Meet Me in Barefoot Bay

by Roxanne St Claire

  Jocelyn just closed her eyes. “For the love of God, can we please get in the car so I can get this thing off my head.”

  A man passed and took a long look at Jocelyn, making her cringe and drag the sunglasses down for coverage. “Did you see him stare at me?”

  “That’s how all men look at blondes,” Zoe assured her, linking arms and nudging Jocelyn forward. “Especially fake ones.”

  Jocelyn kept the sunglasses on until they were in Lacey’s car. Then she ripped off the wig and scratched her scalp, yanking at the clip that held her long hair in a tight knot. “Oh my God, that feels good.”

  Lacey grinned into the rearview mirror. “There’s our Joss again.”

  “Give me this thing.” Next to her, Tessa snagged the wig. “You don’t need this here, okay? No reporters, no paparazzi, no one to hide from.”

  Well, there was at least one person to hide from. “Depends. Where did you decide I’m staying, Lace?” Last year when she’d come to help Lacey rebuild her life, she’d stayed at the Ritz Carlton in Naples and while her friends didn’t exactly understand her adamant decision not to go to certain parts of Mimosa Key, they’d abided by it. She couldn’t do that now; the media would be all over her in a hotel that public.

  “Zoe’s staying with me in the house I rent in Pleasure Pointe,” Tessa said.

  Too close for comfort. “I’m not staying there,” Jocelyn replied quickly.

  “We know,” Lacey assured her. “You’re staying in Barefoot Bay.”

  “So speaketh the former dormitory resident adviser and elder statesmen of the group,” Zoe said.

  “Two years. Not that elder,” Lacey shot back.

  “One year married to the younger man and she’s a teenager again. All right, woman.” Zoe turned in the passenger seat to face Jocelyn in the back. “Dish.”

  Where she was staying was an easy topic compared to this one. They’d want the truth, and it would be tricky. But she was ready. “There’s nothing to dish.”

  Again, Zoe gave a signature eye roll. “Come on, Joss. Miles Thayer? He’s like the hottest human on earth. I want gory details, including size, stamina, and any kinky shit.”

  “Zoe,” the other two said.

  But Jocelyn just shook her head. “All right, ladies. Listen to me. I’m going to say this once and once only. I did not sleep with Miles Thayer. I barely speak to Miles Thayer, and when I do, there’s not the remotest molecule of affection or attraction between us. I hate Miles Thayer and, if you want to know the truth, so does Coco Kirkman.”

  They all just stared at her.

  “Why?” Tessa asked.

  “I’m not going to say,” Jocelyn said, her voice taut. “And if I can’t count on you three not to believe the crap in the tabloids, then turn around and take me back to the airport. I’ll hide somewhere else.”

  Tessa put her hand on Jocelyn’s arm. “You can count on us,” she said. “You can also count on Zoe being crass and thinking exclusively about sex.”

  “There was no sex. Sorry to disappoint you, Zoe. And none of this leaves the car, got it?”

  “I’m not disappointed,” Zoe assured her. “I’m proud of you for resisting his hotness. But if there was no sex, really, why is Coco claiming you broke up her marriage?”

  Jocelyn dropped back on the seat, letting out a long, slow breath. “It’s complicated,” she said, the vague tone getting a quick, suspicious look from Tessa. “But Coco wants out of the marriage and this… is her way.”

  “Her way?” Lacey’s voice rose with incredulity. “Why not just file for divorce? It’s Hollywood, for heaven’s sake. Why throw it all on you?”

  Because Coco’s shoulders weren’t strong enough to handle the repercussions. And this was the only way.

  “She needs to put the blame on someone other than herself,” Jocelyn said, conjuring up her best shrink-like tone.

  “Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you don’t publicly deny every word,” Tessa demanded.

  “Really publicly,” Zoe added. “Like a billboard on Sunset Boulevard.” She boxed her hands as if she were reading the headline. “I Am not a Marriage-Wrecker.”

  “But I am a life coach,” Jocelyn said. “And billboards on Sunset Boulevard are as fake and cheesy as the rest of that town. But with my job comes certain ethics about privacy. I know stuff.”

  “So she makes you her fall guy?” Tessa asked. “I don’t get it.”

  And they wouldn’t, until they understood what “stuff” Jocelyn knew. And if they knew that, then…

  “Look, guys, I don’t want to talk about it. I just need to breathe and think and hide.”

  Tessa snorted. “Which, knowing you, will make you batshit crazy in two days.”

  Jocelyn smiled at her, not denying the truth of that. But every single client had put her on hold—or fired her last week. “Anything for me to do at Casa Blanca?”

  “The resort’s barely built,” Lacey said. “So unless you’re handy with a hammer, you’re going to have to work in the food gardens with Tess.”

  She held up her thumb. “Totally brown. Unless your plants need life management.”

  “You know, Joss,” Lacey said. “I’ve been doing all this research on high-end resorts and some of the best ones offer life coaching to their clients. Do you think you could help me figure out how I can incorporate that into my menu of services?”

  “I’d love to.” She leaned forward and put a hand on Lacey’s shoulders. “By the way, marriage really suits you, girl. You are quite literally glowing.”

  She laughed. “That’s because when Clay kicks me out of the construction trailer, I get to ‘research’ spas and their treatments. Doesn’t suck.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Tessa said. “She’s madly in love and it shows.”

  Lacey grinned. “He’s awesome, as you guys know. How can I ever thank you all enough for talking me into the hot young architect?”

  “Like we had to do a lot of convincing,” Zoe said with a laugh.

  All the way over the causeway and up to Barefoot Bay, they chattered about Lacey’s first year of happy marriage, her challenges with a teenage daughter, and the resort they’d all invested in financially and emotionally.

  For the first time in over a week, Jocelyn felt certain this trip had been a very good idea. Even when they passed Center Street and she glanced to the south and memories threatened, she ignored them.

  There would be absolutely no reason to see her father while she was here, none at all. So she didn’t bother to bring him up and, being the friends they were, neither did the girls.

  How long would that last?

  Chapter Three

  Something was different at Casa Blanca. Will could practically smell a change in the salty air of Barefoot Bay the minute he climbed out of his truck in front of the resort’s construction trailer. The Gulf of Mexico was dead calm, the water a deep cobalt blue as the sun made its first appearance over the foliage along the eastern border of the resort’s property line. The construction parking lot was empty, of course, and the structures stood silent in various degrees of completion.

  Still, the air pressed, heavy with change. Funny how he could sense that. Like when the wind would pick up in the outfield, a signal that the game’s momentum was about to shift.

  Scanning the main building, he noticed a few additions since he’d last been to the job site. Clay and Lacey Walker ran a tight schedule, determined to get Mimosa Key’s first exclusive resort up and running within the year, so it was no surprise that the subs had been hard at work on Friday while he’d driven to Tampa to pick up the flooring for one of the villas.

  There were definitely more roof tiles on the main structure, the creamy barrels adding to the many textures of Clay’s Moroccan-inspired architecture. And the window contractor had been busy, too, having left at least a dozen giant sheets of plate glass propped along the side and front of the curved entry, ready to be installed when the roof was completed.

  But
the main building of Casa Blanca was of no real interest to Will. His work centered on the six private villas the resort’s most well-heeled guests would rent. He’d spent the better part of the last year building those smaller structures, including all of the finishing carpentry in Rockrose, the first completed villa at the north end of the main path.

  He peered through the palm fronds and elephant-ear leaves that had grown lush since a hurricane stripped the trees over a year ago. He studied the unpaved road that led to the villas. Deep, fresh wheel grooves cut through the dew-dampened dirt. Had someone driven up there on a Sunday?

  Even if there had been a sub here on a Sunday—which was really unlikely—the construction crew was primarily focused on Bay Laurel, the villa closest to where he stood now and the destination of the African wood flooring he’d loaded in his truck.

  Why would someone drive up the path? Lacey and Clay’s new house stood at the very far north end of the property, but you couldn’t drive all the way up there from here; they’d take the back road around the property.

  He paused at the passenger door, pulling it open to grab the cup of coffee he’d picked up at the Super Min on his way to the site. As he unwedged the cup from the holder, a drop of hot black liquid splashed through the plastic top, dribbling onto the seat.

  Well, not the seat. Onto the newspaper he’d left there. And not exactly a newspaper, either, unless the National Enquirer qualified.

  The headline taunted him.

  Coco Cries on Set: “I Was Blind to the Affair!”

  Why the hell did he buy that shit, anyway? To revel in someone else’s misery? To get the dirt on a woman he’d once thought was perfect?

  Well, hell, people change. Who knew that better than Will?

  Holding the coffee in his right hand, he used the other to lift the front page to see the blurry shot of a woman with long dark hair, big brown eyes, and features so burned in his memory that he didn’t need a wide-angle lens to capture them.

  She had only changed for the better, at least physically. The years had been kind, even if the media wasn’t. The memory that had haunted him for almost half his life nearly swallowed him whole when he looked at her picture.

  Then don’t look, you idiot.

  Closing the page, he nudged the door closed with his hip and finished his coffee, intrigued enough by the tire prints to follow them after he tossed the empty cup in the trash. He strode along what would eventually be the resort’s scenic walkway, canopied by green and lined with exotic flowers from Africa. Each villa was named for a different bloom found on this path.

  He passed the partially built villas, mentally reviewing each construction schedule, but his thoughts stopped the instant he rounded the foliage that blocked Rockrose, the only fully finished villa.

  That’s what was different.

  He squinted into the sun that backlit the vanilla-colored structure, highlighting the fact that the french doors along the side were wide open, the sheer curtains Lacey had installed fluttering like ghosts. There was no breeze, so someone had to have the overhead fan on in there.

  Shit. Vandals? Squatters? Maybe Lacey’s teenage daughter or one of her friends taking advantage of the place?

  There was no other explanation. Rockrose had been given a CO two weeks ago. But a certificate of occupancy didn’t mean actual occupancy, and Lacey kept the secluded villa locked tight so that none of the construction workers traipsed through or decided to use the facilities.

  He took a few steps closer, instinctively flexing his muscles, ready to fight for the turf of a building that somehow had become “his.”

  He took cover behind an oleander bush, slipping around to get a better view into the bedroom. He could see the sheer film of netting Lacey had hung from the bed’s canopy, the decor as romantic as Morocco itself.

  If anyone defiled one inch of that villa there’d be hell to pay. He’d laid the marble in the bath, shaved the oak wood crown molding, and hand-carved the columns on the fireplace mantel from one solid piece of rosewood. The whole job had given him more satisfaction than picking off a runner trying to steal second ever had.

  Irritation pushed him closer to the deck, another damn thing he’d made with his own two hands. If some stupid kid had—

  The filmy gauze around the bed quivered, then suddenly whisked open. Holy hell, someone was sleeping in that bed. He bounded closer, sucking in a breath to yell, then one long, bare, shapely leg emerged from the clouds of white.

  His voice trapped in his throat and his steps slammed to a stop. The sun beamed on pale skin, spotlighting pink-tipped toes that flexed and stretched like a ballerina preparing to hit the barre.

  The other leg slid into view, followed by an audible yawn and sigh that drifted over the tropical air to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He took a few stealthy steps, wanting to keep the advantage of surprise but, man, he didn’t want to miss what came out of that bed next.

  The feet touched the floor and a woman emerged from the netting, naked from head to toe, dark hair falling over most of her face. Not that he’d have looked at her face.

  No, his gaze was locked on long limbs, a narrow waist, and subtle curves that begged to be handled. Her breasts were small, budded with rose-colored nipples, her womanhood a simple sliver of ebony that matched her sexy, messy hair.

  She stretched, widening her arms, yawning again, giving him a centerfold-worthy view as her breasts lifted higher. Every functioning blood cell careened south, leaving his brain a total blank and his cock well on its way to being as hard as the planks of African wood in his truck.

  Son of a bitch. He backed up, ducking behind the oleander and cursing himself for being some kind of pervie Peeping Tom. He had to get back down the path and come back later—noisily, in his truck—to find out who the hell she was.

  A footstep hit the wood deck and Will inched to the side, unable to stop himself from looking. At least she had on a thin white top now, and panties. With both hands, she gathered her hair up to—

  His heart stopped for at least four beats, then slammed into quadruple time.

  Jocelyn.

  Was it possible? Was he imagining things? Was this a mirage spurred by a couple of lousy pictures in the paper and three days of fantasies and frustration?

  She let go of her hair, shaking her head so that a thick, black mane tumbled over her shoulders like an inky waterfall. Then she closed her eyes and turned her face to the rising sun.

  Any doubt disappeared. Along with common sense and years of rationalization and a decade and a half of telling himself he had no choice—even though he knew differently.

  Everything suddenly changed at the sight of Jocelyn Mary Bloom. The sun was warmer. The air was cleaner. And his heart squeezed in a way it hadn’t for fifteen years.

  She turned, rubbing her arm as if a sixth sense had sent a chill over her. “Is someone there?”

  Make a joke. Say something funny. Walk, smile, talk. C’mon, William Palmer, don’t just stand here and gawk like you’ve never seen a female before.

  “It’s me.”

  She squinted into the bushes, then reared back in shock as he stepped out and revealed himself. Her lips moved, mouthing his name, but no real sound came out.

  “Will,” he said for her. “I thought someone was trespassing.”

  She just stared, jaw loose, eyes wide, every muscle frozen like she’d been carved out of ice.

  He fought the urge to launch forward, take the three stairs up to the deck in one bound and… thaw her. But, whoa, he knew better with Jocelyn Bloom. One false move and poof. Out at the plate.

  “What are you doing here?” They spoke the words in perfect unison, then both let out awkward laughs.

  “Lacey brought you here?” he guessed.

  She nodded, reaching up to run a hand through that mass of midnight hair, then, as if she suddenly realized how little she had on, she stepped back into the shadows of the villa, but he could still see her face.

&n
bsp; “How about you?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat. “I work here.”

  She looked completely baffled. “You play baseball.”

  “Not at the moment. I work for the builder. You?”

  “I’m staying here.”

  Hiding here, more like. The pieces slid together like tongue in groove. She’d run away from the mess in L.A., and her best friend had cloistered her in a place that wouldn’t even show up on a GPS yet, let alone at the other end of a reporter’s camera.

  Then another thought hit him like a fastball to the brain. “You alone?” He must have had a little accusation in his voice, because she raised an eyebrow and looked disappointed.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, sadness in her eyes and a softness in her posture.

  Shit. He’d hurt her. He regretted the question the instant it had popped out. She was hiding from prying eyes and personal questions and what had he done? Pried and questioned.

  He held up a hand as though that could deliver his apology and took a few steps closer. “How long are you here? I’d love to…” Talk to you. Kiss you until you can’t breathe. Spend every night in your bed. “Get caught up.”

  “I shouldn’t be here that long.”

  In other words, no. “Too bad,” he said, hiding the impact of disappointment. “Maybe I’ll see you on the south end when you go home.”

  “I won’t go there.” The statement was firm, clear, and unequivocal. Don’t argue with me, dripped the subtext.

  She wouldn’t even see her dad? A spark flared, pushing him closer, up the stairs. She wouldn’t even do a drive-by to see if her old man was dead or alive? Because he’d bet his next paycheck she didn’t know… anything.

  Something hammered at him, and this time it wasn’t his heart reacting to the sight of a beautiful, not entirely dressed woman. No, this was the physical jolt of a whole different kind of frustration.

  “So, what exactly do you do for the builder?” she asked, apparently unaware she’d hit a hot button.

  But her casual question barely registered, her astounding near nakedness practically forgotten despite God’s professional lighting that gave him a perfect view of her body under those slips of white silk.