Sea of Love: A Bayberry Island Novel (6 page)

Jessop began rocking back and forth in his chair, his agitation kicking into high gear. “You don’t sound particularly confident in our boy.”

“Oh, that’s not my point at all,” she said, keeping her voice calm and even. “You asked if there was anything to add, and there isn’t. But we have eighty million in outside capital and fifty million of our own on the line, and if we don’t get that land, we’ll have to settle for a less than ideal location. And we all know that nothing comes close to the charm of Mermaid Island. That is a fact.”

Jessop scrunched up his nose, sniffed repeatedly, and drummed his fingers on the conference table. Kathryn had been dealing with her boss’s infamous “manic genius” for seven years now. It was a mystery to her why he didn’t just get medicated like everyone else. “All right, people.” Jessop stood up. “I guess that does it for now.”

Kathryn shut her compact laptop and tucked it away in her bag. She smiled and chatted with her team as they wandered into the central hallway of the J-R corporate suite. She broke away from the others and was heading toward her office when Brenda Paulson pulled up alongside, matching her stride.

“Why are you so hateful toward Ash?” She pretended not to be having a conversation with Kathryn and kept her gaze focused in front. “You know his friend Brian died in a private-plane crash not too long ago. Cut him some slack.”

“I am not hateful toward anyone, but my job does not include making excuses for overpaid consultants.” Kathryn increased her speed.

“What did he ever do to you?”

“The real question is why you have a puppy-dog fixation on that man. You aren’t doing yourself or your career any favors.”

“You’re just jealous. Ash doesn’t like you.”

Kathryn laughed. “I have actual work to do, Brenda, and no interest in helping you through your unresolved self-esteem issues. But do yourself a favor and face reality—he doesn’t even know you exist.”

“That’s not true!” Brenda caught herself before her voice rose above a frantic whisper, and both women smiled at their coworkers as they approached Kathryn’s office door. Brenda waited until they were out of earshot of other employees to continue. “He’s nice to me when he comes here. He always stops by my office and asks about my daughter. He gave me Red Sox tickets earlier this summer. They were box seats, too!”

Though it would have been far more satisfying to rip poor Brenda Paulson to shreds, Kathryn decided the kinder approach would be to feel sorry for her. After all, she’d been knocked up out of wedlock and was forced to attend night school instead of real college. She was at least fifteen pounds overweight, and her skin looked like it could use a good exfoliation. Her wardrobe choices weren’t the wisest selections possible, even within a limited budget.

Kathryn stopped before they reached her door. “I hate to break this to you, but Ashton Louis Wallace the third gives Red Sox tickets to everyone. He’s a consultant. He uses tickets to schmooze his clients and then writes them off as a business expense. It has nothing to do with him liking you, or thinking you’re cute, or wanting to take you to prom. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Brenda’s face blanched. She looked like she might cry. Or throw up. “You are such a
bitch
.” With that, she spun around and ran off like she’d had her feelings hurt in gym class.

Kathryn entered her private sanctuary and gently shut the door. She removed her suit jacket and hung it on her solid cherry suit valet. She approached the three potted plants on her credenza and spritzed them with equal amounts of distilled water.

Then she balled her hands into fists and bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood.

Ash had never stopped by her office. Not
once
. He barely spoke to her. It was if he didn’t even
see
her. She’d had no idea that his best friend had died, or even that his name had been Brian.

And she’d certainly never received Red Sox tickets, not once in the four years J-R had been sending Ash out to do their dirty work.

So that was that, then. Kathryn knew what had to be done.

Ash Wallace had to fail to close the Mermaid Island deal, and his failure had to be so spectacular that Jerrod would turn to Kathryn to pick up the pieces. And afterward, not only would she finally get the recognition she deserved, but no one in New England would want to do business with Ashton Louis Wallace III again.

Served him right.

“I
’m telling you—he’s beautiful. I mean a Greek god, otherworldly kind of beautiful.”

“Uh-huh.” Annie didn’t sound overly enthusiastic. “So how many of those cranberry-vodka thingies have you had?”

“This is only my second.” Rowan propped her bare feet on a kitchen chair and crossed her ankles. “Besides, this has nothing to do with cocktails and everything to do with raw, potent sexual attraction. I’m telling you, when I showed him around the carriage house, I almost had an orgasm just saying, ‘and here’s the bedroom.’”

“I still have power at the house and the shop. How about you? Do you still have power up there?”

“You’re trying to change the subject on me.”

Annie laughed. “You bet your ass I’m trying to change the subject! The last thing you need is to fall in lust with a rich and handsome Safe Haven guest during festival week. Ring any bells?”

“This guy is nothing like Frederick.”

“Okay, so does the Greek god have a name?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Why would I laugh? Unless his name is Zeus or Poseidon or something, and in that case, it would be against the law not to laugh.”

Rowan took a sip of her drink for courage. “His name is Ashton Lou-
wee
Wallace the third.”

Annie guffawed so hard that Rowan had to hold her cell phone a good ten inches from her ear. Since the laughter showed no sign of slowing, she placed the phone on the butcher block, dropped her feet to the floor, and went to get some fresh ice. While she was there, she added another splash of cranberry juice. Which meant she needed to add another splash of vodka, if only to preserve the cocktail’s integrity. When Rowan retrieved her phone, got back to her chair, and propped her feet again, Annie was still chortling. “You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry, Row.” She took a deep breath. “I’m done.”

Rowan and Annabeth Parker had been best friends since preschool, and in those twenty-five-plus years, they had come to know each other quite well. That’s how Rowan knew Annie was, in fact, not done laughing. She sipped her drink and waited patiently while her friend laughed some more.

“Whew! God!” Annie paused to collect herself. “Okay. I’m serious this time, sweetie. I’m done. I apologize.”

“See, here’s why you shouldn’t laugh at me, Annie. You’ve got a man. He’s a wonderful man. Nat is sweet and fun and is so in love with you that he can’t see straight. He moved across the continent to be with you. He proposed to you in front of the mermaid fountain and half the population of the island.”

Her friend sighed with contentment. “I know. I’m the luckiest woman on earth.”

“Yes, you are. So don’t gloat. Let’s look at what I have by comparison, shall we? Nothing. I have no man. No money. No SoHo condo. No career. No sex! Not since the feds showed up and dragged Frederick out of our bed, which was almost two years ago. In fact, I don’t even have the bed anymore.”

Annie remained uncharacteristically quiet. Eventually she said, “Rowan, we all love you. Your mom and dad, Clancy, Duncan, Mellie, me, Nat. I know it’s been a rough year since the trial and I know you’re frustrated with where you are in life right now. But things will turn around.”

“They’d better.”

“The point is, festival week isn’t the time to try to start a relationship with someone. It’s too crazy. There’s no time for you to really get to know each other. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

Rowan chuckled. “I don’t want to have his children, Annie. I just want to get naked and roll around with him for a few hours.”

“Well, if you can handle that.”

“Of course I can. I’m only interested in sex.”

“Well, good, because if you ever became Mrs. Thurston Howell the third, I’m not sure we could be friends anymore.”

“That’s not his name, but whatever.” Rowan took another sip of her drink, thinking she could use another dash of lime juice. She reached across the butcher block and cut a wedge, squeezing it into the ice-cold pink liquid. Really, cranberry and vodka was a very pretty drink.

“You’re absolutely right,” Annie said. “Who cares what his name is? All that matters is the type of person he is, that he’s a good man, that he’ll leave you panting and happy and then go home.”

“Amen.” Rowan swished the lime juice around, held her glass up to the light, and chuckled. Within seconds the chuckle escalated into a full-out guffaw. “But, seriously, is that the most stick-up-the-ass name you’ve ever heard, or what?”

“God, yes. So what’s Thurston do for a living?”

Rowan gazed up at the punched-tin ceiling of the kitchen, still holding her glass high. “You know, I have no idea what he does. Maybe nothing. Looks like a T-fer to me.”

“A trust funder? Nice.”

Rowan heard her best friend whisper, then put her hand over the receiver. It didn’t prevent Rowan from hearing muffled whispers of affection and a squeal or two. It was obvious what was going on over at Annie’s place. It was depressing.

“I’m sorry, Row. I’m back.”

“Tell Nat I said ‘hi.’”

“Nat says ‘hi’ to you, too.”

“Were they filming today?” Annie’s fiancé, Nathaniel Ravelle, was a documentary filmmaker shooting a movie about Bayberry’s mermaid legend. That’s how he and Annie met—Nat traveled from Los Angeles to the island just before Christmas last year to do advance scouting for the reality show he was working on at the time. He fell on the ice in front of Annie’s tourist tchotchke shop, and by the time she’d nursed him back to health, they’d fallen in love. Nat had since quit his job in LA, and he and his crew had been filming all of August in preparation for the blowout party atmosphere of festival week.

Rowan would have liked Nat under any circumstance—he was funny, smart, and kind—but she absolutely loved him for making Annie happier than Rowan had ever seen her.

“The crew was out all day, even in the rain,” Annie said. “They had to drape the equipment with tarps in order to get footage of the Man Grab.”

“Who was this year’s sucker?”

“No idea, but Nat said the guy wasn’t at all happy about it. Had no sense of humor, apparently.”

“Sounds like a real douche.” Rowan sighed. “Seriously, why bother coming for the festival if you aren’t willing to let loose a little and—” The lights in the kitchen flickered, then went out completely. Rowan reached for the flashlight she’d propped on the butcher block and flicked it on. “Well, thar she blows. We just lost power.”

“We did, too. Better go. I hope Poseidon knows how to operate a flashlight. Talk later, sweetie.”

As Rowan clicked off her cell phone, it hit her. She’d forgotten to give Mr. Wallace a flashlight in case the island lost power. This meant that he was alone in her apartment—in the dark. Just before she’d called Annie, Rowan had personally handed over one flashlight—along with extra batteries—to each of the twelve guest rooms. Then she’d trudged up to the third floor and handed one to each of the maids. Imelda had her own stash. That left Rowan with the only remaining flashlight in the whole house, the flimsy little thing about the size of a tampon that she now held in her hand. Of course, she really didn’t need it, since she knew every odd angle and protruding fireplace mantel in the house. But how could she have forgotten Mr. Wallace?

Rowan jumped up and headed toward the pantry. “Ow!” She rubbed her toes, shaking her head at her own clumsiness. Apparently, she’d forgotten to factor in the location of all the kitchen stools. She held the flashlight between her teeth and climbed on a chair to reach the top pantry shelf, where she knew she’d stored some utility candles for just this kind of emergency. Rowan grabbed two, hopped down—carefully—then rooted around in the junk drawer for a lighter. She tossed everything into a plastic freezer Baggie, shoved the Baggie into the waistband of her jeans, and raced out the kitchen door. Almost immediately, she regretted that she’d been too rushed to grab a foul-weather slicker.

The rain was flying almost horizontal to the lawn, stinging her face. She tucked her head down and ran as fast as she could, her bare feet splashing in the saturated grass. An ear-piercingly loud crack of thunder startled her so much, she screamed. Rowan dared a glance toward the beach and saw nature’s laser light show taking place not so far out at sea, jagged streaks of lightning piercing the black sky and lighting up the waves, one flash right after the next. It was a jaw-dropping display of destructive beauty and power, and if Rowan hadn’t been afraid of being burned like a matchstick, she might have paused to watch.

Instead she ran on, slipping on the gentle slope of lawn leading toward the carriage house. She pushed herself to a stand and continued. When she reached the stone and shingle building seconds later, she found the door to her apartment wide open and banging in the wind.

A slice of fear went through her. Had something happened to Mr. Wallace? Had he run toward the main house while she’d been running out to him? Had he been struck by lightning?

“Hello?”

Rowan heard her shout die in the wind. She braced her bare heels on the slate walkway and grabbed the edge of the door. “Mr. Wallace?” She backed into the entrance to the stairway, then used all her strength to yank the door shut. Instantly, she was wrapped in silence, protected by the thick fortresslike walls her great-grandfather had insisted upon. Even for his staff. Even for his horses.

It was black in the narrow, windowless stairwell. She fished the tampon flashlight out of her jeans pocket and toggled the switch several times. Nothing. It must have gotten wet. “Perfect.” Rowan shoved the useless thing back into her pocket and pushed away the wet hair that was plastered to her face. She slowly climbed the stairs. Since there were no railings, she dragged her hand along the wall for reassurance.

As she very well knew, there was no door to the apartment. That meant that once she reached the top of the stairs, she would be in the living room, which would be a clear invasion of her guest’s privacy. But this was an emergency. If Mr. Wallace was still up here, he was in the dark and quite possibly concerned for his safety.

Rowan reached the last step, curled her fingers around the corner of the wall, and stepped into the living room.

“Mr. Wallace? It’s Rowan Flynn. Are you all right?”

Just then, a flash of lightning illuminated the room just enough to show her it was empty. He’d gone back to the main house, then. All this running and falling had been for nothing. With a sigh, Rowan reached into the front of her jeans and pulled out the Baggie, leaving the candles and lighter on the dinette table for when he returned. She turned to go, but the loud
thunk
coming from the bedroom made her jump in surprise.

“God
dam
mit!”

He was here. “Mr. Wallace?” Rowan suspected he hadn’t heard her because a rumble of thunder had drowned out her shout. She hated to surprise him, but what if he were hurt? What if every wasted second could mean the difference between life and death? She rushed toward the bedroom door with her hands outstretched. “Are you all right?”

Whump
. It felt like she’d hit a wall—a full-frontal wall of wet, hard, bare flesh. A hand grabbed her elbow. She screamed in surprise.

“Rowan?”

She tugged her arm free and started jogging backward, her mind racing. This had been a mistake. It was dark. From what she could tell, he was naked. She’d had two cranberry vodkas—well, technically, two and a half. And she hadn’t had sex in nearly two years.

Severely undersexed and half in the bag had never been a good combination for her.

“Oh!” The back of Rowan’s heel hit something, and she began to fall backward, not sure exactly where she was or where she’d land. Was she in the hallway? The living room? The dining area? What had she just tripped over?

His hand grabbed her arm again, but both of them were wet and slick so she slipped from his grasp. That’s when his hand clutched at the bottom of her T-shirt and tried to pull her to a stand. The shirt ripped. Rowan fell on her ass. Ash fell on top of her, catching most—but not all—of his weight on his hands. She’d been flattened onto her back.

Oh God! He smelled delicious! He smelled like
sex
! He must have been in the shower when the electricity went off, because his own mysterious scent had mixed in with Rowan’s familiar soap and shampoo. The result was the exotic elixir now flowing through her nostrils and penetrating the exact part of her brain that didn’t want her to stay a sex-starved spinster, “
ma’am”
innkeeper for another minute!

He panted. She panted. He hovered close. She felt his warm, big body pressing into hers from thighs to chest, his bare skin against her own. She gasped. If she felt skin-on-skin, it meant her shirt had ripped from hem to neck, leaving her whole front exposed. A Greek god had just ripped off her clothes!

What a difference a day could make.

A brief flash of lightning illuminated his face, not an inch above hers, beautifully masculine and serious. Another flare revealed his hair was wet. Another showed his lips were parted. Thunder rumbled low and angry, vibrating across the sea and through their bodies. She felt his breath on her face. It would be so easy just to grab his head, force his lips onto hers, and kiss him until he begged for mercy. No one would ever know. But the window for that kind of outrageous act was rapidly closing. Another few seconds and one—or both—of them would come to their senses, apologize, and shove each other away. Rowan knew that if she didn’t make her move now . . .