He sighed. "I have to stay away from you."
Molly kept her eyes tightly closed as she nodded. "That would probably be a good idea."
"It's a damned lousy idea."
His vehemence rumbled in his chest, and Molly lifted her head to look up at him.
Big mistake.
Their gazes caught and sparked and Molly knew he was going to kiss her. He lowered his head.
"Don't," she said. "Pres, don't."
He stopped, mere inches from her mouth, pulling back to a safer distance. "Ashtray," he said, chagrin in his eyes. "Right?"
Ashtray? She made the connection—she'd told him that getting close to him was like cozying up to an ashtray. In truth, that had nothing to do with her not wanting to kiss him. In truth, it was pure fear that stopped her. Fear of getting in too deep, fear of falling, once again, for a man she knew nothing about.
She nodded, letting him believe the easiest explanation. "Ashtray," she echoed weakly, and he pulled away.
"Sorry."
Pres stood with one hand on the doorknob. He knew he should go, and he knew he didn't want to. But what he wanted and what Molly needed were two entirely different things.
She looked up at him, her blue eyes so subdued.
Pres gazed at her, still amazed at how soft she'd felt and how perfectly she'd fit in his arms. "I'm sorry," he said again.
He opened the French doors and vanished into the night.
SIX
"Is that supposed to be a boat?"
Pres turned and looked at Zander, who had appeared behind him and was staring critically over his shoulder at his watercolor painting. "Yeah."
Zander nodded, his glasses crooked as usual. "It's good."
"No, it's not."
"Better than I could do."
"I wonder. I was just thinking that from certain angles it looks more like a hippopotamus."
"A what?"
Pres turned and faced the boy, letting him see his lips. "A hippopotamus. You know, big animal, wide mouth. Lives in Africa . . . ?"
Zander nodded, turning back to study the painting. He couldn't hide his smile as he glanced at Pres out of the corner of his eyes. "It's the right color."
"I keep wanting to add ears and eyes right here," Pres said, pointing to his painting.
"Maybe you should."
"Who'd want a picture of a hippo swimming in the Gulf of Mexico?"
"I would. I could give it to Mom for her birthday."
"Your mom's birthday is coming up?"
"Yeah—in a couple weeks." Zander angled his head to look at the picture again. "I bet she'd like it. It would be ... unique. That's my word for today. Unique. It means special."
"That's a pretty hard word." Pres sat back in his chair and fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes. "And you learn one every day?"
The cigarettes weren't there. He'd quit the night before for good, after not kissing Molly. But God, it hadn't even been twelve hours yet, and he was dying for a smoke. His hands were shaking—no wonder his damned boat looked like a hippo. This not smoking could very well kill him. But if it meant he'd get a chance to kiss Molly Cassidy, then dammit, he'd die smiling. He pulled out a pack of gum, offering it to Zander too.
The boy eagerly took a piece. "Thanks." They both unwrapped the gum and chewed in silence for a moment. "The daily word is Mom's idea," Zander finally told Pres after his gum was soft enough to talk around. "I learn how to say it right, and we both learn how to sign it." He held up the pointer finger of his left hand, and with his right thumb and index finger, he took hold of it and lifted both hands upward. "That's the sign for unique."
Pres imitated the movement. "That's cool."
Zander brought both hands up to his face, palms in, and flapped his fingers as if fanning himself. "No, that's cool," he said with a grin.
"Very funny. Hey, you know, I was serious about wanting to learn how to sign. Will you teach me?"
Zander made several rapid motions with his hands. He did them again slower. "If you teach me to swim, I'll teach you to sign," he interpreted.
The sign for teach looked as if Zander were pulling information out of his forehead.
"I don't know the sign for scuba or snorkel," he told Pres, "but that's what I really want to learn how to do. I know my mom doesn't want me to, though."
"Remember you have to be twelve before you can actually start training to get certified to dive. But maybe by then we can talk Molly into taking scuba-diving lessons too."
"Mom?" Zander gave Pres a disbelieving look.
"Speaking of your mom, does she know you're down here at the beach?"
Zander glanced over his shoulder, and Pres turned also to look back toward the Kirk Estate. From where he was sitting, he could just see the red-tiled roof over the tops of the trees.
"I told her I was going outside," Zander said. "If she wants me, she'll page me."
"You have a pager?"
"Yeah, we just got one. The house is so big, and I can't always hear Mom when she shouts for me. She says it was driving her crazy. This way, she pages me, and we meet in the kitchen. She says it's a lot more dignified. Dignified was yesterday's word."
"Your mom's pretty cool." Pres made the sign for cool.
Zander grinned. "Why don't you come up to the house? It's almost time for breakfast. Mom makes the best muffins. And I just got a whole bunch of new CDs from the library. We listen to something new every morning at breakfast. My two favorite composers are Wolfgang Mozart and Alan Menken. Mom says Menken is Mozart reincarnated. That was one of last week's words. I think Mozart's probably pretty happy to be called Alan this time around instead of Wolfgang. Who's your favorite composer?"
Pres shrugged. "I don't really have one."
"You don't?" Zander's eyes were huge with disbelief.
"I don't listen to music that much."
"You should. Everyone should. I love music more than anything in the world. I wish I could be an opera singer when I grow up."
"Maybe you can."
Zander quickly shook his head. "Nah. But you should definitely start listening to music. I can tell you which of the CDs in the library are the best, if you want."
Pres had to smile. "I didn't even know the library had CDs."
"The Sunrise Key Library doesn't have very many," Zander told him. "So are you going to come up and have breakfast?"
Pres shook his head. "I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Because of what it says in the newspaper—about you and Mom getting married, only none of that's true?"
"Yeah."
Zander sat down next to him, picking up a stick and drawing a line in the dry sand. "Were you really married to that movie star?"
"Yeah."
Zander thought about that for all of two seconds. "She's pretty," he said, "but I bet she can't play Donkey Kong Two the way Mom can."
Pres had to laugh. "No, I think you're right." He looked at the boy. "You know, your mom is pretty too."
Zander gave him a long look. "But she's not a movie star."
"Thank God."
Zander stood, brushing the sand off his hands. "I gotta go. My pager's going off. It's got a silent setting, and it just shakes. It's funny—you want to feel it?"
Pres took the pager that Zander offered him. It vibrated in his hand. "That definitely feels funny."
"You sure you don't want to have some breakfast? You could hear some good music and Mom wouldn't mind. . . ."
Pres wasn't convinced about that. He shook his head, handing the pager back to the boy. "No thanks, Zander. Just tell Molly . . ." What? "Tell her I said hi."
Zander gave him another of those long, appraising looks. "I'll tell her you smell better today too."
Pres laughed. "Thanks."
Molly didn't like going to Millie's Market.
It didn't have anything to do with the owner, Millie Waters, who was as warm and friendly as she was large. It didn't have anything to do with the vast selection of
fruits and vegetables—all of them incredibly fresh, some of them from Millie's own organic garden.
It had to do with that old, faded photograph of Chuck, hanging up near the cash register. He stood next to a younger, only slightly slimmer Millie, gazing unsmilingly and so seriously into the camera, as mysterious and full of secrets as he ever was. He seemed to watch Molly every time she so much as set foot in the store.
Chuck had always had so many secrets. But today Molly had one of her own—one she was trying to hide even from herself. One having to do with Fantasy Man's Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year, no less. The sad truth was, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about Pres Seaholm all day.
It was all about sex. Had to be. After all, it had been three years since she'd been with a man. Longer, Molly thought, glancing up at the photo of Chuck.
She grabbed a shopping cart and headed toward the back of the market, where the fresh produce was displayed. She had to stop thinking about Pres Seaholm and remember to get another box of cornflakes. This morning, Zander had opened the box to discover it had been infested with fire ants and . . .
A flashbulb went off in her face.
"Molly Cassidy?"
"Excuse me, Miss Cassidy, will you comment on Preston Seaholm's statement that you are allegedly not his fiancée?"
"Miss Cassidy, we've had a tip that Mr. Seaholm was seen entering your house by the back door last night at eleven-fifteen p.m. Can you tell us what you and he did until he left at approximately quarter to midnight?"
"Miss Cassidy, what exactly is your relationship with Preston Seaholm?"
Another flashbulb went off, and Molly had to laugh. "You're taking pictures of me grocery shopping? Get a life, guys. Come on...."
"Enough!" Millie was bellowing. "That's enough! I won't have this in my store! I demand that you leave—not you, Molly. But everyone else—out. Get out!"
"Miss Cassidy, Online Entertainment is willing to offer you fifty thousand dollars for an exclusive television interview, providing your perspective on Merrilee Fender and Preston Seaholm's divorce," one of the reporters said to Molly in a low voice.
"But I don't even know Merrilee Fender," she started to say.
But just as quickly as the reporters had descended upon her, they turned.
Pres Seaholm had come into the store.
Millie was standing up on the checkout counter, shaking with anger and threatening to call Liam Halliday, Sunrise Key's sheriff.
The reporters began calling out Pres's name, adding to the noise and chaos, asking him their ridiculous questions, every one of which he ignored.
Molly could do nothing but stand and stare.
Pres was wearing a dark-colored business suit, complete with gleaming white shirt and power tie, and that, combined with his slicked-back hair and the tight expression on his face, made him look completely, thoroughly formidable. His eyes were all but shooting sparks as he searched the room, softening only slightly with relief as he found Molly and met her gaze.
He pushed his way none too gently through the crowd.
"Are you all right?" He ignored the reporters, speaking to her as if she were the only person in the room.
Molly nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine. It's just . . . it's silly." She shrugged, suddenly intensely aware both of the warmth of his hands on her bare arms and of how happy she was to see him. She smiled foolishly up at him. "I mean, if they really want to take pictures of me buying zucchini . . ."
Flashbulbs were going off again, and Pres pulled Molly with him toward the back of the store, trying to shield her from the cameras. Millie Waters had moved toward the back delivery door, and she closed and locked it behind them as soon as they went out.
And just like that, they were suddenly, blessedly alone.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Molly nodded again.
It had to be nearly one hundred degrees out there in the little alley behind the market. Pres felt the dark fabric of his jacket absorbing the heat of the brilliant afternoon sun like some kind of black hole. But he didn't care. He didn't care about anything but this woman who was gazing up at him with such a mixed expression on her face.
She might not be willing to admit it, but a substantial part of her was as glad to see him as he'd been to see her. Pres knew that without a doubt. And he knew in that instant, if he pulled Molly into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers, she would kiss him with the same unrestrained passion.
But he couldn't forget that it would be only a matter of moments before the reporters found their way into this alley.
And he couldn't forget Molly's son.
"Where's Zander?" Pres asked, his voice sounding raspy in the stillness. He took her hand and tugged her along with him toward the end of the rank-smelling little alley.
"He's over at the Congregational church. The Sunday school's organizing a musical revue, and he volunteered to help. Why?"
"Come on, I've got a car waiting."
Molly stared. A car, indeed. It was a stretch limousine, black and sleek, complete with privacy glass. "It matches your suit," she said.
"I had a business lunch over on the mainland." Pres opened the door for her and all but pushed her inside. The seats were covered in real leather. There was a TV and a VCR and a bar and even a computer. "When I left the meeting, my driver had picked up a newspaper for me. That's when I saw this."
Pres handed her the newspaper, open to the lifestyles section, as he climbed into the limo after her. "Drive, Lenny," he ordered the driver through an intercom before he even shut the door behind him. "To the Congregational church."
Molly stared at the picture in the newspaper. Zander was in that picture, wearing his favorite superhero T-shirt and his cutoff jeans. He was standing next to Pres, who was sitting in a beach chair, eyes covered by a pair of aviator sunglasses, hair blowing in the ocean breeze. They were both smiling at each other—laughing, really. It was a nice picture. A really nice picture.
Except it was on the front page of the B section of the Florida Sun Times.
Molly read the caption aloud. " 'Practicing for Father's Day? Sunrise Key resident and Fantasy Man magazine's currently reigning Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year, Preston Seaholm, relaxes on the beach this morning with Alexander—Lord, where did they get his name?—son of Molly Cassidy, whom the billionaire insists is not his mysterious bride-to-be. Sure, we believe you, Pres.' "
She looked up at Preston, his desire for haste suddenly making sense. "Oh, my God. You think the reporters might know that Zander's over at the church?" She leaned forward and pressed the intercom button. "Drive faster, Lenny."
"We're almost there," Pres said.
Molly turned, watching out the window. She could see an Online Entertainment news van in the church parking lot.
"Damn." Pres's jaw was tightly clenched. "Molly, I am so sorry about this. This morning when I was talking to Zander, I didn't stop to think—"
Molly reached over and took his hand, "Frankie Paresky's in charge of the kids while they're at the church. There's no way she would let a news team within twenty feet of Zander."
Lenny pulled the limo up alongside the main entrance to the church. Molly could see the reporters and camera teams climbing out of the air-conditioned comfort of their cars and vans.
She scrambled for the door, but Pres was there first. "Why don't you wait here?" he asked. "Let me go in and get him."
"No way."
"Molly, if they get footage of us together, they're going to assume—"
"What? That in a town of only six hundred and fifty-seven people we wouldn't have happened to have met? We're friends, big deal."
"You're in my limousine."
"So? We've both still got our clothes on, and unless you've got your clothes off, it doesn't count. Didn't you know that?"
Pres shook his head. "Molly—"
"If they can't believe we're just friends, that's their problem."
"It's our problem, and you know it. And it looks as i
f it's become Zander's problem now too."
Molly's face hardened as she looked out the window at the brick church. "How could they do this to a kid? Doesn't it occur to them that he might get scared, with questions being shouted at him and those big TV cameras? With all that noise, Zander wouldn't even be able to hear what anyone's saying. He's only ten years old, and he's hearing-impaired, dammit." She looked back at Pres, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I want my kid."
Sunrise Key 3 - Otherwise Engaged Page 6