Barefoot by the Sea bb-4

by Roxanne St Claire

  “You didn’t.” They all said it at the same time, which would have been funny except that, right then, nothing was funny.

  “I did.”

  “Did you actually say the five-letter word that starts with s, ends with m, and rhymes with worm?” Zoe demanded.

  Tessa took a drink and stared at Zoe, who face-palmed. “Holy, holy, holy hell. She did.”

  “How’d that go for you?” Jocelyn asked, rich with sarcasm.

  “Not so great,” Tessa admitted. “One minute he was breathing fire down my neck and the next he turned to stone and disappeared.”

  Lacey put her hand on Tessa’s arm. “Maybe you’ll see him again around town.”

  “He said he was passing through and, honestly, if I never see him again it’ll be too soon.”

  Zoe snorted a laugh. “Famous last words.”

  “Spoken by whom?” Tessa challenged.

  “All of us,” they answered. In perfect unison, of course.

  Chapter Three

  A sperm donor? What the bloody hell was that all about?

  Ian twisted the ignition on his bike and punched the starter, grinding through gravel as he exploded out of the bar parking lot. He revved the Ducati’s engine to get her soft lips and impossible words out of his head.

  Didn’t work.

  Just what he needed. Another kid he never saw. Another life that belonged to him raised by a complete stranger. Another fucking mess.

  And wouldn’t Henry Brooker love that? Ian could only imagine the response of his opinionated, short-tempered liaison when they had their next phone conference.

  Bloody fecking hell, mate, you’re in the witness protection program, not a blasted sperm bank.

  No doubt she’d pay, but offering up his seed to some chick who wanted a baby probably didn’t qualify as the “legit labor” his UK Protected Persons Service liaison said Ian had better find if he wanted to stay in the States.

  And he did want to stay here, one country away from…

  Don’t go there.

  He took a curve so sharp he practically ate the sidewalk and refused to give a shit. Physical pain was always welcome. It drove away the other kind.

  Warm, tropical wind smacked his face as he made his way across the main road of the island town, passed a convenience mart, and drove into the parking lot of the Fourway Motel.

  The place wasn’t as much of a dive as the name would indicate, but it wouldn’t work long term if he decided he wanted to stay for a while. This morning it had seemed like a good idea: sultry weather, off the mainland, and away from crowds, Mimosa Key offered a chance to regroup after the mess in Singapore, a place to wait—and wait and wait—for news that might never come.

  But if tonight’s unfortunate encounter was any indicator what the locals were like, he’d have to get the hell out and find somewhere else to lie low and do his infernal waiting.

  He skidded to a parking place, automatically scanning the empty lot for trouble. Damn, he was sick of hiding.

  As he pulled the key from the ignition, the motel-office door shot open and a woman walked out, the light behind her highlighting blonde hair and a silhouette that looked…interesting. Except he’d blown his interest wad in that bar. Now all he wanted to do was stuff his head under a pillow and end this day.

  “Excuse me,” she called. “Are you Mr. Brown?”

  He was now. In Singapore, he’d been Sean Bern. Now he was John Brown. Who would he be next week?

  The thought turned his already sour stomach. As the quick click of her high heels against the walkway accompanied her approach, he took in sharp features and a predatory smile.

  “I’m Grace Hartgrave.” She gave him an obvious once-over, and he considered—and instantly discarded—the idea of her as a replacement for the woman he’d been so close to in the bar. “I own the motel.”

  He frowned as he climbed off the bike. “Something wrong?”

  “I have to ask you a question.” She reached him, and he could see that she was a few years past forty, the lines of a lot of drinks and a plenty of cigarettes etched on what was a passably attractive face. “My morning desk clerk said you…” She dropped her gaze, lingering on his chest, her brows lifting appreciatively. “And damn, she wasn’t kidding.”

  “About what?” As if he didn’t know.

  Another lingering glance on his body, then she met his gaze. “You paid in cash.”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “It’s unusual.” But her ravenous eyes said she didn’t mind at all. Problem was, he wasn’t hungry anymore, and even if he was, this one wasn’t on his personal menu.

  “I paid through the weekend,” he said, taking a step away so she got the message. “If I bolt, the money’s yours.”

  She didn’t get the message, coming closer. “You a bodybuilder?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What brings you to our remote little island?” She flipped some blonde strands over her shoulder, an invitation he’d seen a hundred times from a hundred blondes. Too bad he had brunettes on the brain.

  “None of your business.”

  She raised both brows, unfazed by his gruffness. “Everything that happens in this motel is my business. I own it.”

  “So you said.”

  She beamed at him. “I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot, Mr. Brown.” She reached her hand out. “Can we start over? Can I call you John?”

  He didn’t move a muscle. “No.”

  “Not very friendly, are you?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “If you don’t have any more questions, ma’am, I’m—”

  “Ma’am?” Her laugh was a little too loud. “I might be a year or two older than you, but no need to ma’am-slam me, big guy.”

  “Gracie!” The office door popped open again, and this time a monster of a man walked out, damn near as wide as he was tall. “Where are you?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, then rolled her eyes at Ian. “And that right there,” she muttered under her breath, “is my ball and chain.” She cleared her throat. “Talkin’ to a paying customer, Ron.”

  The man ambled over, the light casting a sheen on his dome, his dark eyes drilling right through Ian. “You the guy in 301?” he asked.

  Ian nodded, a sixth sense for jealous dickhead husbands rising up and forcing him to brace for the trouble he’d been looking to avoid.

  The man looked from Ian to his wife, distrust and disgust on plain display. “What’s going on out here?”

  “I was telling him about the new diner that opened up, since we don’t have room service,” she said quickly.

  Ian shot her a look. Why was she lying? Turning, Ian extended his hand to the man. “John Brown.” Maybe the gesture would allay the man’s misplaced jealousy.

  “This is my husband, Ron Hartgrave,” the woman said, shamed into the introduction.

  Ron nodded, offering a meaty and damp hand that probably carried a considerable punch. Not that Ian couldn’t crush him; he didn’t want to. Trouble was the last thing he wanted, especially after Singapore, where trouble had landed him in jail—and right on the radar of the man who wanted him dead.

  The Protected Persons board wouldn’t be so understanding this time. Ian’s plea to at least be on the same continent as his kids would be ignored and Henry Brooker would ship his ass off to Corvo or Tasmania or some other remote section of hell. There were no third chances with Ian’s government liaison.

  And no second chances with the gang members and bounty hunters scouring any lead for the identity and location of Ian Browning.

  “Your mother’s looking for you, Gracie,” Ron said to his wife. “She wants you to close the store tonight.”

  She blew out a breath, fluttering her bangs. “Of course she does, because my freaking cousin is still on her honeymoon.” She gave him a wide smile. “Duty calls from the Super Min,” she said, pointing to the convenience store across the street. “You let us know if you need anything, Mr.
Brown.” She turned so her husband couldn’t see her face and winked at Ian. “Anything at all.”

  Ian didn’t respond except for a nod to the big man behind her, then he headed toward his room, relieved to hear the sound of her heels heading in the opposite direction.

  As he reached the door of his room, he glanced to see Ron Hartgrave still standing in the same place, staring at him.

  Great. Like he needed this headache.

  He turned the key, went inside, and fell onto the bed, not bothering to undress or turn on a light. Staring up into darkness, he tried to let his mind go blank, a trick he’d learned in the early days when the booze didn’t do the job and dark memories threatened to swamp him.

  But his trick didn’t work tonight.

  Instead of a blissful blanket of nothing, a pretty face teased his consciousness, eyes so big and brown that he wanted to fall into them, and a kiss that promised—no. They promised problems, that was all.

  With a soft grunt, he rubbed his eyes, grit and exhaustion burning behind his lids. That face and those eyes slowly morphed into another…one much more familiar.

  Don’t go there.

  Rolling over, he smashed his face into the pillow, despising the punch of pain in his gut and the squeeze in his throat. No, no. Not tonight.

  Think about the pretty girl and her sexy mouth and perky tits. Oh, hell, think about the jealous husband and desperate motel owner. Think about any fucking thing but—

  Kate’s body on the dining room floor, a pool of blood spilling over the hardwood, the sound of two helpless infants screaming in their cribs.

  Don’t go there, Ian. Don’t go…

  Too late. He was there. Smelling the blood, hearing the cries, breathing in the anguish of a perfectly wonderful life snuffed out by the hand of a coked-up, crazed-out, black-hearted killer named Luther Vane.

  “Oh, God.” His cry was muffled by the pillow and the fist he slammed into the mattress over and over and over until his shoulder throbbed like his poor, miserable heart.

  His wife was dead and nothing would ever bring her back again. Not sex with a stranger, not a bottle of booze, not wind in his face. Nothing. Kate was dead.

  Why couldn’t he just shove a pistol into his mouth and join her?

  Because of Shiloh and Sam. As long as there was a ghost of a chance he’d see them again, he’d do anything…anything…to make that happen. Except the chance got slimmer every day.

  And Ian fell farther and farther into the depths of his personal hell.

  Tessa marched to the compost bin with purpose and anticipation for the next chore.

  There was a reason she loved to compost, and it wasn’t simply the money they saved creating natural humus to fertilize the farmette grounds that provided so much food for the resort. Ever since she’d walked onto her first collective, fresh out of college with the totally useless degree in sociology, and the farm manager had stuck a pitchfork in her hand and told her to “turn the trash,” she’d enjoyed composting.

  Of course, there had been a collective member by the name of Billy Fontaine hanging around that compost bin, and maybe he had something to do with her love of creating “black gold” from the unlikely mix of table scraps and dried leaves.

  Approaching the side of the bin, Tessa took a deep breath, letting the earthy, natural scent calm her. Wiping the first stings of perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve, she opened the wire door and eyed the breakdown of this batch. The smell told her they were making progress, but it was time to turn and water.

  Taking her pitchfork, she stabbed hard, instantly gratified by the strain of her muscles.

  She fluffed for a long time, probably more than the pile required, but every poke of the pitchfork was relaxing to her. Each time she lifted a few layers, her mind slipped back to that first farm and that first true love.

  She’d loved Billy, yes, but she couldn’t give him all the credit for the pleasures she discovered in gardening and farming. Growing something from nothing thrilled her; she loved the systems, the process, the bone-deep satisfaction of doing something a certain way—the only way, the right way—and getting exactly the desired result.

  After a month on that farm, she’d known she’d found her calling in life. And after a few months with Billy, she’d thought she’d found the man who’d be the love of that life.

  And he had been—for a while. She stabbed the fork into the heap, heaving a full load with a grunt, letting the old failure demons work as if they themselves held that pitchfork. Guess not everything gets the desired result, no matter how much you do things the right way. She’d failed in her marriage, failed at her attempts to be a mother, failed—

  “Tessa, here you are!”

  She spun at the sound of a man’s voice, surprised to see Clay Walker coming around the greenhouse. Lacey’s husband, and the resort’s main architect, rarely made it out to the gardens.

  “Where else would I be?”

  “At the resort, with Lacey.”

  She drew in a soft breath. “Shoot. I was supposed to go over the chef apps with her, wasn’t I?”

  “I told her I’d look for you on the way to the house. I need to relieve the sitter.”

  “I thought Lacey had the baby with her today.” A little disappointment tugged inside her chest. The only thing she liked more than planting, harvesting, and composting was a chance to hold Elijah, and she’d planned to do just that while they reviewed resumes.

  “No, she’s interviewing.”

  “Interviewing?” That wasn’t right. “I thought we were going over the new applications first.”

  “There was a walk-in who blew her away. She didn’t even want to leave to get Elijah—that’s why I’m going home.” He stepped back, obviously anxious to leave. “Better hurry, and so should you.”

  She looked down at her khaki work shorts and boots and a T-shirt streaked with dirt. She had to interview a potential chef smelling like the compost bin?

  Taking only the time she needed to wash her hands, she jogged across the western border of the gardens, past Rockrose, one of the prettiest and most secluded villas at Casa Blanca, and straight to the beach.

  As she hustled along the walkway that cut through the property parallel to the shore, she looked out to the Gulf, noticing that the drier winds brought a slight wave to the usually calm swells. That meant the best shell-hunting possible.

  Could this be the day she’d find a junonia?

  She crossed a quaint bridge to the sand to take a faster route to the resort. Keeping her eyes down, she scanned the shell-laden beach, looking for the one. The rarest shell in the Atlantic would be a coup even for a seasoned sheller, but for a freshman hobbyist like Tessa, it would be a stroke of pure luck. And hope.

  She was a practical and sensible woman who knew her secret game was flat-out silly. Finding a junonia didn’t really mean she’d find her lifelong dream. It wasn’t some imaginary “sign.” What she wanted didn’t come from a seashell, for God’s sake. But it was fun to play this game even as she bounded down the beach.

  She paused at the sight of a chipped giant cockle, the brownish color close to the giraffe-like spots of the junonia, but she wasn’t fooled. She looked up to check how close she was to Casa Blanca’s picturesque hotel building, taking a minute to admire the view. The resort’s khaki-colored barrel-tile roof angled over creamy Moroccan-style archways always reminded her more of a sandcastle built on the shores of northern Africa than a typical Florida resort.

  In a couple of minutes, she was close enough to see the upstairs pool deck peppered with a few guests enjoying a late breakfast. Very few. She moved a little faster, spurred by how much they really needed a great chef to rebound from the scathing review they’d suffered shortly after the soft opening. For weeks they’d been running ads and reviewing resumes, but the real talent was either out of their price range or had no interest in working or living on the unpretentious barrier island of Mimosa Key.

  So who was Lacey in
terviewing?

  As she approached the employee entrance, Tessa took one more glance at the sand, slowing when she caught a glimpse of brown about ten feet away. Was that a jun—

  “Tessa!” The back door popped open and Lacey’s coppery hair appeared in the sunlight, along with her not-so-thrilled expression. “I thought you’d never get here. Why don’t you answer your cell?”

  Because it was probably under a pile of seed invoices in the greenhouse.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry.” Tessa squinted at the shell, then Lacey. “I didn’t know we were interviewing anyone.”

  Lacey didn’t say anything in response. Whoa, was she mad? Maybe. She leaned on the door, arms crossed over a pretty white sweater that hung down to her hips and showed off the figure she’d been working so hard to get back to pre-baby weight. Her expression was tight, and strange.

  “Sorry,” Tessa said again, the dry sand kicking up under her work boots. As she reached Lacey, she took one more look, peering at the tiny brown shell a few inches from an empty chaise. She had to check. “One second, Lace.”

  Lacey snagged her arm. “Now.”

  “Lacey, that’s a…” How could she explain this silliness? A shell I think will mean I’m going to have a baby. “Can I just…”

  Lacey shook her head and tugged her inside. “Listen to me.”

  “I know I’m late, but…” She stole one more look over her shoulder, memorizing the shell’s location. Not that there was a chance in hell a junonia wouldn’t be snatched up by the first person who saw it. “I need to get—”

  “No.”

  At the harsh syllable, Tessa turned from the sunny beach to look at her friend, a woman who rarely spoke a word that wasn’t encouraging, warm, and selfless. “What’s the matter, Lace?”

  Lacey blinked her brownish-gold eyes, her expression balanced precariously between excitement and dread. “Nothing. Everything. Maybe something.”

  Tessa laughed softly. “Does not compute, boss.”

  Lacey let out a slow, exasperated sigh, then gave Tessa a once-over. “You really should answer your cell phone.”