The thought sent a ripple of emotion spinning through her, part fear and part excitement. Oddly, the fear was not of Ty, but rather of her own excitement at the thought of being abducted by him. What would she have done if he’d simply kept riding while she clung to him, and crossed the state line into New Hampshire and on into Maine, maybe all the way to Canada? She would have been free of all her responsibilities, all the expectations everyone had of her. Free of her reputation as a good girl, a nice girl, a hometown girl. Free to love Ty.
Not that he’d given her any indication that he loved her, or that he would welcome her love. He could sweep her off to Canada and then dump her, pursuing his adventures as a fugitive without her, while she purchased a bus ticket back to Brogan’s Point and resumed her role as the good, nice, hometown girl.
Stupid fantasy. She wrenched her mind back into the present. “Is that the boat you sailed here?” she asked, pointing to the boat tied up in police tape.
He pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the ribbon-wrapped sailboat bobbing gently in its slip. “That’s it. I wanted to see if the cops have completely dismantled the thing. For all I knew, it could be sitting in pieces in the parking lot.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they’re so damned sure there are drugs on the boat, but they haven’t found any.”
She frowned. “Then why are they so sure there are drugs?”
He shrugged. “They believe their informant more than they believe me.”
She stared at the boat. Except for the police tape, it looked innocent. More innocent than Ty himself looked.
He looked…dangerous. Straddling a motorbike, the ocean breezes tossing his hair, one hand fisted around the motorcycle’s handle while the other cradled his helmet. Dangerous, yes, but he didn’t look guilty.
What did she know? She was a lousy judge of men. How long had she stayed with Jimmy, believing he would grow up?
“Well,” Ty said, his voice emerging on a resigned sigh. He lifted his helmet back onto his head. “The boat’s still in one piece.” Another sigh, and he turned the handle, causing the engine to whine. “I’ll take you to the inn now.”
So much for being abducted and whisked out of the country. Monica wouldn’t get to find out whether the world would stop spinning if she was forced to abandon her life in Brogan’s Point. She would go back to managing the inn’s maintenance and learning everything she needed to know about running the place. She would revert to being her staid, well-behaved self. No biker-chick life on the lam for her. She told herself this was a good thing, but she wasn’t quite convinced.
He took the drive back to the Ocean Bluff Inn at a slower pace. She treasured the minutes with him, her arms circling his waist, her legs sandwiching his hips. It didn’t matter how sensible she tried to be, how good a girl she was, how dangerous Ty was. She wanted him. She wanted to be wild with him. And she shouldn’t.
At the entrance to the inn, he cut the motorcycle’s speed to a crawl and rolled up the driveway to the visitors’ lot. She immediately spotted one of the guys from Parnelli’s Plumbing standing on the veranda, talking to another man. The plumber had on a Parnelli’s polo shirt, dark green with the company name and logo stitched into the fabric on the left side of his chest. The other man wore a long-sleeved plaid shirt and khakis. He was tall and thin, with a narrow nose and a border of neatly trimmed dark hair surrounding his bald spot.
Her father. Damn.
She loved her father. She’d been blessed to be born to two devoted, hard-working parents. But she didn’t want her father to see her climb off the back of a motorcycle being driven by a guy suspected of a crime.
Too late. Her father spotted her, turned from the plumber and scowled. “Monica?”
Reluctantly, she dismounted and tugged the helmet off her head. “Hi, Dad. I just took a quick break. I’ve been at work since seven-thirty. It’s crazy over at Rose Cottage. I needed a few minutes, that’s all.” She doubted her father cared about her taking a brief break during a long, difficult day. What he cared about—what caused his brow to sink more deeply into a frown—was that his precious daughter had been the passenger on a motorcycle driven by Ty Cronin.
Her father said nothing. He just watched her, disapproval oozing from him.
Ty removed his helmet and climbed off the bike, as well. He seemed to sense that some diplomacy was called for. “Mr. Reinhart?”
Her father glowered at him.
“Tyler Cronin.” He perched their helmets on the motorcycle seat and approached the steps to the veranda, his right hand extended. Monica remembered the first time he’d scaled those steps. She’d been sitting on one of the Adirondack chairs, mourning the death of her relationship with Jimmy, and suddenly there Ty had been, her wild thing. And she’d brought him back to her bed.
She told herself the heat in her cheeks was due not to a blush but to the wind’s having chafed them during the ride. “Ty is a friend,” she said, realizing how feeble that sounded. Her father had spent his entire life in this town, as had Monica. He knew who her friends were.
“Monica mentioned the situation in that cottage,” Ty said. “I’m a carpenter. I thought I’d check it out, see if I could help get things back in shape once the plumber is done.” He shot a quick smile at the guy from Parnelli’s, who seemed just a bit too interested in monitoring the tension between Monica and her father. Not only did everyone in a small town know who was friends with whom, but they also knew who was pissed at whom—and they generously shared that knowledge whenever the opportunity presented itself. She could just imagine him telling all the guys at Parnelli’s that the boss’s daughter, Boss Junior, was spinning around town on the back of a motorbike driven by a stranger, and the boss was not a happy man.
“We have contractors we use,” Monica’s father said tightly.
“That’s fine. I just thought I’d have a look.” Ty gave her father a dazzling smile, but apparently it did not have the same effect on her father as it had on her. She was impressed by Ty’s poise, though. He didn’t seem at all rattled about being scrutinized and judged by the father of a woman he’d slept with just a couple of nights ago.
He probably didn’t care what Monica’s father thought of him. He’d be gone soon enough, anyway—back to Florida or to jail.
Lacking a better idea, she took her cue from him. “Come on, Ty,” she said. “I’ll show you the cottage.” Before her father could intervene, Monica led Ty around the building. Once she was sure they were out of her father’s range, she said, “Thanks.”
Ty laughed. “I can’t imagine why he didn’t welcome me with open arms.” As relaxed as he seemed, he peered over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed. “Is he going to come after me with a shotgun?”
“As far as I know, he doesn’t own any guns.”
“Phew.” Ty mopped his brow with an exaggerated swipe of his hand, then surveyed the pool patio at the rear of the main building. The grounds crew had arranged lounge chairs and tables on the decorative slate surrounding the pool, although the chairs weren’t wearing their cushions yet, and the tables weren’t equipped with their sun umbrellas. That would all be taken care of next week, in time for the holiday weekend guests. The pool was filled, its water reflecting both the pool’s blue walls below and the sky above, reminding her of the vivid, shimmering blue of Ty’s eyes. “Wow, this is nice,” he said, shifting his gaze from the patio to the acreage beyond, the azaleas blooming, the trees dotted with new leaves, the cottages nestled into the landscaping and the tennis court visible behind Hydrangea Cottage.
Monica used to appreciate the inn’s beautiful grounds more when she hadn’t been in charge of maintenance. Viewing them through Ty’s eyes reminded her of how lovely the resort was. The cottages were homey white clapboard structures with small porches and peaked roofs. The lawns were a lush green, much healthier than they would look in a few months, once the summer heat had parched the g
rass. Her family and their staff worked hard to keep the place beautiful. The Ocean Bluff Inn was a destination, after all, not just a rent-a-bed at the end of a highway exit ramp.
She led Ty to Rose Cottage, which appeared deceptively intact from the outside. Inside, the parlor looked as bad as it had when she’d left to meet Emma an hour ago. The large rectangle of plasterboard that had been cut out of the wall lay on the floor; the hole exposed a skeleton of vertical beams, wiring and pipes. The furniture that usually stood in front of that wall had been moved to the other side of the room and left in a jumble of chairs, tables and ottomans. Thumping noises penetrated the ceiling from above, where the plumbers were apparently busy tearing apart the second-floor bathroom.
“Oh, this looks good,” Ty said, crossing to the gaping hole. Monica eyed him skeptically, certain he was being sarcastic. But he actually seemed serious. “They did a neat job. Didn’t mess with the I-beams, even though that left them a lot less space to access the pipes.”
“This does not look like a neat job to me,” Monica said, noticing the plaster dust scattered across the rug like confectioner’s sugar.
“Trust me, it is.” Ty ducked to peer inside the hole, then straightened up. “It’ll be easy to fix. Fit the drywall back in, seal it, paint it. The only thing that’s going to take much time is waiting for the plaster to dry. And the paint. The actual work’ll be nothing.”
“Really? Nothing?”
“A couple of hours of labor. Maybe not even that. Then waiting for stuff to dry.” More thumping prompted him to glance up at the ceiling. “I don’t know what the bathroom looks like. If you’ve got tile work in there, fixing that could be a pain in the ass.”
“The plumbers removed the sink and vanity.”
“All right, so that’ll take a little time to replace. They’d have to hook up the sink. Putting in the vanity, though… Another couple of hours. You’ll be fine.”
Monica thought about the contractors the inn had always used. They never told her something could be done in a couple of hours and she’d be fine. They definitely never told her the actual work would be nothing. If they admitted that, they wouldn’t be able to charge as much.
“The plumbers will probably reinstall the vanity. They’ll have to hook up the sink, anyway,” Ty said. “All you need a carpenter for is the walls. Patch them, paint them. I could do that for you in an afternoon.”
She stepped back and regarded him, confused. Was he looking for work? Hoping she’d hire him? Did he need the money to pay for his lawyer, or the room he was renting in the main building? He had a trust fund, didn’t he?
Evidently, he was able to read her mind. “I’d do it for free,” he said.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It’s what I do. I enjoy it. Besides, I’m stuck here in town, anyway.”
Stuck. Given an opportunity, he would have departed by now. He would have hopped on that motorcycle and headed…somewhere. Somewhere that wasn’t Brogan’s Point.
His gaze softened, his smile losing some of its brilliance but deepening as he lifted a hand to her cheek. He cupped it, his palm warm and strong against her skin, and then slid his fingers into her hair. “I’d do it for you,” he said, then tipped her face up as he lowered his mouth to hers. His kiss began gently enough, but swiftly deepened, his tongue probing her lips, demanding entry. She gave it willingly, leaning into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, thinking that as fun as it had been to hug him while perched behind him on the motorcycle, embracing him face to face was much better. Embracing him while his mouth was conquering hers was much, much better.
She felt swamped by need, by yearning, by every sensation he’d awakened her the night he’d made love to her. How could she have deprived herself of him last night? Knowing he was under the same roof as she, just two floors separating them… What strange willpower had kept her from racing up the stairs to his room, or begging him to sneak downstairs to hers?
The strong muscles of his chest pressed into her breasts as he slid his free arm around her waist. His hand crept down to her bottom and guided her hips to his. She could feel the hard swell of his erection through her slacks and his jeans. His low groan implied that he knew she was as aroused as he.
A loud thump from above jolted them apart. A breath escaped him, half a sigh, half a laugh. “Wrong time, wrong place,” he murmured.
Monica struggled to regain her bearings. What if, instead of a noise from the plumbers upstairs, they’d been interrupted by her father?
What if? She was twenty-seven years old. She could be with Ty if she wanted. She could do the unexpected. She could swoon over a sexy guy—and kiss him as if her life depended on it. “Figure out a right time and a right place,” she said, pleasantly surprised by her own bravery. “I’ll be there.”
Chapter Eleven
When she returned to her office at the end of the day and saw the message light on her phone flashing, she knew the caller would not be Ty. They’d exchanged cell phone numbers before parting outside Rose Cottage. Given her father’s apparent disapproval of him—or of his motorcycle, or of his having spirited Monica away from her work for a brief respite that afternoon—she thought it best that Ty not contact her on her business phone.
She lifted the receiver, punched in her code, and listened to the message: “Hi, sweetie. It’s Mom. Let’s have dinner tonight. We need to catch up.”
Great. Her disapproving father must have informed her mother about their wild daughter straddling the back of a motorcycle and clinging to a tall, buff, sexy stranger. “Sure,” Monica said. She might be a wild daughter, but she was also a dutiful one. “What time?”
“Just come on up whenever you’re done for the day,” her mother said. “I’ll see you soon.”
The apartment where Monica’s parents lived occupied about a third of the top floor of the inn’s main building. Growing up there, Monica had always known her home was a bit unusual—her friends had yards to play in, while she had acres and acres of resort property but couldn’t organize kickball games or invite her playmates to splash in the pool if guests were using it. On the other hand, she and her friends used to love racing up and down the fourth-floor hall, playing hide-and-seek among the buildings or in the woods surrounding the cottages, and hanging out in the kitchen, where the Jerry and the other chefs would sneak them leftover desserts. And no one expected them to be prim and quiet on the inn’s private beach.
The apartment itself was spacious, filled with odd nooks and unexpected closets. Monica’s old childhood bedroom, tucked beneath the eaves, featured an upholstered window seat wedged into a dormer window that overlooked the pool patio and the cottages beyond. Monica had spent many lazy hours curled up on that window seat, a book open in her lap while her daydreams carried her off. She’d imagined herself running the inn someday, ruling over all that acreage, all those buildings. All that history.
Her mother had furnished the apartment with pieces removed from guest rooms that had been renovated and furnishings from the public rooms once they no longer served their purpose. As a result, the rooms contained a hodgepodge of mismatched pieces, faded rugs, and a few antiques in need of tender loving care. But as eclectic as its décor was, the place was always clean and tidy. There were definite advantages to having a housekeeping staff at one’s disposal.
Monica and her parents also had the dining room chefs at their disposal, but her mother enjoyed cooking and made frequent use of the small, outdated kitchen located at one end of the apartment, overlooking the driveway where it snaked around the side of the building to the staff lot. No stainless-steel appliances in that kitchen. No granite countertops. No sub-zero freezer or trash compactor or Viking range. But the stove, the refrigerator, and the sink worked, and that was adequate to feed a family of three.
When Monica arrived at the apartment, she found her mother in the kitchen, filling a large pot with water. “Pasta with clam sauce,” her mother announced. “Louie picked up a ton of fresh cla
ms down at the dock this morning. I asked him to buy some extra for us.” Louie was the inn’s sous-chef.
Monica nodded and kissed her mother’s cheek. Her mother looked youthful in a pair of capri slacks and a Red Sox T-shirt, her hair tied back into a ponytail. Then again, her mother always looked youthful. Monica hoped she’d inherited her mother’s smooth-skinned, energetic beauty, but she feared she took after her father more. At least she didn’t have a bald spot like his.
Within a minute, her mother had armed her with a sharp knife and a pile of vegetables for a salad. While Monica rinsed the romaine and tomatoes, her mother chatted about the early summer bookings and shared some gossip. “Guess who was in this morning to discuss booking a wedding here?” she asked, then didn’t wait for Monica to answer. “Nick Fiore, from the community center. He’s thinking of a December wedding. Since most of the guests live in the area, he isn’t worried about the weather. And this place can be so gorgeous in the winter. Warm and cozy in the main function room, while pristine white snow is piled up on the other side of the windows. Fires in all the fireplaces. It would be beautiful.”
Monica hoped her mother wasn’t leading toward mention of the lack of an imminent wedding in the Reinharts’ immediate family.
“But here’s the funny part,” her mother continued. “Nick’s fiancée— Diana something? They met when she was here checking out the place as a wedding venue for herself and some other fellow.”
“I remember.” Monica smiled and nodded, still bracing herself.
A good thing, too. “Speaking of weddings,” her mother said as she peeled a couple of garlic cloves. “What’s going on with you and Jimmy?”
“We broke up,” Monica said.
Her mother nodded. She’d probably already heard gossip. She and Gus Naukonen were friends, and while Gus was pretty tight-lipped, she might have mentioned something to Monica’s mother. “You’ve broken up before.”
“This time it’s for good.”
Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) Page 10