Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance)

by Lyla Dune

  “Good. I’ll fill you in when I have more details.”

  “Were you really going to sleep with me then ask me to tour with the band?” Men never ceased to amaze her.

  A huge grin spread across his face. “I thought if we were sleeping together, the tour might be a lot more fun. The road can be a lonely place.”

  She flicked a lime seed at him. “You’re going to be groping groupies so much you’ll never have a moment of loneliness.”

  “Now there’s an idea.” He downed the last of his beer. “Groping Groupies…Man, that would make a great album title.”

  BROCK PACED THE living room. Sam wasn’t answering his calls, and she was out with that imbecile doing who knows what. He moved the flowers from the dining table to the kitchen counter and leaned his poem against the vase, so she’d be sure to see it the moment she stepped off the elevator.

  But she wasn’t used to the elevator. She’d probably take the stairs.

  He moved the flowers back to the dining table. A petal fell on the floor. As he leaned over and picked it up, the elevator engaged with a rumble. Putting the flowers back on the kitchen counter, he placed the envelope in plain view. He took the stairs two at a time and looked out the roadside window. Thanks to the full moon, there was enough light for him to see the street below. Tox pulled away in his jeep, alone. There was no bass in the back.

  Brock crept to the loft and peered over the knee-wall. Sam walked toward the sliding doors with his poem in hand. She stepped out onto the deck. He nearly fell over the wall trying to watch her every move. The night sky swallowed her up.

  He tiptoed downstairs and into the living room. When he reached the deck, she was halfway down the moonlit beach path, undoing her hair as she strode barefoot toward the ocean.

  The flowers were still on the counter next to some wine glasses and a bottle of Merlot. He pocketed a corkscrew, grabbed two wine glasses, the wine bottle, and followed her out to the beach. The fact that she was reading his poem gave him the courage to approach. If she had been to the point of no return, the flowers would have probably ended up in the trash. The poem would have most likely been ripped to shreds, unread.

  Her hair lashed out at the evening sky as she nestled into the bosom of the soft dunes alive with the music of rustling sea grass. Syncopated waves shimmered and whooshed, causing the reflection of the moon to undulate on the black diamond sea.

  His calves flexed as he worked his toes into the soft sand and trudged uphill across the highest of the nearby dunes. He dropped to his knees and peered through the swaying grass. She lowered the paper onto her lap and tilted her head back. The moonlight found her face and hair and illuminated them with an ethereal glow.

  He spoke quietly, as not to scare her. “Sam, I’m here if you want to talk.”

  She whirled around and squinted his direction. “Are you spying on me?”

  “Yes. I’m kin to James Bond. What do you expect?” He did his best Bond imitation.

  She didn’t laugh or smile. “I’d rather not talk to you right now. Please leave.”

  “Leaving has never proven to be effective when attempting to mend a relationship.” He held up the wine bottle and glasses. “Wine and conversation, on the other hand, have had positive results.”

  She stood and marched toward him. “You want conversation and wine? You think some flowers and a pretty little poem are going to make up for the embarrassment you put me through tonight?”

  She was shouting, which wasn’t a good sign, but she was also moving toward him instead of away from him.

  He sat the wine and glasses down, pulled out the corkscrew, and set to the task of uncorking.

  She towered over him. “Do you?”

  “No.” He poured her a glass of wine, to the brim. He poured himself half a glass.

  She knelt beside him, her eyes narrowed and a grumble vibrated from her chest as she said, “I am not your possession. You are not my sex slave.”

  He handed her the wine glass.

  She drew in a deep breath and took a sip. “You don’t have the right to tell other men they can’t look at me—and if you ever act like a caveman in public again, I’ll castrate you.”

  He choked back a laugh and looked down.

  She took another gulp of her wine. “I’ve a good mind to move out tonight.”

  He looked up and caught her gaze in his.

  She turned the glass up to her mouth and glugged. Uncertainty filled her eyes. “I should leave right now.”

  He held her gaze and said nothing.

  Her breath became shallow as she stared into his eyes. “I should know better.” The sigh that poured from her lips and the way her shoulders slumped in defeat was his green light.

  He inched closer to her. “You have every right to be angry with me, Sam.”

  “I’m pissed, Brock. You were really an asshole.”

  “Yes.” He lifted a strand of hair stuck to her shiny berry-stained lips, and moved it out of her face. “I’m not proud of my behavior.”

  “Why’d you act that way?”

  “For starters, I hate the paparazzi and had my fair share of them during my visit to Wales. It didn’t take much to set me off where they were concerned, especially when that rude reporter pulled you through the crowd so inconsiderately.”

  She poured herself more wine, then gave him her full attention.

  “As far as the sex slave thing…I didn’t want to be your friend. I wanted you to introduce me as something more than that. You told me Tox is your friend. You tell him I’m your friend. I wasn’t sure what the word ‘friend’ meant to you. Simply put—I wanted to outrank Tox.”

  “You wanted me to call you my boyfriend?” There was a softness in her eyes—compassion, understanding.

  “Yes, I suppose I did. Boyfriend or something along those lines. I wanted you to acknowledge me as your lover, not just your friend. When you didn’t, and then this Toxic person leered at you like he’d relish the chance to devour you, I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not sure I can believe that you won’t behave this way again. I mean, we’re just starting out here, and you’re already pulling stunts like this. Are you going to turn into a militant every time another man looks at my butt?”

  He laughed. “Yes, but I’ll do my best to keep that militant locked away in my ribcage.”

  She gave him the evil eye. “I’m not okay with what happened tonight. I’m not saying that I’m unwilling to push beyond it, but I am saying you raised some pretty big red flags with me. I’m definitely proceeding with caution here.”

  “As you should. That brings me to a topic I’d like to address. I’ve not had the pleasure of courting you properly. Would you like to go back to holding hands and let me wine and dine you? I’m serious.”

  She whispered, “No sex?”

  “No sex, just holding hands and dating.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Honest, love. As much as I adore having sex with you, I’m more interested in proving my intentions are honorable.”

  “Honorable intentions? What does that mean exactly?”

  He ran a finger down her nose. “It means I want to give you my heart for keeps. I want to win your trust, your respect, your love. I’ve botched things up so far, but I hope the damage isn’t permanent.” He inclined his head to hers, hoping to steal a kiss.

  She whispered, “Nothing is permanent.” Sadness flickered in her eyes, and she turned her face away.

  No kiss? What had he said wrong?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Hatchling

  Nothing is permanent echoed in Sam’s mind. Nothing ever lasted, especially relationships. People died or moved on. Her friendship with Leah was the closest thing to permanent Sam had ever known, and even that relationship had periodic stretches without contact between college and her move to Pleasure Island. How could Brock suggest he wanted to give her his heart and earn her love? The only two nights they’d slept together they w
ere either pulled apart or ended up fighting within hours of making love. Everything about them spelled temporary, right down to the six weeks eviction notice she’d received the day they’d met.

  He caressed her back. His warm, soothing touch caused her chest to tighten. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She wanted what he offered so badly it hurt. And it shouldn’t hurt. It should make her happy. What was wrong with her?

  If things didn’t work out, who would she become? How many blows could a heart take before it collapsed? She thought she could do this, but when he said it like that—give her his heart for keeps and earn her love—it made her fantasy seem tangible. Unlike fantasies, tangible things can be taken away.

  If she accepted Brock’s offer, and he left her like every other guy she’d been with had done, she might break for good. Look at what happened the last time the man she thought she loved dumped her. She had been one step away from the looney bin. If it hadn’t been for Leah and some pretty awesome drugs, she may not even be here right now.

  The truth was—she already loved Brock. If she fell any deeper, she’d drown in that love. The tears pouring from her eyes were proof.

  Movement in the sand caught her attention. She blinked back tears and held her breath. Tiny dark splotches bubbled up from a nearby dune. The full moon hung in the sky bright as a spotlight and shined down on those dark spots inching toward the sea.

  She pushed to her feet when she realized what she was witnessing. She broke into a sprint. “A turtle nest is hatching.” She didn’t know this nest was here. She’d marked the one near the porch, but she never saw any tracks leading to this one.

  Hatchlings crawled toward the water, and a crab scurried across the sand. She kicked the crab away from a baby turtle and called to Brock. “Help me.”

  “What do you want me to do?” His voice was right behind her, and she flinched.

  “It’s low tide. We need to clear a path to the water quickly. If they don’t make it to the ocean fast enough, they’ll die from dehydration. Keep the crabs away from them, but be careful not to step on any of the babies.”

  He picked up a crab and flung it toward the lifeguard stand. “Can we pick the turtles up and carry them to the water?”

  “No. Let them try to get there on their own first. It’s an important part of their muscle development. They have to be strong to swim. Plus, It helps them familiarize themselves with this part of the beach so they can return.”

  Brock crouched and stared at a hatchling that had tipped over onto his back, tiny fins thrashing the air. “Can I flip this little guy back over?”

  “Aww. He’s so cute. No, don’t touch him. He can do it. They need to learn how to manage on their own.” Sure enough the turtle uprighted himself and followed his brothers and sisters toward the sea.

  Brock slowly walked alongside the trail of hatchlings. Sam dug out a trench for the turtles to funnel through. Brock tossed debris out of their way. His face was aglow with wonder, and her heart did a somersault.

  They guarded the path until all the babies had disappeared into the breakers.

  “I have some gloves and a bucket on the back deck. Come on.” She grabbed his hand. They ran to the house.

  She put on the gloves. He picked up the bucket. They returned to the nest.

  She scraped the sand away, enlarging the hole as she searched for trapped hatchlings. “Could you put some water in the bucket for me, just enough to create a small pool.”

  He dashed to the ocean and scooped up some water. When he ran back and knelt beside her, she gently placed a baby turtle in the seawater Brock had collected and said, “He’s the last one.”

  Brock held the bucket close to his face. “Hello, Pokey.”

  She stood and peeled off her gloves. “Let’s take Pokey on a field trip.” She peeked in at the turtle.

  Brock gave her a sad face as he rose to his feet. “Can we keep him?”

  “As a pet?” He was out of his mind.

  “Yes.” His eyes lit up. She half expected him to say, “Please, Mommy?”

  The way he looked at the turtle made her want to say yes, but she couldn’t. “No. That would be cruel. They need to be free to become what they were intended to be. It’s an honor to have played a part in their lives at all.”

  She froze as she heard those words come out of her own mouth. That was it. She was looking at things all wrong. She shouldn’t focus on how devastated she would be if she and Brock didn’t last forever. Instead, she needed to appreciate the blessing of having him in her life at all.

  Her spirit lifted, reminding her of a little girl letting go of a red balloon at the circus, so thrilled at the sight of watching an act that she needed both hands to clap with all her might. And like the little girl who smiled as she lifted her chin and watched her balloon magically float away, Sam smiled too. The turtles had been the act that thrilled her. Brock was her magic, whether he stayed or floated away. It was a blessing to have him in her life at all.

  She moved to Brock’s side, popped up onto her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

  He turned his face to hers and said, “You’re thanking me for witnessing a miracle?”

  “No. I’m thanking you for being you.”

  She placed a hand on his back and urged him forward. “Time to set Pokey free.”

  They walked to the water’s edge. Foam washed over their feet as Brock placed the bucket on its side. Pokey wiggled his way onto the glistening wet beach.

  Brock motioned the turtle onward. “Swim, little fella. There’s a great big ocean out there to explore. You’re always welcomed to return home whenever you’d like.” His scratchy, comical voice sounded like a cartoon voice-over as his face creased in animated expression.

  Sam laughed on the outside and swooned on the inside as she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, her vision clear at last.

  With his gaze focused on the shimmering horizon, Brock stood before her with a chest full of honorable intentions.

  The moonlight highlighted his features as if he were a bronzed statue of a god. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her head on his back, listening to his steady heartbeat as the butterfly wings of her own heart broke free from their cocoon, unfurled, and fluttered inside her.

  She peered over his shoulder and witnessed the moon kissing the ocean from miles away, and in that moment—she believed true love was possible, even for her.

  NOT FOLLOWING SAM into her bedroom was the hardest thing Brock had done since giving his retirement speech.

  He reclined onto his bed in a daze. Heated from the passion of their goodnight kiss, his lips tingled, and his body hummed. Moonbeams reached into his bedroom. Long fingers of light caressed his grandmother’s ruby ring atop the dresser. As he stared into the crimson gem as if it were a crystal ball, he saw a vision of Sam dressed in white, a veil over her face. With eyes closed, he imitated the movements of lifting the veil so he could kiss his imaginary bride.

  Pulling his hand to his nose, he breathed in the scent of her hair that lingered on his fingers. His body had memorized the softness of her thighs, the silk of her hair, the velvet of her skin, the liquid fire in the cradle of her hips where he’d trembled as a supplicant worshiping at her altar. Her taste, her musk, her fluctuating moods. Her eyes—brilliant blue with sunset orange outlining the pupil, a darker blue bordering the iris. The curve of her lips when they held a secret smile as she floated in reverie during the afterglow of making love. Her voice as she said his name, as if she’d created him from ash, as if he’d merely been a shell of a man until she whispered his name into the conch of his ear. His loins ached with a ravenous hunger only she could satiate. “Sam….”

  Sensuous visions filtered through his wakefulness and seduced him to sleep.

  HE AWOKE WITH Sam’s imprint ever present on his mind, the aroma of coffee in the air. Half past seven. Surely she still slept across the hall, the coffee machine set on a timer.

 
He rose to his feet and walked toward the window. A pink morning sky held an opal moon, the sun a flaming pin-point in the distance.

  After a quick shower, he put on a pair of board shorts, and picked up his poetry journal. Upon opening his bedroom door, he found Sam’s room empty. A bolt of excitement zapped through him, and he clamored down the stairs. She wasn’t sipping coffee at the kitchen counter as he’d expected. In fact, he soon discovered she wasn’t in the house at all.

  Her truck was in the carport. She couldn’t have gone far.

  She probably got up early to take care of the turtle nest that’d hatched the night before. He didn’t know what order of business was required, but he supposed there were follow-up routines in place.

  When he stepped out onto the deck, he spotted her long blonde hair on the wind. The rest of her was hidden behind a dune. Coffee in hand, poetry journal tucked away in a kitchen drawer, he walked out onto the beach.

  She knelt upon the shore, a bucket at her side, her hands sculpting the sand into a castle. The childlike act gave him a glimpse of the little girl she had once been—a child content to be alone, immersed in art, creating worlds built from dreams. The calm, poised way she held herself, her graceful scooping arms and feminine caress as she molded the earth into her vision—made him jealous of every grain beneath her fingertips. She encircled the base of the tower with her hands and lifted them in unison in a slow upward motion. His body responded to the sight, and he stilled. His breath accelerated from the nearness of her and the fantasy of his manhood replacing the tower in her grasp.

  Restraining his urge to take her into his arms and into his bed wasn’t going to be easy. Why did he suggest they abstain from sex? Stupid. Now she’d expect him to keep his hands to himself, which he bloody well knew wasn’t going to be possible.

  He cleared his throat.

  Her head lifted and she beamed.

  “Good morning, beautiful.” Those were three words he’d love to say every morning for the rest of his life.

  Sam pushed herself up from the sand, giving him a mouth-watering view of her delicious body in a white string bikini. The bows at her hips were tied low, revealing the pale tan-lines across her pelvic bones, lines he wished he could trace with his tongue and follow around to her creamy center.