At eight-thirty, Jillian knocked softly on Jocelyn Palmer’s usually open office door. Jocelyn was a hands-on manager who inspired everyone around her. While she held regular weekly staff meetings each Monday before clients arrived, the Hartman case was special. Jocelyn had wanted an update, but she had texted just after five o’clock the previous day to reschedule their meeting.
Jillian heard voices, then quiet and then voices again. She pulled her cell phone from her tote bag to double check her calendar. She had the correct date and time, but at any thriving business, interruptions occurred to throw a well-planned day off schedule.
Then the door suddenly swung open. A dark-haired, athletic man sporting a Mimosa Scorpions baseball t-shirt exited, nearly bowling her over. He steadied her with strong hands and Jillian recognized him as Jocelyn’s husband Will.
“Sorry,” he said to Jillian, then called back into the office. “Honey, I’ll text you as soon as the mechanic lets me know something about your car.”
“Good morning, Jillian.” Jocelyn stood behind her desk and waved her in. “Thanks for understanding about the schedule change. Last night my car’s dashboard was flashing like Times Square. Anyway, I just wanted to see how things are progressing with Sam Hartman.”
Had Jocelyn heard something about the near-miss kiss the previous morning? She and Sam had spoken in near whispers, and even though they had been right by the wall, the rooms were well soundproofed to maintain the proper atmosphere of quiet and serenity.
She had held the afternoon session at the resort’s infinity pool, showing Sam various ways to use the water’s resistance to help strengthen his shoulder. He had behaved himself, but he had still been sluggish, no doubt continuing to suffer from his restless night. The water should have relaxed him and helped with sleep. Today she would ask him to make sure.
She didn’t want him turning to pills or alcohol to try and coax his body to sleep. If he had answered the intake questions truthfully, he took nothing more than over-the-counter pain medications and had the occasional social drink. She hoped his declaration at their first meeting about getting drunk was a joke. He had never appeared inebriated around her, and she had never smelled alcohol on his breath. If he had been drinking, she would have been able to smell it yesterday. She had been close enough to count the fillings in his teeth.
“How is he coming along?” Jocelyn continued.
“Sam is a…challenge,” she answered, trying to be as diplomatic as possible.
“Aren’t most men?” Jocelyn laughed.
None like the blue-eyed soldier, Jillian thought.
“I believe a lot of his issues stem from pain and the resulting lack of sleep,” Jillian explained. “And I am certain he has PTSD to some degree even though he denies it. The massage I’ve done on his shoulder and back is already making a difference according to him, but he still has a way to go before he has full range of motion.”
“I forgot to tell you, but I mentioned putting an essential oil diffuser in his villa to help him sleep. He seemed skeptical, but he didn’t say no.”
Jillian shook her head. “That man’s middle name is skeptical. But I think he might be coming around. I gave him Reiki the day before yesterday, and he accused me of using a heating pad on him. Honestly, the negative energy coming from him was so strong I had to soak my hands in cold water for ten minutes after he left. The diffuser is a great idea. Thanks for suggesting it.”
The cold water had also helped cool off her libido after their too-close exchange. Maybe she needed to diffuse some eucalyptus and peppermint to sharpen her mental focus and keep her thoughts off Sam. And his touch.
“Let Poppy know to put the diffuser in Artemisia and you can tell him how to use it,” Jocelyn said. “Mrs. Granger aside, I certainly hope we can help this man. I can’t imagine what he went through in that bombing. He lost friends, was seriously injured and forced to leave the job he loved at a young age. I really want him to be a Eucalyptus success story – not for any publicity, but for his personal welfare.”
Jillian nodded. “I’ll get with Poppy.” Then she chuckled. “I don’t know whether I should warn Sam about his language or just let him contribute to Poppy’s swear jar.”
The women shared a conspiratorial look and both grinned broadly.
“Let him contribute,” the women said simultaneously, laughing at their evil plan.
* * *
The woman was a brute. Gorgeous and undeniably desirable, but a brute nonetheless. Sam sat on the side of the massage table waiting for the beast’s return after a two hour session of deep tissue massage. The beginning of his ten day sentence had been undemanding and had lulled him into a false sense of relaxation. Two hours ago he had stretched out on the table expecting more of the same – easy massage or more of that energy stuff. As leery as he had been, he had to admit he always felt better after she did it.
But today. Today she had warned him she was going to work deeper into his lower back muscles, and by the end of the session, he had been ready to slug her. He would never hit a woman. Never. But she came damn close to making him break that rule.
“Deep breaths,” she had told him again and again. “Inhale, then blow it out,” she crooned while she dug a thumb into a spot near his hip. And a damn lot of good all that huffing and puffing had done. At least she had smeared menthol gel over the area when she finished, though now he smelled like the arthritis brigade at his grandmother’s retirement home.
Three knocks sounded and the door swung open.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, offering him a bottle of chilled water. “Remember to drink plenty of water to flush the toxins I released.”
“Like you give a flying shit,” he mumbled, twisting off the bottle cap and taking a long drink.
His tormenter dismissed him with a laugh that reminded him of wind chimes in a gentle breeze and strode to the counter where his folder lay. How could she bring him nearly to his knees in pain one minute and have him dreaming of having her in his bed the next?
“Yeah, I’m just a big old meanie who bends grown men to my will with my fingertips and a little bit of massage oil.”
“Laugh if you want. I might not come back tomorrow.” He took another drink of water as he arched his back and rubbed a tender spot near his ass.
She scribbled in the folder. “Oh, you’ll be back,” she said in an offhand manner. “You can’t resist me.”
Sam wondered if she had any idea how irresistible he did find her. He had come damn close to kissing her two days ago, and every time she touched him, his nerve endings jangled like high-voltage electrical wires. Or maybe it was just that energy stuff she did to him. He could try to blame the tingling on that, but it didn’t explain why her smile made him hate sand a little bit less and why her mere touch diverted all his blood supply south of his navel.
At least today’s session had kept him in enough agony to avoid an erection. Pain might arouse some people, but not him.
“I know our sessions are supposed to be from two to four each day,” she began as she approached him. She smelled like vanilla, and her hair was in a high ponytail instead of its usual braid. “But I’m going to let you go early today because I did work your back pretty hard.”
“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest little thing?” he drawled.
Jillian flipped her hand and her ponytail swung behind her. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Hartman. I’d also like to try something new a little later today if you’re agreeable.”
“New? Like that torture session you just put me through?” He grunted and rubbed his back again.
“You’ll thank me for working those knots out of your back. And no, what I’d like to do won’t hurt at all.”
He lifted one eyebrow in disbelief.
“I’d like you to try meditation. We can meet at the far end of the beach away from everyone and meditate as the sun sets over the gulf. Trust me.”
“Trust you, Lady Rasputin?” he asked, raising his eye
brows. “I might consider trusting a rattlesnake more than you.”
“Oh ye of little faith. You just keep pouring on the flattery, don’t you, Hartman? It will be a good way to end your day.”
“But meditation? Really? You mean like chanting and incense and all that crap?”
She groaned. “No. Like sitting on the beach while you watch the sun drop below the horizon and think lovely thoughts.”
“Lovely thoughts, huh? Then will I be able to fly like Peter Pan?” he asked, barely able to contain his laughter at this point.
She moved to the door and swung it open. “Only if I sprinkle you with pixie dust,” she replied. “And I’m sorry to say, but I’m fresh out of pixie dust this week.” She left the room and pulled the door shut behind her.
Drew would laugh his ass off if he knew what his big brother was doing. He would only laugh about the voodoo part, though. He’d high-five Sam for getting it on with the pretty massage therapist.
Only Sam hadn’t gotten it on with anyone. Yet.
Chapter Six
Sam unlocked the door to Artemisia and stepped inside the villa. The cool, humidity-controlled air was a much welcomed relief. He rubbed his lower back again and grimaced at the pain radiating from the area.
“Damn it all to hell,” he swore. Jillian had lulled him into a false sense of security with those first easy massages. Today she had practically body-slammed him with thumbs of steel. And now she wanted him to go outside at dark, sit in the damn sand and meditate? “Of all the crap ass ideas,” he muttered.
The only thing he wanted to meditate on right now was a long, hot bath with the tub jets aimed right at ground zero, the spot where she had practically carved holes into his back. He grasped the hem of his t-shirt and tugged it up as he limped toward the bedroom. For the few moments his vision was obscured by the shirt, he stretched out his hand for guidance and found his hand full of…someone?
“Jesus H. Christ!” he yelled as he ripped off the shirt and stumbled backwards. “What the hell? Who are you?”
The woman wore a bright pink Casa Blanca uniform, so she was most likely a member of the housekeeping staff. But the staff only came to the villa when he was gone. They were an invisible army of workers who kept the rooms spotless, the pool sparkling and the kitchen well stocked. So why was she here now? He had nothing to steal except his phone and his nearly maxed-out credit card.
“Miz Jillian asked me to put an oil diffuser and instruction sheet in your bedroom to help you sleep at night,” the woman explained in a voice with a distinctive Caribbean lilt. “I didn’t realize you would be back to the villa so soon.”
“That’s for damn sure. You scared the living shit out of me, lady. I thought I was interrupting a burglary in progress.”
She planted her hands on her full hips and leaned toward him, her dark eyes narrowed. Sam backed up another step.
“I am not a thief. And it is obvious to me you didn’t expect anyone to be here by the way you tossed around those swear words. It’s also obvious nobody told you about Poppy’s Jamaican Children’s Fund to which you’ve just contributed twenty-five dollars.” She held out her hand, palm upward, and her white teeth gleamed as a broad smile crossed her face.
“Who the fuck is Poppy and—”
“Now you owe me thirty dollars, though I really shouldn’t interrupt so you’ll keep on talking and adding to the fund.”
Who was this crazy woman, and what the hell was she talking about? Children’s Fund? Contributions?
“I am Poppy,” she explained. “And anyone who swears in my presence pays into the fund to help orphans in Jamaica. So pay up, Mr. Hartman. Cash only. I don’t take no plastic.” She wiggled her plump fingers.
“Well, Poppy,” he began, emphasizing her name, “no one explained your fund to me ahead of time.” The whole thing sounded more like an extortion scheme than anything else, but she would probably increase the fine if he voiced that thought.
“It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t swear. And you most definitely are not supposed to take the good Lord’s name in vain.”
“I guess you have some method for calculating the amount I supposedly owe you?”
She explained how much each curse word cost plus the added penalty for sacrilege.
“Why don’t we wipe the slate clean and I’ll pay next time since I didn’t—”
“I make no exceptions.” Her foot tapped impatiently against the tile floor. “That will be thirty dollars. And I have change if you need it.”
Sam threw up his hands in surrender. The resort didn’t need security guards with this woman on the grounds. Her take-no-prisoners attitude and her penalties for cussing would keep anyone in line.
“Okay, okay. Let me get the money.”
He retrieved his wallet from the nightstand drawer and pulled out a crisp twenty and a two wrinkled fives. He thought of all the beer he could buy with thirty dollars as he slapped the bills into Poppy’s hand.
“You know, you really should put up a price list by the registration desk. And maybe one down by the credit union ATM. Sort of warn people ahead of time,” he suggested sarcastically.
Poppy pocketed the bills as she waddled across the room. “Oh goodness, no, Mr. Hartman. That’d take half the fun out of it.”
Sam could still hear her cackling after the villa door closed. “Sonofa— ” He bit off the curse. She probably had hidden microphones in every villa, and he had already paid enough.
* * *
Where was he? An irritated frown creased Jillian’s forehead.
She let her head drop forward until her chin nearly rested on her chest. She had provided Sam with detailed directions to her favorite spot on Mimosa Key and specified the time for him to meet her. The north end of the island had undergone significant development during the years she had been in Arizona. She wondered how long before her special escape spot was discovered and turned into a home site.
Long before she had been introduced to the practice of meditation, Jillian had come to this place. Secluded and quiet, this was a spot where she could think. To cry over cheating boyfriends and fathers who left their families behind. To rail against the universe about the bullies who poked fun at Becca’s leg braces and crutches. To celebrate completion of her schooling and the job offer in Sedona. She had shared it with only a few people, though she would be kidding herself to think no one else knew about it, too. She had come here regularly since her return home, and she hoped Sam benefitted from it.
She inhaled the fresh salt air, let the breeze whisper across her skin and lifted her head to gaze over the gulf. This little island might hold some bad memories for her, but she needed to let them go and appreciate what a truly tropical paradise it was.
The scores of people who flocked to Casa Blanca were a testament to the island’s allure. And those who couldn’t afford the exclusive resort either stayed at the Hartgrave’s Fourway Motel, pitched tents at a rustic campground near Pleasure Pointe Beach or stayed across the causeway in Naples.
Her mother’s shop – hers and Becca’s shop now – sat in a strip of brightly colored stucco storefronts within walking distance of Pleasure Pointe Beach. Jillian needed to make a decision soon about the shop’s future, but she had to include Becca, who was due home in five days.
Now, though, she had to rid her mind of those concerns and think about…nothing. Nothing at all. Except that man who was perpetually late and questioned everything.
“Could you have picked a spot any farther from civilization?”
Jillian yelped and her hand flew to her throat. She had been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard his car pull into the clearing a fifty yards away. His annoyance was evident in the tone of his voice. Sam always seemed annoyed about something. That was yet another sign he most likely suffered from some degree of PTSD. But she would not respond to his question.
Keep your cool, Jillian.
“When you’re new to meditation, it is usually more effective if you’re away
from distractions. Have a seat.” She patted a spot on the multi-colored blanket she had brought along. Jillian normally sat directly on the sand and buried her toes in its warmth. The blanket was a concession to Sam in order to make the experience as pleasant and sand-free as possible.
His hair was still damp and neatly combed, and he wore tan cargo shorts and a black t-shirt that stretched snugly across his muscular chest. He shrugged off a backpack and plopped it beside her.
“I brought supplies,” he said, unzipping the pack and pulling out containers she recognized from Junonia, the resort’s award-winning restaurant. He also pulled out a bottle of wine, plates, forks, napkins and two red Solo cups. “I was going to get tacos from that little stand in town, but after I got all the plates and stuff from the convenience store, I decided to go all out and get some really nice food. I wasn’t sure if you liked white or red, so the wine dude suggested this pink stuff.” He uncorked the bottle and poured some into both cups.
Jillian took a sip of the pink-tinted wine. “The wine dude suggested well,” she replied, recognizing a vin gris from the resort’s well-stocked wine cellar. “But this wasn’t supposed to be a picnic, Sam.”
Or a booty call.
“We’re supposed to meditate. It’s a relaxing technique that will help you sleep.”
He took a sip and moaned softly. “Damn, this shit is good. Oh crap. That Poppy person doesn’t have all the staff reporting back to her, does she?”
Jillian bit back a laugh. “So you’ve had a run-in with Casa Blanca’s own philanthropist?”
“Philanthropist my ass. Extortionist is a better description. But don’t tell her I said so. She probably has an enormous fine for calling her that even if it is the truth.”
“Her fund is a good cause. She used it to bring her three nephews to the States and now she sends money regularly to help the other children still at the orphanage. I’ve heard of some employees who deliberately curse around her so they can contribute. But no, we don’t snitch.”
Barefoot Bay: When You Touch Me (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 5