Barefoot in Pearls (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 3)

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Hello?” Luke called, stepping into the hallway. “Anyone here? Mr. Waggoner?”

  A woman came out of a door at the end, thin and blond, peering at him over reader glasses. “Are you looking for Ken?”

  “Ken Waggoner of GeoTech,” Luke confirmed. “He’s expecting us.”

  He thought she laughed, but maybe she coughed. “C’mon back. He’s in the bathroom.”

  Luke and Arielle shared a quick look, then he put a hand on her shoulder and guided her ahead of him.

  “You with that property down in Mimosa Key?” she asked as they got closer.

  “Yes, I’m the general contractor.” He held out his hand. “Luke McBain. This is Arielle Chandler.” He shook the woman’s hand, realizing that she was much younger than she looked from a distance, though she’d done some hard living in her forty-some years.

  She gave a tight smile. “I’m Michelle. Come on in. He’ll be back. Never takes him more’n ten minutes to do his business.” The woman opened a door and led them into another room that was part office, part kitchen, all royal disaster. Papers and files stacked halfway up walls, a desk covered with notebooks, coffee cups, and a pair of headphones dangling out of the computer tower on the desk.

  Luke knew exactly what Arielle had to be thinking. This was a respectable engineering firm that did a legitimate core sampling? And he could hardly blame her. Who would hire this kind of sub?

  He hadn’t built a house in the States, but things couldn’t be that much different here than in Lyon. The way a person’s office looked usually reflected the quality of their work.

  And if that were the case, GeoTech was a wreck.

  “Here’s a chair.” Michelle indicated for Arielle to take a straight-backed wooden chair that looked like it came from a fourth-grade classroom. Luke was presumably left to stand or take the chair pushed under the only desk in the room.

  He stood while Arielle perched on the edge of the chair, and after an awkward beat, the woman nodded at them, wiping her hands on a pink cotton sweater that barely reached a pair of hip-hugger jeans, revealing a slight roll of extra skin.

  “I’ll go knock on the door,” the woman said.

  “No, no,” Arielle said. “Let him…we’ll wait.”

  She brushed some hair off her face and sighed. “I’ll be right back.” Then, taking a cell phone from the top of a file cabinet, she stepped outside, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as she walked down the hall.

  Arielle looked up at him, and he could swear he read admonishment in her eyes.

  “Engineers,” she said, tipping her head to the side. “Strange breed.”

  He laughed, appreciating her humor, and gestured toward the mountain of mess behind her. “Not usually so sloppy.”

  She stood up, rubbing her arms and taking a step toward the other side of the room. Behind some folded-up blueprints, a whiteboard with an annual calendar leaned against the wall. Last year’s calendar.

  “Mr. McBain.” A man marched into the office, tall and so lean his chest looked concave. Now that was an engineer, Luke thought. “So very nice to meet you, sir.” He offered a cool handshake and turned to Arielle. “Mrs. McBain, I presume?”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I’m…the historical significance consultant,” she said.

  Ken blinked at that, and Luke did the same thing. The what? But then Michelle walked in and croaked, “What the hell is a historical significance consultant?”

  Luke stared at Arielle, curious to learn the answer to that question.

  “My role is to make sure the land that’s being developed doesn’t hold any historical significance to the state or country.”

  Ken turned down his lips and drew back like he’d been offered a lemon to bite, then chuckled. “Can’t say we’ve ever had one of those, huh, Shelley?”

  Michelle didn’t laugh. “Do you have a license for that position, ma’am?”

  Arielle shook her head. “No, it’s really more of a hobby.”

  “Then don’t be sniffing around our records and being a bother,” she said. “If you’re not licensed, we don’t do business with you. Right, Ken?”

  Luke stepped in between them, literally and figuratively. “We want to go over the core sampling you did for the North Barefoot Bay property on behalf of Jim Purty, the former GC. And I’m licensed,” he added.

  “Temporary license,” Michelle shot back.

  How did she—

  “Michelle, let me handle this,” Ken said, heaving a sigh as he walked to his desk. “I know where that file is…” A stack of papers began to topple, but Ken flattened a seasoned hand on the top, averting disaster before he pulled out a drawer stuffed with more papers.

  “We really can’t do business with someone not licensed,” Michelle said, still eyeing Arielle. “You’ll have to—”

  “She’s also a designer,” Luke said quickly. Both woman looked at him, one with mud-colored eyes narrowed in suspicion, the other with ebony eyes wide with surprise. “And I assure you she is licensed and contracted as a certified interior decorator.” He underscored the bluff with his own expression of confidence, which worked. At least enough for Michelle to nod slowly, then excuse herself and return to the hallway.

  While Ken paged through paperwork, Luke winked at Arielle, getting a quiet smile of gratitude in return.

  “Oh, here it is. Purty, James S., general contractor,” he read aloud, pulling a slender manila file from the drawer. So slender, in fact, that when he opened it, there was nothing but a business card that floated to the ground. “Oh,” he mumbled. He turned the folder over and inside out, as if the papers would miraculously appear.

  “This is what was filed with the county,” Luke said, holding out his blue copy. “But there should be a longer report, with soil samples with the final feasibility study, erosion and sedimentation controls, earthwork volumetric calculations…”

  Ken looked at Luke like he was speaking French. “All that stuff was done and filed, right down to the alphabetical letter, I swear.”

  Except this office didn’t look like the workplace of anyone who did or filed anything to any letter.

  “How about the samples?” Arielle asked. “Can we see them?”

  “Those are in storage,” Ken said. “Come this way.”

  He tossed the file onto the pile of other junk and marched toward the door. Arielle followed, but Luke lingered long enough to pick up the business card. Duane Dissick, Owner, Southwest Masonry. Of course, the only decent sub on the job.

  Ken led them back down the hall to the entrance, outside, and around the back of the building to what looked like a temporary storage pod. As they got there, the front door whipped open, and Michelle walked out, drawing back when she practically slammed into her boss.

  She reeked of the bitter smell of fresh cigarette smoke, pausing to stare at Arielle again. And not in any way that could be considered friendly.

  “What were you doing in there?” Ken asked.

  “I found the reports you should have had but didn’t,” she said, an edge in her voice. “They’re on top of the job box, last row on the left.” She let out a loud put-upon sigh and held the door open for them, then she gave Luke a dry smile. “Sometimes it’s hard to be the only brains in the operation.”

  Which made Ken laugh, surprisingly enough, and he shook his head while she walked away. Inside, it was far more organized than the office, with stacks upon stacks of labeled, clear storage bins, each full of plastic bags stuffed with soil, rocks, sediment, and dirt samples.

  Ken made his way through the maze of bins to the back, tapping one with satisfaction. “Well, I’ll be damned. I did leave the full reports here with the samples.” He gave a grin over his shoulder and waved them closer. “She’s a bitch on wheels, and I know it, but the whole business would collapse without that girl. Don’t know how I got so lucky when she applied for a job.”

  Luke ushered Arielle through the boxes, the lingering smell of that bitch on wheels’
cigarette already giving him a headache. But he’d give her this: If she was in charge of this area, she was better organized than her boss.

  “Here’s the whole thing,” Ken said, slapping a stack of documentation into Luke’s hands. “Every single one of those things you wanted.”

  Luke glanced at the paperwork, then at Ken, who seemed strangely unfamiliar with the common terms in his business. “Did you do this core sample, Ken?”

  “Me? No, I hire out with my own subs. I’m just the middleman.”

  “Can we get in the box?” Arielle asked. “I really want to see the actual samples taken from that property.”

  “Sure thing. Grab us some gloves.” He nodded toward a box of latex gloves hanging on the wall. “Michelle’s a freak about cleanliness and safety.”

  Arielle snapped some gloves from the dispenser, handed them to Luke and Ken, and took another pair for herself. After she’d put hers on, Ken unlatched the box and pulled out one of the bags, full of finely ground pieces of cream and brown rocks and shells.

  “Are these from the actual hill in front of the house?” Arielle asked.

  “I hope so,” Ken admitted with a self-conscious chuckle. “’Fraid you’re asking the wrong guy.”

  At Arielle’s soft breath of exasperation, Luke stepped closer. “There’s a number on the side of the bag,” he said. “And a list of contents in this report. We’ll have to go bag by bag and check the numbers against the contents.”

  She turned and caught his eye. “Would you do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I won’t,” Ken said, backing away. “I have a meeting and another client to deal with.”

  “Can we stay here and do it ourselves?” Luke asked.

  Ken’s brows knit together. “Why? It’s crushed rock and seashells, and the reports are filed with the county, approved, and finalized. What are you looking for, anyway?”

  “Peace of mind,” Luke said without thinking.

  Ken lifted his shoulders in a huge shrug. “I guess. I’ll be out, so let Michelle know when you’re done, and she’ll lock up after you.” He held up his hands in resignation. “Not sure what else I can do for you.”

  “Nothing,” Luke said, offering his hand. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Yes, and for the access,” Arielle added. “Very kind of you.”

  “Not a problem.” He walked away and stepped outside. “Gets pretty hot in here, so I’ll leave the door open.”

  When he was gone, Arielle reached a hand out and put it on Luke’s shoulder. “Thank you for being so nice about this.”

  “I’m pretty sure we’re looking at bags of shells,” he said, holding her gaze. “But I really do want you to feel like we’ve done everything on the up-and-up, we’re not destroying a burial ground, and…” He grinned. “Dinner’s on you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After opening the third bag of ground-up shells and rocks, Ari ripped off one of her latex gloves.

  “This is not working.” Tossing the glove on the floor, she burrowed her bare hand into the bag and closed her eyes. Nothing.

  “Be careful,” Luke said, reaching for her hand. “Those are sharp. You could cut yourself.”

  “But I can’t feel anything with that glove on.”

  “What do you need to feel? They’re seashells and stones, Arielle. And they’re all broken. You’re not going to find ancient artifacts in here, and honestly, I hate to be gross, but if there are bones, we wouldn’t even know it.”

  “I would.” She set the bag down and leaned back against the box behind her, frowning at him. “I’d sense it.”

  His eyes widened enough for her to know he was fighting the urge to laugh or make a very sarcastic remark. To his credit, he did neither, so she felt encouraged to underscore her point.

  “I have intuition, Luke,” she said softly. “You can ask your sister. When the Barefoot Brides get a new client, the first thing Gussie and Willow ask me is how I feel about them. And they don’t mean do I like the bride or not. I have…intuition.” She didn’t have any better word for it. None that he’d understand, anyway.

  “And your intuition is telling you there are no bones of dead people in these bags?”

  She relaxed into a rueful smile. “You don’t have to fight so hard to keep the incredulity out of your tone.”

  “There’s no incredulity—”

  She raised her hand to stop him. “I don’t have to hear it, Luke, and that’s my point. I feel it. Your utter disbelief for what I’m saying is rolling off you like physical waves, and I can feel them.”

  “Like a disturbance in the Force?”

  “Your joking about it doesn’t make it go away.”

  “So you have, like, ESP?”

  “No.” She shook her head, looking down at the bag. “There’s nothing supernatural about my powers of perception any more than your…your…” She searched his face for an answer, but her gaze fell to his chest and shoulders. She gave his bicep a squeeze. God, it was hard. And fine. And…hard. “Your strength.”

  He didn’t answer, but he might have flexed a little bit to impress her. It worked.

  “I assume you developed these muscles with hard work and repeated activities,” she said.

  “Not in a gym,” he assured her.

  “But the ghost was in the machine, as they say. Just like my powers of perception are…here.” She tapped her chest and then her head. “And here. You were born with the genetic stuff to make these muscles, like I was born with whatever it takes to fine-tune well-developed intuition. Does that make sense?”

  His expression answered for her: no.

  “I can read people, and sometimes, I feel things.”

  He searched her face, the humor and doubt fading as he listened, holding back his opinion.

  “For instance, I got some really strong vibes—and I don’t mean that like a psychic—from our friends Ken and Michelle.”

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Your powers of perception tell you that Ken’s a slob who doesn’t care about his environment but has the hots for his assistant, Michelle, who thinks she’s smarter than her boss.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “So I’m right.”

  “You’re not wrong,” she said. “But I got a little more than that surface, obvious business.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ken is a good guy.” She nodded, looking out the open door, thinking of the honest aura he emitted. “He didn’t tell us a single lie, he has no agenda where you’re concerned, and he has feelings for Michelle, but my gut says they are more paternal and sympathetic than sexual.”

  He leaned back against his own plastic backrest, taking that in. “Really. And what about her?”

  “She’s hiding something.”

  “Other than the fact that she smokes in the storeroom?”

  “I don’t know,” Ari answered. “She’s not honest, though, and I’m sorry if I sound weird, but I can smell that on her.”

  He let out a little snort. “So dishonesty smells like Marlboro Lights.”

  “How do you know that’s what she smokes?”

  “They were the Legion-imported cigarette of choice. I never smoked, but I was around them enough.”

  She looked down at the gallon-sized plastic bag on her lap, hoping he’d be as understanding about other weirdnesses she had. Like knowing when she’s meant to be in love with someone.

  “My grandmother had this gift to the point that it might be considered supernatural,” she said softly. “She was legions beyond me, but she did teach me a lot.”

  When he didn’t answer, she looked up, meeting his intense gaze.

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Like how to touch something and get a sense of…history.” She exhaled slowly, choosing her words with care. “I don’t tell a lot of people about this. It’s too easy to make fun of.”

  “You can say that again,” he said quietly. “But I’ll restrain myself, even if I
don’t quite grasp it.”

  “I don’t expect you to restrain your jokes or understand this,” she replied. “What’s real to one person isn’t always real to another.”

  His brows furrowed. “Real is real, Arielle. Something either is or it isn’t.”

  “I guess that’s a question for philosophers,” she agreed, not really wanting to get into a faith debate right here and now, especially one she had in her own head often enough. “But you asked, and I’m telling you what my grandmother could do. I picked up a little bit of it. I haven’t really tried to perfect or even use the skill because, frankly, it’s not part of my daily life of designing sets for weddings. But when I found those pearls…” She let her voice fade off. A pragmatic person like Luke would never understand.

  “Tell me,” he urged. He put his hand on her arm and added enough pressure that all her nerves started doing their happy dance again.

  She gave her head a tiny shake.

  “Arielle. What did you feel when you found the pearls?”

  “Like the universe wanted to tell me something important about that place.”

  He took a slow breath, still studying her. “And what did it tell you?”

  “I don’t know. You knocked me right off my feet before I could take my next breath.”

  Inching back, he gave a quick laugh. “I showed up right then?”

  “Scant seconds after I found the pearls.” Unable to resist, she turned her hand over and slid it down his arm a few inches to capture his fingers in hers. She could feel his pulse, his heat, his strength, his aura.

  His aura that still told her he was The One.

  “My timing is always impeccable,” he said. “I shut the universe up.”

  “Unless you were what the universe was trying to tell me.” She swallowed at the admission, feeling warm and close in the small space.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Either the universe was warning me that you were heading this way to destroy something important.” With her other hand, she lifted the bag to show him what she meant. “And you have to be stopped.”

  “Or?”