Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) (2 page)

She didn’t move. Not even her eyes, which were riveted to…his…his…him.

“Thanks,” he repeated, the word tinged with impatience. “You can leave now.”

What if her client had come face-to-face with this? With that exposed…giant…breathtaking… She’d think this took “welcome package” to a whole new level.

“No,
you
can leave, because you are not in the right villa,” she said.

He scowled. Well, she assumed he scowled. It was difficult to see his face because she couldn’t stop looking at the rest of him.

“I’m in the right villa. Isn’t this Art..Arte…some flower that starts with an A?”

Was she in the wrong place? No, of course not.

Get a grip, Willow.
He was just a naked man—okay, an exceptionally stunning naked man—and she had a job to do here. Which was to get him out of the villa.

“Artemisia,” she supplied, her arms starting to burn from holding the basket high enough to cover her face but still see. “And, yes, you
are
in the wrong villa, because we have guests booked to arrive soon, and you’re not one of them.”

He turned his hands skyward in a less threatening gesture, not that his hotter-than-a-thousand-suns body wasn’t threatening enough. “Yes, I am,” he said. “And if you will please turn around, miss, and leave that in the living room, we’re cool.”

“No, we are not cool.” There was an understatement. “Because I’m pretty sure you have more, um, body hair than the bride or maid of honor we’re expecting.”

He took a step closer, and she hoisted the basket high enough to completely cover her face.

“Man,” he said

“Excuse me?”

“I’m a man.” With two hands, he lowered the basket. “As you’ve obviously noticed.
Man
of honor. Not
maid
.”

The words registered, but not the meaning, because she was face-to-face with his broad chest and wide shoulders and a deep-purple tattoo of…oh, really? Was this God’s idea of a joke? That was the earth and star on the cover of
Zenith
, the number-one best-selling Z-Train record of all time. “Really?”

“Really. I’m the man of honor in Misty Trew’s wedding.” His tone was a mix of waning tolerance and growing amusement.

She finally lifted her eyes, finally coherent enough to process what he’d said, and realize the mistake was hers. “I get it,” she whispered, meeting cocoa-colored eyes as rich and inviting as the truffles in her arms, and a mouth that could be forgiven for whatever sour notes he’d hit with it, and…

Once more, the world slipped out from under her, this time because recognition nearly buckled her knees. “You’re…” Her throat closed.

“The man of honor.”

“No, you’re…” The one who…the boy who…no, now the man who…crushed her spirit.

“A male version of the maid.”

“You’re…” Nick Hershey.

“Naked,” he supplied, adding a slow, sexy, sinful smile. “But you’re not.”

She clung to the basket as if it were the last logical thing on earth because right now, it was. “I’m not…” How long had it been? Ten or eleven years since she’d lived in a dorm at UCLA? And he’d been right down the hall. “Thinking straight.”

“Clearly.” He laughed and reached for the basket. “Here, let me take your junk so you can stop staring at mine.” Placing the basket on the dresser, he held up a hand. “Just a sec. I’ll get your tip.”

“No tip, I’m not with the resort.” The rote answer fell out of her mouth as he took a few steps, forcing Willow to stare some more at that round, hard handful of Nick Hershey’s world-class ass before he disappeared into the en suite. “That ought to be illegal,” she murmured on a sigh.

“So should breaking into a hotel room,” he replied.

“I wasn’t expecting…anyone. Or at least, not a man.” Buck-naked. And she sure as hell hadn’t been expecting the guy she’d tried to give her virginity to one slightly tipsy night after finals.
Tried
being the operative word, because he…

A dose of shame and a splash of self-pity mixed into a cocktail of humiliation, rising up to choke her. He’d turned her down cold and flat.

Willow rooted for a coherent thought, trying to center on the present. The bride was from New York. Nick was from California. How was it even possible that he was standing here in Mimosa Key, Florida?

It didn’t matter. He was here, and a key member of the wedding party she was coordinating, so Willow would have to maintain professionalism and get control. She closed her eyes, willing her body and brain to get in line, the way she always did when she wanted to be stronger than whatever temptation or distraction threatened her well-honed control.

“So, you’re a friend of Misty’s?” she asked.

“Not exactly. Her brother is supposed to be here, but he’s still deployed.” He stepped back into the room, a towel wrapped around his hips, tied low, exposing a trail of dark hair that ran from his belly button down to his…no, no one could ever call what she’d just seen
junk
. “I’m doing him a favor and acting as Misty’s second-in-command.”

“She doesn’t have a girlfriend to be the maid of honor?”

His brow quirked. “Have you met Misty?” he asked.

“No, not yet.”

“Well, you’ll understand when you see her. She’s a model,” he said, like that explained it. And, having been raised by one, it kind of did. “She’s not exactly swimming in female companionship.”

He crossed his arms and took another long, slow look at her, his gaze leaving a trail of heat, followed by goosebumps, and more heat. Still not even the slightest shadow of recognition. No surprise there.

Very few—actually none—of the people who knew her in college would recognize Willow Ambrose as Willie Zatarain. Not even someone who’d always said hello and made a point of being kind to her…but not
that
kind. Not kind or even drunk enough to sleep with a woman who outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds.

That was then, and this was…getting awkward.

“You know,” he said, as if suddenly aware of how much time had passed while they looked at each other. “In the military, there’s a rule that once you’ve seen someone naked, they get to see you naked.”

Suddenly, a flash came back to her. Nick, friendly and even flirtatious when they were in college. His voice—at least when he wasn’t singing—still had that smooth, silky quality that poured over her like hot fudge on cold ice cream. And like sundaes, he’d always been a temptation.

But Willow had long ago learned how to conquer temptations, hadn’t she? “Good thing I’m not in the military, then. I get a pass.”

The vaguest hint of disappointment darkened his eyes, giving her a surprising jolt of satisfaction. “Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying. Lieutenant Nick Hershey.” He extended his hand for a shake. “You don’t work for the hotel, so are you one of the planner girls?”

“The planner girls?” She coughed a soft laugh, mostly to cover the certainty that he didn’t remember her. The question was, should she refresh his memory? See the look of utter and abject shock on his face? Endure the questions, the litany of congratulations, and the embarrassment for both of them?

“Sorry, that sounded demeaning as shit, didn’t it? I meant are you working for Misty as her wedding consultant?”

“Yes.” She finally lifted her hand to slide into his, fighting a shudder when his warm, large fingers closed over hers.

“And you’re…” he prompted.

“I’m…”
A girl you knew a long time ago.
Not that she could blame him. Most days, she didn’t recognize herself. “Willow Ambrose.”

“Willow.” He let the word roll around on his lips, tasting it, nodding as if he liked it a lot, smiling as though meeting her for the first time. Well, wasn’t that why she’d ditched the shortened nickname and lopped off her world-famous last name?

“The pleasure is…well, I guess the initial pleasure was yours.” He winked, and it hit her heart like a red-hot spark.

“Not the singing part,” she teased.

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest that she
knew
could curl toes, melt hearts, and vacuum up phone numbers. “I suck, I know. But that’s how I relax. Does your job mean I’ll be seeing a lot of you this weekend?” The little bit of hope in his voice tweaked her heart, still not grasping the fact that
he
was flirting with
her
.

“Depends on how much wedding planning you and the BTB are going to do.”

“BTB? Wait, don’t tell me. Bride That Bitches?”

It was her turn to laugh. “Bride To Be, but your version is often dead-on, too. I thought you and Misty weren’t going to be here for a few hours.”

“We came from different places, and I got bumped to an earlier flight, and she’s…somewhere.” He put his hands on his narrow hips, the move accentuating his chest and pecs and stunningly cut abs. “Want to show me around until she gets here?”

Could she…not tell him? The thought landed in her head with a thud. It would be dishonest not to tell him they’d known each other a dozen years…and a hundred and twenty pounds ago.

Except, he’d known Willie Zatarain, the fat girl in Sproul Hall who had few friends and famous parents. He didn’t know Willow Ambrose. And by the way he was looking at her, he wanted to.

The powerful, dizzying, irresistible pull of temptation tugged at her insides. This time, just this one time, temptation kicked her ass.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I’ll show you around.”

Chapter Two

Nick tightened the towel, even though it was exactly the opposite of what he’d like to do with this lovely surprise who couldn’t hide her admiration. He was probably looking at her with a similar kind of interest, memorizing the pewter tinge in wide eyes tipped with thick lashes. He was already imagining getting a handful of long, blond hair that was ten different shades of the desert, and tipping her head back to sample the sweet skin of her throat.

“Can you give me a minute to get dressed?” he asked.

Her nod was slow and uncertain, as if agreeing to that change in the scenery wasn’t exactly what she wanted. “I’ll let the front desk know to have Misty call me when she arrives,” she said. “That way she won’t wonder where you are.”

As she walked out, Nick took a minute to admire her backside—hey, it was only fair—and give his own slow nod of approval. She was easily five-eight in those heels, and the blue cotton dress revealed enough curves to be his kind of woman, and enough toned muscles to be his kind of athlete. A smattering of freckles on a singularly pretty face said her sports were outdoors, and her creamy skin was nature-made.

It’s all good, Nicky.

Pulling a pair of cargo shorts and a US Navy T-shirt out of his bag, he mentally high-fived his good luck in getting on the earlier flight. Of course, he’d been planning to work during his spare time, and had hoped he’d have the afternoon to try to get past the latest sticking point, but this new development was too intriguing. Inspiring, even.

And he needed inspiration more than he needed productivity. That’s why she’d caught him breaking the rules and listening to Z-Train at way too many decibels for a SEAL on medical leave due to severe hearing loss. So she was
safely
inspiring, which was even better than his favorite music.

As he came around the corner into the living room, he found her perched on the armrest of a chair, phone to one ear. She looked up and met his gaze, long enough for a little zing of…no, too soon for chemistry. Attraction? Definitely, but there was something else about her, too.

Familiarity
. That was it. She reminded him of someone. An actress? An ex?

That sense disappeared when she stood, clicked off her call, and put a hand on her hip. No, he wouldn’t forget a body that luscious, or a smile that…faltered at the sight of him. He couldn’t decide if she was clinging to professionalism because of his relationship to her client, or trying like hell not to give in to mutual attraction.

Didn’t matter. He’d get past her defenses if he wanted to. And, damn, he wanted to.

“You look disappointed,” he noted, unable to keep the bit of wounded pride from his voice.

“Still getting used to seeing you…” She paused and then added, “Dressed.”

He gave a shameless wink. “The opposite is easy enough to arrange.”

“Not if it includes bad air-drumming and even worse singing.” She was teasing him, but he caught the stiff-arm in her message, and her air of self-protection.

“Come on, we’ll tour.” She waved him to the door, but he slipped by to open it for her.

“You think my air-drumming is bad, you should hear my air guitar.”

She laughed at the joke, stepping into the sunshine that made her hair gleam like wheat stalks blowing in the breeze. “I heard enough.”

“Not a Z-Train fan, I take it.”

Her foot stumbled on a brick, and he instantly caught her elbow. “Whoa,” he said. “Heels might not be the right choice on these bricks.”

“You’re right.” She gave him a quick smile, reaching down to hook her finger in the back of her sandal, taking one off, then the other. The simplest act of disrobing, but man, it kicked him in the southern region. “When in Barefoot Bay…” she said playfully, dangling her shoes from one finger.