Otherwise Engaged (6 page)

“The
what?”

Molly leaned forward, ready to explain the word to her son, sure Pres would be tired of the boy’s constant questions. But as she spelled the new word out for Zander, Pres watched her hands.

“Salvage means to save all of the things on the ship that haven’t been destroyed by being underwater for hundreds of years,” Pres explained. “It means to pull all of the plates and spoons and pewter mugs that you find back up to the surface.”

“Spoons?” Zander was scornful. “I’d rather find gold coins—you know,
real
treasure.”

“But sometimes the spoons
are
the treasure,” Pres told him. “Can you imagine owning a spoon that some sailor—or pirate—used back when Shakespeare was still alive?”

Zander didn’t look convinced.

“Shakespeare,” Pres repeated. “Another one of those
S
words.” He mimicked one of the hand motions Molly had made, making a fist with his thumb on top of his fingers. “Is this an 5?” he asked.

She nodded, startled that he would’ve been able to pick that up just from watching.

“S
is one of the sounds you have trouble hearing, huh?” Pres asked, making the motion again with his hand.

Molly started to answer, but stopped. He’d asked Zander, not her. So many people, even those with the best intentions, talked over Z’s head when asking questions about his hearing impairment. Even his new school principal, as nice as she was, had done that. But not Pres.

Zander nodded. “Yeah.”

“And
sh
is hard for you to hear, too, right?” Pres asked. “How do you make an
H
?”

Zander showed him, and Pres imitated the position with his own hand.

“This is very cool,” Pres told Zander. “You know, when you scuba-dive, when you’re underwater,
nobody
can hear. Knowing sign language
would be a real plus. Divers who knew sign language would have a real advantage.”

“Are you going to dive down to that ship and look for the buried treasure?” Zander asked eagerly.

“I hope so,” Preston said. “I’m going to fly down to St. John in a couple days.”

“Isn’t diving dangerous?” Molly couldn’t keep the question from slipping out.

Pres glanced at her. “It has its moments of excitement,” he said, as if that were a good thing. “Diving around a wreck can be particularly … challenging.”

Zander could barely sit still. “Will you teach me to scuba-dive?”

Pres glanced up again, directly into Molly’s eyes. No. He could read the crystal-blue warning quite clearly. “It’s really not dangerous,” he told her.

She turned to her son. “Mr. Seaholm couldn’t possibly have the time to teach you.” She turned back to Pres. “Isn’t that right?”

Pres hesitated. It wasn’t true. He did have time. And he liked Zander—almost as much as he liked Zander’s mother. But she very obviously didn’t
want him teaching her son to scuba-dive. “You’re only ten, right?”

Zander nodded. “Ten and a half.”

“Well, you have to be twelve before you can take diving lessons and get certified. And if you’re not certified, you can’t dive.”

Zander’s face fell.

“But you need to know how to snorkel before you learn to dive, and I
can
teach you that.”

“I guess so.” Zander wasn’t convinced.

Neither was Molly. “I don’t know about snorkeling either. We’ll have to talk about it.”

“Can I have another quarter for the video game?” Zander asked.

Molly fished in her purse, but Pres beat her to it, pulling a quarter from his pocket and handing it to her son. In a flash the boy was gone. Molly dug a quarter free and put it down on the table in front of Pres.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asked, pushing it back in front of her.

“No.” She pushed it back to his side of the table.

Pres put his hand over hers, trapping both it and the quarter on the table.

“First of all,” he said, “learning to scuba-dive is
not
dangerous. Beginners’ lessons are taught in a swimming pool. And secondly, if you’re not going to let me teach him to snorkel, you can at least let me treat your kid to a lousy video game.”

She looked up at him, and he was taken aback by the vulnerability in her eyes. “The thought of him learning to scuba-dive scares me to death, and I know if he learns to snorkel he’ll want to learn to dive.”

“Then maybe you should learn too. I could give you both lessons. And then you’d see it’s not so—”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you should try it. Sometimes all you need is just to try something once, and then it’s not so frightening.” He was talking about more than scuba diving now. He was talking about her reluctance to go out with him, to have dinner, to acknowledge the hot attraction that flared between them.

“I’m not a strong swimmer either,” Molly told him.

“So we can take it slow.”

Molly smiled at him suddenly, a sweet, rueful smile. “Why are we suddenly talking in code?”

“Because it’s easier that way. For some reason, you’re determined to keep your distance from me. And if I were to just come right out and tell you that I can’t stop thinking about you …”

Molly covered her sudden rush of confusion with a laugh, pulling her hand out from underneath his. “I thought it was my
house
you couldn’t stop thinking about.”

“What house?” Preston said.

“You’re wasting your time,” she told him. “Both on me
and
my house.”

Pres just smiled, glancing at his watch. “I have to get going.” He stood up. “I’ll call you tomorrow with a recommendation for a roofer, okay?” He started for the door, raising his voice so Zander could hear him. “Catch you later, Zander!”

Then he was out the door. Molly found herself staring after him, watching his surefooted, confident stride as he walked away. She pulled her gaze away, suddenly uncomfortably aware that she was staring at the man’s perfect rear end.

Zander looked up from the alien horde long
enough to glance back at his mother. “Pres is
so
cool.”

Cool? Not quite the word Molly had been thinking. Pres Seaholm was hot.
Too
hot. And she wasn’t the type who ever played with fire.

It was almost a shame.

“M
R
. S
EAHOLM
, how much exactly are you worth?”

“Mr. Seaholm, can you tell us your ex-wife’s reaction to your being chosen Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year?”

“Mr. Seaholm, why won’t you pose for the photo spread in
Fantasy Man
magazine?”

“Mr. Seaholm—”

Pres could see Dom standing at the edge of the resort’s main covered deck, back behind the rows of seated reporters and news cameras. Dom held his gaze, silently offering support as Pres
approached the wall of microphones that had been set up in front of a wooden podium.

“I think,” he began, and paused, waiting for the hubbub to die down. “I think this would work out a whole lot better if I took questions one at a time.” He motioned to a friendly-looking gray-haired lady seated in the front row. He’d let himself warm up with a few easy, polite questions, and work his way up to the big-haired blonde in the leopard-print dress who was sure to ask him about his ex-wife. “Ma’am?”

“Camilla Carter,
Southwestern Florida News,”
the sweet-faced older lady identified herself. “Mr. Seaholm, is it true that during her so-called marriage to you, Merrilee Fender was also sleeping with studio head Robert Taggart, as well as director Richie Guiness?”

Oh, God. So much for starting with the easy questions. The deck was nearly silent as Pres looked back at Dom again. The dark-haired man was slowly shaking his head in disgust.

Pres leaned toward the bank of microphones. “I’m sorry, Ms. Carter,” he said. “Miss Fender seems to have failed to show up for this press conference.
You’ll have to save your questions for her for the next time you see her.”

A man stood up in the third row, blinking owlishly at him from behind a thick pair of glasses. “Mr. Seaholm, will you comment on the rumors that the dozens of cocktail waitresses and maids you have working at the Seaholm Resort are in truth your own private harem?”

What? Pres had to laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

The owl man didn’t crack a smile. “No, sir.”

“Where the hell do you guys
get
these questions?”

“Is that a denial, sir?”

“Damn right it’s a denial!”

Another man stood up. “Mr. Seaholm, your divorce agreement with Merrilee Fender included no alimony payments or financial settlement of any kind, the implication being that Miss Fender was desperate enough to be released from the marriage to forgo any financial reimbursement. The initial expectation was that there was another man involved, but it’s been two years and Miss Fender is still unattached. Current speculation
concerns your ability—or inability, as it were—to perform sexually. Would you care to comment?”

Current speculation … His inability to perform sexually … Dear Lord, were there really people sitting around out there spending their time wondering if he and Merrilee had divorced because he was unable to get it up? Pres looked across the deck at Dominic, who had covered his eyes with one hand. Dom couldn’t help him. No one could help him here.

He wanted to turn and walk away. He almost did, but he was aware of the cameras on him, watching, waiting. If he walked away, it would look as if he were confirming everything the reporter had said. He knew he shouldn’t give a damn what other people thought, but in this particular case, he did.

So he didn’t simply leave. Instead, he fixed the reporter with his iciest stare.

“What gives you the right,” he said softly, dangerously, “to come here and ask me questions about my sexual ability?” He included the rest of the reporters as he swept his gaze around the room and his voice grew louder. “What gives
any
of you the right to ask me questions that are so
personal, they’d make your mothers blush? For the record, ladies and gentlemen, my sexual relationship with my ex-wife was
not
where my marriage failed. Also for the record, I didn’t ask to be named Most Eligible
Anything
. I didn’t want the title, still don’t want the title, but I was told it was too late,
Fantasy Man
magazine had already awarded me the extremely dubious honor.”

Pres paused, and a reporter stood up.

“Mr. Seaholm, is there truth to the rumors that you are a violent man?”

Pres knew in that instant that there was nothing he could say, no amount of guilt or fist-shaking, no pleas for respect and decency that would make these insane questions end. He looked across the deck again, and met the sympathy in Dom’s gaze. Short of getting married, Dom had told him, there was nothing he could do to avoid this torture.

Short of getting married …

With a flash of inspiration, Pres knew exactly how to end this ridiculous game once and for all.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said into the bank of microphones. “I value my privacy above just about everything, and consider my
personal relationships to be very private matters. But the truth is,” he lied, “since several days ago I’m no longer an ‘eligible bachelor.’ The truth is, I’m engaged to be married.”

Married. Pres Seaholm was engaged to be
married
. Molly didn’t know which she should feel more disgusted about—the fact that the man had asked her out to dinner despite being attached, or the fact that the man’s marital status was considered worthy of the eleven o’clock news.

She flipped the channel on the remote control to another station. A dark-haired man was speaking. There was a caption identifying him as Dominic Defeo, Seaholm Resort.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Seaholm has no intention of disclosing his fiancée’s name,” he said in a disdainful drawl that dripped old New England money.

“Mr. Seaholm may have no intention of revealing the identity of his mysterious fiancée,” the news anchor said, smiling into the camera, “but this photo, taken by a reporter from the
Florida Sun Times
just may have given his secret away.”

Molly dropped the remote.

That was
her
picture on the screen. With Preston Seaholm. They were sitting across from one another in the window booth at Paulo’s Pizzeria. The photo was taken at some distance, through the windowpane, but it was definitely the two of them. He was holding her hand. When had she let him hold her hand …? The quarter. She was trying to give him back his damned quarter. He was leaning forward, his gaze intense, almost hungry. And she—she was smiling at him. Lord, look at the way she was grinning foolishly at him, looking for all the world as if she were welcoming his attention.

“Local sources identify the young woman as Molly Cassidy, a new resident of Sunrise Key.”

There was a rapping on the French doors that led to the back patio, and Molly jumped.

Preston Seaholm was standing outside in the dim moonlight. He glanced from her to the television set as she scrambled to her feet, turning off the TV as she passed it, and unlocked the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said as she let him in. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It just … I didn’t want to stand
out front where everyone could see me, and … I guess you’ve seen the news.”

Molly crossed her arms. Cool and collected Pres Seaholm was flustered and embarrassed. It would have been amusing if the entire situation hadn’t been so obviously upsetting to him. She’d watched the interview, seen his angry reaction to the insensitive questions he’d been asked.

“They think I’m your fiancée,” she said, locking the door behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I had no idea they would jump to conclusions that way.”

“Your real fiancée must not be too happy about all this.”

He wasn’t wearing his so-called going-out-in-public clothes. He was dressed in a softly faded black T-shirt and a colorful pair of shorts. “I don’t really have a fiancée,” he admitted, chagrin in his eyes.

He didn’t have a fiancée. So what? Big deal. That news shouldn’t make her feel so damned happy. It shouldn’t make her feel anything at all.