hummer he’d bought in Wilmington on his way through town. He’d passed the car dealership and made a U turn. It was the perfect beach vehicle. He’d be able to drive onto the dunes, carry surfboards and a kayak on the luggage rack. He could put all his gear in the back, move whatever tools he needed, and haul Sam’s bass without concern of rain. Not to mention it was an automatic, so she could drive it from time to time.
 

Sam opened the door that led to the carport and gasped. “Whose Hummer?”

He jingled his keys up high. “Mine. Let me give you ladies a lift to the interview. I’ll put the bass in the back.”

Leah’s antique, aqua and white Bel Air was parked behind Brock’s vehicle. She said, “Awesome ride. Jack’s going to be jealous. He's been wanting a Hummer.” She pulled her keys from her pocket. “Sorry I can’t go with y’all. I have to pick up some stuff for the restaurant, but I expect to hear about every last detail.” She shook a finger at Sam. “Call me later.”

AS BROCK PULLED out of the driveway, he turned up the Miles Davis CD he’d bought while in Wales. He hoped Sam would remember their first night together and the raging storm.

Sam tilted her head, “Is that the radio?”

“No. It’s a CD, Miles Davis.”

“My CD?”

“No, love. I bought this one in Cardiff.”

“
You
bought a CD of Miles Davis? Wait. This is the same one we listened to the night of the storm.”

Score. She remembered. “Is it?” He grinned. “I vaguely recall.”

She punched his arm. “Vaguely recall.” She did a poor British accent. “By George, I do believe you’re full of poo.”

“And you’re full of sugar and spice and everything nice.” He gave her a wink, and she blushed. “So tell me about this interview.”

“Oh, it’s all happened so fast. You knew I was doing some recording from time to time with the band called Inked Religion, right?”

“Yes. You hadn’t told me per se, but I heard you talking to Leah about it.”

“Sorry I was giving you the cold shoulder there for a while.”

“No worries. Every inch of you is delightful. Cold, hot, wet—“

“Don’t go there.” She faced him with a devious grin on her lips.
 

He had a hard time keeping his eyes on the road.
 

“One of the songs I recorded with them has hit the charts. I’m talking Billboard charts, like the top 100. I think it’s at 48 right now and climbing. Bear in mind, this has all happened in just a few days’ time.”

“That’s exciting. So, you’re playing on a song that is hugely popular on the airwaves here in America?”

“Yes. Apparently Spider’s mom—Spider’s the drummer, by the way. Anyway, Spider’s mom has connections with someone at the movie studios, who has connections to someone at VH1, and boom—some VH1 head guy called Spider and scheduled an interview with the band. Brandon, their normal bassist, can’t gig right now because he got banged up in a car accident recently. So there you have it. I’m their backup bassist, and I’ve been invited to sit in with them on the interview.”

“That’s fantastic. Will you continue to play with this band?”

“No. When Brandon heals, I’ll be out of the loop. I’m just enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame while it’s here.”

When she said the word fame his insides churned.

She flipped down the visor and primped in the mirror. “I feel like I’m living a dream. My father always wanted to be a part of a hit song on the radio. He’d be thrilled by this. I guess as a way of feeling close to him, I’ve always wanted the same thing for myself, to have a hit. I just never thought it was possible. I’m still having trouble believing it.”

When they arrived at Provisions the gravel parking lot was packed, and a line wrapped around the bar. There were local TV crews as well as local radio crews. Reporters with microphones and cameras were everywhere.
 

He parked along the road and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. His stomach clenched.
 

Sam beamed and appeared practically electric as she scanned the crowd and waved to people calling her name. She barely made it into the parking lot before fans and photographers swarmed her.
 

He kept his eye on her blonde bun and hung back, wishing he were invisible. For a split second, he envisioned what life would be like if she were a famous musician long term. He cringed. Hopefully, this was a passing phase—she would have her moment of glory, and things would return to normal.
 

A tall man with a loud voice grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled her toward him. He said, “Come over here, Miss Carlisle. I need to ask you some questions for WRNX.”
 

Every muscle in Brock’s body flexed. Sam looked distraught and irritated. She was running late for the interview inside the building, and this selfish prick was demanding her attention, and laying hands on her. On instinct, Brock lurched forward and shoved the guy away from Sam. The guy stumbled backward and nearly knocked his sound man over before both men bumped into their van and steadied themselves with bewildered looks on their faces. Brock hauled Sam up into his arms and forced his way through the crowd.

She frowned at him. “You’re embarrassing me.” Her voice was a quiet, seething hiss.

“You’re late, right? You don’t have time to be mauled, do you?” He pushed the front door open with his foot and stepped inside.
 

As he lowered her to the floor, she twisted her mouth. “We’ll discuss this later.”

A heavily tattooed bloke with a shaven head and muscular frame approached. “Sam. Thank God you’re here. You had me worried.” The bald man eyed Brock with curiosity.

Sam motioned to the bloke. “Tox, this is my...“she paused and flashed a confused glance to Brock then continued, “friend, Brock Knight. Brock, this is Tox, the lead singer for Inked Religion.”

Friend? Is that what he was? Just a friend? Didn’t making love to her all afternoon move him into a new position? Boyfriend, lover, significant other, roommate, housemate, shag partner. Anything that gave the impression they were
more
than friends would work.
 

When Sam turned her back to Tox, he looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her bum. This wanker was definitely checking her out, and he needed to know she was taken.

“Keep your eyes off her arse.” Brock stepped toward Tox and squared his shoulder with him. Tox stepped back nervously. Brock then turned to Sam and winked. “Don’t be shy, I don’t mind if you let people know I’m your sex slave.” He looked back at Tox to make sure the tosser got the message. Tox scurried away.

Sam cut Brock a look he’d never seen in her eyes before. It was pure evil, murderous.

Sam wished she had laser vision that could burn a hole through Brock who stood on the other side of the bar, his hands in his pockets and a glacier on his shoulder. He might as well have been marking his territory by peeing on her leg when he pulled that stunt with Tox. Joking about her calling him her sex slave pissed her off. Actually telling Tox he needed to keep his eyes off her ass had sent her through the roof. Brock was good in bed, but if this was any indication of what her life would be like as his “girlfriend,” she was ready to opt out and move on.

The guy interviewing the band turned to his camera crew. “Let’s take a break.”

The two camera guys nodded and turned off the bright lights aimed at the band.

“Are you all right?” The blond male journalist with more makeup on than she was wearing, put down his microphone and touched her arm.

Tox released an exasperated huff and marched over to the bar. Spider and Jones followed him like lemmings.

The blond reporter offered a weak smile, but she could tell he was irritated with her. She’d not given him her undivided attention, and she was sure she’d looked like a fool.

Was she all right? No. She was far from all right, but she couldn’t say that. She couldn’t tell him that the man she’d pined for had returned and rocked her world in bed then proceeded to destroy her happily ever after dreams with his caveman behavior. She couldn’t tell him that the more she saw Brock’s possessive side, the more she felt like going off on him. Oh no, she had to pull herself together and smile, act humble and delightful. Concealing her moods was next to impossible for her, always had been.
 

Tox approached Brock and said something while pointing toward the door. Brock rocked on his heels and tensed his jaw, then turned and walked out of the bar. A part of her wanted to run after him. She hated that part of herself. The stronger part, the part that wouldn’t run after him, looked up into the blond reporter’s eyes and said, “My source of distraction has just left the building. I’m sorry for ruining the interview. I’m ready to try again, if you are.”

He looked over his shoulder at Tox who gave him a thumbs up. “No problem. We’ll take this from the top. We have plenty of time. I only need a ten minute segment.”

BROCK LOWERED HIS head to the steering wheel. What had he done?
 

After seeing cameras and reporters forcing their way into Sam’s space, watching that wanker named Tox —who was obviously a coochie-hound—ogle her arse and flirt, hearing her refer to
him—
the man who’d made her feel like a queen in his arms—as a “friend” and nothing more—to put it delicately—he’d snapped.
 

A florist painted a hideous shade of chartreuse sat across the street. The arrangements displayed in the window revealed an artistic flair. Flowers were a man’s best friend when it came to apologizing to a woman, according to his dad. He checked for oncoming traffic in his side mirror, waited for a cargo truck to pass by, then stepped out onto the road while the coast was clear.

A bell jingled when he opened the door to the flower shop. The small showroom was crammed full of fresh flower arrangements. In a refrigerated section along the back wall sunflowers and lilies were artfully displayed.
 

A young woman seated in an electric wheel chair peered up at him from behind the counter. “Looking for anything in particular?”
 

He stepped closer to the counter.
 

A blanket covered her legs. The frilly pink top she wore hung loosely over her boney frame. Chestnut curls framed her slender face.
 

He cleared his throat. “I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for.”

“Tell me the occasion, and maybe I can help you out.” She offered an encouraging smile. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“I’m from Wales.”
 

A golden retriever lounged in the doorway to the back room. As the dog yawned, a shadow moved across the floor behind it. “I know that voice.” The young pianist named Kendal poked her head out from around the doorframe and greeted him with a bright smile. “You’re the knight in shining armor. Sam’s guy.”

Kendal stepped over the dog and walked toward him.

The other girl maneuvered a lever on the arm of her wheelchair, drove herself around the counter and into the main showroom. She came to a halt next to Brock. “So you’re the guy who punched out Franklin. I’ve heard all about you. I’m Spencer.”

“Nice to meet you, Spencer.” He gave her a slight bow then directed his attention to Kendal. “Nice to see you again, Kendal.”

Kendal waved and walked over to stand beside Spencer. “I thought you’d moved away. I’m glad you’re back.”

“It’s nice to be back. Thank you.”
 

Spencer studied him then said, “You look like you’re troubled. So tell me what kind of flower arrangement are we talking about here?”
 

Brock tunneled his fingers through his hair. “I’ve pissed Sam off, and I need to beg forgiveness.”

Kendal giggled. “Give her twenty minutes, and she’ll be laughing. Sam never stays mad long.”

“I hope you’re right.” He sighed.

Kendal’s smile faded and her brows pleated. “Wait. Does she know you’re back in town?”

“Oh yeah. She knows. We sorted things out about my disappearance, and everything was going splendidly, until I met her band mates and embarrassed her during her interview—the one that is presently taking place across the street.” He glanced out the window. A stream of cars pulled out of the parking lot. Maybe the interview wasn’t still going on after all.

Spencer lifted her chin and gazed out the window. “Looks like that interview has wrapped up. We don’t have much time. Come with me.” She turned toward Kendal. “Kendal, what’s Sam’s favorite flower?”