Otherwise Engaged (5 page)

She turned away quickly, afraid her thoughts were mirrored in her eyes. Dear Lord, what was wrong with her? She’d gone the Prince Charming route once already, with Chuck, and
he’d
quickly turned into a frog.

She’d been alone for three years. Longer than that, really. The physical intimacies she’d shared with Chuck had been infrequent and less than perfect. But she’d learned to live without sex without a great deal of difficulty. She’d always figured her strongest passions were the intellectual kind.

So why, now, was she experiencing this overwhelming rush of physical attraction every time this man looked into her eyes?

Molly could feel heat rising in her face, and she ran for the door to the pizza parlor, throwing it open and stepping into the icy air-conditioned room.

Zander was already thoroughly engaged with one of the video games in the corner. He didn’t hear her come in, of course, his attention glued to the advancing alien horde.

The room was empty, other than Z and the apron-clad man behind the counter. The man smiled at Molly. “Hot enough for you out there, huh?” But then his gaze shifted, and she knew that Pres had come in behind her. The pizza man’s smile broadened. “Hey! How’s it hanging, Pres? You know, I wanted to thank you again for
inviting us to your party last week. Betty and I had the
best
time.”

“Hey, Paulo.” Pres had his Robert Redford smile on again, his eyes crinkling with either genuine or extremely well-acted pleasure. “Yeah, that was fun. I’m glad you had a good time. Can you get a couple slices for me and my friends, please?”

“Sure thing.” Whistling, Paulo went to work.

“You’re a benevolent ruler, aren’t you?” Molly said quietly. “Everyone in town had something good to say about you.”

Pres lifted his eyebrows. “Were you asking questions, trying to dig up some dirt on me? I’m honored you’re that interested.”

Molly slid onto the cool vinyl seat of the booth in front of the window, setting her oversized purse down next to her and the coupon for the free pizza next to the napkin holder. “My questions had nothing to do with you.” She rested her chin in her hand as she gazed up at him. “I’ve been asking people for their recommendations—I’m trying to find someone to replace the roof of my house.
My
house. Everyone I asked suggested that I talk to you. Apparently you’ve always got some project or another under construction, and therefore
you must know the local contractors better than anyone else on the island.”

His eyes were lit with amusement and something else—something hotter and more dangerous. She looked away, but she could feel him watching her, studying her, his gaze as palpable as a touch.

Molly’s hair was back in the casual ponytail that Pres guessed was her “default” hairstyle. A light fringe of bangs framed her pretty face. She wore only the slightest bit of makeup, and she looked impossibly fresh and young. The bright-colored picture of Mighty Mouse on her oversized T-shirt added to the youthful effect, as did her fraying cutoffs and bright pink flip-flop sandals.

“Actually, that has something to do with why I came looking for you,” he told her. “I wanted to make sure you knew that the Kirk Estate is registered as one of Sunrise Key’s historical buildings.”

It wasn’t, but as of five o’clock this afternoon, the newly formed Sunrise Key Historical Society would be firmly set in place, its rules and regulations approved by an emergency meeting of the town council.

“There are town codes that regulate alterations to historic buildings,” he continued, sitting down across from her at the table. “The fact is, the Kirk Estate can be restored, but not renovated.”

She gazed at him, her expression carefully guarded. “I don’t see how that’s going to be a problem,” she said, “since restoration is more of what I had in mind.”

“Restoration can be costly.”

Molly didn’t blink. “Of course.”

“I don’t know how much you’ve budgeted to make the necessary repairs.” Pres didn’t beat around the bush.

“My priority is the roof. I’ve budgeted nothing beyond that.”

“The restoration regulations are restrictive,” he told her. “I’ve worked on restorations before—and it’s a real headache. It would be much easier for you to sell.”

She smiled at that, genuine amusement dancing in her eyes. “I’m deeply touched by your concern.”

Pres had to smile too. “You’re really not going to sell to me, are you?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

“What if I offered you a million dollars?”

Her smile wavered only slightly. “You’d never do that—the house isn’t worth it.”

She was right. As it was, the Kirk Estate wasn’t worth even half that much. And he had no intention of buying at that kind of inflated price. He wanted the place, but not that badly.

“So are you going to give me a recommendation for the roof?” she asked.

“I recommend you sell me the house and—”

“Come on, Zander, time to go!” Molly started to slide out of the booth, but Pres caught her arm, holding her back.

“Don’t,” he said. “I was just making a joke. A
bad
joke, obviously.”

His fingers were warm and broad and roughly callused, as if he did a great deal of outdoor work. Molly gazed down at his tan hand firmly clasped around the paler skin of her arm. His touch was electric and electrifying. She looked up to find him watching her, his eyes more green than brown, and charged with more of that very same electricity.

“Maybe we should forget about the house,” he
said quietly, “and talk about having dinner tonight instead.”

He was asking her out. Preston Seaholm, the island’s resident Prince Charming, was asking her out.

Molly couldn’t move. She couldn’t answer him, couldn’t pull her hand away, couldn’t do more than gaze into his eyes. He reached up and touched the side of her face with his other hand, stroking the softness of her cheek with his thumb. This was trouble. This was a gigantic mistake. She knew that. But still she couldn’t move.

“It occurs to me that pissing you off with my constant offers on the house may not be to my best advantage,” he continued, still in that soft voice. “You don’t want to sell? Okay. I can respect that. I can accept that. The hell with the house. Forget about it. Let’s have dinner tonight.”

As Pres watched, Molly nervously moistened her lips. She, too, was affected by the powerful connection, the odd sensation of awareness that seemed to flow between them. It was amazing. Sitting here like this, touching her like this, he could almost believe his own words. Forget about the house. It
was
forgotten. But only temporarily.
He
would
make damn sure that he stopped mentioning it in every other sentence, though. She
was
going to sell to him eventually, and at
his
price, but he’d keep that knowledge to himself for now.

“Here you go. Nice and hot.”

Pres looked up to see Paulo balancing three paper plates filled with pizza slices. Molly sat back, slipping free from his grasp, a tinge of delicate pink on her cheekbones.

She was going to turn his dinner invitation down. Pres knew that as surely as he knew his own name. Damn. It frustrated him more than it should have, and that in turn frustrated him even further.

“Can I get you something to drink with that?” Paulo asked as he slid the plates onto the table.

“Something without caffeine for me and Zander, please,” Molly said.

“And I’ll have something loaded with caffeine,” Pres countered. Paulo returned almost instantly with sodas, and Pres waited until he was gone before he turned back to Molly. “Why won’t you have dinner with me?”

She glanced up at him. “How do you know I’m going to say no?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah …”

“So how come?”

She looked up at him again, and Pres knew whatever she was going to tell him, it wasn’t going to be the real reason she didn’t want to have dinner with him. She was usually blunt and direct, but he somehow knew that she wasn’t going to be this time.

“Well, for one thing, you smoke.”

Pres had to smile. “I think I can probably refrain from having a cigarette for a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, but you smell like smoke all the time. It’s …” She paused tactfully.

“What?”

“It’s gross.” Zander slid into the booth next to his mother. His bangs were standing straight up and his glasses were crooked. He took a bite of a pizza slice and smiled happily at Molly and Pres. “I kicked some alien butt.”

“Congratulations and don’t be rude.” Molly picked up her own slice of pizza and took a bite. “Neither
gross
nor
butt
falls into the category of polite words.” She glanced quickly at Pres, and he
could see both amusement and chagrin in her eyes.

Gross. Zander thought he smelled gross. And Molly hadn’t exactly disagreed.

“I know you’re the most eligible bachelor in the universe, or whatever,” Molly told him, “so we probably have no right in offering you personal grooming tips, but frankly, getting within a few feet of you is like cozying up to an ashtray. For a nonsmoker, that’s a major turnoff.”

“Smoking causes cancer,” Zander interjected. “As well as making you stink.” He worked hard to pronounce the
st
sound, but still it came out with a heavy lisp.

Preston sat back on the bench. “Well hey, guys, don’t be shy,” he said ruefully. “Don’t hold back. Just come right out and tell me exactly what you think.”

“Okay,” Zander said, too young to recognize Pres’s ironic tone. “Not only do you smell bad, but your stinky smoke is bad for other people too.
And
it’s ruining the ozone layer.”

“Thank you, Alexander,” Molly said. “I think Mr. Seaholm gets the point.” She was working hard to hold back both laughter and a smile.

Pres took the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and studied them carefully. “Maybe I should quit.” He glanced across the table at Molly. “If I quit, you’ll have dinner with me, right?”

“I never said that.”

“It was implied.”

“No, it most certainly was not. … What am I worried about? You’ll never quit.”

“Wanna bet? I quit. There. See, I did it.” He put the cigarette pack back in his pocket.

Molly snorted. “I can announce that I’m going to stand up and fly out the window, but that doesn’t mean I’m actually going to be able to do it.”

“I think it’s great that you quit,” Zander interjected.

“Thank you, Zander,” Pres said. “At least
someone’s
on my side.”

“If you were seriously going to quit,” Molly pointed out, “you would have thrown the cigarettes out—not put them back in your pocket.”

“I
will
throw them out. Later.”

“After you have one last one?”

She’d hit the truth dead on. Pres couldn’t deny
it, and she smiled. But her smile was more sad than triumphant.

Pres took the pack from his pocket and handed them to Zander. “Do me a favor and toss these in the trash can over near the door.”

Molly gazed at Preston Seaholm. He might’ve had her son believing him, but she was no ten-year-old innocent. Even throwing the cigarettes away meant nothing. She knew quite well that he probably had another pack in his car, or in his desk at his office, or at home in his kitchen drawer. … And if not, he could simply buy another pack of cigarettes in just about every store on the island.

But Zander was sold.

“Hey, here’s a story you’re going to like,” Pres said to Zander as he came back to the table. “I got a call this morning from a guy I know who lives on a boat out near St. John in the Virgin Islands. He owns a scuba-diving salvage company—if you lose something on the bottom of the ocean, he’s the guy you call to go in after it and bring it back up for you.”

Zander glanced at Molly, puzzlement in his eyes. She knew exactly which word had tripped
him up. “Scuba,” she told him in sign language, spelling out the letters of the word with her hands, saying it aloud as he watched her lips. She wasn’t sure he understood, but he looked back at Pres expectantly.

“Scuba diving is when you put on a wet suit and you strap a big tank of air onto your back and swim underneath the water,” Pres explained to the boy. “You don’t have to come up to take a breath for a really long time because you’re carrying all the air you’ll need with you. You wear a mask on your face so you can open your eyes underwater, and flippers on your feet to help you swim faster. It’s fun. It’s the next best thing to being a fish.”

Zander signed to Molly, “You wear what on your feet?”

“Flippers,” she signed back. “Rubber flippers, kind of like ducks’ feet.”

He brightened, quickly moving his hands to say, “Like those people we saw on the beach?”

Molly glanced up at Pres, aware of him watching them, aware that he couldn’t understand their silent communications. “Yesterday Zander and I saw some teenagers on the beach,” she told him.
“They were wearing flippers and face masks, but I don’t think they were scuba divers.”

“Probably snorkelers,” Pres said. “Snorkeling masks have a short tube that leads up to the air. There’s no heavy tank to worry about. But you have to swim right up near the surface of the water. I like scuba diving better, myself.”

“You know how to scuba-dive?”

Molly glanced at her son, aware that he was getting a serious case of hero worship.

“Yeah.” Pres smiled at the boy. “And remember that guy I was telling you about? The one who lives on a boat? Well, he gave me a call this morning, because they had a big storm a couple of nights ago, too, and that storm kicked up the sand underneath the water and unburied a shipwreck.”

Zander leaned forward. “A
what?”

“Shipwreck,” Pres repeated. “A ship—big sailing boat—that sank in the ocean during a storm, a long time ago. My friend thinks this one went down maybe as much as three hundred years ago.”

Zander’s eyes lit up. “You mean, like a pirate’s ship?”

“It might’ve been.”

“Carrying buried treasure?”

“I sure hope so.” Pres’s eyes were lit with that same excitement. “This friend of mine called to ask me if I wanted to help with the salvage effort.”