The Tycoon Meets His Match (4 page)

“The point is,” Trae continued with a dismissive wave of her hand, “the poor girl is obviously confused. She needs to talk about this marriage. To someone other than yourself. The minute we reach that island…”

Cursing under his breath, Rhys glanced at his watch. “Damn, what am I doing?” Dropping what little remained of his sandwich, he rose and raced to the door.

“What’s wrong?” Trae called out. “Where are you going?”

“The bridge. At this speed, we’ll be slamming into the island in fifteen minutes.”

What had he been thinking, letting himself get so distracted? He must be more tired than he thought. How could he get so involved in Trae’s incessant chatter that he’d put his boat—not to mention their lives—at risk?

Then again, had it merely been her chatter that had him so distracted?

Against his will, he recalled the sudden rush of desire as his hand had touched hers over the bread. He’d been caught off guard by how slender her hand had been, how soft and warm. Just like he’d been surprised by the unexpected view of her full white breasts, which had left him wondering if they were as soft and warm as her hands…

“Here.”

Wheeling around, he found Trae behind him, holding two mugs. He hoped she didn’t plan to make a habit of popping out at him from unexpected places while he was engrossed in his thoughts. Especially
those
thoughts.

Ignoring his frown, she smiled as she offered him one of the mugs. “I made coffee. I figured we both could use it.”

He took the mug. As the rich, aromatic steam teased his nostrils, he could feel his anger dissipate. Trae was right, he decided after a long, reviving gulp. He did need it.

He did not, however, need her on his boat. Or interfering with Lucie. Studiously ignoring his unwanted passenger, he concentrated on bringing them into port.

“I thought of something while I was below,” Trae said, oblivious to his displeasure. “In all the confusion, I had no time to grab my passport. Will there be trouble when we dock?”

“We’ll be mooring at my place.” Keeping one hand on the wheel, he gestured to the cove on the starboard side. “No one should question you there.”

What he didn’t bother to add was that while getting onto the island should be easy enough, getting off again might pose a problem. For her, anyway.

He had no intention of sticking around to find out. Once they docked, she was on her own.

Misinterpreting his smile, she returned it with one of her own. “This coffee sure hits the spot, doesn’t it? I know I needed it. I took this pill for seasickness and it’s got me feeling so groggy, I could have cotton balls jammed in my head. I guess it’s made me a tad grumpy. I blurted out things I probably shouldn’t have.”

Man, the woman could talk. “Your point is?”

He saw the flash of anger, just for an instant, but she clamped down on it with an impressive exhibition of will. “My point is, I’m sorry. For getting in the way, for hiding in your closet, for everything.”

“Everything?”

This time she wasn’t quite as successful at hiding her temper. Green eyes flashing, she glared at him over the top of her coffee cup. “I’m not apologizing for wanting to help Lucie, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“All I’ve ever asked is that you stop interfering in my life.”

“I’m not…” Her hands tightened around the mug, but with a sigh, she tried again. “Look, Paxton, I’ve said things and you’ve said things, some justified and some downright nasty. But right now, this is about Lucie. About her safety and future happiness. Can’t we put aside our differences until we’re sure she’s all right?”

“Are you suggesting a truce?” he asked, incredulous. The woman barged in on his boat, berated and insulted him, and then expected his help in ruining his life?

“Yes,” she said, beaming as she held out a hand.

Studiously ignoring it—as well as her question—he shut down the engines. “Hit that switch, will you?” he said, hoping to distract her. “We need to lower the anchor.”

Gazing around them, hand still extended, she looked as if someone had just yanked the rug from beneath her feet. “We’re stopping here? In the middle of the water? Not at the pier over there?”

“It’s for smaller boats. If I take this yacht any closer to shore, she’s likely to run aground. I generally use the skiff to get to the beach.”

“Oh.” Grinning sheepishly, she pulled the switch. “Don’t mind me. I’m not very nautical.”

No kidding, he thought, eyeing her fitted green skirt and bare feet. “It won’t be easy climbing in and out of the skiff in that outfit,” he told her. “Why don’t you look through Lucie’s bags? I took then down to the cabin earlier. Maybe you can find something more suitable. You can change down below while I finish docking.”

“Good idea. Thanks.”

He said nothing as she went below, knowing that in truth, he wasn’t being helpful at all. While she was below, he planned to get the skiff in the water. If he hurried, he could get to the island—and, more important, to Lucie—before Trae realized he was gone.

It took less than five minutes to get the skiff in the water. He was about to shove off when he heard Trae behind him. “Oh, here you are. For a minute, I thought you’d left without me.”

Rhys saw no reason to grace that with an answer.

Besides, he was robbed of speech when he saw her new outfit. Riding low on her hips and high on her thighs, the red shorts showed off an alarming expanse of smooth, tanned leg. The white T-shirt left even less to the imagination.

He didn’t help her into the skiff, knowing better than to risk coming in contact with all that exposed flesh. More to the point, Trae didn’t allow it. Dragging a suitcase behind her, she stepped over the rail and dropped into the boat before Rhys could recover his wits. “I figured Lucie might want her things,” she offered in explanation.

Cursing her soundly under his breath, he shoved off and motored their way to the beach.

None too happily, either. Having Trae around changed everything. How could he hope to talk Lucie out of what was so clearly a case of cold feet with her so-called best friend chattering in her other ear? That they’d eventually get married wasn’t in doubt—he and Lucie had talked about and planned for this far too long—but Trae’s interference could cause a lengthy and costly delay. Look at the damage she’d done already.

Frowning, he thought about their engagement party. Trust Trae to bring that up—he’d known for years that she’d been behind Lucie’s “impulsive whim” to visit London. How like her to toss it in his face, as if he were to blame for Lucie’s erratic behavior. Mitsy Beckwith had always maintained “that Andrelini person” was a bad influence on her daughter, and in this one thing, Rhys was in total agreement.

He had to get rid of her. For Lucie’s sake, if not his own.

Not that she hadn’t anticipated it. Figuring she had maybe five minutes while he moored the yacht, she’d grabbed the first clothes she could find. An unfortunate choice, it turned out, since she could scarcely breathe in Lucie’s short shorts and T-shirt. There had been no time to change into something else, though, not if she hoped to get to the skiff first. Yet despite her rush, Rhys had still managed to get there before her.

Eyeing his house as they approached the shoreline, she felt her first misgivings. Rising up from the beach, the vast white colonial sprawled along the grassy knoll like a sleeping giant. A collection of structures in assorted pastels—each topped with a red–tiled roof—formed a maze around the main dwelling. So much for the simple vacation cottage she’d pictured. “Wow,” she thought aloud. “It sure is…big.”

“Some structures house the staff, but most are sheds and outbuildings.”

Awed by the vastness of the place, Trae saw how it gave him a distinct advantage. It being his house and all, he’d know exactly where to find Lucie.

While Trae hadn’t the slightest clue.

Hazarding a guess, she decided to try the main building. To reach the wraparound porch ahead of him, though, she’d have to take off running the instant they reached the dock. With any luck she should have a step or two while Rhys had to stop and tie off the skiff.

Poised and ready to leap onto the dock, she was caught completely off guard when Rhys sped past the dock to run the boat up onto the beach. Yanking up the motor in a swift fluid motion, he leaped into the water and took off running.

“You just wrecked your five-hundred-dollar shoes,” she called out as she scrambled after him.

Not that he seemed to care. With all his money, he probably had another hundred pairs waiting upstairs in a closet.

Watching Rhys reach the porch steps, she said goodbye to her last hope of outracing him to her friend. All she could do now was stand outside and yell. “Lucie,” she shouted at the house, hoping her friend would hear her. “Lucie, come outside. We need to talk.”

As if in answer, the door burst open, but it wasn’t Lucie who collided with Rhys. A short, dark, middle-aged woman pulled up short, her alert gaze flashing between them. His housekeeper, Trae assumed, because of the black dress and white apron.

“I heard shouting,” the woman said, looking from one to the other of them. “Is something the matter, Mr. Paxton?”

“No.” His curt, clipped denial clearly surprised him as much as his housekeeper. “Everything’s fine, Rosa. I’m just looking for Miss Beckwith. Is she upstairs?”

“She’s not here, Mr. Paxton,” Rosa said, a frown creasing her weathered features. “Didn’t she call you? She left late last night.”

Rhys turned back to glare at Trae, as if somehow this, too, was her fault. Reining in his temper, he addressed his housekeeper again. “Did she say where she was going?”

Rosa shook her head. “All I know is she told my boy Raymond to take her to Miami in that old fishing boat of his.”

“That’s it? She said nothing else?”

Rosa shook her graying head. “Only that she was sorry. And that she left her wedding dress upstairs. She hoped you’d send it back to her mother.”

Watching his shoulders sag, Trae might have felt sympathy had she not been struggling with her own disappointment. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on finding Lucie here, safe and sound.

Inhaling deeply, she approached the porch. “This changes things considerably,” she told Rhys. “We can’t waste time here. We need to hurry back to Miami and see if we can find her at the docks.”

“You’re right, of course,” he said, running a harried hand through his hair. “Only, just so we’re clear, there’s no ‘we’ about this. I’m returning to Miami alone.” Straightening, he started off for the skiff.

She grabbed his arm. “Whoa, wait a minute. You can’t just leave me here.”

“And why not? I’m under no obligation to transport a stowaway. Besides, you don’t have a passport. You can’t expect me to take the chance that I’ll be stopped by the harbor patrol.”

“That’s low, Paxton. Even for you.”

Shrugging, he removed her hand from his arm. “I’ve no doubt you’ll manage to scheme your way off the island before too long. In the meantime, Rosa will make sure you have food and a place to sleep.”

Watching him walk off, Trae felt the heat rise up in her body. “What happened to working together? I thought we had a truce.”

“Actually,” he said over his shoulder, “if you’ll remember, I never agreed to anything.”

Thinking back, she realized he’d changed the subject by asking her to help drop the anchor. “Why, you…”

“Goodbye, Trae.” He kept going, his long, steady strides getting him into the skiff well before she could reach the shore. Watching him motor off, she wanted to scream. She wanted to stomp and shake her fist in the air, but none of these things would help her one iota. “I thought you were a gentleman,” she called out, anyway. “You didn’t even leave me a change of clothing.”

“Here.” In answer, he tossed Lucie’s suitcase in the water. “Only this time, try to find something that fits.”

She could have told him that she was well aware of how ridiculous her outfit was. She could also flip him the gesture her brothers seemed so fond of, but knew she had better retrieve the suitcase before it sank.

“That man is the devil incarnate,” she muttered under her breath as she dragged the bags to the porch.

“Oh, no, ma’am.” Coming up behind her to take the suitcase, Rosa gently shook her head. “Here on the island, we consider Mr. Paxton a saint.”

Inviting Trae inside while she made coffee, Rosa continued extolling the man’s virtues. Her family would be homeless, she claimed, had Mr. Paxton not helped them after last year’s hurricane. Not only had he provided them with cash, he’d come down there and helped rebuild their homes with his own bare hands.

Trae let her go on for a while because Rosa seemed sweet and it was only natural she’d feel compelled to defend her employer. Besides, Trae needed that second cup of coffee.

However, after fifteen minutes of listening to the woman drone on, not even the lure of caffeine could keep Trae in her chair. Actions spoke louder than words, after all, and that so-called saint had just stranded her on this island. Asking to use the phone, Trae decided it was high time she made her own plans to go after Lucie.

Upstairs, gazing at the huge four-poster bed, Trae realized she should have had the third cup of coffee, after all. Refusing to give in to the temptation to lie down, she made her calls.

Her first was to Quinn, who proved sympathetic after hearing about the night’s events. Technically, a passport was required to get off the island, she said, but fishing boats made the trip from the Bahamas to the States every day. Her advice was to try to charter one and, if worse came to worst, to call her immediately. She had a connection in customs who owed her a favor.

Hanging up, wishing for the hundredth time that she still had her cell phone, Trae decided to check to see if Lucie had tried to call her.

She had four messages. The first had come in late last night—Quinn, demanding to know what was happening. Next was Alana, wishing her luck. Then her mother, reminding her not to miss next Sunday’s family dinner. Rolling her eyes, she wondered how she could ever forget when the woman called twice each week with the same reminder.

On the fourth, she heard Lucie’s soft, breathy voice. Clutching the phone as she tried to decipher the garbled message, Trae felt the first, faint stirring of hope. Surely it was a good thing that Lucie wasn’t heading back to Rhys with her tail between her legs. That she was setting off on her own, determined to find a man she could madly, deliriously, head-over-heels love. The fact that said man wasn’t Rhys, that Lucie was still running
away
from him, reinforced Trae’s decision to help her.

When she replayed the message, though, her euphoria faded. What did Lucie mean, going back to where she had taken her first wrong turn? When had her life seemed less complicated?

And then with a sudden, sinking feeling, Trae knew Lucie was referring to her college days. And more specifically, to Bobby Boudreaux.

The ultimate bad boy, with his blond, surfer looks and slow, sexy drawl, Bobby was a far cry from the staid and proper Rhys Paxton. To a parent, Bobby might represent the ultimate nightmare, but for a young, sheltered coed like Lucie Beckwith, he’d been walking, talking excitement. For all Trae knew, Lucie might have stayed with him forever, if not for their brief stint in the Mexican jail.

Rhys had meant to leave Bobby there, Trae later learned. It wasn’t until Lucie had promised never to see him again that Rhys secured his release. Lucie had kept their agreement, insisting Rhys knew what was best for her, but she’d never stopped regretting it. She’d been asking herself
what if?
ever since.

Faced with the prospect of Lucie’s hooking up with Bobby Boudreaux again, Trae raced down the stairs two at a time. She had to get off this island immediately. Alone, vulnerable and naturally impetuous, her poor friend could land herself in a real fix this time.

Trae had to find Lucie before it was too late.