Sea of Love: A Bayberry Island Novel (9 page)

His behavior the day before had been inexcusable. Period. Ash shouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation. Just because a beautiful woman happens to slam into your naked body in the dark doesn’t mean it has to escalate into an episode of hot, out-of-control sex on the floor. But that’s what happened, and it made no sense to Ash. He wasn’t a horny high schooler. He was a grown man with principles, responsibilities—and a free will, for God’s sake—and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his head like that.

True, most men would have found it difficult to resist temptation in the form of Rowan Flynn, but he could have at least tried.

Rowan was beautiful. Soft. Giving. Uninhibited. Wild. And
maddening
. She’d practically ignored him this morning! Of course she needed to behave professionally in front of her guests, but she’d completely closed herself off to him. How does a woman go from scorching hot to ice cold in a span of twelve hours?

He produced a groan of exasperation loud enough to scatter birds from the bushes. He watched them fly up from the roadside as if the flames of hell were nipping at their tail feathers.

Ash shoved his hands deep in the front pockets of his khakis and walked. He breathed in the salty air. He listened to the tap of his feet on the pavement and the screech of the seagulls. He felt the morning sun and fair-weather breeze on his face. And, of course, since the Flynns owned the best views to be found on Bayberry Island, he took the time to enjoy the stunning seascape. The main road may have been several hundred feet back from the south-facing bluff, but the blue-green ocean looked close enough to touch. It was no wonder Jessop-Riley wanted this particular piece of land to build what they hoped would be the finest destination resort in New England.

He’d viewed the architectural models often enough, but standing there in the salty breeze, he could really see the finished product—the sprawling cedar-shingle hotel and casino with sparkling white trim, huge decks and porches, a pool, a full-service beach area, and a first-class marina. West of the hotel would be the golf course. Jessop-Riley was in preliminary talks with pro golfer Greg Norman’s company, their dream design team for a one-hundred-sixty-three-acre, eighteen-hole beauty. And once construction began, the firm would fund improvements to the tiny Bayberry airport, making it feasible for small private jets to land on the island.

How satisfying it would be to come back here in two years and see a glittering first-class resort where the rotting and rickety disaster of the Safe Haven B and B once stood.

But only if he could make it happen. And if he wasn’t careful, everything could fall apart.

Ash had taken this job because he’d figured out a perfectly doable approach to closing the deal. But what was doable yesterday had become a tangled mess of confusion overnight. What was wrong with him? Why the hell had he felt powerless to fight his hunger for Rowan? She was supposed to be a pawn in a land deal, not the object of his lust and longing.

He’d really fucked this up. And he had to find a way to fix it—fast. Ash had exactly seven days and six nights to win her trust and get access to her mother, father, and the one brother who still lived on the island. But instead of seducing her from a level playing field, he now had to dig himself out of a mile-deep hole before making any progress. Ash knew that if the frosty glare she’d given him this morning was any indication, he was in for a serious challenge.

Just then, it dawned on him: Brian would have loved Rowan and definitely would have been pissed that Ash was using her.

He stopped walking.

Where had
that
come from?

Ash shook his head and continued on. He’d never enjoyed playing with people’s feelings. It didn’t give him any kind of twisted thrill. But it was sometimes the only way to get the job done. At least the Mermaid Island deal would be his last foray into this kind of sneaky shit, and he sure wasn’t going to miss it.

He soon reached the center of town, and it was rocking with activity. Everywhere he looked, he saw people preparing for the parade and kickoff ceremony. A swarm of volunteers was cleaning up tree branches, leaves, and windblown trash from the streets. A jazz quartet was setting up in the makeshift band shell in fountain square. Shopkeepers were hanging mermaid flags, streamers and bunting, and street vendors were claiming spots along the parade route. The rustic century-old seaside town appeared to have been scrubbed clean by the storm, and was putting on its Sunday best for the celebration. Ash looked out across the wide Atlantic, past the sailboat masts, and into the late-morning sky, now a canopy of perfect blue clarity.

He couldn’t help but smile.

On his way to the marine yard, he saw the ferry unloading—hundreds of adults and children spilling out onto the public dock, many in costume. For a fleeting moment, he wished he were the kind of guy who’d be comfortable walking around in public dressed like an idiot. But that was never his thing. He’d always been the kid too cool to wear anything but jeans and sneakers to the Halloween party.

Ash found the
Provenance
exactly where he’d left her, rocking gently against the temporary slip’s fore and aft bumpers, the sound of her halyards ringing like dainty bells in the breeze. Ash opened the combination lock and climbed down the companionway into the cabin. He grabbed a duffel bag from a narrow closet and crammed in a few days’ worth of clean clothes, an extra pair of shoes, his iPad, and some toiletries.

With a twinge of dread, he picked up his cell phone, which he’d left charging on the galley countertop yesterday afternoon. Five voice mails? How could that be? He couldn’t even name five living souls who had this number, especially since his attorney was on vacation for the whole month of August. However, he was on the clock for another week or so, so he figured he should at least check.

Ash’s eyes went wide. Jerrod Jessop had called him, which was a first. He decided to listen to the message.

“Wallace. It’s close of business on Friday. I’m assuming you’re alive. If not, let me know.”

Ash laughed.

Four more calls were from the Oceanaire offices, probably in regard to next month’s board of directors meeting in Boston. Brian’s death had halted plans for the foundation’s proposed research and education institute and offices, but the board was ready once again to pursue Brian’s dream, and they expected Ash to guide them. He’d get back to them Monday.

Ash tossed the phone into his duffel bag, then retraced his way up the steps, locked the cabin, and hopped onto the walkway. He hadn’t gotten twenty feet before he ran into Sully, the mechanic.

“Mr. Wallace.” Sully wasn’t much for eye contact. “Got a minute?”

“Of course.” Ash threw the duffel strap over his shoulder. “Have you had a chance to look at my boat?”

Sully shook his head, then changed his mind and nodded. “Uh, briefly—enough to know that you’re going to need a whole new engine. You really messed her up good.”

Ash produced the appropriate expression of shame. “I feel like an idiot.”

Sully let that assessment slide. “Uh, I can order one from a guy I know in Hyannis—runs the best shop on the Cape. But only if that’s okay with you. If it’s not okay . . .” He looked away.

Ash realized he wasn’t going to finish the sentence. “That’ll be fine.”

“But, uh, it’s gonna cost about four thousand . . .”

“All right.”

“You’re lucky it’s gas, though, since diesel would’ve been five times as much.”

Ash sighed with exaggerated relief. “Well, that’s good. Would you like me to get my checkbook?”

“Got your credit card on file.”

Ash nodded. “So we’re good?”

“Uh, got another problem.”

Despite Sully’s halting conversation style, Ash knew exactly where this was headed: He was about to be the victim of supply and demand. “Yes?”

“Slips are at a premium this week.”

“Of course. How much?”

Sully glanced away again. “It’s peak season. I know you can’t overnight on your boat, but . . .”

“Name your—”

“Five hundred a night.”

Ash pursed his lips, trying not to laugh at the outrageous number Sully had just pulled out of his ass. Not that he was surprised. In his years of negotiating, Ash had seen that even the most hesitant and insecure people could make themselves perfectly clear when cash was involved. “Go ahead and run the card for the slip rental and use it to buy whatever you need for the boat. Will that work?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Wallace.” With that, Sully turned and headed back toward his tumbledown shack of an office.

“Nice doing business with you.” Ash got no response. He made his way back through town and headed to the B and B, noting that the streets were filling up with locals and tourists alike. The storm had added a dash of anxiety to the goings-on, which meant the stressed-out folks running around trying to get things done were Bayberry locals. Otherwise, it wasn’t clear who was a visitor and who was a resident, because a majority of the people Ash saw were oddly dressed, to put it politely. In one of the many articles he’d read in his research, a travel writer had called Bayberry the Key West of New England. Ash was beginning to see how accurate that description had been.

First off, there were mermaids.
Everywhere
. The mermaids were tall and slender, short and chunky, dark-skinned and pale, and everything in between. They ranged in age from crying babies to frail old women being pushed around in wheelchairs.

The mermaid costumes ran the gamut from off-the-rack Walmart purchases to elaborate, custom-designed works of performance art. One woman glided down the boardwalk wearing a Statue-of-Liberty-slash-mermaid ensemble, complete with the torch, crown, and red, white, and blue scales on her fish tail. Ash decided he hadn’t seen this many long wigs and bikini tops since he watched part of a Beyoncé special on cable TV the year before.

A close second to the mermaids was the number of sea captains and sailors of varying descriptions. There was also a staggering number of hippies, neo-hippies, hippy-hipsters, and quasi-Rastafarians from preteen to postprime ages. Then there were the pirates, fishermen, King Tritons, and even a few mermen. The undersea characters from the cartoon
SpongeBob SquarePants
were well represented, as were costumes that defied easy classification.

Just then, Ash blinked in an effort to clear his vision. The six-foot-tall “mermaid” sashaying down the middle of Main Street sported thick chest hair, big biceps, and a pronounced Adam’s apple. Ash barely had time to regroup when he spied the gaggle of fairies walking toward the public dock. He had to stop and watch.

He’d read about them. Apparently, there had been a mutiny within the Mermaid Society back in the late nineties, and several members founded a rival all-female club called the Bayberry Fairy Brigade. As the name implied, these ladies decided to pledge their loyalty to mythical forest creatures instead of mythical sea creatures. And despite what Ash was looking at now—the gossamer wings, frilly skirts, and overall delicate appearance—he knew these fairies were anything but wusses. He’d read about how their act of defiance had never been forgiven, and there had been several fairy-mermaid melees to which the police had responded. He hoped he would witness a skirmish while on the island, but wondered if such a treat might be too much to ask for.

Stuck in the middle of all this weirdness were normal-looking families, salt-of-the-earth locals, and a whole bunch of retirees who seemed to be having a ball.

Ash chuckled as he walked in the direction of the B and B. He’d traveled all over the world—Asia, Africa, Europe, South America. He’d been to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Chinese New Year in Hong Kong, and
Carnaval de Buenos Aires
. And he could safely say that the tiny Bayberry Island Mermaid Festival packed more per-capita spectacle than any of them.

Back at the carriage house, Ash enjoyed a leisurely hot shower. At some point he realized his thoughts had once more gravitated toward Rowan. Her body, to be exact. He raised his face into the steaming water, remembering how greedy she’d been for his touch, how she’d arched up against him and pushed her breast into his mouth, how she’d bared her neck to him and clutched at his back like she would die without him.

He groaned at the memory of Rowan’s kisses. They were everything from fierce to demure. Her hair smelled like a summer storm. And when he was buried deep inside her—oh God, he didn’t think he’d ever felt anything as true and as right in his life.

He shut off the now-cold water with a shake of his head, amazed that he was once more fighting the direction taken by his own thoughts. And his dick. He’d always seen himself as a disciplined man, not one prone to daydreaming and sentimentality. In fact, every woman he’d ever had a relationship with claimed that was his primary defect. He’d been called closed off, shut down, and just plain cold. So to find himself off balance like this was way beyond odd. It was fuckin’ nuts.

Ash put on a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt, then set off toward town again. He hoped he’d get there in time to catch the beginning of the parade.

And if he were lucky, he’d get a glimpse of Rowan. He needed to know what she looked like when she was happy and laughing. He decided if he were allowed only one more guilty pleasure during his time on Bayberry Island—Rowan’s laugh or mermaid-fairy fisticuffs—he’d choose Rowan in a heartbeat. He bet the sound of her laughter was lovely beyond words.