“Oh, him. I locked him in the press house. I did it for you. I didn’t like the tread on his sneakers.”
“Very funny.”
Nick reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of pruning shears. “Are these the ones you’re looking for?”
“That’s them.” Sara took the shears and snipped several leggy canes near the base of the vine. “Has Ryan quit for the day?”
“No, he’ll be back. We both agreed it would be better for his emotional well-being if he stayed away while I came to talk to you. If there’s anything he hates more than strangers, it’s confrontation.”
Sara stood up and faced him. She knew exactly what he was referring to. “Nick, I told you, I’m going through with these improvements to the inn.”
“I know. You made that clear.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to an old bench at the base of the slope. “Can we sit there?”
“I suppose.” She removed her gloves, set them in the wheelbarrow and wiped her hands on her cutoffs. Then she walked ahead of him to the bench and sat, angling her body so she could see his face clearly. “Okay, I’m sitting.”
He settled beside her and released a long breath. “I told the guys about your plans today.”
“And?”
“And they didn’t take it well. Look, Sara, I’m willing to meet you halfway on one point. What you said the other night about us living here because we’re afraid of something, afraid to go back to the mainstream…that might be true for the other guys, and you’re setting off alarm bells in their heads.”
“But no alarm bells in yours?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m not afraid. I told you that. But Ryan and Dex. Even Brody. They’ve got issues.”
“No kidding.” She hooked her elbow on the back of the bench. “I’m sorry about that, Nick. But I don’t see how hiding out here forever will help them deal with their problems. And I don’t see how my plans will disrupt their lives. I’m not suggesting that any of you leave. The changes I’m making won’t affect the cottages where your buddies live.
“I’m not a tyrant, Nick,” she added. “I’ve inherited this piece of property and I want to fix it up.”
He rested his arm near hers on the back of the bench. “It’s not that you’re a tyrant, Sara. But those contractors coming tomorrow are strangers the guys aren’t ready to deal with. Not yet.”
“Not after six years?”
He shook his head.
“Well, Nick, the contractors have got to come. I can hardly repair a roof myself or update the electrical system. And the painting and wallpapering alone—”
He laid his hand on her arm. “I know. And I’ve come up with a plan.”
“A Nick Bass plan,” she said skeptically. “Why am I worried?”
“It’s the perfect solution, Sara.” His wide grin suggested that what he was about to say would change the face of the universe, not just the fixtures of Thorne Island. “Let us do the work.”
A sputter of disbelief burst from Sara’s lips. Was Nick really suggesting that the same men who celebrate the nonsensical ritual of Digging Day do the work of licensed contractors? A bubbling laughter started deep in her chest and worked its way up her throat. “Nick, just exactly who do you mean by ‘us’?”
His grin faltered a bit. “You know who I mean. Me, Brody, Dex and Ryan. We can do all those little jobs you want done.”
“You mean to tell me that a slovenly millionaire, an ex-football player, a guy who plants flowers and you, who from all appearances has no talent at all—”
“Hey, that’s not fair.”
“Sorry. Who appears to do absolutely nothing. You four can fix up the Cozy Cove and the dock?”
“Yep. That’s what I’m telling you. We talked it over, took stock of our talents, which, despite your opinion, are many, and we’re offering our services.”
He waited expectantly, reminding Sara of a little boy who’s been told to stay in his bedroom on Christmas morning until Mommy gets the camera. Sara had to tell herself he was a grown man and should be able to handle a little disappointment. “Sorry, Bass, I don’t think so,” she said.
He jerked away from her, almost tumbling off the end of the bench. “What? Why not?”
“Well, for starters, how do I know you can do the work?”
“Don’t worry about that. We can do it,” he said with almost enough assurance to sway her. Almost. “Besides, if the code inspectors don’t pass our work, then you can hire the big guns.”
“Frankly, Bass, I don’t see any reason I should take the chance. The licensed contractors are a sure thing. They have experience, references…”
“…kids to feed, bills to pay,” he added with a self-satisfied smirk. “Look at it this way, Madam Accountant. We’re not going to charge you for our services. You furnish the supplies, and bingo, the Cozy Cove ends up as inviting as a New England country inn.”
Bingo? He thinks this is as easy as saying bingo?
“Count those beans and see what you come up with, lady,” he said.
Sara lifted the hair from her neck and let the breeze cool her skin and divert her attention from the unexpected but suddenly shattering appeal of Nick’s confidence. He needed a dose of reality now. Despite what she believed—that the men of Thorne Island would be lucky to pound a nail into a two-by-four without damaging their thumbs—she knew that Nick thought they could.
“I know this offer is just a delaying tactic, Nick,” she said. “But your pals have to realize that their isolation can’t last forever. Even if I agree to this, someday—”
He cupped a finger under her chin and lifted her face. “But not tomorrow, Sara,” he said solemnly. “Not tomorrow. Let us do this. We’ll do a good job. And you’re asking too much if you think these guys can adjust to a crowd coming to Thorne Island so soon after they’ve had to deal with your arrival.”
Every logical fiber of Sara’s being was shouting at her to say no. A few contractors hardly constituted a crowd! But this sincerity coming from Nick was impossible to ignore. All at once he seemed vulnerable. His finger was still under her chin, but it felt as if he’d wrapped it around her heart. She released a long sigh, which ended in the surprising words, “All right. We’ll give it a try.”
His grin returned. “Atta girl, Sara,” he said. “You’re my kind of woman.”
She shook her head. “Please, Bass, don’t say that. You’ll have me trying to drive the beetle off the edge of the dock to get away from here.”
“It’s that scary a thought?”
“Being your kind of woman? Yes. And we both know nothing could be further from the truth.”
He inched a little closer to her and settled his fingertips on her shoulder. “That’s for sure. You’re not my type at all.”
“Thank God,” she snapped back, fighting a sudden twinge of disappointment.
His hand moved to the sensitive skin at her nape. His fingers trailed through her hair. And her toes curled involuntarily into the loose soil at her feet.
“I like redheads,” he said. His other hand cupped the side of her face, and he lightly caressed her temple with his thumb. “And there’s definitely too much up here,” he said, stopping to tap her cranium. “I like a woman with a lot of extra room in her brain that she’s not all that anxious to fill up with thoughts and ideas.”
His hand crept slowly, sensually, down her arm while her heart skittered to an offbeat tempo. He flattened his palm just under her rib cage. “And this well-toned body of yours, while nice, isn’t my thing. I like a woman who appreciates good Italian cooking and doesn’t count calories.”
His thumb rode up to caress the side of her breast. As he neared the nipple, a coil of warmth started in her abdomen and flowed through her bloodstream to meet his touch. Her mind demanded that she stop him, but her body had ideas of its own.
He pulled her closer still, until his mouth hovered over hers. His hand boldly covered her breast over the cotton fabric of her
blouse. He kissed her cheeks lightly, the sensation like new spring grass on tingling skin. “No, Sara Crawford, you’re not my type at all,” he whispered into her ear. “But damn, sweetheart, you’ll do.”
“Nick…” Her feeble words of protest died against the lips that covered hers and were apparently determined to stop the formation of rational thought. A cloud covered the sun, cloaking the sky until they were bathed in a cool, gray ripple of earth-scented air. A breeze blew down from the hillside and slid like silk around Sara’s limbs.
Nick’s tongue probed at her mouth, and she opened it to let him in. She closed her eyes and relished the darkness that let her experience the wonder of his explorations. The top button of her blouse slid free, and his hand was inside, seeking. His voice floated above her from what seemed an ethereal place. “Oh, yes, Sara, you’ll do just fine.”
And then another sound—harsh, grating—split the damp, misty air. It came from a distant point and grew closer, louder. Nick pulled away, but kept one arm around her. “What the…?”
Sara blinked her eyes open. She patted her body, searching. “It’s my phone.”
He expelled a breath. “Jeez, Sara, let it ring. We’re in the middle of a vineyard. What normal person would even get a call out here?”
She pulled the phone from her back pocket. “I can’t just let it ring. It might be Candy.” It took a moment to identify the voice. “D-Donald?”
Nick stood up from the bench and walked a few paces away. She tried giving him one of those can-you-believe-this looks that women sometimes use to get out of embarrassing situations. Although why she should be embarrassed she couldn’t say. She and Donald were hardly more than friends, and besides, he was supposed to be in Aruba.
“Hold on a moment please, Donald,” she said, and covering the receiver, looked at Nick. “It’s this guy I’m kind of seeing,” she whispered, realizing in the next instant how ridiculous that must sound to the person who’d been firing her senses with his mouth and hands a moment before.
Nick nodded sagely. “Then I guess I should leave you two alone.”
“Well, yes. I think under the circumstances…”
“Right.” Nick started up the path to the inn. “Nice talking with you.”
Sara took a deep breath while she buttoned her blouse. Then she said into the phone, “Donald, how are you?”
“Missing you,” he said. “And I’ve decided to forgive you for backing out of the trip. By the way, Aruba’s great. Clear blue water. White sandy beaches. Tanned natives.” He snickered. “That reminds me. How’s everything in that Lake Erie paradise of yours?”
Sara tried to hide her resentment of his sarcasm behind a lengthy explanation she knew would bore him to death. “Oh, fine. It’s work, work, work, you know. A million things to do.” As she filled him in on her activities, her gaze connected guiltily with Nick’s when he shot her a glance over his shoulder. Then with a sigh of relief, she watched him turn away and cut through the hedges to the inn.
A SUDDEN SEVERE RAINSTORM sent Sara into the inn shortly after she disconnected with Donald. She still didn’t understand why he’d called. Possibly to make her feel guilty or perhaps even jealous. He hadn’t accomplished either. She patted her hair and skin dry with a towel and made herself a cup of tea. Enjoying the coziness of her warm, dry kitchen, she sat at the table and thought about the timing of Donald’s call.
She ought to be grateful he’d gotten her number from Candy and phoned when he had. Who knew where the incident on the vineyard bench would have ended up? Nick Bass was definitely affecting her, and Sara couldn’t come up with an antidote. She couldn’t even explain what she and Nick had been doing just moments before, but she had to admit that she’d both feared and wanted more.
Sara shook her head. She had to finish the repairs on the island as quickly as possibly and get Nick Bass out of her thoughts. It was true that Thorne Island was a challenge that excited her, but her real life was still in Florida, not here where no one liked or even wanted her. Her livelihood depended on the accounting firm of Bosch and Lindstrom, and only a fool would contemplate giving up a lucrative practice to try to make a go of a run-down inn and a struggling vineyard in the middle of nowhere. And Sara was no fool.
The rain had stopped and she walked out the back door and sat on the top porch step. Water seeped through her cutoffs, but she didn’t care. It was hard to remember her Florida reality in the rain-washed air of Thorne Island. It was as if the rain had cleansed away thoughts of grumpy old men and obligations a thousand miles away. Even the dandelions—stubborn weeds and the curse of every gardener—shone with a brilliance that matched the sun.
Flowers. She would plant flowers around the inn before she left. Tall, elegant, colorful blooms, which would sway in the gentle breezes of Thorne Island.
There was nothing like the stillness in the air after a spring rain to nurture such satisfying thoughts. Suddenly each glorious sound of Thorne Island seemed magnified. The song of a robin, the cheerful chirrup of a cricket. The strains of James Taylor singing “You’ve got a friend.”
James Taylor? Sara hadn’t heard anything by Taylor in years, though his words and his voice were timeless. She stood up, dusted off her cutoffs and went into the inn. Then she climbed the stairs, following the music.
NICK SAW SARA’S REFLECTION in his rain-streaked bedroom window. She stood in the doorway uncertainly, as if afraid to enter but unwilling to walk away. He turned slowly to look at her. Her clothes were wet, making her seem smaller, more compact. Vulnerable.
“Nice music,” she said.
He nodded toward his stereo. “James Taylor. You like him?”
“Uh-huh.”
Nick waved her in. “Have a look.” He crossed to the stereo in a corner of the room and lowered the volume. “I’ve got other albums by him.”
“Albums?” She knelt in front of the low shelf and looked at his collection. “Well, I’ll be. These are record albums.”
“Yep. And that’s a state-of-the-art turntable.”
She grinned up at him. “‘State of the art’ and ‘turntable.’ Isn’t that an oxymoron, like ‘the convenience of eight-track tapes’?”
“Not if you like true, undiluted composition the way Taylor meant it to sound.”
She flipped through his albums, reading off the names of the artists. “John Denver, Paul Anka, Waylon Jennings, Pete Fountain. My goodness, the many moods of Nick Bass.”
“Is there anyone you’d like to hear?” he asked.
“No, not right now.”
He raised his brows as if to say, “Then why are you here?”
“I want to talk about what happened in the vineyard,” she said. “It was a little awkward.”
Nick leaned against an old dresser and folded his arms. “Oh, yeah? Just because I was lip-locked with Donald’s girlfriend when he ding-a-lings into her back pocket? The only thing awkward I see about that is he got closer to the body parts I was aiming for than I did, and he was a thousand miles away.”
She stood up and planted her fists on her hips, just as he knew she would. “Don’t be crude. For the record, he’s not my boyfriend, and besides, neither of us planned that little episode. It just happened.”
He waggled an eyebrow at her. “How do you know it wasn’t planned? It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”
Her cheeks, framed by damp strands of wispy hair, turned a telltale crimson. “Well, it shouldn’t have happened at all,” she said. “We’re complete opposites, for heaven’s sake. We’ve done nothing but snipe at each other ever since I arrived.”
“Nothing?” He rubbed his jaw with an index finger. “So why did it happen, Sara?”
“It was a lapse in judgment. I know I’m somewhat responsible. I’m not proud of myself.”
Nick knew he shouldn’t tease, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d deduced right away that Sara and this Donald guy weren’t the real thing. Someone like Sara would never mess around on a serious relationship.
And what had happened in the vineyard went a step beyond messing around to Nick’s way of thinking. He attempted to appear pensive. “Let me understand. You mean you’re not head over heels for me, Crawford?”
She snorted. “Absolutely not. In the vineyard we made a business deal, one that if it succeeds—and I have my doubts about that—will be beneficial for all of us.”
“So?”
“For that reason, you and I will have to maintain an association. There’s work to be done, Bass. I don’t want what happened between us to affect the repairs on Thorne Island.”
He nodded. “Of course not.”
She paced away from him. “If there is some sort of weird, unexplained chemistry between us, we’ll simply keep our distance from each other.”
“For as long as the repairs take?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He stepped in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. “So I’ll have to wait till the renovations are done before I can kiss you senseless?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” she warned.
“I wasn’t thinking of words…”
Just like a Sunday-school teacher exasperated with the kid who refuses to learn the simplest lesson, Sara lifted both hands and shook her head. She looked defeated. Nick took pity on her. “It’s okay, Crawford. I’ll be a good boy. If you don’t want any extracurricular activities, I’ll behave myself. But,” he couldn’t resist adding, “it won’t be easy. It’s all I can do not to jump your bones right now.”
“Then I’m glad you fell through the porch. It put your jumping days on hold for a while.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SARA WENT DOWNSTAIRS for coffee the next morning at seven-thirty. As usual, Nick had beaten her there. The pot already simmered with his rich brew, and her cup sat next to it.
Taking her coffee and an old ladder-back chair to the big kitchen window, she sat down to enjoy a day promising bright sun and warm temperatures. A perfect start to her projects. She hooked her toes around the chair legs and took the first sip from her mug.
“So, boss, what do you think I’d be good at?”
The Men of Thorne Island Page 12