Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (5 page)

Pausing at the master bedroom door, she grabbed the doorknob and cringed, dreading the sight of what awaited on the other side. With a deep breath, she told herself she didn’t care what this man thought of her. She pushed the door open. Clothes were strewn all over the place. The bed was unmade. Anyone could see she'd been staying in this room for quite some time.
 

She’d confined her mess to the master bed and bath, in case the Marshalls breezed into town on short notice. She knew she could throw all her stuff in boxes and clean one room in an hour or two. A whole house was a different matter.

"I'll tidy this up. I didn't know you were coming early." Her face burned. She hated herself for being self-conscious.
 

"It's not a problem. I got excited and came early." A sheepish grin spread across his lips.

Sly devil
.
 

"Do that often? Come early?" She stifled a snicker.

He flashed her a sexy, lop-sided Elvis grin and placed his palm against the small of her back. "Ladies first."
 

Her abdomen seemed to sprout a tickling vine that reached toward her inner thighs. She laughed. When Brock didn't laugh, she spun around and studied his face. Deadpan. He hadn't meant ladies “came” first.
 

Good grief, Sam, step up into the gutter why don’t you.

They entered the master suite.
 

She’d never been in there with a man before. The proximity of man and bed sent her hormones into overdrive.

Oh no. Did I leave my purple boyfriend out
?
 

Frantically scouring the bedside table, she saw no signs of her beloved sex toy. She released a huge sigh of relief.
 

Wait. Oh God
.
 

It was sticking out from under the sheet by her leg. She plopped down on the vibrator, hiding it with her butt, and to her horror, turning it on with said butt.

The buzz was deafening.
 

She jabbed a finger toward the closet. “Check out the massive walk-in.”
 

With his back to her, he meandered across the room, his shoulders quivering.
 

She clicked the vibrator off and shoved it under the covers.

When he turned back around, his lips were twisted into a fleshy pretzel. She could tell he was trying very hard not to laugh out loud.
 

Oh. My. God. He heard it. Saw it. He knows. Please tell me he’s amused by something else. Please.

His lips relaxed as he slinked into her personal space. Was he about to make a move?
 

A part of her wanted to run. The other part, the lower part, hoped he’d pin her to the mattress.

No. Bad idea
. She had to clear her head and make her body behave. “Excuse me.” She pushed past him and did her best Vanna White hand gesture to feature the mahogany dresser. “Solid mahogany, hand-carved by a local artisan.”

He nodded approvingly and said, “Mind if I see the loo?"

"Loo?"
 

"Bathroom."

Loo meant bathroom? “Skip to My Lou” played in her head. The song took on a whole new meaning. "Sure." She didn’t want to show him the bathroom. It looked worse than the bedroom. But not much she could do about it now. After the vibrator incident, what did she have to be embarrassed about? A messy bathroom? Please.
 

She opened the bathroom door and revealed her enormous stash of makeup cluttering the counter and dirty towels piled on the floor.
 

But all she could see in her mind was purple silicone peeking out from under white muslin.

Manners? Intelligence? No, thank you. She pulled the dumb-blonde card. “Do you need to use it?"

He shot her an incredulous look. "Let's hope not. It’s a hurricane magnet. Can't be safe."
 

"Aren't you Mr.Sarcastic?"

"Me? Sarcastic? Never been accused of that before." He peered over her shoulder. "Maid service refuses to go in there, I suppose."

She shoved him playfully. "There is no maid service around here, pal."

"Are we pals then?"
 

His warmth radiated through her. She desperately wanted to melt and curl into him until the dancing dildo in her head faded into the distance.
 

Snap out of it, you’re gay, remember
?
 

"No. We can't be pals. You're the man who is going to make me homeless. Pals don't do that."

"What makes you think I intend to make you homeless?"

"You're the new owner. If you plan to actually live here, you won't need a house-sitter."

"I see." His unexpected tone of compassion soothed her.
 

He dipped his head closer to hers and whispered, “I’ve not asked you to leave yet, have I?”

Gulp. “No. No, you haven’t.”

Brock wanted to say, "Stay as long as you like, Beautiful. I’d love to show you some new tricks with that toy of yours.” But he stopped himself.

Whoever ran the projector in the theater of his skull did not stop, however. In fact, that pervert shuffled through his porn collection, until he found a blonde actress enjoying a grape popsicle.
 

Brock regained control of the mental projection booth, turned off the movie, and climbed to higher ground.

Sam had a point. He did have every intention of renovating the place, returning to Cardiff, and getting an extended Visa. He’d then come back and make this house his home while he mapped out the next phase of his future. He wouldn’t need or want a house-sitter.

 
With her eyes downcast, she shifted side to side. “I do apologize for the mess.”

"Not to worry, love. When alone with no one nagging and no one picking up behind me, I dare say, I could make the entire house look far worse than this room."
 

What a crock
. His teammates had ridiculed him for being a neat freak. The sight of this abomination made him itch. But she looked so much like a puppy who'd had an "accident" and feared a pop on the nose, he couldn't help but lie. Besides, clothes and towels on the floor were easy fixes. She hadn't punched holes in the wall or burnt the carpeting.

He thumbed another note.
Remove carpet and install hardwood floors upstairs.

She glared at his phone, obviously, still displeased with his note-taking.
 

Maybe he could lighten the moment. “I wanted to remind myself to hire a cleaning service.” Instead of making her laugh, as he planned, he had the distinct impression he’d upset her even more.

“I’m joking. I added replacing the carpet with hardwood floors to my to-do-list. Carpet and sand don’t go together well.”
 

She turned her face away from him. He reached for her hand, but retreated before touching her. “Relax. I don’t care about the mess.”

She whirled around. One side of her mouth curled upward, but her eyes lacked sparkle. In light of all the news she’d received this morning, he suspected she’d appreciate some time alone to mull things over.
 

The doorbell rang. She brushed past him, racing to the window at the end of the hallway. "Mazy’s here."
 

He quick-stepped into the hall.

Sam zipped past him again and headed downstairs. He found himself following her without invitation. Mazy wasn’t his personal house guest. He should have stayed put, but he was curious to see this Mazy person. Lover perhaps?

Midway down the stairs, Sam halted and looked him in the eyes. "You can check out the rest of the upstairs without me.”
 

She didn't want him to follow. He was rude for traipsing after her in the first place. "I wasn't sure if..." He backed up. "I'll be up here if you need me."
 

She continued down without him.

He mumbled to himself, "I'll be up here if you need me?" Why would she have need of him? She had a visitor, someone she knew quite well. Mazy. Male or female? Sounded like a male name, but could be female. Sam claimed to be a lesbian, but her body language suggested otherwise.
 

Blimey
. Now he pictured Sam’s long legs entangled with the legs of another beauty, and he enjoyed the image. Freaking splendid. The past three months of self-imposed celibacy had an unexpected adverse effect. He now entertained sexual fantasies in which he wasn’t even an imaginary participant.
 

Bloody Hell
. He needed to find a way to fire the wanker running his mental-movie projector.

THE SPUNKY DRUMMER for Bikini Quartet had a habit of letting herself in before Sam could answer the door. The twenty-three year old stood in the laundry area when Sam reached the main level. Grease smeared Mazy’s pasty-white arms. She wore navy coveralls with the sleeves lopped off. After she peeled a grimy, beige ball-cap off her head, she tunneled her fingers through her curly, red hair.
 

What had possessed her to abandon her small engine repair shop and pay Sam a visit this morning?
 

Mazy wiped her feet on the doormat. “Hey, girl. Who's cool ride? You got a man in here?" She popped onto her tip-toes and peered over Sam's shoulder.

Sam positioned her body to block Mazy’s view into the living room. "Yes, but it's not what you think."

“I’m not thinking anything.” Mazy waggled her eyebrows. “Heard there was a fine man driving a red Mustang, and he helped you on the bridge this morning.”

“Holy cow. Myrtle didn't waste any time. She told you, didn't she?" Myrtle was the only local Sam saw on the drawbridge that morning, other than the bridge-tender who rarely said more than two words to anyone.

"Nope. I haven’t seen Myrtle. I stopped off at the Circle K to get some coffee, and Ashley told me."
 

"Ashley? How’d she find out?"

"Louise told her a hunky guy pushed Ole Betsey over the bridge. She described the helper as a demigod. Myrtle emailed her some pics of him. I texted Myrtle to forward the photos to me, but I haven’t got them yet.” With a quick zip and tug, Mazy removed her coveralls, revealing a gray tank-top and a pair of pinstriped boxers with the waistband rolled down. If Brock saw her, he’d have no trouble believing
she
was gay.
 

Wait. That might come in handy.
Even though Mazy was a straight tomboy, Brock wouldn’t know.

"You asked Myrtle to send you a pic of him, huh?"

“Heck yeah. I wanted to see for myself. But looks like I’m gonna see the demigod in the flesh. Lucky me." Mazy stepped around Sam.

Sam grabbed her friend’s arm and pulled her back. “Hold on a sec.”
 

"Sam, what's your problem?"
 

"I need to show you something." She brought Mazy in and motioned for her to take a seat at the kitchen counter. "I got something I want you to read."

She pulled up Irene’s recent email on her cellphone and handed it to Mazy.
 

Mazy read silently then lifted her eyes. “By the end of June?”

"Yep. And demigod? He's the new home-owner. So he may have pushed Ole Betsey over the bridge, but he's bulldozing me out of a home."

"Don’t go making a mountain out of molehill. He isn’t exactly bulldozing you if he's letting you stay on an additional six weeks for free, now is he?"

"Smartalec.”

 
Mazy didn’t have a college degree, but she did have street smarts and common sense. She was right. He wasn’t bulldozing Sam out.
 

Sam slouched. “He wants to renovate. Can you believe it? This place is awesome, and he wants to change things."

"That's not so strange. People have a tendency to want to make houses they own
theirs
, reflect
their
taste."
 

"I know.” Sam tilted her head side to side in an attempt to alleviate the pressure building at the base of her skull. “It's just too much for me to take in so fast. I got a call from Irene this morning on the drawbridge, and then he showed up at my door two minutes after I got home. I haven’t even had a chance to change into dry clothes.”

She squeezed the sides of her damp shorts. “And... I had to show him my messy room.”
 

Sam considered telling Mazy about the vibrator, but decided she’d rather keep that to herself. The purple monster was going to haunt her beyond the grave as it was.
 

She faced Mazy. “I can't fathom looking for a new place."
 

The more Sam talked, the higher her voice climbed, until she could pass for Minnie Mouse.
 

Mazy pulled Sam into a warm, lingering hug.
 

"Ahem." A deep, manly sound came from the living room.

Sam turned.

Brock stood beside the coffee table. And he appeared as uncomfortable as a kid watching his parents kiss.

NO DOUBT ABOUT it, Mazy was a girl. Judging by the way the two women hugged, maybe Sam told the truth about being gay. Mazy certainly had a masculine way about her, and the emotion between the women seemed genuine and loving. He should leave them alone. Where could he go?
 

He cleared his throat. "Sorry to interrupt.”

Sam pulled away from the redhead, but kept one arm around the young woman’s waist. “Brock, I’d like to introduce you to my
girlfriend
, Mazy.”

Brock kept his distance and gave a nod as a greeting. “Mazy.”

“Nice to meet Pleasure Island’s newest celebrity,” Mazy replied.

“Celebrity?” He’d traveled a great distance to lose that label. Celebrity was the last thing he wanted to be called. What was going on here?

Sam elbowed her girlfriend in the ribs. “She’s being silly. Anyone new to the island is a celebrity.”

The women now stared at him like he’d just landed in a UFO.
 

He had to get out of there. “I need to pick-up some supplies and start working on the deck. Could you direct me to the nearest hardware store?"