Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) (21 page)

From this spot, almost the entire beach was visible to him. Normally, his gaze glossed over the lemon-yellow umbrellas and relaxed vacationers and focused on the horizon where navy met baby blue to the ends of the earth. In a few hours, those colors would change to a palette of peach and purple and a pool of setting sun.

But today, his attention was on the sands of Barefoot Bay, not the postcard view beyond it. Small groups of people gathered and talked, Casa Blanca staff set up, then moved some tables and chairs. A canopy of white silk was erected, then disassembled and moved down the beach.

At the middle of it, one young woman seemed to be causing the chaos.

This must be the high-maintenance bride Willow had mentioned in her very brief response to his last text. In her defense, his communication hadn’t exactly been highly respondable.

First, he’d sent her a 1, then a 2. She’d sent back a smile on the first and a winky-face on the second. Then a 3 and a 4. She’d written that she was busy with a high-maintenance bride, but…

But they were both counting chapters.

He looked at the cell phone he’d set on the table next to him, already eager to send her one more digit…5.

Low in his belly, way too low to be anything but raw, unfettered lust, everything stirred and hardened. His body was deep into battle with his brain, and he knew which side Willow was on.

Which meant…tonight?

In the background, Donny Zatarain’s nimble fingers slid through a heartstopping solo riff in the middle of one of his favorite songs, the weeping high notes followed by a line that left little room for nuance.

Baby, let’s be dirty, let’s be sinful, let’s be so damn bad in the garden of evil.

How was it that the daughter of a man who made a career promoting sex had managed to stay a virgin until she was damn near thirty? Was it only because some douchebag turned her down when he was eighteen and stupid? Or was her purity also a rebellion against her dad?

He wanted to know. In fact, he wanted to know everything about her. As he reached for the phone, he spied three women walking across the beach barefoot but in street clothes, one on the phone, one with a clipboard, and one—the one with orange hair—carrying a long swatch of fabric.

Willow had the clipboard, and as they moved north on the beach, he could get a better look at her. She wore a pale-blue sundress, about the color of the sky behind her—and her eyes right after he kissed her. She had her hair up in a knot, but even from here, he could see that a few stray locks fell in waves around her face and neck.

And even from here, he caught her turning and looking right at his villa.

He gave it a few more minutes while the troupe moved closer and he could see Willow better. A soft breeze fluttered the loose skirt she favored, giving him a nice view of her legs.

He closed his eyes and remembered the whole package climbing out of the pool.

That did it. He tapped his phone to life, touched the text message box and typed one single digit.

5

He hit send and kept his vision locked on her like she was a moving target he couldn’t and wouldn’t miss. Almost instantly, she reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out her phone to read the text.

He stayed right where he was, in full view of anyone who knew exactly where the Artemisia patio was tucked into the foliage, his heartbeat surprisingly strong as he wondered what her reaction would be.

Was she smiling? He couldn’t tell. She leaned closer to one of the women, Ari, and showed her the text. Ari lifted her hands as if to say,
Why not?

Why not?

Willow still didn’t look his way, but only because the woman he assumed was the bride was calling something out, and all three of the wedding planners marched toward her, then gathered in deep conversation.

C’mon, Willow. Turn around. Give me a sign. Tell me you—

She broke away from the group, still carrying her clipboard, and strode across the sand, taking out the phone to dial.

Okay, then. Woman means business. He turned his phone over and stared at the black screen, imagining what she might say.

Right now?

I’m ready.

Or…nothing else came to mind or, for that matter, to his phone. He could see her talking on the phone now, so obviously she hadn’t been dialing him. Frustrated, he leaned over the balustrade and watched her reach the path, slide on some shoes, then disappear, but not until his tracking skills verified which direction she was walking.

This way.

Nothing was on this side of the resort except the villas and, at the far end, the small farm that serviced the resort. Everything she would need—her office, the restaurants, the spas, and the main hotel building—was in the other direction.

So she had to be coming to see him.

Donny hit a high note and ended
Garden of Evil
, sliding right into the next track,
Rock Hard
. The opening drum solo reached into Nick’s soul and tore a little piece out with the perfection of the rhythm.

Automatically, he raised his right hand and matched the beat.

Was she coming to his villa? he wondered as he air-drummed. Or passing by?

She couldn’t just pass by. Not if the music was loud enough to lure her in. He walked to the sound system in the living room and hit the volume, shaking the walls when Donny Z screamed out his opening line.

Now is the hour. Now is the time.

You’ve got the power. Give me a sign.

Oh, yes, she did have the power and he needed a sign.

So he opened the front door that led out to the pathway, so she couldn’t miss the message to underscore the text…that she hadn’t yet responded to.

He waited a few minutes, then stepped out on the stone patio. No one could walk past here and miss that music. In fact, any minute security would probably come by and ask him to turn it down.

Still, he walked to the wrought iron gate that closed off the villa property, sticking his head out to the road.

In time to catch a flash of blue. He walked out to the path and waited for her as she rounded a curve, her step faltering ever so slightly as she saw him.

He continued toward her, unable to stop how much he wanted to greet her with a touch and a kiss.

“I love that you’re replying in person.”

“Replying to what?” she asked.

He reached her and paused to drink in how pretty she looked. “I knew your eyes would match that dress.”

Brows drawing together in a frown, she shook her head. “You saw this dress?”

“I was watching you on the beach.”

“Really.”

“And I texted you.”

“Creepy.”

He laughed. “You read it and you know what it says.”

“I didn’t see the text. I’m totally in the middle of a wedding rehearsal right now.”

Of course she was. He couldn’t expect her to stop working just because he’d reached the goal.

“Where are you going? Can I walk with you?”

She gave him a smile. “I like your persistence, Lieutenant, but I’m just going up to the garden to get Tessa’s kids. They’re supposed to be in this wedding, and Bridezilla, er, Jill Peyton wants to see them to make sure they match.”

“Each other or the decor?”

“What did your text say?”

“Five.”

He saw the slow deepening of color in her cheeks. “Chapters.” It was a statement, not a question.

“That’s right.” And they both knew what that meant.

She gestured toward the house. “Setting the mood with the melodic and romantic strains of
Rock Hard
?”

He just laughed. “Guilty.”

She put a hand to her ear. “Oh, yes, there’s my favorite line. ‘Take it, take it, let me break it.’ You know what he’s talking about in that line, don’t you?”

“I have a pretty good guess.”

“But I bet you’re wrong. Listen to the next line.”

“I don’t have to,” Nick said. “I know it by heart: ‘Your treasure is mine to trash.’ Which is not, by the way, how I feel.”

Laughing, she kept walking, but he stayed with her. “The whole song is about this God-awful amethyst statue—that’s the ‘rock hard’ he’s talking about. My mother bought it in Kyoto and insisted on keeping it in the center of the living room table, which blocked Dad’s view of the TV.”

Nick’s jaw dropped as he processed that impossible piece of information. “You’re kidding me.” He’d thought it was about, well, sex, of course.

“Swear to God. Believe me, my dad is not the badass you like to think he is.”

He considered that, letting the news filter through everything he thought he’d known about Donny Zatarain. “I like that about him.”

“Talk any more about him, Nick, and I’m going to think that’s the only reason you’re being nice to me.
Again
.”

He slipped his arm around her shoulder and eased her into his flank, a move that felt utterly comfortable and remarkably sweet. “How about a proper date tonight?”

“I can’t. I have a mountain of work for this wedding, and then I have to read five chapters by my new favorite author.”

Squeezing, he got her to look right up at him, her lips so close he could almost imagine how they’d feel. “Read them with me. I’ll cook for you.”

“You’ll read over my shoulder, stress out, and then strip naked and go swimming.”

He put one hand in the air, Boy Scout style. “I swear I will not read, I will cook. I will not stress, I will relax. I will not strip naked and go swimming, I will…”

“You will what?”

Closing his eyes, he kissed her, long and slow and deep.

In the background, Donny Z answered for him.

Gonna shatter you with my love. Break you in two with my love.

“He’s really talking about a statue?” Nick asked as they broke the kiss.

“Yep.”

“Mmmm.” He put his mouth over his ear. “I’m not.”

He could have sworn he felt her melt a little in his arms.

* * *

Years ago, when Willow taught herself to appreciate everything
other
than food, she’d discovered the sheer bliss of having all five senses treated to something wonderful at the same time. Right this moment, she thought with a smile, every one of her senses was having the time of its life.

Her taste buds were enjoying the pull of vanilla and oak blended into a fine, chilled white wine. The plush leather sofa where she reclined embraced her like a cloud, every inch of her body in the perfect, most comfortable position. The whole villa smelled of tangy onions and sizzling beef, and the lilting strains of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1—he’d asked what she liked—danced over her ears, relaxing her.

She looked up from the laptop resting on her stomach to peek into the kitchen, separated by a long granite-topped bar. And there, her sense of sight was getting the best treat of the night.

Nick Hershey…cooking with the same intensity he gave everything. He wore a loose linen shirt that fit snugly over his incredible shoulders, and an expression that said he was keeping his promises about not stressing.

Since she’d arrived, he’d let her read, after a few kisses and a toast to the next five chapters. Somewhere along the way, they’d started using “five chapters” as code for steps in her march to losing her virginity.

It was a wonder the laptop didn’t topple when all those butterflies took flight in her stomach. Lifting her head to take one more sip of the crisp, clean wine and another look at the sexy chef twenty feet away, Willow forced herself to stop thinking about senses and sex and concentrate on his book.

She moved the cursor back up to the top of the page and re-read the paragraph where Gannon shared a little bit of his childhood with Christina. She read the words carefully, a few key phrases jumping out.

A home full of laughter. Two sisters he loved. Mom and Dad itching for grandchildren to fill up their empty nest.

She couldn’t help comparing this to what she knew about his family. Had he mentioned sisters? No, a brother. And when he talked about “home,” he’d never referred to where he grew up or his parents.

“Why is this woman frowning?”

She looked up to find Nick a few feet away, looming tall, his outstretched hand holding an olive between two fingers.

“Why is this man watching me read?”

“I bring an appetizer.” He took a step closer, then knelt between the coffee table and the sofa, popping the briny Kalamata in her mouth. “Careful, there’s a pit.”

“Mmm.” She could feel her brain slip into calorie counting—ten per Kalamata olive—and she shook her head to get the thought away and enjoy the salt on her tongue.

“And she’s shaking her head.”

She took the pit out of her mouth and handed it to him, the act ridiculously intimate. “Just trying to make myself think about the taste and not the cost.”

He lifted his brows. “Dinner’s on me, unless you count having to read fifty-three pages of drivel.”