Stunned, appalled, and fascinated all at the same time, Clay parked his Harley in a gravel parking space and started down the shell path toward the front door. Once the bike’s roar died out of his ears, he could hear the melodious tinkle of a symphony of wind chimes. A soft hum wove through the music of the chimes.
Following the path behind a towering camellia, he located a woman sitting on a bench, painting a Disney-esque dwarf. She seemed oblivious to his approach, although the Harley could probably be heard for half a mile.
The artist wore a crinkly gauze lavender shirt that blew in the breeze, revealing a clingy purple knit top with spaghetti straps and generous cleavage. A skirt in the same crinkly fabric of the shirt blew about shapely bare ankles. She was barefoot, although he could see her sandals lying on the path where she’d kicked them off. Her toenails were painted a pale shade of frosty pink.
Banded in a purple scarf, her straw hat shadowed her face, but all Clay’s hormones and pheromones had already kicked into life to scream in unison, This one! We want this one! Puhleeeze!
Nearly crippled by the impact of the unexpected assault on his senses, Clay halted to steady himself. He wasn’t the kind of man easily bowled over by lust, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the roundness of freckled breasts exposed by the artist bending over to paint a red circle on the dwarf’s cheeks. He was in trouble here. He felt as if he’d just taken a right jab to the belly and had the breath knocked out of him. In silence, he watched her graceful fingers expertly add the final touch of color.
An artist! Why had he never thought to look for an artist as a lover? Who needed sharp-minded, sharp-tongued career women when soft, creative females could stir all his senses? He’d been looking in the wrong places.
To his relief and dismay, once satisfied with her effort, the vision in purple finally glanced up. Despite the shadow of her hat brim, he could detect a smear of red paint adorning her straight nose. Wide eyes blinked with lashes so long they swept her cheeks. And the mouth…
Oh, damn. He’d salivated over that voluptuous mouth just the other night. Even before she swept off the hat with a graceful gesture, he knew he was in trouble.
Aurora.
Leaving her hat on the bench, she stood up, a quizzical look on her face as he stood there gaping like a starstruck teenager. The lavender fabric of her skirt drifted in the breeze, clinging to her curves, outlining her stunningly long legs. She reminded him of tall, frothy drinks laced with strawberries and raspberries, refreshingly tart and cool on the tongue.
While he stood here dripping in sweat in his bad-boy black.
Damned good thing he didn’t intend to make a good impression.
o0o
Amusement rippled through Rory at the cynical McCloud’s stare of disbelief. He tore his gaze away to examine the concrete monstrosities that had haunted her since she was a kid. As a teenager, she’d been humiliated by her father’s trite creations and had hated to bring friends home.
She’d developed the confidence to appreciate folk art since then. With a little wider view of the world, she’d learned that her father’s creations far surpassed most manufactured molds. Not that she expected city-bred McCloud to appreciate the difference.
Standing there with his perspiration-soaked T-shirt defining broad shoulders, his helmet tucked under his arm, and the sun beating down on the rumpled waves of his hair, Thomas Clayton McCloud was a sight for the gods. For once he didn’t appear to be adopting a pose, although he stood like James Dean with booted feet akimbo while he took in his surroundings through the mask of his aviator glasses.
Since those surroundings included her, Rory suffered a moment’s unease. She didn’t have the time or patience to deal with sexy misanthropes who didn’t care what happened to the people on the island—no matter how much her libido screamed otherwise.
“I thought it was my father coming up the drive. May I help you?” She kept her tone neutral.
McCloud returned to awareness in a blink of an eye. Shoving his glasses into his hair so she could see his slanted cheekbones, he frowned and looked past her shoulder like a child refusing to admit guilt. “You might be right about the state’s intentions. I didn’t think they’d move this fast.”
Sitting down on the bench, she whacked the lid onto her paint can with a little more force than necessary. “You think I lied? For what reason?”
“Hell if I understand a woman’s reasons.”
Startled, she glanced back up. He was amazingly tall. His lean frame decked all in black nearly blocked sight of the loblolly behind him. She refused to admire the way his sun-streaked hair curled damply against his neck. “Women protect family first. That generally defines their reason for anything.”
Maybe she should invite him in for a drink? He looked as if he could use one, but life was complicated enough, and she was wary of his intentions.
“In my experience, women protect their own asses first.” He shrugged and studied the dwarf she’d been working on. “Did you paint all these?”
She wiped her hands on a rag. “Hardly. I’ve only been back here a few weeks. My sister and niece do a lot of them. Pops hires people occasionally. Would you like a glass of water? Tea?”
“Water would be fine.”
He looked ill at ease. Not understanding why, Rory led the way into the house. “How did you meet my father?”
He followed her through the shabby sea of green that was their front room, taking it all in without comment. “He’s at the Monkey a lot. We talk. Or he does.”
Rory figured that at least the trailer was neat, if quaint, which was far more than he could claim about his shack. “That’s my father, all right. Since you’re the whiz kid who’s been telling him he’ll lose his fishing if the park gets built, sounds as if you get some talking in.”
Apropos of nothing, he replied, “He took me out to see the turtles.”
Occupying half the space in the tiny breakfast room adjoining the galley kitchen, Clay McCloud filled it with masculine vitality. Awareness of his presence crawled across her skin, and Rory felt almost trapped as she opened the refrigerator to rummage for bottled water. “The turtles come out only at night, and it’s early in the season to see them.” She had no idea why they were discussing turtles, but she could be patient.
She handed him a bottle and opened one for herself. He apparently didn’t feel the same heat as she did, since he continued to invade her personal space. She inched backward to the other counter of the small galley, tugging her shirt closed over her clingy knit top.
Clay threw his head back and swigged heavily of the water. Fascinated, Rory watched the gulps course down his long throat. When he returned the bottle to the counter, he watched her through wary eyes, and she wondered if perhaps he might be as physically aware as she and just covering it with attitude.
“They’re arriving. I think I saw a nest,” he admitted, a note of interest behind his reluctant words.
“You aren’t likely to ever see one again if the state sells the swamp to developers. House lights confuse the hatchlings, so they wander inland instead of heading for the ocean, giving land predators more time to eat them. One more species down the drain.”
“It’s going to happen whether you like it or not,” he asserted defiantly, taking another swig from the bottle. “Money talks louder than nature. If the beach park happens, so will swamp development.”
Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part, but it sounded as if he was waiting to be convinced otherwise. “We need the park,” she answered cautiously, feeling her way. “If the state doesn’t save the beach, someone else will eventually build condos on it. It’s the swamp the state isn’t interested in that worries me.”
“Even a park will destroy the nests and marsh.” Setting the bottle down, McCloud folded his arm combatively over his chest, daring her to disagree with his cynical assessment. “A park will attract people and reduce the habitat.”
“Other parks have installed signs and fence
s keeping people away from the turtles. It’s the lights from development that are harmful.” She didn’t know why she bothered arguing. He wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t care, and wouldn’t do anything about it. She needed to pick Cissy up, and he was in her way.
“What did you think would get built around a park if not condos and hotels—peach stands?” he asked sarcastically. “That will make a difference.”
That did it. She didn’t have to stand here and take any guff from an outsider who hadn’t lived here and wouldn’t live here and who understood nothing. He blocked her exit from the kitchen or she’d just walk out.
Poking his chest with her finger—and trying not to think about the unyielding strength of that muscular plane—Rory nudged him out of her way. “Fruit and vegetable stands, concrete monuments, gas stations and minimarts, basket stands, whatever the locals darned well feel like putting along the road. Why shouldn’t development benefit the people who live here? Why the dickens should outsiders be the ones who profit?”
“Dickens?” He lifted an inquiring eyebrow but didn’t retreat any farther than the stool at the counter.
She poked Clay’s chest harder, annoyed that he merely looked down at her, annoyed that she didn’t seem to intimidate him in the least. She’d learned to overcome her embarrassment at towering over most men, knew how to use her size effectively when necessary, but he didn’t seem in the least bit fazed. “People here aren’t stupid. They may lack education, but they know what’s good for them, and you don’t. If you’re not here to help, then you’re part of the problem.”
Abruptly he caught her by the waist and set her down on the stool as if she were no more than a sack of groceries.
No man had ever attempted to lift her, much less move her. Too stunned to register anything else, Rory almost missed what he had to say.
“You can’t bully me like you bully everyone else, Xena, Warrior Princess. If you want help, don’t drive it off when it arrives.”
She looked appropriately startled, Clay noted with satisfaction. He didn’t usually manhandle women, but he figured she’d started it. If they were going to work together, they had to lay some ground rules—starting with leaving his starving libido alone.
He couldn’t believe he’d actually suggested they could work together. Impulsiveness was the bane of his existence. They couldn’t even agree on what was best for the island except that it wasn’t condos.
“Warrior Princess?” she echoed his words in disbelief.
So he’d taken a flight of fantasy. He shrugged it off. “Would you prefer Wonder Woman?”
“How about Amazon Queen?”
He couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or laughing at him. He grabbed the water bottle and backed off. “My brother is a comic aficionado. Some of it rubbed off.”
Damn, but she did look like some kind of queen sitting there on her royal throne gazing down on the peasants. A strand of hair had escaped her long braid and curled along her cheek, softening the firm line of her jaw. He didn’t know a thing about women’s clothing, but the royal purple knit tank top suited her. Suited him, as well. He had some difficulty focusing on her face and not her cleavage.
She’d been warm and supple and alive in his hands, and he wanted them around her waist again, but he didn’t have a clue how to go about it without getting his face slapped.
“How does one graduate from an adolescent who reads comics to an aficionado?” She jumped down from the stool and stalked toward the front door.
Hell, she both irritated and tempted him at the same time. How did she do that?
He really wanted to kiss her. He’d go nuts looking at that mouth of hers without learning how it felt beneath his.
“By making a million or so drawing them?” Knowing he wanted to kiss another MBA should drive him straight to his bike, but he lingered in her emerald Easter egg of a living room, absorbing details he’d missed the first time through.
He’d grown up in a Long Island mansion with professionally decorated rooms of Oriental carpets, designer fabrics, and antiques he hadn’t been allowed to touch. He’d moved to California and a streamlined beach house of glass and wood and leather. He knew this room was done in appallingly bad taste from any standard he was aware of, from the green velvet sectional sofa to the cheap walnut bookshelves, but he felt at home here. Which was unusual. He never felt at home anywhere except in front of his computer.
When he didn’t immediately follow her to the door, she swung around, her braid flying. “A million dollars? Your brother made a million dollars drawing comics?”
He should have known money would catch her attention. Shoving his hands into his jean pockets, he returned his undivided fascination to Xena. Rory really didn’t fit her. “I don’t ask him for financial statements. He’s not starving. Now, are we working together or not?”
He’d caught her so off guard that she stared at him with complete unself-consciousness, giving him time to appreciate the impact of purple pansy eyes, long lashes, and a wide mouth parted slightly in astonishment. He liked her with her defenses down. What would he have to do to keep her like that?
“How would we work together?” she demanded, sensibly enough. “You’re the one who will provide the state with the list of Binghams and sell us out.”
“If I don’t give them the list, you won’t have your park.”
“You don’t even believe there should be a park,” she countered.
“I’m not the problem. You’re the one who has a problem if you want to force the state to do things your way. I can just throw out the program, tear up the list of Binghams, walk away, and protect turtle nests by stopping the park.” Until the state hired someone else.
He knew better than to believe he had a snowball’s chance of halting the park, but there was some tiny chance they might limit development in the swamp behind it—if he and the MBA princess could work together.
At his mention of stopping the park, a look of panic reached her eyes, and he wondered what that was all about. What in hell did she have riding on a state park? Not that he cared about her hidden agendas, of course.
“The county zoning commission,” she murmured, drawing back from her dazed state and looking confident again. “They need a recommended-land-use plan.”
“I’m not a lawyer, but zoning sounds like a good start.” If he was smart, he’d be wary when she started looking confident. “What about the EPA? Aren’t the turtles protected?”
She grabbed her purse and pulled out her keys, still not looking at him. “They’re loggerheads, threatened but not protected. But we can bring in environmental groups and try for some temporary injunctions until zoning can be decided. Development can’t be halted. We need the money out here.”
“Along the highway only,” he persisted, wanting parameters established. Condos in the wooded swamp next door to Cleo and Jared would destroy their safe haven.
He told himself it was for Cleo and Jared that he did this. He couldn’t think of any other reason to be involved.
As if she heard his thoughts, she shouldered her purse and pinned him with her glare. “And what do you get out of this?”
Time with you didn’t seem to be the appropriate answer. He probably didn’t have an appropriate answer.
Clay snapped his helmet on. She didn’t budge an inch but stood practically nose-to-nose with him, waiting for a reply.
“I’m paying penance for my former life, okay? Just tell me if you want my help or not, and I’ll get out of here.”
Oddly, his heart beat a tattoo while she considered his offer. He really didn’t want to get involved, he told himself. He was waiting for her to boot him out so he could go back to his cloistered world and work. He didn’t know why he’d volunteered in the first place.
“All right.” She whirled around and started for a sweet little Beamer beside the house. “I’ve got your phone number. I’ll call you when I have a list of the zoning restrictions and commission meeting dates. Initial that
budget I gave you and get it back to me.”
Clay did his best not to grin as she slammed into her car and roared off in a cloud of sand. That attitude of hers worked fine when she was wearing the armor of her business suits, but failed completely in royal purple with paint on her nose.
With a pang of guilt, he realized he’d been judging Aurora Jenkins by her business suits, just as people judged him by his appearance or his job title or his financial statements. He’d learned to deliberately use his looks and bad attitude to steer people away.
So what was she hiding behind her suits of armor?
And why the hell did he itch to find out?
Rubbing his fingers beneath his helmet while surrounded by reflecting balls and laughing dwarves, he wondered if he’d finally let his last screw loose. Jared would laugh his fool head off when he heard about this.
Chapter Six
Unable to justify the expense of a cell phone when the island reception was iffy on a good day, Rory had canceled hers when she moved home. She regretted that decision now as she huddled with the cordless in her bedroom, away from the trailer’s other inhabitants, keeping her voice low while she tried to argue with a car dealer in Charleston over the BMW’s worth, without success.
Grimacing, she clicked off the receiver and looked up to see Cissy stepping out of the bathroom, robe wrapped around her, hair still damp, watching her with curiosity. Cissy’s end of the trailer only had a shower, so she had been using Aurora’s tub.
“Did that whirlpool gadget help?” Rory had put the device on her credit card with some vague hope that by next month, she could pay for it.
Her severance package might cover groceries and utilities for a while longer, but somebody in this family needed to start working soon.
“It felt good,” Cissy admitted. “I tried to do too much yesterday. Who were you talking to?”
“I’m still trying to sell the Beamer. We need to make an expedition into Charleston, I guess, pick out a truck and trade it in.”
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