“So, what did she say?” Zoe asked when the waiter left.
“She said we can meet her at the beach later, in a few hours when she’s done with her meeting,” Ashley said.
Jocelyn stabbed a cherry tomato. “Can’t. Sorry.”
“She just wants us to bring a cooler and suits and stuff to Barefoot Bay,” Ashley said. “She thought you’d be okay with that, Aunt Jocelyn.”
Was she? If she didn’t have to go too far south, she’d love a day at the beach. “I guess I could do that.”
“We just have to go back to Lacey’s and get suits and stuff,” Tessa said.
“Hey, I have a better idea.” The words were out before Jocelyn could stop herself, and even before she really did have a better idea. But she needed one, fast, because there was no way she was driving to Lacey’s parents’ house. It was too close for comfort.
“Yeah?”
“We…” She snapped her fingers and pointed to Zoe, who’d be all over this idea. “We shop for everything we need, including new bathing suits, even one for Lacey, right here at the hotel. My treat.”
Ashley and Zoe gave each other high fives and whoops, the tension of the last few minutes forgotten. Money might not be able to buy happiness, but sometimes it bought distance.
An hour and a half later they left the Ritz dressed in new suits and cover-ups. The girls had driven up in Lacey’s father’s van, which they’d parked in the lot, but while they waited for the valet to bring the rented Rubicon for Jocelyn to drive, the discussion was all about the logistics of who was going in which car.
“I want to go in that car,” Zoe joked to Jocelyn, pointing to a gorgeous red Porsche that pulled up to the hotel. As a man climbed out of the driver’s seat, though, Zoe’s expression froze.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“What is it?” Jocelyn asked.
Zoe didn’t speak. In fact, she didn’t breathe.
“Someone you know?”
“It can’t be him.”
Jocelyn squinted at the man as he gave his hand to a beautiful brunette gliding out of the car with preternatural grace and poise. “It can’t be who?”
“He’s a doctor. In Chicago.”
“There’s an oncology conference here this week,” Jocelyn said, eyeing the man, who was as good looking as his woman and his car. He looked to be six-two or -three, with clipped dark hair, great features, and an even better build. “Is whoever he is an oncologist?”
“Maybe.” Zoe suddenly looked left and right. “But I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Why?” Tessa asked, stepping closer to Zoe when she sensed something was up. “How do you know him?”
Jocelyn stepped right in front of Zoe to block her from his view, the instinct to help her friend overriding any questions. Just at that moment the valet drove the giant white Jeep Rubicon up to where they waited.
“Get in,” Jocelyn ordered Zoe, ending the discussion.
Muttering thanks, Zoe climbed up to the passenger seat the second the valet opened her door. The man and woman walked right in front of the Jeep as another man approached them.
“Oliver!” the second man exclaimed, reaching out a hand to the man Zoe was avoiding. “So happy you could make it.”
Jocelyn slowed her step to hear his response.
“Happy to be here, Michael. You remember my wife, Adele.”
“Of course.”
Jocelyn missed the rest of the conversation when the valet ushered her into the Jeep.
In the passenger seat, Zoe bent over as though she were getting something off the floor, hiding completely. In all their years of friendship Jocelyn had never seen Zoe shy away from anyone.
Jocelyn pulled away, waving to Tessa as she and Ashley got into the van behind them. “Coast is clear, hon.”
Zoe rose and took one more look as the man walked toward the hotel.
Jocelyn waited, but Zoe was uncharacteristically quiet. No jokes, no snide remarks.
“You okay, Zoe?” Jocelyn asked, putting a gentle hand on her friend’s leg. “Who was he?”
“Don’t ask.”
“But I never—”
Zoe turned to her, her green eyes narrowed to slits, all humor and joy and Zoe-ness gone. “We’re not asking you about certain things, so… please. Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
She couldn’t argue with that philosophy, Jocelyn thought as she drove toward Mimosa Key. But she had to wonder: How many secrets should there be between best friends?
Chapter Eight
The noon sun pressed like a blow torch, burning Lacey’s skin and leaving a fine sheen of perspiration that probably smeared her makeup and surely curled her hair. But Lacey wasn’t thinking about her hair or her makeup as she and Clay slowly circled the perimeter of her property and the land adjacent to it.
She wasn’t even thinking about the attractive man who walked a few steps in front of her, giving her a perfect view of a T-shirt molded to ripped muscles and jeans that curved over his backside and down the length of long, strong thighs.
The truth was, he was as skilled verbally as he was physically, and his words were painting a picture so vivid and alluring that Lacey felt as though she’d stepped into his imagination.
And his imagination, it seemed, included villas. The idea was so out there, so creative, and so perfect that she almost didn’t want to let it get too comfortable in her head. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“You really think we could do villas?” she asked.
“Why not? Lots of resorts have cabins and separate structures.”
“This isn’t a resort.”
“It ought to be.”
She knew that. Deep in her heart, she knew that was what Barefoot Bay needed. But did she dare think that big?
“I don’t know,” she said quietly.
“Look.” He pointed to the slight rise in the Everham property, where a small house had once stood but now only the foundation and some studs remained. “Right there. Picture individual, private villas with cozy patios and intimate rooms. Sleek African mahogany floors and sheer netting over every bed.”
Cozy. Intimate. Sleek. Sheer.
Bed.
His words were as hot as the sun, and the images he conjured had her dreaming of a lot more than profit potential.
“Sure, you can have a few rooms or suites in the main building,” he continued. “That’s where the lobby and restaurant and offices will be, maybe a spa. But the thing that you can do with this virgin area is give people an oasis. High-end, expensive, one-of-a-kind villas that offer a vacation experience unlike—”
“Unlike a bed-and-breakfast, which is all I was prepared to undertake.”
He smiled down at her. “You’re not letting those two bags of wind at the Super Min scare you off, are you? I’m sure we can find a way around some ancient zoning ord. Especially with villas, if there’s a limit to the number of bedrooms you could have.”
He was right about that. But still. “Clay, I don’t have the money for what you’re talking about. Insurance will barely cover a four-or five-bedroom inn.”
“Building a place like this requires investors. We’ll get money, Lacey.”
“Will we?” she asked. “This is still a job interview, you know. I haven’t agreed to become a ‘we’ yet.”
“You will.” He took her hand, the touch as thrilling as his confidence. “C’mon, let’s go look at the view of the beach from that spot. Let’s see this place the way your guests will.”
So positive. So confident. So attractive. Of course she followed him. Yeah, this was some tough job interview. Who was she kidding? He had the job. Because with every imaginative suggestion, with every “just out of the box enough to be brilliant” idea, with every demonstration of a keen working knowledge of design and building, Lacey was more certain she’d found her man.
His fingers tightened around hers and a thousand butterflies took flight in her stomach. Easy, Lace
y.
“You certain you can buy this lot?” he asked.
“This one and the one on the other side. I’ve been in touch with both neighbors and they jumped on my verbal offer. They’re just waiting for final paperwork from their insurance company so they can have access to the house deeds at the bank.” She’d only planned to buy the lots to make sure no one built too close to her B and B, but the idea of villas had just changed everything.
“How many villas do you think?” she asked. “How big? How… much?”
“You’re not asking the right questions, Lacey.” At the top of the slight rise he paused, turned her toward the Gulf. He put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her a little too close to him. She could feel the warmth of his body against her back, the power of his muscles, the length of his legs.
For a few minutes they stood very still, nothing but heat and sun and humidity pressing down.
“Ask yourself this question,” he finally whispered into her ear. “What would someone pay to wake up to this view, in a private villa, with coffee brewing and a tray of homegrown fruits waiting on their patio? Someone—two someones, probably—who would roll out of bed and bask in the sunshine just like we’re doing now?”
Roll out of bed… oh. Did he have to say that?
“They’d stare at that gorgeous blue horizon all day, romp in the waves, roll in the sand, and appreciate this magical place until the sun kissed the water and turned the sky pink gold. Then they’d uncork a bottle of wine and cozy up on a chaise to watch the moon rise and dapple the water.”
She closed her eyes, awash in peace, serenity, even hope. Could she create a place like that? It was so much more than she’d ever imagined. It was terrifying and thrilling and daunting and fabulous.
And way out of her price range and capabilities. “I can’t—”
He squeezed her shoulders. “Hey.”
Laughing softly, she dug for a better way to use the banned word. “I can’t imagine how amazing that would be.”
Another squeeze, this one more affectionate and tender, his thumbs on the nape of her neck, buried in her hair. The move was intimate but completely natural and nothing in heaven or earth could get her to step away from this man or this moment.
“Do you know how rare and valuable this land is, Lacey?” he asked. “You can get loans and investors just based on the value of the property.”
“True, if I want to go deep into debt and make promises I might not be able to keep.”
“You’d keep them. And you wouldn’t be in debt long, not if the resort was like no other around here.”
There was that word again. “Resort.”
“Doesn’t that sound better than bed-and-breakfast?”
“It sounds… big.” And better than a bed-and-breakfast.
“Big and bold and beautiful.” He threaded his fingers deeper into her hair and pulled her body closer. “Go big or go home, I say. And, come on, it would be a crime not to build something unforgettable here. There aren’t many beaches like this left in America.”
“All the more reason to keep it pristine.”
“You sound like Charity.”
“I just want to build something that belongs here. It has to be true to the land.”
“I promise I will,” he said softly, the words pouring over her like the sunshine. “But in the process you can make Mimosa Key the next St. Simons or Tybee or Cumberland.”
She snorted softly. “Patience and Charity would love that.”
“They just need to see you as a source of income and not competition. You could single-handedly turn this island around.”
The thought made her dizzy. Or maybe that was his hands, his chest, his hard body behind hers. His seductive voice and even more seductive ideas.
David.
David? What the hell made her think of David at a time like this?
Maybe the seductive voice and ideas. David had had both, and it had cost her.
“I don’t know,” she said on a sigh. “I just wanted a little inn.”
“And a little in-come,” he said wryly. “Why settle for that?”
“Because… because…” There was no reason. She was just scared. She’d never tried anything so big. What if she failed? “I just can’t—sorry, but I can not—figure out a way to afford that.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, but stayed very still. Had she disappointed him? For some reason she didn’t want to let him down. She wanted to impress him, to appeal to him, to think as big and wild as he did. But—
“What if your architect was free?”
This time she stilled, and he eased her even closer, taking away all space between them, nestling her head under his chin like it was the most natural place in the world for her to be.
“You would do this job for nothing?” she asked.
“I’d get something out of it.”
Could he mean… “What, if not payment?”
“Credentials.” He whispered the word, making it sound like pure gold to him. Maybe it was. Maybe becoming “official” mattered more than cash.
“So, you want to work for free.” She reached up to close her hands around his so she could uncloak herself from his arms, but he just gripped her tighter.
“I want to work for you,” he said, honey over gravel in his voice. “I won’t take a dime until your resort is profitable. How does that sound?”
Very, very slowly she managed to turn in his arms, brushing his body as she did, painfully aware of every masculine inch, every hard bump, every relentless angle, but forcing herself not to let the amazing sensation cloud her brain. He wasn’t asking for sex; he was asking to work on spec, for the experience.
“It sounds tempting.” Like everything else about him. “But I need you to be perfectly straight with me. Why would you do that?”
“I need this project in order to prove to the Arch Board that I can sit for the exams,” he explained. “So it’s a win-win for everyone.”
“Why couldn’t you just take the exams? How can they stop you?”
He stabbed his fingers in his hair, hesitating as he considered his reply. “I need one significant project under my belt,” he said slowly. “I left my dad’s firm before I got it. After seeing this place and what could be done here, I know that this is the project I not only want to do, but I’d love to do. Enough that I’d do it for free. And that solves some of your money problems.”
Some, not all. “It also makes me wonder if I’m getting a good enough architect.”
“Fair enough. You can fire me at any time and keep all the work I’ve done to date. I need the project and you need a partner who can give life to your vision.”
She gave him a slow smile. “Except sometime in the last ten minutes, it became your vision.”
“It could be our vision, Lacey.”
“It could be,” she agreed. She did want a partner. She did want a vision. She did want something as big and bold as he described, especially if she didn’t have to attack that challenge alone.
“I guess it’s possible.”
“Anything is possible, Strawberry.”
Right then, with this man holding her in the sunshine, giving her strength and ideas and throwing reason and excuses out to sea, she actually believed that.
“C’mon, I want to show you something.” He took her hand again and pulled her back down the hill, toward her property, while she dug for a reason why she shouldn’t follow him.
For once in her life, she couldn’t think of a single excuse.
Clay almost ran down the sandy slope, light from the weight that had just left his shoulders. When the idea to work pro bono hit him, he didn’t even have to think about it. This was the perfect solution to his problem. He needed a significant project to take to the board, exactly like the one he visualized. No one could claim nepotism, no one could suggest that anything untoward had happened, and no one could deny him the chance to get the licenses he needed to move forward.
L
acey Armstrong offered a way out of the Catch-22 he’d been caught up in, and he wanted it. Okay, he hadn’t told her everything, but he’d told her enough. And he would give her the whole ugly story, but only after they’d established a level of trust and a deeper connection. Which felt inevitable.
But now he had to close this deal. And he knew exactly how to do that.
He’d left his tools on the picnic table at the edge of her property, situated in the small bit of shade from a tree too stubborn to give in to the storm. Sitting on top of the table, he took out his pencils and pad and gestured for her to sit across from him on the tabletop while he worked.
“I’m going to draw, Lacey,” he said. “And you can ask me anything you want. This’ll be that job interview you wanted so much.”
“Can I watch you work?” She leaned up to look over his sketch pad.
“No.” He moved the pad away, out of sight. “I’ll show you when we’re done. And then you tell me if I can be your architect or not.”
Leaning back on her hands, she just watched him for a few moments, quiet.
“No questions?” he asked. “I expected an ambush.”
“All right. Why don’t you work for your father anymore?”
He feathered a few pencil strokes, starting where he always did, with the first of the two vanishing points, where the horizontal lines would come together if the structure were long enough.
“My father,” speaking of vanishing points, “is very competitive, and remarkably insecure. We just couldn’t work together anymore, so I left.”
“On good terms?”
“We talk.” When absolutely necessary, which would be almost never. He looked up to see her surprised expression. “You were expecting something else?”
“I guess,” she admitted. “Something like your ideas are too avant-garde and his old-school approach makes you crazy. Something more… cliché.”
What had happened with Dad was a cliché, all right. Right out of a soap-opera script. “He loves my ideas,” he said in response. “Steals them all the time, as a matter of fact. Like your favorites, French Hills and Crystal Springs.”
“Those are your designs?”
“While I was an intern, so no real credit.” But they were his ideas.
Meet Me in Barefoot Bay Page 7