Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (4 page)

He looked so peachy proud. Irresistibly charming.

“Congratulations.” She kept her tone news-caster flat. “Laura’s a lovely name.” He made it very hard for her to believe the sexy-men-are-the-enemy mantra she’d chanted to herself for the past five years.
 

She visualized living in her pickup by the end of June. Ahh, that did it. Sexy man equals enemy.
 

She tried to envision him with horns and a pitchfork. Didn’t help. It just made her once again associate Brock with horny.
 

He slid her a sly look.

She stuffed her hands into the hoodie’s kangaroo pouch and fiddled with the lid of a tic-tac container. “So, they visited Wales. How did all this turn into them giving you the house?"
 

He tilted his head, seemingly taken aback by her shift in mood, or maybe her rudeness. "I have a flat they desired in a well established area, and I was considering moving away. When they heard my flat would soon be on the market, they offered to buy it and asked where I was moving to. I didn't know where I wanted to live. I only knew I wanted to get away from Wales and the paparazzi there. That's when the Marshalls mentioned this home, a vacation home they seldom used, according to them. It seemed a perfect trade.”

“Paparazzi?” Was he some kind of celebrity?
 

“And sport fans.”

An athlete. Certainly had the body of one.

How nice to be able to make such a trade. All the more reason for her to dislike the spoiled, pompous, gorgeous, life-handed-to-him-on-a-silver-platter-sports-god. It wasn’t fair that he could waltz in and declare ownership of—what felt like—
her
home.
 

True, the Marshalls seldom visited Pleasure Island, but surely waterfront property was more valuable than an apartment in Wales. They must’ve been desperate to find a place close to the new baby.

"I don't see how a large home at the beach is an even trade for an apartment."
 

Smugness shown on his face. He put both feet on the floor and leaned forward. ”The flat is in an exclusive area, very tough to get into. Trust me, I’m the one who lost money on the deal." His gruff tone told her she’d struck a nerve.

He shifted in his seat like a thief interrogated by the cops. She bet he didn’t lose a darn thing in the deal.
 

Conned the Marshalls most likely. She could be seated across from an international scam artist, a very sexy scam artist, or worse.
 

She wasn’t about to cut him any slack. Sexy or not. “What do you do?”
 

"What do you mean... do?"

Slowly enunciating each syllable, she said, “Do you have a career?”

He lifted one eyebrow.
 

Annoyed? Pissed?
 

“I’m retired."

"Retired? How old are you?" This young, virile man couldn’t be retired. He must have a doozy of a story to lay on her.

His chin shot up, and he sniffed the air like a snob. “That's a rather rude question. But if you must know...I’m thirty-eight."

"Who retires at thirty-eight?"
 

"Pro rugby players?"
 

"Rugby?" What the heck was rugby? If she’d never heard of it, it couldn’t be
that
darn popular. But then again, if it was some kind of sport, that’d explain why she wasn’t familiar with it.

"Yes. Rugby. It's much like what you Americans call football, minus all the sissy body padding and helmets.”

She studied his face. Sincerity etched every line around his green eyes. Maybe he was telling the truth. But she’d rather think he was lying. It justified her desire to despise him for booting her out of a great home.

"So you’re from Wales. I don’t know that much about the place.”

“Allow me to clarify. I’m English, but happened to be living in Wales. There is a distinct difference. I suspect you don’t know much about the world beyond America.”
 

He paused. Waiting for her to retaliate? Not going to happen. His opinion of her was inconsequential. She chose to stare him down. Her plan worked. He fidgeted and looked away first.

He continued, “I spent most of my childhood in Brighton, England. My parents moved to Cardiff when I was a teenager. I soon learned rugby as a means of making friends, having no idea it would one day become a lucrative career. Prior to relocating, I’d always fancied myself as more of an academic than athlete.” His eyes found hers again.

Academic? Was he trying to impress her? Impossible. “The Marshalls said I had until the end of June to find another place. I'll be out of your way in six weeks.”
 

Arrogance aside, he had a harmless air about him. The thought of moving tore her up inside, so she decided to toss out a suggestion to see how he responded. “Unless you'd consider renting out the guest quarters to me."
 

"The guest quarters?"

"Yes. Technically, I'm supposed to be living in the efficiency apartment on the lower level, but Irene said I could stay in the main house in the family's absence, which is almost always. I don't care to stay down there. The place has no windows, but it's better than nothing." She didn’t feel the need to mention her extreme fear of being trapped in a place devoid of fresh air and how she had to keep a window or door cracked at all times. That was none of his business.

"No windows? Is that even legal?”

"Probably not. I doubt the Marshalls advertised the renovation. It's a converted garage, and it's not very well insulated. They didn’t put any windows in because it’s butted up against the storage room. Honestly, even if it had a window, there wouldn't be anything appealing to look at, unless you happen to find driveways attractive."
 

Her hands pressed against the armrests. Princess jumped to the floor. When Sam stood, a wave of sadness threatened to decimate her sand-castle-heart, a heart that should’ve learned long ago home would always be synonymous with temporary.
 

Being orphaned at a young age and shuffled from one foster family to another had stripped her of any true sense of home. She’d finally found a place where she felt she belonged, and the owners traded it like a baseball card. They didn’t even appreciate the place. Not like she did. Nowhere close to the way she did, and knowing that hurt.
 

Nonetheless, heartbreak didn’t change the facts, and she couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer.

"Would you like a tour of
your
new house?"
His
house.
His
? It was so hard to call this place his. No matter what the papers said—this house was more
hers
than anyone else’s.
 

BROCK NOTICED A hint of sadness in Sam’s azure eyes. Trying to keep up with this woman’s crazy mood swings gave him whiplash. But he had to admit, it was the most intriguing case of whiplash he’d ever experienced. He never knew what to expect from her next, which kept him on his toes like a rigorous game of rugby. She was different from his regular entourage and fans who insisted on pleasing him and saying “yes” all the time—an approach he found as exciting as a bowl of oatmeal.

She stared out a window that overlooked the back porch and the overcast beach. He studied her profile, noting her red-rimmed eyes. She exuded a melancholy air that called to the poet in him. A deep current ran through this woman. He knew he’d found his muse and couldn’t wait to steal away a few moments to compose a poem about the way she gazed out at the sea. He sensed she’d cast a forlorn wish that hung in the air just out of reach. He hoped, in time, he’d learn what that wish was.

With a deep breath, as if mustering the strength to perform an emotionally difficult task, she said, “Let’s go outside. The view is the best part of the house.”

He quickly took in the interior before following her outside. A utility closet separated the laundry room from a pristine kitchen that flowed seamlessly into the great room. The dining and living areas comprised one enormous space with an expanse of sliding glass doors that led to a porch.
 

They stepped out onto that porch. Hammocks dangled from the rafters in each corner, old-fashioned rockers faced the ocean, and a wrought iron table with matching chairs sat off to the side. The tinny, clinking of wind chimes mingled with the whoosh of nearby waves. Dark purple verbena and fragrant jasmine vines overflowed from planters and cascaded over the banister.
 

The railing looked rickety. He gave it a shake to test for sturdiness. As he’d expected, it wobbled. Using his iPhone, he took notes and pictures of things in disrepair.
 

“What are you doing?” Her voice was unsteady, upset.
 

Why would she be upset that he was documenting things he needed to fix? He lowered his phone. Her headmaster frown made him want to cower like a reprimanded schoolboy.
 

“I’m noting repairs that I need to make.” Why did he feel defensive? He owed her no explanation. This was his house.
 

A long tendril fell across her face. She huffed the tendril out of her eyes. Oddly, he found the child-like gesture endearing.

She quipped, “Whatever.”
 

He couldn’t stifle his amusement and laughed aloud. She was everything he ever dreamed an American woman would be—a sexy, topsy-turvy world of emotions.

“What’s so darn funny?”
 

Her hands on her hips, light filtering through her golden tresses, and a storm in her eyes. He thumbed that line into his phone and snapped her picture.
 

“Did you just take my picture?” She actually stomped her foot.
Brill. Absolutely brilliant
.

“You Americans really are vain, aren’t you? I took a picture of the view behind you. Is that all right?”

After a peek over her shoulder, she faced him again and said, “No need to take a picture of that, you’ll see it every day from nearly every room in the house.” Her voice wilted to a thin tone. She turned and gazed out at the sea once more. “Luckily, it’s the kind of thing you can never grow tired of seeing.”

He soaked in the amazing view of her backside and the triangular sliver of light where her caramel thighs met her denim clad bum. “I see what you mean. One could never grow tired of this view. Ever.” He snapped another picture of her landscape.

She jerked her head toward him. Skepticism flickered across her face. “Okay. Back inside.”

SAM SCANNED THE deck a final time. Sea-spray coated the doors, and grit formed a crust on the furniture. She wished she’d been given more warning about Brock’s visit so she could have cleaned things off.

The first time she’d seen the place it’d blown her away. Dirty rocking chairs or not, surely Brock could see the charm of this house and appreciate its serene, elegant-yet-homey vibe.
 

She opened the sliding glass door and led him inside. At least the kitchen was spotless. It wasn’t hard to keep clean. She never cooked. Burning toast and scorching soup didn’t count.
 

She watched him take in the main-level’s open floor plan. Her insides jumped when he snapped a picture of the dining room table, which was part furniture and part salvage, a piece of upcycled usable art. She hoped he took a photo because he liked it and not because he wanted to replace it.
 

“That’s an amazing table, isn’t it?” She waited for his response. His wrinkled-brow suggested he thought the table was a heap of junk.
 

A jock who didn’t have very good taste. How typical. She’d have to educate him. “The base is a hull salvaged from a local shipwreck. There’s something haunting and abstract about the twisted metal that’s always resonated with me. It’s my favorite piece of furniture in the house.”
 

He scratched his chin, scrutinizing the table. “That hunk of rusted metal was part of a shipwreck?”

“Yep.”

“That
is
interesting.” The corners of his mouth pulled down, and he nodded as if his opinion of the table had changed.
 

Good. He’d be a fool to get rid of it.

“I do like that.” He pointed to the hand-blown, glass chandelier that resembled a cluster of sea urchins.
 

“That’s a beauty. You should see it lit up at night. It casts amazing patterns of shadow and light onto the walls.”
 

He maintained a barely-there smile as he listened to her.

They headed to the kitchen, and Brock stepped across a creaking board in the oak floor. His brows lifted. He immediately thumbed something into his phone, probably adding to a list of things he wanted to change, which made her sick to her stomach.
 

"The boards swell and shrink depending on the humidity. This time tomorrow those boards will be quiet, and you'll hear the squeak elsewhere in the house." If he even thought about changing that beautiful floor, she’d have to kill him in his sleep.

"I'm well aware how humidity affects wood." His pompous expression made her want to pour Grey Poupon all over his head.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she might regret later. He owned the house, not her. She needed to learn her place, but she didn’t have to like it.

Black and white seascape photography adorned every wall. He inspected each photo with his face inches from the glass. She wondered if he were searching for something hidden in the pictures.

She led him past a small guest bath and to the stairwell. They climbed the stairs to the sleeping quarters.
 

Her wet cutoffs rode up her butt. She tilted her pelvis forward, hoping to keep her cheeks hidden. But she knew darn well, from Brock's angle, her efforts were pointless. He'd already gotten his eyes filled when she crawled across her truck bed earlier. Maybe he wouldn't give her rear a glance.
 

She peeked over her shoulder. His gaze was glued to her ass, and he licked his lips like a hungry wolf.
 

Damn
. She felt a quiver in her belly. Her body was such a traitor.