Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (2 page)

His British accent fell on her ears like a slow-grind groove.
Hello, jellyfish knees. Lord, please don’t let him say another word.
 

Her prayers must have been heard. He was downright stoic, silently displaying proper manners as he toted her bass to the narrow backseat door.
 

The bunching muscles along his sledgehammer-jaw conveyed his disdain for playing the ultimate gentleman. Poor guy. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t blame him.

What was she saying? Hot men didn't deserve sympathy.

Once again, she forced a plastic grin, because no self-respecting southern woman would dare let on how she really felt. “Thank you.”
 

“You’re most welcome, love.” He lifted an eyebrow and leaned in. “Anything else I can do for you?” His eyes slid down her body and caused her to tingle in forgotten places.

No fair. Tingling was an involuntary response, like when her hand fell asleep and started to wake up. A very sensitive area of her body was starting to wake up, and it needed to go back to sleep. Now.

She clenched her thighs together. “I’m good.”
 

“I’ve no doubt.” He winked.

Acutely aware her white tank top with the unflattering stain was under the impression it was going for broke in a wet t-shirt contest, she split her hair into pigtails and pulled the ends over her breasts.
 

He made a disapproving sound.
 

She turned her back to him and released the latch under the driver’s seat to slide it forward. He put the bass in the backseat. The sarcophagus-sized case was too big to fit properly and a portion of the neck stuck out the passenger window.
 

When Ray Ban Man went to secure the tailgate, she grabbed her beach bag and dumped the contents. Sunscreen, a paperback novel, a stinky beach towel, and a hairbrush added to her stash of empty water bottles and candy wrappers littering the floorboard.
 

The front seat sported flesh-toned foam poking out of rips in black vinyl. She crawled across the scratchy surface and tugged the waterproof beach bag over the exposed end of the case.
 

Through her milky, seagull-bombed back window, she watched Ray Ban Man amble toward her without seeming to give a fig that the rain pelted him.

Was he a member of the Royal Guard? A man who'd perfected the art of poker-face to the extreme?
Seriously, he strode toward her with such a nonchalant air it bordered slow-motion replay.
 

Rain pinged off his taut muscles. A sodden black shirt clung to his buff torso. Wet jeans accentuated his masculine bulge, which deserved a moment of reverence unto itself.
 

“Yoohoo.”
 

Oh boy. This ought to be fun. That had to be Myrtle Pinkerton. Pleasure Island brimmed with randy seventy-somethings and Myrtle ruled as their priestess. In fact, the whole island had fallen under her charm spell.

Behind the convertible, Myrtle sat perched up tall in her battleship Buick. The old woman required a booster and used special blocks to reach the gas and brake. Her pale-blue, cotton-candy hairdo was barely visible over the dashboard. She looked like a troll doll parading as a queen at the helm of her holy vehicle. All she needed was a crown to make it official. One of those air freshener crowns would probably fit her little head perfectly.

Myrtle's chirpy voice sliced through the pitter-patter of the slacking rain. "Show Mama whatcha got!"
 

Amen, Myrtle.
 

The old woman wiggled her fingers. “Yoohoo...Sir, over here."
 

Ray Ban Man walked toward the Buick. Without a doubt in Sam’s mind, if he got close enough, Myrtle would grab herself a handful of his slick-jean glutes.
 

He did a spin and gyrated his hips, flashing Myrtle a killer smile.

Sam’s jaw dropped, and she crossed her fingers that he’d do that move again. She needed one more glimpse of his fine posterior.

He turned around, pulled his shades to the tip of his nose, and winked at Sam.
 

She closed her mouth to keep from drooling like a Pavlovian dog locked in a bell tower at noon.

She’d been immune to testosterone for the past five years, but Ray Ban Man’s testosterone proved more potent than the variety she’d encountered on Pleasure Island. She needed to stay far away from him. Very far away.

No such luck.
 

He mosied on over and gave her door a pat. “Start your engine?”

Yep. You sure did. Now, how do I turn it off?
 

She pumped the gas and turned the key. “I’m sorry to hold you up.” The starter growled, but the engine didn't even roll over. She shrugged. “Of course it’d die right on the bridge. Murphy's law.”
 

“Not to worry. I’m good for a push.”

With a body like that, she had all ideas he could push it real good. Plagued by dirty thoughts, she bit her lower lip.
 

“Put her in neutral for me.” He sauntered to the back of the truck and cued her with an upward nod.
 

She maneuvered the gearshift.
 

He pushed her uphill onto the drawbridge, not an easy feat, but he seemed to have no trouble. When her vehicle crested the highest point of the bridge, gravity seized control. The truck plummeted downhill, leaving Ray Ban Man behind, waving goodbye in a drizzle.
 

She waved back and mumbled, "Cheerio, old chap. I miss you already. I’m sorry I flipped you off.”

Finally, the engine revved at the base of the bridge. Thank God. One more wink from the hottie and she would’ve invited him home. Based on her morning, that would have ended in disaster.
 

BROCK KNIGHT KNEW better than to push the truck uphill, but he couldn't help himself. The irresistible, damp-damsel-in-distress had required his assistance.
 

He eased into the car, his rugby injuries aching in protest of the rain. The sharp pain stabbing his left shoulder—still swollen from surgery—was the worst of the ailments. The doctors had told him it might take several more surgeries before the pain subsided.

A bottle of Vicodin sat in the ashtray of his vintage convertible. He popped a pill in his mouth and reached for his thermos, only to find it empty. When he bit the tablet in two, a bitter chalk coated his tongue. It took several swallows, but he finally choked down the dry medicine.
 

He removed the Map Quest printout tucked behind the visor and double-checked the address of his newly acquired residence. Nineteen Lunar Avenue. Had a nice ring to it. He fired up his Mustang and glanced in his rearview mirror. The old woman behind him toyed with her phone, not seeming to mind the wait. He stuck his hand out the window and caught her eye in the mirror as he gave her an appreciative wave for her patience.
 

Lunar Avenue was the first road on the right at the base of the bridge. On the corner sat The Sand Dollar Lounge, a bright blue pub with a neon open sign that was not lit. Since Vicodin and beer didn’t mix well, he was fortunate the pub was closed. Rarely did he drink before lunch, but if prescription meds weren’t in his blood stream, he’d have made an exception today. Even with the narcotics, he was tempted.

Aside from a restaurant called Reel to Real Good across the street from the pub, no other businesses lined the road. Lunar Avenue appeared to be one long row of fluorescent houses, making him grateful for his sunglasses.
 

He leaned forward and strained to make out address numbers while his windshield wipers swatted back and forth. The number
five
came into view. The next house read
seventeen
.
He slammed on the brakes when he read
nineteen
on a mailbox shaped like a big-mouthed, ugly fish.
 

A Gatorade yellow, three story house on stilts with pink plastic flamingos dotting an almost nonexistent front lawn, this would be his much needed escape from the other side of the pond, where everyone he knew wished only to relive his rugby days. Here, no one knew him. Without well-meaning family, friends, and fans offering a constant stream of unsolicited advice, he’d figure out what to do next with his life.
 

He turned into the driveway where a familiar Chevy sat on a cement slab beneath the stilted house. The bass still stuck out the side window, a floral beach-bag acting as its rain bonnet.
 

His pulse raced. The blonde bombshell from the bridge was here. She was either his tenant's girlfriend or a cleaning lady, and since she had no visible cleaning supplies in her vehicle, he was going with option one. Meaning—she was taken. Also meaning—she would soon hate him when he had to kick her boyfriend, Sam, out of the house.

THROUGH THE WINDOW in the laundry room door, Sam watched the red convertible pull into her driveway.

Ray Ban Man followed her home? Every muscle in her body stiffened.

Only one other guy had ever done that, and she’d called the cops on him. He’d busted down the door to get to her, and she’d bludgeoned him with the oar that hung on the wall over the washing machine. He’d been a serious psycho.
 

Was this hottie a psycho too? If he didn’t expect something for his trouble, why had he followed her home?

The hooks that once held the oar were now empty. A beach umbrella leaned against the wall near the doorframe. The umbrella was pretty big. The extension pole that went with it was a thick, metal pipe. Prepared to grab it, she hesitated, and told herself to calm down. Maybe something had fallen out of her truck, and he’d come to return it.
 

Like a predator, the sexy stranger crept up the stairs. She patted her front pocket, checking for her phone.

Brock paused midway up the stairs and took in the oceanic view. Miles of blue water lapped the shore. Pelicans swooped low and caught fish in their beaks, while seagulls and terns filled the sky with gleeful cries as joyful as squeals from happy children at play. He inhaled several deep breaths of the ocean-scented air before continuing his ascent up the oddly gouged steps. The side entrance was painted a hideous shade of crimson, identical to the waxy lipstick his mother once wore.
 

When he was a kid, he nearly drew blood trying to rub that lipstick off his cheek before school. If his mother’s kisses had been sincere, he may have felt differently. But they were for show, so others would label her a loving mother, instead of the cold woman she was.
 

The red door flew open before he knocked. The blonde beauty from the bridge guarded the threshold with her arms folded across her chest and face pinched into a warrior-scowl.
 

She stood eye to eye with him in her pink flip-flops. He fancied tall women. Her tresses cascaded to her waist. He especially fancied long hair. She had a youthful quality to her, but her intensity suggested she was in her thirties. He liked that. In fact, he loved that.
 

Being a man approaching forty, he had difficulty connecting with women half his age. This woman was someone he’d relish the chance to connect with from head to toe and everything in between. Especially the bits hidden beneath her denim shorts.

She bypassed hello. "I suppose you want payment? I should've known chivalry came with a price-tag."
 

"Payment?" Payment for helping her? Is that how they did it in America? "No. Of course not. I'm insulted that you’d—”
 

"Insulted? Insulted that I'd think you followed me home with some sort of expectation? I'll have you know—I have the local sheriff on speed dial....” She dug in her front pocket and pulled out her cellphone, index finger poised above the display.

Where was this hostility coming from? She seemed so charming on the bridge. Why had she morphed into a cornered animal?
 

"What are you on about? Hang on.” He handed her his Map Quest printout. “Here. Your being at this residence is coincidence. I'm looking for Sam."

She studied the map. When she read the departure location, “New York City,” something flickered in her eyes, something nervous or fearful.
 

"What do you want with Sam?" Her once turbulent, ocean-blue eyes turned to ice.
 

If he only knew what he’d done to set her off. But he couldn’t divulge too much information about his reason for being here. It wasn't his place. This was Sam's business, not hers.
 

"It's confidential. I assure you it has nothing to do with helping you at the bridge. I was glad to be of assistance."

She gritted her teeth. "I said...what do you want with Sam?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you. I apologize if that seems rude."

She held his gaze a few more seconds, and then rolled her eyes and spat, "I am Sam, so spill it."

What? How could the Marshalls have failed to mention Sam was a woman? “I wasn't expecting—“

"You weren't expecting what?”

"Did the Marshalls contact you?" God, he hoped so. He could handle laying the bad news on a bloke. If the bloke became argumentative, that wouldn't bother him one iota. But a woman? One never knew how a woman would react to such news. She could do something horrid...like cry.
 

"I received a phone call from Irene Marshall while on the drawbridge this morning. How does that relate to you?"
 

"I'm the new home owner, Brock Knight." He gave her a semi-bow.

She glared at him, wordless.
 

A black and gray tabby cat wove around her ankles and bared its teeth.

A shiver ran up his spine.
 

"It's okay, Princess." She picked the cat up and held it to her bosom.
 

Lucky cat
.
 

The creature hissed at him. Its evil amber eyes glowed. That was no Hello Kitty, more like kitty from Hell.