She's the One (Lowcountry Lovers Series Book 2) (2 page)

Damn, if he didn’t find himself creating reasons to see her. He was a contractor. She was a realtor and property manager, so it wasn’t like he had to think too hard for an excuse. But a woman with that kind of power was dangerous. He’d had dangerous before. Been there, bought the t-shirt, thank you very much, and it had ended
badly
. He didn’t like feeling powerless around Melissa. Maybe having sex with her would get her out of his system. Or wreck his perfectly constructed life.

“Shane?”

He didn’t realize, before he’d zoned out, he’d been staring at her breasts. Still staring. He shook his head. She dropped the little, gold starfish charm, and it fell just above what one of his workers had called her great rack. While the guy was right, Shane had made it clear that nobody was to even think things like that about his clients, much less say them. Shane was surprised he’d gotten so angry, but the guy got it—take out the word client and insert Melissa Bliss.

He couldn’t blame the guy; Melissa was aptly named. Every inch, every curve of her body was pure bliss. While Shane liked his women dark-haired and dark-eyed, tall and tanned, he was attracted to the perfect petite strawberry blond. Too damn attracted.

Shane shook his head. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“The invoice. For the sign. Do you have one for me?”

“Oh, yeah, Marty’s sending it over.” At least he’d told her to. He could run it back by Island Bliss later. Put it right on Melissa’s desk. It would give him another chance to see her. Christ, was he really that much of a goner? Maybe. Probably.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Melissa pulled an iPad out of the huge purse she carried. The thing was as big as a pillowcase, and seemed to hold an endless amount of stuff. She scrolled down until she found what she was looking for. “The Jordan’s house on 42nd Street, it’s one of my listings, and I have a contract on it. It’s contingent on whether or not the potential buyers can make the renovations they have in mind for the place. Wanna meet me there to take a look at it with them?”

Shane knew the house well, it was borderline perfection, and these clowns want to screw with that? They’d make
great
clients, but if it would get him some more face time with Melissa... “Sure. What time?”

“Around three. I know this is last minute, Shane, so if something happens and you can’t come—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.” And there he went again, dropping whatever he had to do, which included an appointment with the City Planning Commission and a drive by on a house he was building in Summerville. Maybe he needed to just forget about Melissa Bliss, and move on.
Yeah, tell that to my dreams.

“Thanks, Shane. This sale is a biggie,” she called over her shoulder.

He watched her sweet ass swaying in her short skirt as she walked away.

“Hey, boss?” Shane waited until the door closed behind her to see what Rowdy wanted. The kid was a full-time student, putting himself through school, and he was less intimidated by Shane than the other guys were when it came to Melissa. “Walk the walk.”

M
elissa was eating the last of her sandwich when her cell phone rang. She recognized the number from the forty-two other calls she’d received from Savannah Sinclair leading up to today. Melissa didn’t mind. Sure, Savannah was a little anal about planning things to the nth degree, but there was something about her that was likeable, something more than just being a long-term guest on the island, and more than donating a gazillion dollars for the new children’s wing at the Medical College of South Carolina University Hospital.

Savannah was sweet, a little quirky, and in her last phone call, during a heart-to-heart moment, she’d tearfully confessed she was coming to the Isle of Palms to mend her broken heart that had refused to heal, even three years after her divorce. Of course, she had no idea she was talking to a bona fide professional in matters of the heart. She just wanted to spend a few weeks on the Isle of Palms, see Charleston, and maybe look into buying a property, if she fell in love with one. Meeting someone would be great, but if she didn’t, she said coming to the island was the really first nice thing she’d done for herself since she and her husband split.

“Hey, Savannah. Are you almost to the exit?”

“My GPS says I’m ten minutes away.”

“Great. I can’t wait for you to see your place and the island.”

“Do you have time to grab some lunch?”

“I was just going to ask you the same thing. Pick me up at the office, we’ll swing by the townhouse, drop off your stuff, and eat at a cute little place here on the island.”

“Fabulous. See you in a few.”

Melissa hung up the phone, grabbed her purse, and headed out of her office.

“Pearl, Savannah will be here in a few minutes. I’m going to run her over to the duplex, get her settled in, and take her to lunch.”

“Sounds like you’ll be cutting it awful close. You told the Gladstones you’d meet them at three.”

“Shane’s still out here; I’ll tell him I may be a few minutes late. He’s perfectly capable of charming the Gladstones until I get there.”

“He’s perfectly capable of charming something else if you’d let him. Uh hmmm.” Pearl’s know-it-all sound. “That Shane Carver is a good-looking man. And did you notice that baseball butt? I sure did, and I’ll bet you did, too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and what in the hell is a baseball butt?”

“You think I’ve been watching the Braves games with Henry for forty-years for the baseball? Take a look tonight, they’re playing the Dodgers. You’ll see what I mean.”

“I’m ignoring your crazy talk about Shane. For the billionth time, knock it off. We’re just friends.
And
I’m leaving now.”

Melissa stopped in the entrance doorway. Shane was still in the parking lot with his back to her, talking to one of his men. She wasn’t checking him out, but he was standing right there. It would have been rude to interrupt.

“Uh hmmm,” Pearl chuckled. “See what I mean?”

Shane Carver had a nice ass, so what? Their relationship was strictly professional, except he always dropped whatever he was doing whenever she asked him to help her. But still.

“I’m going to have lunch with a client, Shane. I may be a little late meeting with the Gladstones, can you handle them until I get there?”

“Don’t I always?” Okay, so he’d done this a time or twelve. “I’ve got a better idea, I’ll pick you up wherever you’re having lunch, and I’ll get you there at three on the dot. These people don’t sound like the type who understands island time.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right, but no need to pick me up. If I can just catch a ride back to the office with you after the meeting, I’ll have Savannah drop me off at the Jordan’s house.”

A
lmost on cue, at 1:30 on the dot, a sleek, black Maserati sedan pulled up. The passenger window went down and a woman, maybe in her mid-thirties, leaned toward the opening. “Hi, I’m Savannah. You aren’t, by any chance, Melissa Bliss, are you?”

Wow. For someone with such a flashy car, Savannah wasn’t at all what Melissa expected. She didn’t look anything like she did when she was a fixture in the tabloids years ago. Still, she was pretty in a classic sort of way. No makeup, dressed in jeans, and a well-worn Red Sox t-shirt.

“Hi, Savannah. Welcome to the Isle of Palms.” Melissa introduced her to Shane, and eyed the two of them as they exchanged pleasantries. Hmm. No sparks. Not even a fizzle. Nothing.

“I’m so excited, Melissa. Hop in and show me my home for the next four weeks.”

Melissa looked at Shane. “See you soon?”

He gave her a look that was all heat, when he should have been ogling the blond in the car, and then grinned after he’d made her blush. “You bet.”

A
lot of Yankees who came to the island to buy or to stay short term had money, and all of them acted the part. While Melissa talked a mile a minute, telling Savannah all about the island, she wondered why someone of Savannah’s means was traveling without a companion or a staff. Why had she driven all the way from Boston? Although, if Melissa owned Savannah’s car, she would have driven instead of flying commercial. But Savannah was the kind of girl who probably had a fleet of private jets or at the very least a jet service.

In the times they’d talked, Savannah hadn’t said much about the divorce, except that it had gutted her. Years ago, running with Paris Hilton’s crowd, Savannah had been a fixture in the tabloids. The press had a feeding frenzy over that group of trust-fund babies who lived to party and make headlines. And then Savannah met her husband and everything changed, or at least
she
changed.

Even though Savannah didn’t give them anything to write about and seemed to be living a normal life, it made the paparazzi even more ravenous for anything that that might make the rags. There were lots of pictures of her and her husband avoiding the press. And when they had to appear at some function, he looked like a pallbearer and she looked almost afraid of the media attention she once clamored for.

Okay, Melissa had snooped a bit, trying to find some more details about Savannah, but surprisingly, there were very few after the divorce, and nothing about Savannah’s ex-husband, Doctor Jack Johns. It was as if he ceased to exist after the split.

Savannah took her maiden name back and it seemed she used her power and influence to erase her marriage, herself, and made sure both stayed invisible. As the third richest woman in the country, she was the kind of girl who could afford to have a round-the-clock legal and techno wizards making sure she stayed out of the news. The only thing she couldn’t erase, the date of her marriage to Jack Johns, and the date of her divorce not even two years later.

Melissa was understandably nervous about a woman of Savannah’s means seeing the small townhome Melissa had picked out online. She was sure someone like Savannah would be disappointed when they pulled into the driveway of the modest duplex on the beach. But Savannah just sat there with a huge grin on her face for so long, Melissa almost expected her to laugh out loud, like the house was some kind of a joke. And then she did laugh.

Maybe lunch at the Acme Grill on the island wouldn’t be up to her standards either. Maybe Melissa needed to pull some strings and get them into one of the swanky Charleston country clubs.

“Savannah, if the house isn’t to your liking, I have other properties I can—”

“It’s perfect,” she said, getting out of the car and grabbing one of her suitcases from the back. “Just what I was hoping for.”

“Really?” Wow, Savannah Austin Montigue Sinclair, formerly Johns, was just full of surprises. “And it’s for sale.”