Barefoot in Pearls (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 3) (9 page)

Looking back at the house, he peered into the doorless front entry, hoping to see the flashlight as she found her way out. But it was still dark and quiet there.

Damn it, woman
. He slammed the door and trudged through the mud to get her. He heard her before he saw her, the sound of pounding and ripping coming from the old pantry. He found her in there, biting down on the flashlight, ripping off a giant piece of drywall.

He stood for a minute, watching her small but muscular frame reaching up to rip sheetrock like a professional. Or a woman on a mission.

“Ari, you don’t have to—”

She spun around, ripping the flashlight out of her mouth, the depth of sadness in her eyes stunning him. “I thought you were…” She shook her head, biting back something she clearly didn’t want to say.

“I was what? The builder? The contractor? I am and I—”

“The
One
.”

He drew back, most from the surprising force of the words she whispered. “The one what?”

Another vicious shake of her head, and she whipped back to her job, sending that curtain of hair swinging over her back. Unable to stop himself, he closed the space between them with one step, taking the flashlight with one hand, placing the other on her shoulder. “The one
what
?” he repeated.

He felt her tense and swore he could hear her clamp her mouth shut. With a furious yank, she finished pulling at the sheetrock, exposing more studs but no more boxes of rocks.

She grunted in frustration. “I’m not leaving until I’ve been inside every wall.”

He glanced behind him, confirming that every other wall he’d seen in here was plaster and lath, as any old home would have. This drywall had been put up much more recently. In fact, he thought as he eyed the structure of the pantry, this whole closet had been added on to a much older home.

“Only this pantry,” he told her. “The rest of the house is impenetrable, and probably why the walls withstood hurricane-force winds.”

She went to work on the next drywall panel, punching her bare fist into it to make a hole. Granted, it was soft and moldy, easy to break, but the move was still stunningly strong. And, shit, sexy. Jesus, his brain was seriously messed up.

Because she might be cute and smart and all kinds of hot, but she was
nuts
. And that meant it was time to end this interlude and focus on why he’d come to this island.

But before his messed-up brain could disconnect from his mouth, he pressed again, because he just
had
to know. “What do you mean you thought I was the one?” His voice was barely audible over the
fshhht
of wet sheetrock being ripped.

“Forget it. Just help me.”

“We’re taking down every wall tonight?”

“Who knows what we’ll find?” she demanded, yanking off another sheet to reveal…

“Nothing,” he said. “Except, who knows with you? Maybe there are
invisible
treasures.”

She thwacked another piece of wet wall, making a hole. “Shut up.” She stabbed her hand in, then pulled it out with a hiss when she must have scraped herself. Instantly, he put his hand over hers.

“Come on, don’t do this now.”

“I have to. You could plow the whole thing down by tomorrow.”

“I won’t take it down tomorrow, and if there’s anything worth keeping, I’ll give it to you, not the owner.”

Undeterred, she stuck her hand in the partial hole she’d made and started pulling. “I don’t believe you. And I don’t trust you.”

The admission pinched way more than it should have.

After a few more pulls, she got the sheet off and tossed it to the side, looking down. “Ew. A dead mouse.”

Which, of course, didn’t slow her down. “Look, you have my word, my promise, my oath on whatever it is you want me to swear on.”

“What matters to you?”

“Excuse me?”

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wicked and sparking with intent. “Swear on something that matters to you. Whatever is the foundation of your belief system.”

Like he thought: nuts. “I don’t…” Have a
belief system
. No holy book, no ultimate power, no faith in…anything. He’d seen far too many horrific things to believe there was much good in the world. “Can’t you just take my word for it?” he asked.

“No.” She started on the next panel, turning away from him. “I don’t trust you.”

The statement hurt even more the second time. “You don’t even
know
me.”

She tried to punch a hole, hammering the side of her hand hard enough to shake the wall, but not break it.

“Ouch,” she muttered.

“Let me do it.” He eased her to the side and tapped the wall. “There’s a stud there. You’re lucky you didn’t break your hand.” He kept knocking on the wall, but it was as hard as concrete. “We’ll need a jackhammer for this one, so forget it.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to forget it, and I’m not going to let you demolish this house and desecrate precious pieces of huge historical and archaeological significance.”

“Demo isn’t scheduled until next week. I promise you, I will personally rip out every wall and stud and make sure there are no more crates full of…” He hesitated long enough for her to turn away.

“Don’t make any remark that you’re going to regret.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, as gently as possible. “I see that you are a very determined and driven woman who doesn’t stop when she wants something.”

She angled her head, giving him a humorless death stare.

“So I am giving you my word of honor that I will not allow this building to be demolished until I—
you
and I—have, in broad daylight, examined every single nook, cranny, hole, and hiding place in here and made sure that whatever the former owner was secretly stockpiling is taken out and protected.”

Her expression softened, but not entirely. “What about the hill?”

Shit. The hill. “I told you, I’ll look at the paperwork, and if there’s anything at all that can delay the lot prep and grading until we do some preliminary excavation—”

“Not preliminary. And a certified archaeologist has to be there.”

That would take a month. “Whatever it takes. But let’s do it right and not here in the middle of the night by flashlight.”

She didn’t move, hopefully considering his promises and not…conjuring up a spell to put on him.

“We don’t want to miss anything in the dark,” he added, trying to seal his deal.

A scratching sound at their feet made her inch toward the door.
Thanks, Mickey.

***

They drove toward the other end of Mimosa Key mostly in silence, past the four-way intersection in the heart of town toward the three-story house in Pleasure Pointe where Ari lived. Where they both lived now.

Luke cleared his throat, breaking the silence, as he pulled into the driveway, the headlights beaming on the sweet wraparound porch that circled Willow’s first-floor apartment. That apartment was dark now, since Willow and Nick were on board the
N’Vidrio
, the yacht that Nate Ivory had lent them for a honeymoon cruise.

“You know, you still haven’t answered my question.” Luke’s low voice was soft and, thankfully, without any teasing edge.

“Which question?” But deep inside Ari knew exactly which question she hadn’t answered.

“What did you mean when you said you thought I was the one?”

Yep. She knew it. She gnawed on her lower lip, staring straight ahead, praying—hard—that he wouldn’t see through her lie. “I meant the one to help me discover what’s under that hill and in that house.”

“I’m also the one hired to destroy the hill and the house, or lose the job.”

What could she say to that? She certainly didn’t want to be responsible for him losing the work, but in the grand scheme of things, what was more important?

She put her hand on the door handle, not wanting to tackle that question with a man who had the shadow of his own determination in his eyes.

“I’m sorry there’s no elevator to the third floor,” she said. “Can you carry the crate up for me?”

“Sure,” he agreed. “With all the TLC I can muster.”

Still no real sarcasm there, which she kind of missed. At least when he was joking about her, they had a connection. Now, the only thing she felt was…distance. No doubt he thought she was crazy.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

Out of the truck, she waited while he gingerly slid out the crate and followed her up the two flights of stairs that ran along the outside of the building.

Ari peeked into Gussie’s darkened kitchen window as they passed the second-floor apartment. “I guess she’s staying at Tom’s tonight.”

“Something tells me I’ll have her place to myself while I’m here, which will save me the trouble of finding my own apartment.”

“How long are you planning to stay with her?” she asked, no longer satisfied with “for a while,” as he’d answered her the last time she’d asked.

He didn’t respond. After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder, but his eyes were cast down, looking at the crate.

He reached the top landing and set the crate on the stone step. “Not really sure yet,” he finally said. “I guess that depends on you.”

“Me?” For a second, her legs felt a little weak. “Why would you…oh.” She realized what he meant. “If your project gets killed, you won’t stay.”

He lifted a shoulder and nodded. And Ari could have kicked herself for thinking he meant anything else by “that depends on you.” A longing, a wistfulness, an achy something rolled through her.

She’d blown this. With her…
feelings
and
intuition
and certainty about things other people weren’t certain about. Even she, in the dark, empty nights alone in her bed, wasn’t sure what she was certain of sometimes.

Sighing, she unlocked her door and stepped inside, reaching to turn on the entryway table lamp and holding the door open for him.

“You can put it on the dining table.” She indicated the high-top table with four stools tucked into a bay near the kitchen.

“Well, there you go,” he said as he set it down. “I’m certain I didn’t break a single seashell butter knife.” He turned, looking around. “Wow, this place is so different from my sister’s apartment.”

She tried to see the small one-bedroom—since the top floor of the Victorian was the tiniest of the three apartments—through his eyes. She’d decorated in shades of cream and white, all earthy and natural, especially compared to Gussie’s confectioner’s collection of purple and pink, with about fifty satin pillows lying around.

“It matches you,” he observed. “Very…real.”

Unable to decide if that was a compliment or not, she wiped her hands on her jeans. “Considering I’ve been sitting on a floor infested by God knows what, I feel a little too real right now.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll leave.”

Something in her heart slipped, something that made her want to say,
No, stay, have a drink, curl up, and hold me
. “Okay,” she said instead, reaching for the door. “So what happens next?”

“I’m meeting with the mason in the morning. And I’ll go through all the paperwork, present and past,” he assured her. “And, you know, while the equipment is up there, we can do a little digging around the area where you found your pearls and see what comes up.”

Her pearls. They didn’t belong to her. They belonged to…history. She started to tell him that, but stopped and shook her head.

“What?” he prompted, as if he were really interested. As if maybe he didn’t really think she was crazy and wanted to run as fast as he could. Maybe if he could understand her a little.

She took a breath. “I was just thinking about my grandmother,” she said.

“Grandma Gummy Bear?”

She smiled, happy he was teasing her again. “
Good
Bear. She was a very influential person in my life, and her way of thinking really affected who I am.”

He didn’t reply, studying her, listening intently enough that she was encouraged to continue.

“But her way of thinking and seeing life, her feelings and…and connection with her heritage and all that entailed, well, that wasn’t the only influence on me.”

He nodded, seeming to sense there was a lot more.

How could she best explain the conflict in her heart? “You know Alcatraz?” she asked.

“The island that used to be a prison? Of course.”

“Have you heard of the Indian occupation of it?”

He frowned and slowly shook his head.

“Between 1969 and 1971, over fifteen hundred American Indians occupied the island of Alcatraz, demanding government intervention and support for the people of all tribes, all across the nation,” she explained. “They did this because thousands of tribes and remnants of long-gone tribes lived in poverty and deplorable conditions. And they got change and help and truly revised the course of history.”

“Okay.” He drew out the word, clearly uncertain where this history lesson was going.

“When she was forty-five, my grandmother left her kids and lived there for a year as part of the protest. My mom was fifteen and furious. Somehow, their family got through it, but my mother was really affected by losing her own mother for a year at that age. She basically chose to disenfranchise herself from anything ‘Indian.’ She moved away from the culture toward her father’s side.”