Otherwise Engaged (2 page)

“It’s short for Alexander. He’s got a severe high-frequency hearing loss—and high frequency is where most of human speech occurs. His hearing aids make up for some of that, but not all. If you speak clearly and let him watch your lips, he’ll understand most of what you say. And what
he doesn’t understand, he’ll ask about. He’s not shy.”

The Beach Boy nodded, his disturbingly warm gaze searching her face. “He looks just like you. It’s very cool—it’s like you should be put on display with a big sign that says ‘Genetics in Action.’”

Molly couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Well, I think he’s the most gorgeous, perfect child in the world, so thank you very much.” She looked up to see Zander reappear with the towels. He handed them both to her.

She gave one to the man. “Thanks,” he said, including Zander with a look and a nod.

Molly opened her own towel, wiped her face, and blotted her hair. “I’m Molly Cassidy,” she told him.

“I know that. Me and everyone else on the island. It’s a pretty small place, you know—and news travels faster than the speed of light down here.”

“I’ve seen you on the beach,” Molly said.

“Yeah, I’m trying to learn to paint.” He smiled, but didn’t offer her his name. It was odd—as if he assumed she already knew him. “You know, this
old house has been leaking for at least fifty years.” He wrung out the edge of his T-shirt. “Why’d you choose today to break tradition?”

Molly peered out at him from under her towel. “Because I intend to make this place into a bed-and-breakfast—and soaked mattresses and soggy toast is
not
what I have in mind.”

“A B-and-B, huh? That’s a lot of hard work.”

Not compared with what she’d been used to. But Molly just smiled, kicking off her saturated sneakers.

The Beach Boy looked at her son. “How about you, Zander? You want to make this place into a B-and-B?”

“I like it here,” Zander said. “I want to stay.”

“We like the idea of working for ourselves.” Molly pulled the ponytail holder from her wet hair and ran her hands through the light brown tangle.

“Why not sell the place?” the man asked, his eyes following the movement of her fingers. “An old building like this, with all this property? You could name your price, walk away with a pile of cash. And if you invested it right, you wouldn’t have to work at all.”

“Invest
it? No thank you very much.” Molly made the sign of the cross with her fingers, holding it up as if to ward him off. “Been there, done that. At least my husband did. And it’s not a mistake I’m going to make twice.”

“You could find some low-risk—”

“Risk is risk,” she interrupted. “No, I’ll stick to what I know, thanks.”

“You could find someone who
does
know to invest the money for you.”

Molly laughed. “Here comes the part where you introduce yourself and tell us that when you’re not vacationing here on Sunrise Key, you work in New York City managing people’s investments, right?” She started for the stairs to the second floor, turning back to face Zander. “We better check our buckets, Z—see where we’re still leaking.” She smiled at the Beach Boy. “Come on, Mr. Investment Banker, tag along. We’ll give you the official leaky-roof tour of the Kirk Estate.”

He started up the stairs after them. “I’m not an investment banker,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself—I thought you knew who I was.”

“Oh, wait a minute,
I
know who you are,”
Molly teased, checking the buckets that were strategically placed across the upstairs landing. Several places were dripping, but it wasn’t the steady stream of water she’d expected without the tarps. “You’re the island’s famous billionaire, Preston Seaholm the third, or whatever pretentious number he has dangling off the end of his name, right? You’ve come to make your fifth offer for this house—” She turned to face him. “Can you
believe
the nerve of that pompous man? He’s made four offers on a house that’s not even for sale in the course of three days. Isn’t that incredibly crass! Zander—please check the buckets in your room, and the other bedrooms on that side of the hall, okay?” She signed “check the buckets please” for emphasis.

As Zander disappeared down the corridor Molly pushed open the door to the room she’d slept in over the past few nights. Last night, she’d woken up with water dripping onto her nose. She’d moved the bed and wound up directly underneath another leak. She’d ended up putting buckets and plastic containers on the bed, and taking her blanket and pillow down to the couch in the den.

“He must really want to buy this place,” the Beach Boy said, following her and continuing their conversation.

“Who? Preston Seaholm the fifth?” Molly snorted. “You know, for all he knows, we’re in mourning for poor Great-Uncle Jeremiah Kirk. And all he wants to talk about is money. I know his type. Egotistical, overbearing, thinks he owns the world—”

“
Are
you in mourning?”

Molly led the way into another bedroom. “Well, no. We didn’t exactly even know of Jeremiah’s existence until two weeks ago when the lawyer contacted us about his death. He was my husband’s great-uncle. I didn’t even know Chuck—my husband—had other surviving family.”

“Don’t you think that Pres Seaholm probably knows your connection to Jeremiah Kirk was distant? I mean, if he wants to buy this place that badly …”

The room Molly thought of as the lavender bedroom had a drip that was running pretty quickly. She turned to search for the largest, widest container, but the Beach Boy beat her to it,
already switching it with the small plastic bowl that had been under the leak.

His hair was starting to dry, and the red highlights gleamed in the dim light. And it
was
dim in there. Molly was positive there were no lightbulbs stronger than forty watts in the entire house. It made it difficult to read at night, but the glow they cast was warm and intimate and filled with interesting shadows.

It was romantic.

Of course, this guy would cut a romantic enough figure even in the glaring light of high noon. But with the storm raging outside, turning the afternoon unnaturally dark, in these still-unfamiliar rooms, filled with furniture that was nearly three times as old as she was, Molly was suddenly painfully aware that the man she was talking to was among the most attractive of all the men she’d ever met.

Including Chuck.

She shook her head, pushing that errant thought away.

“Have I thanked you properly for saving my life up on the roof?” she asked.

“That depends on what you mean by
properly
.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth for just a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Molly to realize that he found her attractive too. He wanted to kiss her. She remembered the sensation of his leg thrown across hers, of his hard body pressed against hers. She was willing to bet he remembered it too.

If she kissed him, he would probably taste like an ashtray.

That should have been enough of a turnoff for a pro-fresh air nonsmoker like herself, but oddly enough it wasn’t.

She turned away, uncertain of whether she was more afraid of him or her reaction to him, and unable to keep from glancing back in his direction.

He was smiling as if he could read her mind. She didn’t doubt that he could. “You said your husband was Chuck—Chuck Cassidy …? Do you mean the writer?”

She gazed at him in surprise. “Did you know him?”

“No, but I’ve read all of his books. He was a favorite of mine. I think his short story ‘Day After
the End’ is still required reading in ninth-grade English in most of the western hemisphere. As it should be.” His voice got lower. “I was sorry to hear of his death.”

With the exception of “Day After the End,” by the time Chuck had died, his name and his books were virtually unknown. He’d published nothing since 1979—more than five years before Molly had even met him. Writing had always been a struggle for him, and in the last years of his life he’d fought, but not nearly hard enough. And then, when he was diagnosed with cancer …

“That was about two years ago, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“Three,” Molly said. “I’m surprised you even knew. Chuck Cassidy’s passing wasn’t exactly considered newsworthy.”

“His obituary was in the local paper.” She blinked. “Here? On Sunrise Key?” “Yeah. According to local legend, he used to come down here for vacations all the time, back fifteen, twenty years ago. He even lived down here for a while. It was before I came to the key, but there’s still a picture of him up on the wall at Millie’s Market.”

Molly turned away. “I didn’t know.” It was amazing. Another secret. Another piece of himself that Chuck hadn’t shared with her. He’d never told her anything about Sunrise Key, Florida.

But then again, Chuck hadn’t told her much about
anything
.

The Beach Boy was watching her and she forced herself to smile.

And change the subject. “So, what is it?” she asked him. “Mike? Or Tom?”

H
E BLINKED
. “Excuse me?”

“Your name,” Molly said. “No, don’t tell me. It’s Brian, right?”

His name. She honest to God didn’t know who he was. Well, of course she didn’t—she wouldn’t have insulted him right and left if she’d known.

Not that he felt insulted. On the contrary. He was amused by her vehemence. What had she called him? Pompous. He didn’t think he’d ever been called pompous before. Certainly never to his face, and probably never even behind his back. Overbearing. He didn’t
think
he was
overbearing—not the way some of his classmates at Harvard had been. He was intensely aggressive at times, yes, but never overbearing. And as for egotistical. Well … Perhaps she wasn’t quite off base there, since it was maybe a
little
egotistical to assume that Molly Cassidy would automatically know who he was.

But on the other hand, he’d known exactly who she was the first time he saw her.

“So am I right?” She was smiling at him as she led the way back into the hall.

He followed her. Right about what? Then he remembered. His name. “Brian? Nope. Not even close.”

At first glance she looked completely average. She had light brown hair, made darker now from the rain. It was a little longer than shoulder length, with a light fringe of bangs that framed her oval-shaped face.

“Pete.”

He shook his head as they went down the stairs. “I honestly don’t think you’re going to guess.”

Her nose was unremarkable, neither too big nor too small and her mouth fit nicely beneath it.
Her eyes were a very common shade of blue. She wasn’t too short or too tall—just a nice, average height. She was slender, but not too skinny. Her oversized T-shirt attempted to hide her curves, but the sudden downpour of rain had drenched it, and now it did quite the opposite, clinging to her nicely proportioned body. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, but he knew she had to be older. Her boy was at least nine or ten years old.

“Steve?”

“No.”

“Okay, I give up. What is your name? Bill, right?”

He laughed. “I thought you gave up.”

She was a mom and a widow, and she looked the part. Wholesome. Average. Nothing special.

At first glance.

But Pres had had the opportunity to take a second glance at very,
very
close proximity up on the roof of the house.

And up close, her hair had shone with overtones of gold. It was baby-fine and soft as the purest, most expensive silk as his hands had brushed against it. Up close, her seemingly average nose had a smattering of ridiculously perfect
freckles across it, and her lips looked incredibly, heart-stoppingly soft. She was quick to smile, and that smile lit her from within, transforming her and making her look anything but average.

And up close, her eyes were so much more than common. They were filled with flecks of green and gold and brown, swirling in and among an ocean that never stayed the same warm shade of blue for long.

“It’s my major fault,” she admitted. “I have this inability to give up. Just tell or I’ll keep guessing.”

He hesitated for a second or two. “My mother used to call me Michael.”

“Mike—I was right the first time,” she said triumphantly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because most folks around here call me by my given name.” He paused. “Pres Seaholm. The first.”

Molly Cassidy’s big blue eyes got even bigger and bluer, and Pres knew that—for the first time since they’d come down off the roof—she was about to be silent.

But her silence didn’t last for long. “You’re kidding, right? Please say you’re only kidding.”

He shook his head no, and she covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Lord.”

“I wish I could tell you that I stopped by to make my fifth crass offer on the house in three days, but the truth is I was painting on the beach, taking advantage of the weird light before the storm struck.”

Molly started to laugh. “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry. …” She had to sit down on the stairs, she was laughing so hard. “I called you … And I said … Oh, God! You must think I’m awful.”

Zander came out of his room and peered down at them over the upstairs railing. He stomped his foot, making a sharp, loud sound, and Molly glanced up. As Pres watched, the boy made some movements with his hands. It had to be sign language.

“No, I’m all right,” Molly called up to her son, still laughing as she made similar motions with her hands. “I’m just …” She shook her head, turning to look at Pres. Her cheeks were flushed from embarrassment and her eyes were still brimming with laughter, making her look even younger. The effect was charming. “You’re not
what I expected,” she said accusingly, almost as if this were all his fault.

“You mean, pompous and overbearing?” He smiled to soften his words, to make sure she knew he didn’t take any of it too seriously.

She cringed, briefly closing her eyes, but didn’t crumble. “You did come on way too strong,” she insisted. “Making all those offers on the house like that …”

“That’s not coming on too strong,” he countered. “That’s getting the job done. See, I want this house.”

Molly stood up, and the stairs put her at eye level with him. She wasn’t laughing anymore. “But it’s not for sale, Mr. Seaholm. It’s not even on the market.”