Barefoot Bay: SEALed With a Twist (Kindle Worlds)

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

  Breathe, Thornquist.

  Skye took hold of the doorknob, the dark metal cool to her touch. Closing her eyes, she let that coolness seep into her skin and she breathed slow and deep. “I am the cold, dark of winter,” she whispered. “I am steel, hard and unbreakable.” This was not the most difficult thing she’d had to do. Not by far. She could walk out there and deal with this—deal with him—and be no worse the wear, or at least, not that he would see.

  She repeated the old mantra under her breath until calm doused over her. Steadied, she turned the knob and swept into the room without giving him the honor of looking for him.

  Unfortunately, he’d left and thus missed her grand entrance. Skye snatched up her clothes, dressing quickly, ready to go, to be gone, and, please God, never to see Grant Sisti again in her life.

  She opened the bedroom door and stopped short. Grant blocked her way, one bulging forearm leaning against the upper jamb, a cobalt, ceramic mug full of something hot and steaming in his mitt of a hand.

  “Jeez Louise,” she gasped, her heart in her throat, pulse once again thrumming madly. “Stop doing that!”

  There was that mouth twist again. “You startle too easy.”

  “Then stop startling me with all your…” she gestured up and down to encompass all that was him, “…you-ness,” she finished. Lame, her brain whispered. Skye stuck it out, glaring up at Grant and praying he couldn’t tell she was faking it.

  His gaze similarly scanned her top to toe. He couldn’t actually see her pulse jumping in her neck, right?

  Get a grip, Skye.

  She snatched the mug from his hand and ducked under his raised arm to escape back into the main room. Holding the mug to her nose, she inhaled the fragrant steam. “Tea. Bless you,” she said with feeling, instantly less annoyed.

  “Christ, you jump from hot to cold like a SCUD missile, fast and furious.”

  She frowned into the mug and spoke without turning around. “Are you comparing me to a Vin Diesel movie franchise?”

  “No, I’m comparing you to a deadly ordinance.” By the sound of it, he was at the bedroom door. Skye stepped closer to the kitchen to put more distance between them.

  “If that’s a compliment, you need to work on your game.”

  A hint of humor was in his voice when he said, “My game is professional level, nymphie. Don’t force me to prove it to you.”

  She sipped to take a moment to regroup and pretended the heat in her chest came from the tea. He’d already made plain his lack of interest in sleeping with her. She wasn’t going to fall for his sly flirting after that.

  “Earl Grey, hot.” His deep voice sounded right behind her. She managed not to jump this time, but it took conscious effort.

  Skye put her back to the kitchen island. He moved so fast and too quietly. Better to keep him where she could see him for her own sake.

  “Yes, it is.” His face softened so she could now see faint humor on his otherwise set features. She’d missed something, and she didn’t like the idea of being butt to his joke.

  “Not a Picard fan, huh.”

  “Does he do tea?”

  “Better than most.”

  Skye tilted her head. Enough of this. “You told me to get out and then made me tea. Earl Grey. Hot.” She mimicked his deep voice and nearly caught him in an actual smile. “Talk about mixed messages.”

  “My socialite mother would have a fit if I didn’t offer a lady a drink before kicking her out of my villa. There’s never an excuse for rudeness,” he said, matter of fact.

  “Oh, indeed. Perish the thought,” she returned. Socialite? He’d never behaved as though he had a pedigree. The more she knew of him, the more she didn’t understand.

  Skye took another swallow of tea, then set the mug on the island with a resounding clink. “Well, you may assure your mother the social niceties have been observed. Thank you for the tea, and, not, you know, reporting me for swimming in your pool. I’ll go now and leave you to the rest of your evening.”

  “My best friend just got married and anyone I know on this damn island is either at the wedding or home with their own families.” He stepped closer, invading her space, on the edge of what politeness would allow between strangers. “And I don’t remember saying anything about not reporting you.” He crowded her against the island, ducking his chin to peer down at her. “Tell me why you were in my pool and maybe I’ll let you go, unreported.”

  This close, it was impossible not to be overwhelmed with all that was Grant Sisti.

  Overwhelmed, but far from intimidated.

  She was, after all, a Thornquist.

  If she moved, her nose would fit perfectly in the notch of his throat, her head a snug fit under his chin. He was big and tall and strong and though he overshadowed her, she didn’t feel cowed. She was used to men using their physicality to intimidate, but Grant’s was simply a part of him.

  In her bones, Skye knew he’d never use that strength against her. Would never use it to make someone feel…less.

  It was his strength that had drawn her in the first time. The surety of his physical power used on behalf of her pleasure. She was well-versed in the perils of falling for it only to lose its surety.

  Delicious, orgasmic perils.

  That crazy urge that put her in the pool to begin with and then drew her out to challenge him buck naked overtook her again. She mirrored his move, leaning forward until their noses nearly touched.

  “I don’t see how that is any of your business,” she said in her snootiest voice. Really, her grandmother would be so proud. “You really are the most confounding man. One minute you’re threatening to get me fired unless I’m…nice, the next you’re telling me to get dressed and get out. You bring me my clothes and hot tea, but don’t appear to like the fact that I’m here. Yet you won’t let me leave.” Her smile was thin and sharp and not her own as she tilted her head to deliberately consider him. “Do you have a split personality?”

  He grinned and closed what little distance there was left between them. “Not that I’m aware of. Though it’s unlikely I would be aware as dissociative personality disorder is often undetectable by the subservient personality.”

  She felt light-headed. He was too close, too big, too Grant. She rubbed against him every time she took a breath. “Pardon me?” she managed. The words felt weird in her mouth, like a foreign language twisting her tongue into new shapes.

  “Dissociative personality disorder,” he repeated, and Lord but he did soft voice so much better than her. It was quietly firm and unforgiving, steel beneath cotton, and it worked for her big time. “The technical medical term for multiple personalities. The psychiatric community prefers to avoid colloquial terminology.”

  “God forbid I get the terminology wrong.” She paused and then, because he was beginning to really do her head in, tacked on, “You nutter.”

  Grant shifted and now their mouths were inches shy of a kiss. “Nutter is definitely verboten in the community,” he murmured. “Smart ass.”

  She blinked at the accusation. “I’ve never been called a smart ass before.”

  He reached out to trace the frame of her face with one finger. Callouses patterned his skin, but his touch was light and teasing. “I like a woman with bite.” That finger slipped over her chin and down her throat. “Especially when she employs it to good use.”

  “You must bring it out,” she decided, hating the fact that her voice was breathy and weak. “I’m not usually this—”

  “Bitchy?” he supplied without rancor.

  Her spine shot straight, and she willfully ignored the full body rub elicited by the move. “Rude. Your mother must be so disappointed.”

  A ghost of his teasing smile tilted his lips. “She’s used to it by now, believe me.”

  “I’m not a bitch,” she insisted, forgetting her momentary desire to be more like her sharp-tongued sisters. “And really, since you find me so offensive, step back. I’ll leave and you’ll never have to see
me again.”

  His questing finger lingered in the notch where her throat met her collarbone, “Think we both know we’re far beyond that.”

  Her eyes flickered up to meet a pair so green, it took her breath. She’d never known a person to have actual grass green eyes. How could that color be natural? And yet who else but a laughing god would bless this man with so much bounty and then top it off with those eyes?

  In sheer self-defense, she tore her gaze from his so it scatted over his thick neck and down the broad torso that blocked her way and muscled arm raised between them. Lord, there was so much of him, more than she remembered, all of it a tensile strength, like a bow string pulled taut and at the ready, waiting to be let loose to fly.

  Did that make her the target…or the arrow?

  Her head felt heavy on her neck, like she’d dived right back into that bottle of tequila. I am the cold, dark of winter. I am steel, hard and unbreakable. But the heat pulsing from her made a lie of her mantra. Steel, hah. More like a puddle of molten metal.

  She had to get a grip. Focus. Breathe. In and out, in and out. And again. Sought that minor control over her lustful, confused body. She held immobile like a startled deer who knows it’s in the hunter’s sights, waiting for his hand to join the finger that lingered on her collarbone so she’d know whether to flee...or succumb to danger once again.

  Reflexively, her tongue flicked out to wet dry lips. They were close enough that she brushed his lip in turn. A moan escaped her. Tasting him was her undoing; she was sunk but good and no fast stroke or hard kick would get her head above water this time.

  And she didn’t care one damn bit.

  Grant inhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes dropping to fix on her open mouth.

  Here we go, she thought, heart racing, skin tingling, pressure building between her legs like nothing she’d ever felt before, that languid stroke of hard lust.

  He studied her for a minute. Slowly, that hard look took him back over. His deep voice sent vibrations across her lips when he mused, “There’s something familiar about you.”

  Oh shit.

  “It’s buggin’ the hell outta me. Can’t let you go until I figure you out.”

  No. Not now. Not here. She wasn’t ready for him to remember her. The last thing Skye needed was for Grant to figure her out.

  She was in-progress on that herself and it would really stink if he beat her to it.

  He put space between them, backing back into the main room, successfully putting a hard break on their budding moment.

  Another bloodless rejection when hers was on fire.

  Ass perched on the back of the couch, Grant stretched his legs out before him. “Look, it’s been a weird day,” he admitted. “But I’m not gonna report you.” Briskly, he rubbed both hands over his face before dragging them back through his hair. It made him look adorably disgruntled and rumpled, and Skye’s heart squeezed. She didn’t know how a bruiser like him could pull that off, but he did. In spades.

  Ignoring the squeeze, she allowed herself to relax a bit against the counter. “This hasn’t been my best day either.” She huffed out a mocking breath. “And that was before some alien took over my body and convinced me to violate regulations and go for a swim in a villa pool.” She stared past him without seeing, chagrined at her behavior. “Naked no less.”

  “Highlight of the night for me.” There was a faint tease to his words that jerked her eyes back to his. He appeared, not warm per se, but there definitely looked to be a slight thaw.

  The mixed messages were making her head swim.

  “Yes, well,” she floundered. “Technically, you’re renting the pool, so really, it’s the resort owners to whom I owe an apology.” The air between them warmed; his expression didn’t change, yet she had the sense that she entertained him in some way with all her awkward blundering. She was trained to manage ambassadors and CEOs, not banter flirt with handsome security guards. Plus her dating history was spotty at best.

  After all, the last man she’d slept with before Grant had married her sister. Not exactly a promising bullet point on her romance résumé.

  Silence stretched until Skye eventually caved, rattled by his stern, unwavering regard. The change in him from six months ago was unsettling. Back then, she didn’t have to work so hard to have a conversation with him, or to get them both naked either. Not that they’d had much conversation before or after banging each other’s brains out. But he’d carried what load there was, meaningless words that spilled from his mouth like confetti, effervescent and useless, but endlessly entertaining.

  And yet, as she thought back, there’d been a tinge of desperation to it, an almost manic need to convince her—convince himself maybe—that he was this casual seducer. Enough to cut through her tragedy—and tequila-infused reckless judgment.

  No sign of that vulnerability now. This taciturn stranger was someone else entirely. He was physically bigger for sure, but harder too, with no sign of that sly, pleasure-focused playboy. There were shades of the Grant she’d known, but those glimpses were rare enough to make her wonder if she’d imagined them.

  Rattled, she fell back on her training and channeled her grandmother’s legendary haughtiness. “As we’re discussing it anyway, I am not accustomed to being—hoisted about by strange men. Please refrain from doing so in the future.”

  Arms crossed over his admirable chest, Grant raised both brows in a silent “do tell” as he repeated “Hoisted?” And, jeez, even that turned her on. She was such a slut, but only for him, please God, may he never know it.

  “Lifted. Carried. Hoisted.”

  There was that ghost smile again. “Talking with you is like verbally jousting with Webster’s dictionary.”

  That shot her spine rigid. “It’s good to expand your vocabulary.”

  “You’re definitely expanding something, sweetheart’.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t be so suggestive with me when you’ve made it plain you’re not interested.”

  He lifted both hands before him in defense. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, who said I wasn’t interested?”

  But Skye was done. No more teasing. No more getting her hot and bothered by barely touching her and then backing away as though insulted by the very idea.

  She’d been played and manipulated by masters of the game.

  No more.

  “My experience may not be vast,” she allowed, ignoring the flare her confession brought to his eyes. “But even I know a man doesn’t tell a woman—a naked, willing woman—to get dressed and get out if he’s interested. A lesser woman would be outright mortified.”

  “Honey, from what I saw, all women in creation are lesser to you.”

  “Stop it,” she hissed. “I won’t be a toy in this game any longer.”

  He lowered his hands and she had the sense that she’d somehow injured him. “I’m not toying with you, lovely. I’m working very hard not to take advantage of you.”

  That didn’t stop you last time.

  She managed not to say the words out loud.

  He must have read them or something similar on her face.

  “You don’t think much of me, do you?” he noted without seeming to care about her answer either way.

  Too much of him, actually. Or rather about him. That was her problem. “I don’t know you,” she lied.

  “Now that is rude of me. I know what you look like naked; forgot we’ve yet to be properly introduced.” He inclined his head toward her. “Name’s Grant Sisti. Most people call me Twist.”

  His deliberate formality was another tease, but the retreat into manners steadied her.

  “Twist?” He’d said almost the exact same words to her the first time, but never explained the moniker. She’d had to admit, at least to herself, she’d wondered about how he’d earned the name.

  A lot.

  “Are you usually in one?”

  “Causing one, more like. A friend once groused about my twisted sense of humor. It stuc
k.”

  Her snort of laughter surprised them both. “Sorry,” she offered, and they both knew she didn’t mean it. “You haven’t exactly been the soul of good humor tonight. I get the sense I amuse you, but you’re far from being—” she waved a hand, fumbling for the right word— “Mister Chuckles.”

  He snorted. “Mister Chuckles. Queen will love that. My friend who got married tonight,” he explained, reading the confusion on her face. He pushed off the couch to saunter past her into the kitchen. “His name is Jasper, but we call him Queen. Long story,” he added as he grabbed a beer from the fridge and popped the cap with his thumb. “We’ll save it for when you jump the fence to sit in my hot tub.” She choked over the giggle that caught in her throat, and, this time she was sure she saw his mouth curve up before he slugged back half the bottle. “Right. Your turn,” he ordered.

  “Pardon me?”

  Above the bottle, his eyes glowed. “Name, nymph. Fair trade.”

  It stung that he had to ask, especially when the last time he’d done that was eloquently engraved in her memories.

  What’s your name, lovely? I’m Grant, but my friends call me Twist.

  I don’t want to tell you my name. I want you to make me forget it.

  Whatever the lady wants.

  She’d been drunk then, but never so much as to forget him. “Skye,” she managed now, strangling on the need to protect even this scrap of identity. Even from him. “Skye Thornqu—Thorn. Skye Thorn.” God, she nearly blew it before remembering the shortened version of her name she used here at Barefoot Bay. Not the most genius of aliases, true. But she doubted there was some secret agent ensconced at the resort with the skills to unravel her fragile deception.

  Cripes, he’d caught her slip. His intransient expression was back in play, but curiosity crackled in the air. And possibly, suspicion.

  “Skye,” he repeated. “Short for Skylar?”

  “Yes. Well, no.”