by Beth Andrews
He hesitated, absently touching the skin of his forearm. His fingers stroked the hair, smoothing it in gentle circles.
He was imagining stroking her—Sam knew it as clearly as if she’d read his mind.
And maybe she had.
Their heavy breathing echoed loud in the hushed stairwell. Time spun out to a thrumming wire of tension. The tension sprung from different sources, with different motivations, but it paired them in a dark dance—one they both knew.
Sam stood, waiting for his next move.
Brad sighed, his lips twisting into an entitled pout. Straightening, he sucked in his gut and hiked the waist of his expensive dress slacks. “The guys at the club told me a biker chick had to be a lesbian.”
“Get the hell out of my house.” She pointed the screwdriver down the stairs. “Now.”
“Guess I lost that bet.” Hands raised, he eased past her, not turning his back until he was out of range. He took the last three steps to the entryway.
Sam followed him, screwdriver at ready. “The only thing I sleep with is a snub-nosed Colt.” He stepped through the open door. “You ever come back here, you’ll find out its sex.”
“Shit, I knew better.” He walked through the door, then turned and looked down his patrician nose. “Stray dogs may be fun to play with, but they’ve got no manners.” He shot his cuffs, squared his shoulders and walked down the porch steps.
Gravel shot from the tires as he backed out. When he hit the asphalt, the car surged and fishtailed, tires squealing for purchase.
Still shaking, Sam watched from the top step of the porch. What was it about her that made men think they could get away with that shit? There must be some kind of mark on her forehead that only perverts could see—something that told them it was safe to approach. Many times, she’d studied her face in the mirror, trying to make it out. But she only saw what everyone else did—cursed, unwanted beauty.
The car disappeared over the hill. She waited until the sound faded, then her knees gave out and the screwdriver fell from her hand. Clinging to the support post, she sank onto the wooden step. Shivers ran from her neck through her body in pulsing, shivery spasms. She hunched over her knees, staring at the ground, her thoughts years away.
Some untold time later, she stood, rubbed her sore buns, straightened her shoulders and went back to work. Mulling over the past was a waste. If you never put it down, you wouldn’t stand a chance at moving beyond it. Just because that philosophy hadn’t worked to date, didn’t mean it never would.
She couldn’t afford to contemplate the alternative.
CHAPTER SIX
NICK LOOKED UP from the computer screen. The late afternoon splashed window-shaped sunshine over his polished waiting room floor. No new Vulcan parts for sale. Hell, there had to be junked Kawasakis all over the country—just his luck they’d be owned by the technologically challenged.
Not that it would break his heart to see the biker chick as a fixture around here.
Gold hair, full lower lip, her long and elegantly boned face. He liked her small shoulders and long legs, in denim. But even a killer body could easily be dismissed, once you had an eyeful. Instead, Nick’s attention snagged on the air of mystery that surrounded her like a gossamer shawl. It was more than her odd career and her mode of transport. He sensed she had walls. He got a vague sense of them from her conversation, but their true magnitude lay in what she didn’t say.
Intriguing. He thought about calling her. But with what? Non-progress on her bike?
Wake up, dude, you’re dreaming. She’d made it clear she was gone as soon as the remodel of the Sutton place was complete. And he was in Widow’s Grove to stay.
But regardless of the facts, Samantha Crozier remained a puzzle his brain wouldn’t put down. He wasn’t even sure why he’d offered her his mother’s car, that first day. He hadn’t had that car out except to keep the battery charged since—well, since forever.
Sure, she was gorgeous, but it was more than that. Other beautiful women had needed loaners and it never occurred to him to offer them his mother’s car. He sensed that Sam didn’t need help often, and wouldn’t have asked for it if she did. That made him want to help.
He looked up at the sound of the door opening. He sat up straight and watched his puzzle walk in, a neon daisy keychain dangling from her fingers.
“I’ve brought the Love Machine home.”
“Hey, Sam.” Nick ripped off his horn-rimmed glasses, stuffed them in the lap drawer and slammed it closed. “Good timing. I’m starving. Want to go to lunch?”
She walked to the desk and dropped the key in his hand. “Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to get back to work at the house.”
He snatched his blue jacket from the back of the chair. “Come on, Sam, let me take you to lunch.”
“Thanks, but I’m just walking down to Jesse’s. She’ll run me home.”
There were those walls again. “Oh, come on. Carl is a great cook, but aren’t you tired of eggs and burgers by now?”
“No. Thanks, but no.” She turned for the door.
There had to be a way around her walls without pulling a muscle climbing. “You don’t want to pull Jesse away from work to drive you home, do you?”
She winced. “I’ll just call a cab.”
He strode across the room, pulled the glass door open and held it. “Don’t be silly. I know a place that serves killer crab.” He yelled, “Tom, I’m going to lunch. Hold the fort.”
She stood there, waffling.
“Sam.” He stood, watching her. “It’s just lunch. Promise.” What had made this woman so wary? Well, he intended to find out. She was like no other beautiful woman he’d ever met.
“Thanks. I guess that would be fun.” Her smile transformed her from worried waif to magazine model.
He walked ahead to open the passenger door of the Love Machine for her, then trotted around the car, opened the door and settled into the driver’s seat. “Glad you left the top down. It’s a perfect day for a ride.”
It was, too. Nick cranked a rock ’n roll station, and they cruised through town. He drove, one hand on the wheel, the other hung over the door, waving every few feet to a pedestrian who hailed him, feeling as if he were chauffeuring the homecoming queen in a parade.
Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac” blared as they turned onto Pacific Coast Highway. Sam kept the beat with her hand on the car door, singing in what he supposed she meant as harmony, but wasn’t, quite. Well, thank God, she isn’t perfect.
The smell of hot sand and salt whipped by on the wind, and Sam pulled her hair back to keep it out of her eyes. She laughed, looking like a carefree teen playing hooky.
Ten minutes later, they passed a sign welcoming them to Pismo Beach. The town looked like a throwback to the ’60s, when surfers were gods and before the term yuppie had been coined. The small, gaudy painted stucco buildings held an odd charm, and the Love Machine fit right in.
He pulled off PCH and parked in front of Dougie’s Place, a long, flamingo-pink building sprawled at the edge of the surf, like a fat, bikini-clad woman.
He held the thick metal front door for her. “Don’t judge it by the exterior. They have the best seafood for fifty miles.”
“If you say it, I believe it. I think.” She ducked under his arm.
A jukebox belted out the Beach Boys in the corner, and the bar stretched along the wall to the left. Behind the bar, where a mirror would normally reflect liquor bottles, stood a saltwater fish tank, stretching the entire length of the back wall. It was brightly lit from above, but the back had been blacked out, so the exotic fish stood out in bold relief. Schools of small bright yellow, red and blue fish darted around the huge tank like pennants fluttering in the wind.
He led the way past the bar to a dining area, where empty tables sat, dresse
d in red-and-white checked tablecloths. She followed him down a step to the patio. A glass wall blocked the wind coming in from the ocean side. Red and white umbrellas touting Mexican beer shaded glass-topped tables. The patio extended to the high tide point of the surf, the waves nearly lapping its base.
“Oh, I take back everything I was thinking. This is even better than the California I heard about, back in Ohio. How did you find this place?”
“It’s a closely guarded secret. The outside is to discourage tourists, I think.”
* * *
HE LED SAM to an unoccupied sun-filled corner. At a square table he pulled out a chair facing the ocean, and settled her into it before taking the one alongside. The waitress arrived, wanting their drink order.
She ordered a glass of the house Chablis without ever pulling her eyes from the long low waves combing the beach.
He took the proffered menus and ordered a Coke, thinking how pretty her hair looked, glinting platinum in the sun. With a bit more tan, she could pass for a vacationing movie star.
“Can you give me your mother’s address, Nick? I’d like to send her a little thank-you, for the use of her car.”
To avoid her look, he opened a menu and scanned it. “My mother died, fifteen years ago.”
“Oh,” She sounded like she’d stepped in a hole. “Nick, I’m so sorry.” Her fingers touched the back of his hand. Long, elegant fingers. Soft skin. Touching him. He kept his eyes on the menu.
Don’t drag out the dirty laundry basket. Not on a first date. When he fisted his hand, her fingers hovered for a moment, then withdrew. For the best. He didn’t want her sympathy. Besides, sympathy evaporated fast given the blowtorch of his past. “It happened a long time ago. Do you want to try the crab?”
“Sure. But you’ll have to show me how. I’ve never had the guts to tackle those leg-cracker things.”
He glanced up to see if she was joking. “You’re not going to tell me you’ve never eaten crab?”
“Give me a break. Ohio isn’t exactly Mollusk Mecca, you know.”
“I guess not.” He gathered the menus, trying to hide a smile. “Crab is a crustacean.”
She waved a hand. “Whatever.”
Time to test those walls. “What’s Ohio like?” It was a bonus that he got to watch that gorgeous mouth move.
“Just about as different from this as you can get.” She looked out at the sea, squinting a bit in the glare. “California is like a teenager, all brash and full of energy. Ohio is a middle-class, middle-aged grown-up. Flat, staid and earnest.”
“Your family still there?”
She stopped, just long enough for him to realize he’d never seen her still. “My mom died when I was born. My dad died six years ago.”
“No brothers or sisters?”
“I was first, and only.” She pulled a strand of wind-blown hair away from her lips. “But my mom was it for him—he never remarried. So he had to make do with me.” She smiled. “It was lucky for me, though. In the summer he had to take me to work with him, and I learned my love of building from him. If there had been a brother, Dad probably wouldn’t have thought to teach me.”
He ignored the heat in his chest, warmed by the smile that wasn’t meant for him. “Sounds like a fun childhood.”
Her smile faded. “It sounds that way, doesn’t it?”
When the waitress interrupted, he ordered for them. She asked if Sam wanted another glass of wine. Sam looked down as if surprised to find the glass empty. She shook her head, and the waitress left.
Sam folded her arms on the table. “What about you? Where did you come from?”
“Right here, in Widow’s Grove. I thought you knew.”
She looked him full in the face, eyes round in shock. “Jesse said something about it, but I thought she was kidding. You’ve never lived anywhere else? Ever?”
“Well, my trade school and internship was in L.A., but I scooted back here as soon as I could.”
Her lips quirked. “Homesick?”
He thought about the jail cell that had been his home for six months. “More than you can imagine. Like every other teenager from a small town, I couldn’t wait to blow this place. But L.A. didn’t suit me. Too many dazzling lights. Too many people. Too many bars.” He took a sip of Coke to make himself shut up, and kicked the laundry basket full of past to a dark corner. “Why did you leave home?”
She looked out to sea so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. Maybe he wasn’t the only one with an overflowing basket.
“About a month after Dad died, I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee. You know how when you’re thinking, you don’t see what you’re looking at?”
She couldn’t have seen his nod.
“When I came to, I was staring at the kitchen cabinets. I really saw them. The white paint was dingy, and worn around the handles. The section over the counter actually sagged in the middle. I looked around the room. The linoleum was worn almost through, in places. The porcelain sink was rust-stained and the white tile on the counters was chipped.”
He knew she wasn’t seeing the waves she focused on.
“So I wandered to the living room. It was so weird. This was the house that Dad and I had worn for years, like a pair of well-loved slippers. On the other hand, I saw the house as a professional. What a disaster! How could we not have noticed that?
“Anyway, I figured I owed it to the old girl to spruce her up. I quit my job to work on the house. I needed a goal. I was kinda lost after Dad....” She shook her head, a sad ghost of a smile lifted a corner of her mouth. “By the end of the year, that house was a jewel. Walk-in closets, bay windows, curved archways. Man, that was a sweet place.”
He watched emotion flick across her face, sensing this woman didn’t divulge her past often. Or easily. “Why did you leave?”
She shrugged. “When I finished the renovation, I realized the house wasn’t mine anymore. I could just see a young mom, cooking dinner in the kitchen....”
“And so?”
“So, I contacted a real estate agent about selling. The offer that came in floored me. It started me thinking. Maybe I could make a living renovating houses and reselling them. I looked for another run-down house, but then I realized—it wasn’t only my house that didn’t fit me. Ohio didn’t, either.” She straightened the silverware in front of her. “Maybe it never had.”
When the server brought their meal, he wanted to shoo her away, afraid Sam would abandon her story. The girl must have sensed it, because she laid out the plates and left with only a smile.
Sam sat straight and put her napkin in her lap. “So I hit the road. I saw a lot of the country, and took on projects in places I liked: Florida, Texas and the last in Colorado.” She looked from him to the plate. “So here I am, on the California coast, with a plateful of crab and no skills for eating it.”
He flexed his knuckles. “Ah, but you are lucky enough to be dining with a master crab cracker.”
Through the meal, they discussed getting-to-know-you topics: music, food, movies, books. They lingered, talking long after the dishes had been cleared. He’d had female friends, but he’d never felt this relaxed on a first date. Hell, on any date.
Sam’s nostrils flared, taking in the salt air. “It never occurred to me that I’d live within driving distance of the ocean. Do you ever get tired of the view?” She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs, her hair lifting on a stray breeze.
He couldn’t pull his eyes from those long legs. “No, and I don’t think I ever will.”
At his reverent tone, her brow furrowed. Turning her head, seeing his smile, her eyes narrowed.
Wrong move, Slick.
Her face settled into tight, polite lines. “Well. Just look at the sun—what time is it?”
“I don
’t know, Sam. Does it matter?” Note for the future—don’t gawk.
If there was a future.
She tossed her napkin on the table, scooted her chair back and reached for her small slouch purse. “I need to get back. I’m right in the middle of a big project.” She opened her purse and pulled out some bills.
He rolled on one hip and pulled his wallet. “I’ve got it.”
“I’ll pay for my own, thanks.” Her formal tone matched the cool in her eye.
He knew better than to argue with that tone. Damn. He’d known she had strong boundaries; he should have known better. But she’d been so relaxed, and he’d been enjoying himself so much that he let himself forget.
Now he may have blown his chance with the most interesting woman he’d met in eons. Idiot. No wonder you’re alone on Friday nights.
* * *
SAM KEPT QUIET on the way back to the house. This was a bad idea. You knew it.
Just loosen up a bit, the little girl whispered in a singsong voice.
If you loosen up, stuff is going to fall out.
Sam gathered her hair into a ponytail with her fist, pulling tight the tender hairs at the nape of her neck. Maybe the pain would wake her up. She’d been in denial. The nightmares were the rumble of thunder, signaling an approaching storm. Now was the time to hunker down—find some shelter.
Because it’s surer than hell gonna rain bad stuff.
She snuck a glance at Nick’s profile. He looked like a bad boy thanks to an unlucky arrangement of features. But she learned today he was really just a small-town homebody. Sweet, but...
Too sweet to get sucked into the funnel cloud heading her way.
A shudder rattled down her spine. She didn’t know what was going to happen when that storm hit, but it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Nick slowed, and turned at her driveway.
She reached to the floorboard to pick up her bag, before the car stopped. “Thanks for lunch, and for the ride.”
He turned, the questions in his eyes grazing the skin of her face, as if looking for a way in. “I had a good time, Sam. It felt like I’ve known you a lot longer than I have. I’d like to find out why. Can I call you?”