by Zoe York
Daphne cackled. “Yeah. Nicer. That’s a word for it.”
Cara groaned, but any further discussion was ended by her phone ringing. A New York number appeared on the screen.
She took a deep breath. “I gotta take this.”
EIGHT
MICK HAD TO ADMIT PETITE CIOTAT HAD A CERTAIN CHARM. Wide streets, whitewashed buildings, street vendors…but also a modern supermarket and a bank, plus a few restaurants right at the centre of town. The long stretch of the main street promised even more stores, but the clerk at the supermarket pointed him down a back alley to the internet cafe and since he hadn’t yet had coffee—and Petite Ciotat didn’t have a Dunkin’ Donuts or a Starbucks—he headed straight there.
By the time he’d found it and handed over his money for an hour of computer time and an extra-large mug of what was thankfully excellent coffee, he was feeling slightly more level-headed about the situation with Cara. She’d been right to insist on boundaries. The chemistry that sparked between them was destabilizing to the extreme.
Distance from her was a good thing, clearly. He sorted through his pile of emails and tried not to think about the hot rub of her knuckles against his abs and his chest. Even though the fabric of his t-shirt, her fingers had imprinted on his skin.
His cock thickened against his leg. Idiot. And he was back to being pissed off. He needed to figure out a plan in more ways than one. A plan to survive his foolish attraction to the island’s ice queen. A plan to get his retirement goals back on track.
So much for beer, beach, sleep.
That was fine. He never slept well anyway.
He pounded out a detailed email to Will, interrupted here and there by other emails. After one from Dex Riley, asking if he could borrow the plantation for a honeymoon—which took Mick some processing, because the last time he’d seen Dex, the man had been single and on the prowl. Well, actually…in hindsight, maybe not on the prowl. But there’d been no mention of a future Mrs. Dex. And now…A honeymoon. Shit.
Too bad Villa Sucre wasn’t his to lend out just yet.
He marked that email unread, promising himself he’d come back to it just as soon as he sorted out this ownership mess.
Then he went back to the email to Will, but hesitated over the send button. Unloading all of that into Will’s inbox wasn’t going to change the fact that Mick was the guy on the ground. He was the only one who could turn the tide of this disaster.
He rocked back in his chair.
More to the point, he wanted to do it. Will owned the property. Brayden, who was wrapping up his last session as a BUD/S instructor, would do the heavy lifting in curriculum design. And heavy lifting in general, since before he joined the SEAL team he worked in construction for a few years.
Mick got to tag along on this new lease on life because he was a free body to stake a claim on the property. So far, all he was offering was his oversized form. Time for him to put his head in the game and stop whining about how it hadn’t gone perfectly easy the first few days.
This wasn’t only Will’s fight, it was Mick’s as well.
He was going back to Villa Sucre to tell Cara she needed to get her gorgeous ass off his estate, once and for all.
Right after he stopped at the store. Sleep might be elusive and the storm front might rule out any beach time, but the beer thing still had a chance of happening.
When he got back, she was still on the porch, reading, but her hair was twisted in a damp braid. She pretended not to see him. He didn’t stop to pick a fight.
Not yet.
He shoved his way into the bunkhouse as he’d started to think of it, propping the door open to get a breeze circulating. Next on his repair to-do list would be fixing the overhead fan. With a thunk, he set the beer on the table in the main room. It was cold, but it wouldn’t stay like that for long. Shame the only working fridge was in the kitchen in the main house.
Another couple days and it would be all his. Even if he didn’t succeed in shoving her off the estate, eventually the fact that she didn’t have a functional bathroom in the main house would tire her, right?
He told himself that this would soon be over, one way or another, and he could stop thinking about her earnest hopefulness and the way her hair curled into a million golden brown tendrils as it dried in the sun.
She’d moved out into the garden now, as the sun had peeked out between storm clouds. She was out in the open between their two declared spaces. So he was entirely within his rights to watch her, to observe her with her guard down.
He was coming to an uncomfortable understanding that Cara really loved this place. She was invested in it, and not just as a professional accomplishment.
And he was the asshole that wanted to ruin that for her.
He twisted the top off a bottle of beer and started pacing.
The problem was, if he held himself back, he was just prolonging the inevitable. That wasn’t being kind to her. He needed to somehow push the issue, make her see for herself that they’d overstepped or whatever, gone ahead too quickly with this project.
Maybe he could convince Will that they could…dunno. Do something for the Historical Society. A gimme.
No. That was his heart going all soft again. They’d do something for Cara if it made good sense for their new company. Not just for her.
But she’s worked so hard… He didn’t know that.
He didn’t know anything about her.
Harden the fuck up, man.
“You’ll wear out the floor, pacing like that.” He jerked his head around and found Cara leaning in the open doorway.
“We’ll probably tear this place down, anyway.”
She tightened up, from her toes all the way to the tiny muscles around her eyes.
Direct shot. This was going to be too easy. He took the last swig of beer, finishing the bottle, and set it down a little too roughly on the table. Then he grabbed another one. With a rough twist, he sent the cap flying.
Another wince.
Think the worst of me, babe. “What do you want?”
“I spoke to a lawyer this afternoon,” she said. “From New York.”
He tipped his beer bottle up in silent response.
“He apologized for the confusion.”
An empty statement. Mick wasn’t impressed. “You should sue them. Recoup your investment in the renovations.”
She gave him a dry look.
Not that easy. Fine. He leaned against the wall, ignoring the protest in his leg.
“He apologized to both of us, and said they need more time to ascertain where the error was made. Obviously, one of us got incorrect information. But he wouldn’t give any indication as to which one of us that is.”
“That doesn’t sound like it bodes well for you. If he thought you were in the clear, he’d probably tell you.”
She shrugged. “Why? He’s not my lawyer.”
“Yeah.” He crossed his arms and dangled the bottle loosely from his fingers. “You should get one, though.”
“I don’t need one. I’m not personally involved in this.”
He snorted. “Could have fooled me.”
“Just because I take pride in my—”
“You know what? Don’t care. You’ve violated your own boundaries. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go put the rest of my beer in the fridge.” He pushed off the wall and moved toward the table.
She frowned. “I came over here to give you an update. That’s hardly the same thing as you making three meals a day in the kitchen.”
“I didn’t realize that cooking was so offensive to you.”
“Cooking doesn’t offend me, you oaf. You offend me. On purpose, I’m pretty sure.”
“Look, I’m flying blind here. Like you, I’m not personally involved—” This time it was her turn to snort. Fine. They were both pretending on that front. “And I don’t have a damn lawyer to call.”
“Where’s your friend?”
“I told you, he’s busy.”<
br />
“Doing something…important.” Her voice dropped and stretched out the last word. He wasn’t the only one going for a direct hit.
“You wound me,” he said sarcastically, covering up the fact that it was also true. When did he get so God damned fragile?
Her cheeks flushed.
Gotcha, babe. She didn’t have the stomach for warfare.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m willing to trade.” She nervously licked her bottom lip, just the tip of her tongue peeking out to swipe the plump flesh. “It’s likely that we’re going to be sharing the estate for a while, so… I’d like to negotiate a more friendly agreement. I was hasty to say that we needed to steer clear of each other. What do you think about a trade? Access to the kitchen for access to the shower in here.”
He told himself not to think about her mouth. Or the apology, either. “You’re deluded, lady.” He took a long swallow of beer, letting the bitter taste seep into his tongue to colour his next words. “I have full access to the entire estate because Will owns it and I am his agent. You’re a squatter, and I’m allowing you to stay here out of the goodness of my heart.”
“There’s nothing good about your heart.” Her tone sharpened again. “The rightful ownership is anything but clear, so I’m protecting the Historical Society’s claim. I have a responsibility—”
It wasn’t his fault that her flashing green eyes did him in. She was a vixen. A temptress. All brains and beauty and unwavering principle.
Unwavering principle always got him hot, even when it also got him hot under the collar.
Before she could finish her tirade of righteous indignation, he’d crossed the room and was crowding her against the door frame. Not touching her—he wouldn’t do that until she was begging for it.
And the way the chemistry was sparking between them, she would. The heat damn near threatened to burn the place down.
“You don’t need to trade, Cara. You can have access to the bathroom whenever you want.”
Her nostrils flared and her eyes darkened, nearly emerald-green as her outrage hit maximum. “Without you lurking around. I want a schedule.”
“I took my watch off the first day I got here, babe. It’s not going back on.”
“I’ll make a sign.”
“That’s ridiculous.” God, she smelled good. Vanilla and tropical blossoms. Her skin glowed with a honeyed warmth that distracted him from the fight, so he closed his eyes, but that just heightened his sense of smell.
And touch.
Strictly speaking, they weren’t touching. But his skin prickled with awareness. Of her closeness. Her warmth. An impossible silky softness that reality surely couldn’t live up to.
“What’s the matter, Mick?” The soft, sultry, teasing purr was a complete surprise, and his eyes flew open just in time to catch her gaze jerk back to his face. But she wasn’t embarrassed at having been caught checking him out. If anything, she sank with terrifying ease into this new seductress role.
Aw, hell. Like he’d been rendered into stone, he stood there, caught in the tangle of her attention.
She smiled, the ends of her mouth curving up gleefully. “I’m starting to think you’re trying to intimidate me.”
“You’re not easily intimidated.”
A slow shake of her head had her curls tumbling all over the place. They were…distracting. He could tangle his hands in them and force her to the floor… She licked her lips. “No, I’m not.”
Time for him to go in for the kill. “I don’t need to intimidate you, though, do I? I just need to put the fear of God in your board of directors. How much of a legal battle can they really afford against a billionaire?”
“Your friend isn’t a billionaire.”
“Close enough.”
Her lips tightened. “That’s awfully close to intimidation, Mr. Frasier.”
“Just a reality wake-up call, Ms. Levasseur.”
They stared at each other for a long, heated moment. Then she softened her face. It took effort, he could tell. But she sighed, and with that single, breathy noise, it didn’t matter that she was putting this on for him.
“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly.
“Don’t be,” she said quietly, her lips twisting into an almost-smile. “We’ve been playing this tug-of-war since the moment we met, haven’t we?”
“Seems so.”
“Ever think that maybe…just for a night…we should drop the rope?”
“I think I tried a couple times,” he said slowly. He wasn’t going to try and kiss her again. Hell no. But every fiber of his being ached to find out where she was going with this.
“You did.”
“What’s changed?”
“Maybe we’ve been thinking about this all the wrong way,” she whispered. “Maybe there’s a way we could work together…” She trailed off and pressed her hand against his chest, spreading her fingers wide. She made a little humming sound that went straight to his blood stream.
“Together?”
“In more ways than one.”
They’d been yanking Villa Sucre away from each other from the very second they met. Engaged in a mutually understood battle against each other.
Now she’d dropped the rope and was about to climb him like a tree.
In the distance, a warning bell sounded. There was something not quite right about this, but he couldn’t see it because she was warm and sweet and right in front of him, all doe-eyed and willing.
Ring. The warning rang again, and it wasn’t a bell, it was his fucking phone.
She glanced down his body, sighing with a regret that he felt to his bones. Noooo. But yes, after days of silence, someone had chosen this moment to fucking call him back.
Fuck.
He stepped back and yanked his phone from his pocket. Will. He should take it. No, he needed to take it. His best friend did not take a back seat to whatever fucked up chemistry experiment they were messing with.
He waved his index finger in the air between them, pointing in the general direction of her cutely twitching nose. “This is not over.”
“I’m sure it’s not,” she murmured, her eyes dancing as she stepped backwards toward the door. “And I still want access to the bathroom.”
“Not going to happen,” he muttered without conviction. If she wanted to join him in the shower, he wasn’t going to say no. If she wanted to join him in the shower, he’d roll over and expose his belly to her.
Swallowing that realization, he watched her walk back across the garden, then hit the call answer button on the fourth ring. “Yo.”
“Did I interrupt a siesta?”
“Fuck you and your lawyers. What the hell is going on?”
“I was on exercise,” Will laughed, clearly unperturbed by the fact Mick was losing his mind over an intoxicating woman. Of course, Mick hadn’t shared that fact with his best friend. Hadn’t full realized the extent of the problem until a few minutes ago. “Anyway, I’m sorry about the mess. I’ve put a call in to the senior associate at the law firm. Should have more information for you by the end of day tomorrow. Is the historical society lady giving you a lot of grief?”
She’d given him a fucking hard-on. Did that count? “She’s got a lot invested in this place, Will. I don’t think she’s going to accept being blown off.”
“Just remember, Villa Sucre is our ticket, baby. Don’t worry about it.”
Mick loved Will. A lot. Most of the time.
But when his friend slipped into that easy-life, frat-boy, rich-kid mentality, totally used to getting his own way and believing that no obstacle was really a problem…
It pissed Mick off.
So for that reason, and not because he could still smell Cara’s scent all around him, he hung up the phone.
And he didn’t answer it when Will called back thirty seconds later. Guilt lancing through his chest, he fired off a text message. Signal weak. Call later.
Then he threw his phone onto his cot and grabbed a towel
. He needed a swim before dusk fell. And he didn’t give a flying fuck how choppy the waves were. Anything would be calmer than the storm brewing between him and Cara.
NINE
CRASH. CARA WOKE UP WITH A START. It was pitch black. She heard the same slam of wood against wood, set against a backdrop of wind and hammering rain.
One of the shutters, she told herself, but it didn’t ease the pounding of her heart. All of a sudden, her tent seemed claustrophobic. Cursing under her breath, she blindly reached around for her phone. Where the hell was it?
It was pitch black inside her little room within the larger cavernous room. She’d liked the tent at first but now it seemed weird and eerie. Calm down. She took a deep breath and tried to think about where she’d put it when she fell asleep.
She’d been reading on it. She’d rolled to her side…and yes. There it was. A relieved sob tore from her chest as she turned on the flashlight feature and pointed it at the zipper.
Then her battery died.
“Motherfu—“ She cut herself off and tossed the phone back against her pillow with a growl. “Of course you’re dead, you asshole jerk of a phone!”
Her fingers stiff, she found the zipper again and slid it open to only find more of the same inky darkness. Fantastic. She fell forward, resting on her hands and knees for a minute, half inside and half outside the tent.
She was all alone in a half-torn-apart mansion in the middle of nowhere. And her phone was dead. She’d bet any money that the power had gone out, too, since she couldn’t hear the hum of the fridge, either.
It was deadly quiet.
Creak.
She screamed louder than she’d ever heard herself scream before and lunged for the rock that she knew was holding the door to the ballroom open.
Gripping the heavy weight in her hand, she huddled against the doorframe and tried to make out movement in the shadows.
Nothing.
She wanted to laugh at herself, but frankly, she was still petrified.
“Cara?”
She sagged with relief at the urgent shout. She knew that strong voice. Mick. “Yeah.” She scrambled to her feet, and made her way down the hall and into the kitchen. He stood in the open hole where the door used to be—now it hung off the hinges at an alarming angle and bounced uselessly against the wall.