Dancing in a Hurricane (7 page)

"I always figured I'd soften toward her some day. I imagined we'd be great friends in our old age, wear matching clothes and…" She stopped as the memories suddenly became heartbreaking.

"You didn't figure on the worst case scenario."

"No, I didn't." She glanced at him. "Were you two serious?"

A flicker of pain crossed his eyes. "I was. I don't think she was."

Bree nodded. He was an award-winning photographer, which meant chances were good that Cloe was using him. "She was young. She might have matured and settled down."

He laughed, first a crack of harsh disbelief, and then he rolled into a real belly laugh.

Could he see through her patronizing words?
Yes.
She chuckled. "Miracles do happen."

"No. Not to Cloe. She made her own hell and loved it."

That startled her. Such an odd thing to say. Especially about someone he was serious about.

"All right, I'll let you finish." He set the photo in the bottom of the paper box. "It was good to meet you and I hope you enjoy your stay here in Miami."

"Thanks. Actually…" She liked this man. "I'm here permanently."

"Really? That's great." He pulled out a business card and set it on top of the photo in the box. "Call me if you need anything, or if you'd like a tour of the city."

"I will. Thank you."

He turned and left.

***

Back home, Bree hauled in her shopping bags and dropped them just inside the garage door. She should go back out to the car and get the box of papers she'd collected from Cloe's office. But the pool looked too inviting. The noon sun beat down hot and bright, and she could look through the papers another day.

In her sister's tall dresser, she found a size six bikini that looked like it might stretch to fit her. Bree stripped and tugged it on. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror while she lathered on coconut-scented sunscreen. The green floral top had underwires that gave her Playboy-like cleavage while the bottoms hugged her butt. She stared and turned in front of the mirror, amazed at how sexy it made her look. How desirable it made her feel. Maybe she'd been wearing the wrong type of clothing all these years.

Back in Port Angeles, Bree only swam at the gym and wore a one piece that flattened more than accentuated her curves. She posed, pouting out her lips and arching her back. Wow, in this suit, she'd be rated X. Good thing she had the house to herself this afternoon.

She plopped a big, floppy hat on her head, grabbed a Miami tourist magazine and a bottle of water, and settled in on one of the plush, cushioned chaise lounges. She closed her eyes and sighed, truly relaxing for the first time since she got the call about her sister's death.

The man at Cloe's office—Greg, according to his business card—asked when she would have forgiven her sister. For five years, she tried to forget she had a sister. Tried to forget the pain Cloe caused.

Less than a year ago, Bree's ex-fiancé, Kyle, accepted the position as administrator at the hospital where Bree worked. They occasionally bumped into each other in the hallway, greeted each other pleasantly, but her heart always broke when she thought of his wife and the baby they were expecting. That should have been her life.

A month later, he'd called her into his office and questioned whether she could maintain her professionalism with him. She'd been insulted. Of course, he wanted her to quit. They lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone's business. It had to be embarrassing for him to work with the woman he left at the altar.

Tossing the magazine onto the cement, she stormed into the kitchen. In the refrigerator, she found last night's leftovers and heated a plateful. After carefully picking apart the food, she walked around the house examining the framed art and the knickknacks. She hadn't eaten much of the chicken dish last night and today, it tasted just as delicious. How did she get so lucky to be living with a cook?

Her shopping bags stood where she dropped them by the door to the garage. She wasn't living alone any longer. Common courtesy dictated she shouldn't leave stuff lying around the shared areas.

As she toted her bags into her room, she smiled wickedly. This would be cathartic. She pulled all the bedding off; the sheets, pillows, mattress pad, everything. Hauling it into the laundry room, she stuffed as much as she could in the huge washing machine and started it. She'd put it all out with the recycling or drop it at a shelter.

In her room, she smoothed on the new silk bedding. She chose navy blue stripes on gold. A nautical departure from her sister's obsessive floral. She hauled the plastic packaging out through the garage to the driveway and packed them into the recycle bins. The trash bins sat next to them, and everything had their address stenciled on them. "Strange." It came to her. Hurricanes. If the wind came up, their trashcans could end up in the next county.

When was pickup day? If she was going to live here, she needed to sit down with Sixto and get the basic information on running the house. She smiled and went back out to the pool, her mood improved at least a hundred percent.

***

Sixto's photo shoot ended early. The lighting wasn't right on South Beach, but he got to keep the swim trunks. He pulled into the garage at 1:30 and saw the Miata. Bree had the contents of Cloe's desk and if she'd found what he thought she might find, she'd be waiting inside for him. With a shotgun.

The management company listed his name as an employee. He hadn't mentioned anything about it to her. Maybe he should tell her about his role in the business. It might save his ass later, if she dug deeper into the company structure. He could still play ignorant about the moneymaker in the east warehouse.

He tossed the mail onto the table and picked up a used plate and fork. Okay, so she was that kind of roommate. Walking toward the kitchen, he glanced out at the pool and stopped so suddenly, the fork slid off the plate onto the carpet.

He blinked to clear his vision, but it was as perfect as he first saw. Bree, in a skimpy bikini, floating on a flat raft, her long, blonde hair swirling in the water like waves of silk. Her big, red sunglasses covered half her face. With her arms out to her sides, he could see every inch of her perfect breasts. He swallowed, felt himself move in his trunks. Her little pooch of a stomach was his undoing and a full woody grew.

The bikini bottom barely covered between her thighs and her legs went on forever, so long, they overshot the raft and her feet trailed in the water. He had a difficult time catching a complete breath. Her face was the only thing on her that resembled her sister. Where Cloe was hard, Bree was firm. Where Cloe was concave, Bree was round and soft. And personality. Bree had one, Cloe didn't.

He picked up the fork and set the dish in the sink. The smart thing to do would be to take a cold shower and do some studying.

He wasn't in a smart mood.

Sixto went into his bedroom and opened the patio door. He heard the noise. The Beatles played on the outdoor stereo and Bree sang along. Not well.

"Hey, Ringo! Mind if I join you?"

She lifted her head and visored her hand over her eyes. "Oh. Hi." She slid off the raft into the water, got out and grabbed her towel, and wrapped it around her.

For a long moment, all he could do was stare at her fine booty and incredible legs. Then her actions registered. "You're leaving?"

"I'll be right back." She walked into her bedroom.

He dove into the deep end and stayed down, enjoying the cool quiet under the water. He surfaced and tread water, looking into her room to see what she was doing.

She walked out wearing a long, white t-shirt over her suit.

"You don't have to cover up for me."

She shook her head and descended the steps into the pool. "Oh, yes I do." She struggled to climb back onto her raft.

He would have helped, but he still had a high hard one and she didn't need to see that.

She made it aboard, lying on her stomach. Pulling her hair off to one side, she crossed her arms on the raft and rested her head on them. "What happened to your modeling?"

"Cancelled. They want to do a morning shoot instead." He swam to the stairs and sat. He needed his sunglasses, but it would be a few more minutes before the cool water helped get his body under control. "They let me keep the trunks."

"Purple. Interesting."

"GQ Magazine."

"Ah." She was quiet for a few minutes. Was she checking out his muscles from behind her sunglasses?

He smiled, tightened his chest and fisted his hands, effectively bulking up his arms.

She jerked and after a moment, laughed. "Ick. Stop it. You're all steroided out."

"Hey, I've never taken a 'roid in my life."

"Mmm hmm. Just your strenuous work as a bartender and model that keeps you pumped up like a hot air balloon." She laughed. "Or is it lifting all those heavy textbooks?"

"
Chica
, you're a ball buster." He nodded toward his bedroom. "You've seen my weight equipment. I work out every day." He posed, looking at his pecs. "My body is my instrument," he teased.

"Oh, please spare me." She splashed him.

He chuckled and jumped out of the pool, walking toward his bedroom to get his sunglasses. Turning, he asked, "Would you like a drink."

"Okay."

"What sounds good?"

"Mmm. Something fruity, refreshing, with an umbrella."

"So, I'm your personal bartender now?"

"I tip very well."

He laughed. "I've gotten fifty dollar tips before. Think you can match that?"

"Fifty bucks? That must have been an incredible drink."

He shrugged. "She was trying to buy my affection."

"Really. What kind of a bar do you work at?"

"Perfectly respectable." He wagged his brows at her. "With a few exceptions. It's on South Beach. Come with me some night. My friends are usually there and if you don't want to stay all night, I'd trust them to give you a ride home."

"I'll think about it."

"Right." He went into the house. He'd learned long ago that, coming from a woman, "I'll think about it" meant "no." In the kitchen, he stirred up a concoction of tequila, cassis, lemon and ginger ale, found a paper umbrella and stuck a slice of lemon on it. He'd also learned that liquor made women easier and he reached for the tequila bottle to fortify her drink. At the last second, he pulled back. What the hell was he thinking? He didn't get women drunk.

He brought her drink and all the ingredients out to the pool bar, grabbed a beer from the fridge, poured it into a plastic glass, and slid on his sunglasses.

She still floated on her stomach and the way the t-shirt clung to her ass should have been illegal. So round and irresistible, it made his mouth water. Keeping his eyes off the temptation, he waded in and handed her the drink.

"Thank you. I'll get the next round."

The image of her standing up and walking around in a wet t-shirt gave him a heart palpitation. "To our friendship."

"Friendship." She touched her plastic glass to his and sipped. "Oh, Sixto, this is really good. If I had a fifty on me, I'd definitely tip you."

"Chicks like that drink."

"Mmm. What do you call it?"

"Sixto on the Beach."

She laughed, that crazy, snorting, loud laugh that made him warm inside.

He reached for a floating chair and jumped into it. Years of practice made him an expert.

They floated quietly for a minute. She turned her head and watched him through her dark glasses. "May I ask you a personal question?"

"Fire away."

"How did you and Cloe meet?"

"I was bartending. Living at home, I just finished my bachelor's degree—finally at twenty-four."

"How old are you now?"

"Twenty-eight."

"I thought you were younger."

"Yeah, it's all the steroids. They keep me young."

She laughed.

He sipped his cold beer, watching her over the glass. "I was working two jobs, saving for graduate school, and she asked if I ever modeled."

"Did she give you a fifty dollar tip too?"

He heard bitterness in her tone. "No, it was never that way between us. She was looking for ethnic types for local advertising and I'm about as ethnic as a guy can get."

"You've got the look."

"A compliment? From you?"

"Enjoy it. It just might be the last one."

He shrugged. "I'll have to try harder to impress you."

She went silent.

He probably just stepped over their relationship boundary line. "She got me a job, got me into the union. I didn't work directly with her much, but her company uses me once in a while. When she found out I did construction, she asked if I would help her flip a house for profit."

"That explains the pickup truck."

"Yeah. I don't do construction anymore, but I'm always hauling stuff. Or helping fix something for somebody."

She slid off her raft, held up her glass and dunked under the water. She waded toward him and sat on the steps. The water level reached the bottom of her breasts. He was glad he picked up his darkest shades because he couldn't tear his eyes away from them. Covered by her thin t-shirt, her nipples puckered in invitation. Was it just that they were a mystery he wanted to explore? He'd never been this fascinated by a woman's breasts before.