Lucky 7 Bad Boys Contemporary Romance Boxed Set (35 page)

He threw his head back and laughed—deep, cleansing laughter that revitalized him. He put the caricature in the nightstand for safekeeping and headed outside to work, still smiling and shaking his head at her nerve.

Chapter Eleven

Veronique phoned Natasha again, but wasn’t able to connect. She was at her wits’ end trying not to panic because she didn’t have phone service and going nuts worrying over what Tash needed to tell her.

To distract herself, she spent most of the morning alternating between writing and doing housework. Strangely enough, she didn’t mind the housework. It took the edge off her nervous energy. She even scrubbed the shower stall in the master bathroom. When she finished her chores, she drank two bottles of water, feeling like she’d finished a marathon.

Thank God, Daisy had left enough meals to last for several days. With the extra freezer in the garage filled with ice, they’d been able to salvage most of the prepared meals before Veronique would have to resort to cooking. After eating Daisy’s excellent cooking, Nick wouldn’t be thrilled with hers. Oh well, he’d have to make do unless he wanted to grill their food, which was fine with her.

Her parents had employed a full staff of servants and cooks. Maman had never cooked a meal in her life, and Veronique never got the opportunity to learn, until she got to college. The only things she knew how to make were easy to put together. Spaghetti with store bought marinara sauce, grilled cheese sandwiches, yogurt and fruit were her go-to meals whenever there wasn’t a takeout place or pizza delivery available.

In some ways being on the island with Nick was like being on vacation and camping out, but in a mansion by the sea instead of a tent. It reminded her of her carefree jaunts as a kid, away from the confines of her parents’ stuffy palatial home. She wished she could disconnect and relax completely, but she wouldn’t until she was able to complete her investigation of the Cameron Hope Foundation and deliver the information to Nick—before it was too late.

By late afternoon, she was craving fresh air and ventured outside in search of Nick.

“Hi,” she said when she found him working outside the guesthouse. “What can I do to help?”

“Hand me what I need while I board up this window.” Pokerfaced, he didn’t mention the caricature, but she’d heard his hearty laughter earlier—the sweetest sound in the world. “They’re in the toolbox there,” he said, indicating the open metal box at his feet.

“Yes, sir. I’m happy to assist you,” she drawled playfully.

He lifted a brow. “You can start by handing me the concrete nails as I ask for them.”

Veronique took several nails from the open rectangular metal box on the floor and held them in her palm, handing them over one by one as he requested. It was hot and humid as she worked beside Nick, but she didn’t mind. She loved spending time with him. The fact that he had allowed her to stay on, let alone sleep in his bed last night, was promising. He hadn’t mentioned her leaving yet, but it had to be on his mind. Of course, leaving would have been impossible because the roads leading to the causeway were obstructed by fallen pine trees and the storm’s debris.

“What’s next for you when you leave here?” Nick asked.

Her eyes shot open. Was he a mind reader? It was the second time he’d addressed something on her mind. “I’m going back to Fort Myers to interview some of the preppers. Remember the cult like group I told you about that’s obsessed with emergency preparation?”

He nodded.

“I want to report on how they made out after the hurricane. There’s also a group of senior citizens in Bonita Springs I want to do a story on.”

“About what?” he asked between hammering nails into the wood planks covering the broken window.

“They are a growing group of baby boomers over sixty who are major party animals. They go dancing every weekend looking for fun and romance. They act much younger than their years.” She tilted her head and studied him with a crinkled brow. “Do you like to dance? Come to think of it, you never danced at our camp parties.”

“That’s right. You couldn’t get me on a dance floor.”

“Aw, too bad. Not even slow dancing?” Nothing would please her more than to slow dance with Nick, pressed against his hard body as his strong arms held her close. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the tantalizing image.

“I’ll slow dance, but I don’t get into the other moves.”

Nick’s tone was so dry, Veronique chuckled. “Well, I love to dance. When I get old, I want to be like those oldie goldies who party hard. I’ll be dancing and having a good time and not thinking about arthritis or the other stuff they have to deal with.”

“I can just see you, white-haired and shaking your booty on the dance floor,” Nick said, his mouth twitching and his eyes alight with amusement.

“Exactly. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” he said, rewarding her with a rare smile.

“Thanks.” She smiled back, delighted by his unexpected compliment.

They segued into chatting about their college years and it became obvious how very different his had been from hers. He’d been focused on finishing his degree and making money right away while she’d been more intent on experiencing life and relishing her newfound freedom through traveling. His drive during his college years exceeded that of most frat boys, who partied more than they studied. He’d worked on campus and completed four years of undergrad in three on a scholarship. After that, he’d gotten his MBA. He hadn’t mentioned he’d graduated summa cum laude, but she knew it from Fred, his proud mentor.

Nick didn’t mention Elizabeth and she didn’t ask. It was a sore subject and too raw for him to discuss with her.

When he finished hammering the last nail, Nick said, “I’m done here. I’m going to pick up the fruit that fell after the storm.”

“I’ll help you,” Veronique said. “I love fruit. What’s your favorite?”

“Peaches.”

“Mine too! Although whenever I pass by a peach tree I get all prickly.”

“Allergies?”

“No, sore childhood memories,” she said with a short laugh.

Nick’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“When I was eight, Maman made me wear a prissy pink dress with ruffles so she could show me off to her book club friends. Small wonder I hate pink,” she muttered. “She was hosting a high tea and everything was perfect, right down to the white-gloved maids. Course I didn’t want anything to do with her tea party and her snooty friends, so I sneaked out and sat under my favorite peach tree reading a racy detective novel I’d stolen from Daddy’s bookshelf and gorging on peaches.”

Nick chuckled. “With your nose buried in the book.”

“Exactly. I’d already devoured three peaches, when I felt a large hand on the nape of my neck. My book went flying as Nanny Jenna hauled me up in front of her. She gave me a stern lecture on not ruining my dress with sticky peach juice and grass stains, and then she switched me with a peach tree switch. I still get a prickly feeling when I see a peach tree,” she said, twisting her mouth in a wry grimace.

“Ah, so that explains it,” Nick said, lips twitching.

“She didn’t get away with it either. I bit her leg so hard, she released me and I ran home yelling bloody murder. When I got home, Maman’s guests had already left,
thank God.
She was so horrified when I showed her the stripes on my poor bottom and thighs, she fired Nanny Jenna on the spot.”

“Good. That woman had no business switching you that way. It didn’t work anyway, did it?” he said with a lift of his brow.

“Nope,” she said, chuckling unrepentantly. “I went through a few more nannies after her.”

“I’ll bet. I can’t blame you for gorging on the peaches though. One time my mom brought home a bushel of fresh-picked peaches a farmer had given her. I’ve never eaten so many in one sitting.” Nick’s eyes took on a bemused look, and he shook his head as if to clear the memory. His open expression closed up and he said, “I’ll gather the avocados in the back yard while you work out front. Okay?”

“Sure,” she agreed, guessing he was done talking. He had spent the last six months alone. She didn’t want to crowd him with too much conversation.

They worked for another hour, he in the backyard and she in the front. Veronique was busy picking up key limes from the ground when two big hands grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up from behind. The fruit went flying as she was upended and suspended from the ground with her feet dangling.

Nick hefted her over his shoulder and wrapped a thick arm around her thighs, holding her in place as he strode toward the back of the house.

“Hey. What are you doing?” she squealed, wriggling on his shoulder.

“You’ve been working too hard in the hot sun. Time to cool off.”

“Yay, where are we going?” she asked, lifting her head to see through the curtain of her disheveled hair.

“I seem to recall you love to swim,” he said, heading toward the pool.

She grinned. “Why yes, I do. Are you going to join me?” she asked, bobbing on his shoulder.

“Nope.” He dropped her in the pool and dusted his hands while she flailed around in the water. “Not this time, Picasso,” he said, laughing as he sauntered away.

“Ahh, I take it you saw the resemblance,” she called out, giggling madly.

* * *

That evening they ate reheated
arroz con pollo,
one of the many meals
left by Daisy. Save for some small talk, Nick didn’t say much. After dinner he told her she could have the bed to herself. He slept outside in a lounge chair beside the pool, claiming it was cooler there, and he was probably right. The air between them last night had been electrically charged and too hot to handle. Sleeping in bed with him again, without touching, seemed impossible now.

The following morning, after spending the night alone tossing and turning, she was antsy to get out and explore. Felipe had been by earlier to tell them that most of the roads leading to the bridge were cleared. Luckily, he’d come alone, without Daisy.

While Nick worked to restore the damage in the guest quarters, she made two cheddar cheese and mustard sandwiches—one for herself and one for him. She put her sandwich in a backpack along with her wallet and cell phone, a rolled up beach towel, a bottle of water, and a tube of sunscreen. She would go into town and find neighbors who’d stayed on and faced Hurricane Abby. On the way back, she promised herself a nice long swim in the ocean.

Wearing a straw hat, a pair of cut-off denim shorts, a halter top over her bikini, and toting the backpack, she headed to the guest quarters to tell Nick she was going into town. But she changed her mind in mid-stride. He might suggest it was time for her to leave for good. The thought of it made her heart hurt. She didn’t want to think of leaving yet.

She turned in the opposite direction and ran to the garage where she found a road bike she could use. Feeling carefree and happy to be outdoors, she pedaled on the long dirt road leading to Begonia Way. Once there she turned left and headed into town, paying close attention to maneuvering around fallen branches and debris.

When she’d first arrived on Starfish Island, she’d noticed a small bar called Shipwreck Fuel on Begonia Way in the downtown area. It was a standalone building, brightly painted in hot pink and lime green with drawings of ships, loot and comical looking pirates on the sides. The windows had been boarded up in preparation of the storm. If she was lucky, it would still be there and the locals would be gathered around swapping hurricane stories.

No such luck. When she got there, the front door was off the hinges, the Shipwreck Fuel sign on the floor, and the inside walls and floor looked like they’d sustained major flooding. But true to human nature, a group of five people sat on barstools under two huge beach umbrellas where a makeshift bar was set up. The bar consisted of a plank of wood hoisted on two columns of concrete blocks and covered with an assortment of liquor bottles and plastic cups. Beside the bar was a large cooler on wheels that looked promising.

She rummaged in her backpack for her camera and wanted to smack herself when she realized she left it at home. She was thankful Nick hadn’t confiscated it again after that night in the closet. He’d been too preoccupied with the hurricane since. She could only hope he wouldn’t remember.

Manning the bar was a deeply tanned, middle-aged woman in a bright floral muumuu. Her white blonde hair was pulled up in a tight topknot on the crown of her head with the fried ends sticking out.

“Welcome. You look like you could use a drink,” she boomed in a deep-throated voice suited to coaching sports. She eyed Veronique up and down with a friendly smile.

“Any chance I can get a cold drink?” Veronique said.

“Sure thing. I’ve got a generator at home. This cooler is full of ice and cold beer,” the woman said, flashing a white, gap-toothed grin. “What’ll you have?”

“I’d die for a cold beer.”

“You got it. That’ll be five dollars,” the woman said briskly as she handed her a chilled longneck.

Veronique pulled six dollars out of her pocket and set it on the counter. With a happy sigh, she took a long, satisfying swig of cold beer straight from the bottle. The icy bubbles refreshed her parched throat and before she knew it, she’d chugged it all down. The alcohol hit her empty stomach with a bang and she suddenly felt lightheaded. She should have eaten something more substantial than a cranberry nut granola bar before leaving. Now she craved a burger or even a hot dog to go along with the beer instead of the cheese sandwich in her bag. Given the noontime heat, it was probably a grilled cheese sandwich by now.