Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (28 page)

He should know that himself, but he didn’t.
 

Kendal twisted her mouth in concentration then snapped her fingers and grinned, “Stargazer lilies. I’m surprised I knew that, but last summer we played for a wedding and there were a bunch of stargazer lilies near the stage. Sam raved about their fragrance. She said if she ever had a big wedding, she’d want a church full of them.”

Brock filed that tidbit away in his brain.

Spencer rolled over to the refrigerated area and pulled out a huge bundle of lilies and a few sprigs of greenery. She placed the flowers in a cut-glass vase and poured some sort of blue liquid around the stems, then tied a gold bow around the neck of the vase. “I’d do a fancier job if I wasn’t so rushed, but I think this ought to get her attention.”

He picked up the vase. “It’s perfect. How much?”

“We’re having a knock-out special. Free flowers for any man who has knocked out Franklin Buchanan. Oh my, only one man has had the guts to do it. Lucky you.” Spencer smiled up at him.

Kendal snorted. “Knock-out special...I like that. Good luck, Brock.”
 

THE FLAMING CLOUDS of sunset had faded into the gray haze of dusk. The parking lot had cleared, except for four vehicles—an old station wagon, a small sedan, a muddy work van, and a jeep with mag wheels. Brock bet the old station wagon belonged to the drummer with the pierced eyebrows and mohawk because there was a Zildjian decal in the rear window. The small sedan with the glittering Hello Kitty ornament hanging from the rearview mirror was probably the cute bartender’s. The hopped up jeep with the personalized license plate that read—Toxic—had to belong to Tox, Mr. Tanned and Tatted. That meant the muddy van was the long-haired guitar player’s.
 

Would it embarrass her if he took the flowers in now? Maybe he should wait for her get in the Hummer, then present them. If he took them to her in front of Tox, it might send a stronger message. He grabbed the flowers and opened the car door. Sam came out of the pub with Tox, who rolled her bass toward his jeep.

Brock waved at Sam. She looked straight at him and put her hands on her hips then turned and followed Tox.

Toxic Waste loaded her bass into his jeep and pointed toward the passenger door.

She opened the passenger door.
 

Was she really going to leave with that idiot?
 

Bloody hell
. She got in the jeep, and the moron didn’t even help her. He just stood there with a lecherous expression, while
she
shoved his rubbish around and carved out a place to sit. The man was a slob. The jeep was so crusty who knew what color it was supposed to be.

As Tox screeched out of the parking lot, kicking up gravel and dust Brock’s direction, Sam stabbed him with a death-stare from the passenger seat, a placating grin plastered on her frozen mannequin like face.

He watched them drive away, his mouth full of grit, his gut full of barbed wire.

SAM’S PHONE RANG.
Brock Knight
lit up the screen. She held her thumb on the side button and powered down. He’d called at least twenty times in the past five minutes, and she’d hadn’t answered him once. The man needed his phone license revoked.

Tox eyed her from across the table at The Hungry Possum. “Maybe you should cut the guy some slack.” They sat in a corner booth of the crowded restaurant with trippy abstract murals on the walls and unsavory doodles and names of guests scribbled onto the wooden tables with sharpies. It was a little like eating off a graffiti splattered door, but cooler and cleaner.
 

“Cut him some slack? You saw how he acted. Neanderthal.” She took a sip of her beer.

“All’s I’m saying is—if you were my girl, I’d want to stake my claim around other guys too.” His gaze fell to her mouth.
 

Eww
. She pulled the beer bottle away from her lips. “Women aren’t possessions.”

“No, but men know how other men are. It’s not about possessing a woman. It’s about telling other guys to buzz off. There’s a difference.”

“How is there a difference?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not that a guy wants to boss his woman around or keep her on a leash, he just doesn’t want other guys lusting after her or making advances. He wants her ‘off the market’, you know?”

“No. I don’t know how a man views
his
woman. Besides, I never realized I was on the market. I’ve done a pretty good job of portraying myself as unavailable since I moved here.” She dipped a chip into the salsa on the table between them and took a bite. Her mouth went up in flames and she coughed.

“Oh man. I’m sorry. I forgot to tell the waitress to bring out some mild. She knows I always get the hot stuff. Are you okay?”

Sam blinked back the tears filling her eyes and gulped down ice water.
 

“Here. Eat some plain ones. That’ll help.” He pushed the basket toward her.

She fanned her burning face and said, “How do you eat that stuff?”

“Grrr. I love it. The hotter, the better. That’s how I feel about a lot of things.” He waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and placed his hand over hers.

Was he actually flirting? “When’s Jensen coming back?” His girlfriend probably wouldn’t approve of them having dinner together.
 

“We broke up last week. It was a long time coming. For what it’s worth, I’m officially on the market. You know, since you’re done with the Brit, if you really want to get back at him for acting stupid, I can think of one perfect way to do it, a way that will leave you feeling great and him feeling like shit.” He licked his lips.

“Are you suggesting we…” She shook her head in disgust and chugged her beer.

“You’re telling me you never thought about us?” He traced a finger over the back of her hand.
 

“You’re a player. I’ve always known that. You’ve had at least four different girlfriends since I’ve known you, and that isn’t counting God knows how many one-night stands. I’m surprised Jensen put up with you as long as she did.”
 

“Now, hold on. I never cheated on her. Not once.” Something flashed in his eyes that told her she’d hit a sensitive spot. He still had a thing for Jensen. It was written all over his face.
 

He leaned back and said, “We’re adults, Sam. If you’re not interested, you’re not interested, but I think you’re hot as hell, and it was worth a shot.” He folded his arms across his chest. “So, you still want King George.”

“He’s not a king and his name isn’t George.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Brock. Brock Knight.”

“Right. He’s a knight, not a king. How do you suppose he would feel about us having dinner together?” He raised an eyebrow.

“What does it matter?”

“If you have any feelings for the guy, it matters.”
 

Tox was right. She’d have a fit if Brock were having dinner with another woman. She must still like him if she’s feeling guilty. How could she still want him after he’d embarrassed her like that? Why did a part of her like knowing he felt jealous and acted possessive? Everything in her mind said that type of behavior was unacceptable, but everything in her heart said he was simply insecure in their relationship, and his outbursts showed he wanted her in his life as more than a friend or a roll in the hay.
 

She grabbed her purse. “I’m ready to go. I think I need to have a heart to heart with Brock.”

“I think you do too, but before I drive you home, there’s something I want to ask you.” He sat up and put on his serious face. “The band has found a new manager, and he’s setting up a tour for us. Brandon may not be able to play again for quite awhile. Would you be interested in touring with Inked Religion for a few months?”

Her heart fluttered. An honest to God concert tour. Holy shit. “I’d need more details about performance venues, dates, pay, accommodations, and all of that stuff, but I’d consider it.”

“Good. I’ll fill you in when I have more details.”

“Were you really going to sleep with me then ask me to tour with the band?” Men never ceased to amaze her.

A huge grin spread across his face. “I thought if we were sleeping together, the tour might be a lot more fun. The road can be a lonely place.”

She flicked a lime seed at him. “You’re going to be groping groupies so much you’ll never have a moment of loneliness.”

“Now there’s an idea.” He downed the last of his beer. “Groping Groupies...Man, that would make a great album title.”

BROCK PACED THE living room. Sam wasn’t answering his calls, and she was out with that imbecile doing who knows what. He moved the flowers from the dining table to the kitchen counter and leaned his poem against the vase, so she’d be sure to see it the moment she stepped off the elevator.

But she wasn’t used to the elevator. She’d probably take the stairs.
 

He moved the flowers back to the dining table. A petal fell on the floor. As he leaned over and picked it up, the elevator engaged with a rumble. Putting the flowers back on the kitchen counter, he placed the envelope in plain view. He took the stairs two at a time and looked out the roadside window. Thanks to the full moon, there was enough light for him to see the street below. Tox pulled away in his jeep, alone. There was no bass in the back.

Brock crept to the loft and peered over the knee-wall. Sam walked toward the sliding doors with his poem in hand. She stepped out onto the deck. He nearly fell over the wall trying to watch her every move. The night sky swallowed her up.

He tip-toed downstairs and into the living room. When he reached the deck, she was halfway down the moonlit beach path, undoing her hair as she strode barefoot toward the ocean.

The flowers were still on the counter next to some wine glasses and a bottle of Merlot. He pocketed a corkscrew, grabbed two wine glasses, the wine bottle, and followed her out to the beach. The fact that she was reading his poem gave him the courage to approach. If she had been to the point of no return, the flowers would have probably ended up in the trash. The poem would have most likely been ripped to shreds, unread.
 

Her hair lashed out at the evening sky as she nestled into the bosom of the soft dunes alive with the music of rustling sea grass. Syncopated waves shimmered and whooshed, causing the reflection of the moon to undulate on the black diamond sea.
 

His calves flexed as he worked his toes into the soft sand and trudged uphill across the highest of the nearby dunes. He dropped to his knees and peered through the swaying grass. She lowered the paper onto her lap and tilted her head back. The moonlight found her face and hair and illuminated them with an ethereal glow.

He spoke quietly, as not to scare her. “Sam, I’m here if you want to talk.”

She whirled around and squinted his direction. “Are you spying on me?”

“Yes. I’m kin to James Bond. What do you expect?” He did his best Bond imitation.
 

She didn’t laugh or smile. “I’d rather not talk to you right now. Please leave.”

“Leaving has never proven to be effective when attempting to mend a relationship.” He held up the wine bottle and glasses. “Wine and conversation, on the other hand, have had positive results.”

She stood and marched toward him. “You want conversation and wine? You think some flowers and a pretty little poem are going to make up for the embarrassment you put me through tonight?”

She was shouting, which wasn’t a good sign, but she was also moving toward him instead of away from him.
 

He sat the wine and glasses down, pulled out the corkscrew, and set to the task of uncorking.

She towered over him. “Do you?”
 

“No.” He poured her a glass of wine, to the brim. He poured himself half a glass.

She knelt beside him, her eyes narrowed and a grumble vibrated from her chest as she said, “I am not your possession. You are not my sex slave.”

He handed her the wine glass.

She drew in a deep breath and took a sip. “You don’t have the right to tell other men they can’t look at me—and if you ever act like a caveman in public again, I’ll castrate you.”

He choked back a laugh and looked down.

She took another gulp of her wine. “I’ve a good mind to move out tonight.”

He looked up and caught her gaze in his.

She turned the glass up to her mouth and glugged. Uncertainty filled her eyes. “I should leave right now.”

He held her gaze and said nothing.

Her breath became shallow as she stared into his eyes. “I should know better.” The sigh that poured from her lips and the way her shoulders slumped in defeat was his green light.

He inched closer to her. “You have every right to be angry with me, Sam.”

“I’m pissed, Brock. You were really an asshole.”

“Yes.” He lifted a strand of hair stuck to her shiny berry-stained lips, and moved it out of her face. “I’m not proud of my behavior.”

“Why’d you act that way?”

“For starters, I hate the paparazzi and had my fair share of them during my visit to Wales. It didn’t take much to set me off where they were concerned, especially when that rude reporter pulled you through the crowd so inconsiderately.”

She poured herself more wine, then gave him her full attention.

“As far as the sex slave thing...I didn’t want to be your friend. I wanted you to introduce me as something more than that. You told me Tox is your friend. You tell him I’m your friend. I wasn’t sure what the word ‘friend’ meant to you. Simply put—I wanted to outrank Tox.”

“You wanted me to call you my boyfriend?” There was a softness in her eyes—compassion, understanding.

“Yes, I suppose I did. Boyfriend or something along those lines. I wanted you to acknowledge me as your lover, not just your friend. When you didn’t, and then this Toxic person leered at you like he’d relish the chance to devour you, I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sure I can believe that you won’t behave this way again. I mean, we’re just starting out here, and you’re already pulling stunts like this. Are you going to turn into a militant every time another man looks at my butt?”