No, his gaze was locked on long limbs, a narrow waist, and curves that begged to be handled. Her breasts were small, budded with rose-colored nipples, her womanhood a simple sliver of ebony that matched the hair tied up in a sloppy, sexy mess on her head.
Finally, she stretched, widening her arms, yawning again, giving him a centerfold-worthy view as her breasts lifted higher. Every functioning blood cell tumbled south, leaving his brain a total blank and his cock well on its way to being as hard as the planks of African wood in his truck.
Son of a bitch. He backed up, ducking behind the oleander and cursing himself for being some kind of pervie peeping Tom. He had to get back down the path, and return—noisily, in his truck—and find out who the hell she was.
A footstep hit the wood deck and Will inched to the side, unable to stop himself from looking. At least she had a thin white top on now, and panties. And she’d taken off the sleep—
His heart stopped for at least four beats, then slammed into quadruple time.
Jocelyn.
Was it possible? Was he imagining things? Was this a mirage spurred by a couple of lousy pictures in the media and three days of fantasies and frustration?
She reached up and pulled a clip from her hair, sending the thick, black mane over her shoulders like an inky waterfall. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes and turned her face to the rising sun.
All doubt disappeared. That was Jocelyn Mary Bloom, the girl next door, the teenager who made his every dream come true, the woman he—
Her eyes popped open and her head whipped around toward him. “Is someone there?”
Make a joke. Say something funny. Walk, smile, talk. C’mon William Palmer, don’t just stand here and gawk like you’ve never seen a female before.
“It’s me.”
She squinted into the bushes, then reared back in shock as he stepped full out and revealed himself. Her lips moved, mouthing his name, but no real sound came out.
“Will,” he said for her. “I thought someone was trespassing.”
She just stared, jaw loose, eyes wide, every muscle frozen like she’d been carved out of ice.
He fought the urge to launch forward, take the three stairs up to the deck in one bound and… thaw her. But, holy hell, he knew better with Jocelyn Bloom. One false move and poof! Empty hands.
“What are you doing here?” They spoke the words in perfect unison, then laughed softly at the awkward moment.
Not really awkward, though. They’d always been of one mind; she just hadn’t realized it. Yet.
“Lacey brought you here?” he guessed.
She nodded, reaching up to run a hand through that mass of midnight hair, then, as if she suddenly realized how little she had on, she stepped back into the shadows of the villa, but he could still see her face. That beautiful face he’d always lo—
“How about you?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and wayward thoughts. “I work here.”
She looked completely baffled. “You play baseball.”
“Not anymore. I build villas. Like the one you slept in last night.”
“Lacey said I’d be the first guest. I’m… staying here.”
Hiding here, more like. The pieces fell together like tongue in groove. She’d run away from the mess in L.A., and her best friend had cloistered her in a place that wouldn’t even show up on a map, let alone at the other end of a some reporter’s camera.
Then another thought hit him like a fastball to the brain. “You alone?” He must have had a little accusation in his voice, because she raised an eyebrow and looked disappointed.
“Yes,” she said softly, sadness in her eyes and a softness in her posture.
Shit. He’d hurt her. He regretted the question the instant it had popped out. She was hiding from prying eyes and personal questions and what had he done? Pried and asked.
He held up a hand as though that could deliver his apology and took a few steps closer. “How long are you here? I’d love to…” Talk to you. Kiss you until you can’t breathe. Spend every night in your bed. “Get caught up.”
“I shouldn’t be here that long.”
In other words, no. “Too bad,” he said, hiding the impact of disappointment. “Maybe I’ll see you on the south end when you go home.”
“I won’t go there.” The statement was firm, clear, and unequivocal. Don’t argue with me, dripped the subtext.
She wouldn’t see her dad? A spark flared, pushing him closer, up the stairs. She wouldn’t even go visit? She wouldn’t even do a drive-by to see if her old man was dead or alive? Because he’d bet his next paycheck, she didn’t know.
Something hammered at him, and this time it wasn’t his heart reacting to the sight of his favorite woman on earth. No, this was the physical jolt of anger and a whole different kind of frustration.
“What do you do at Casa Blanca?” she asked, apparently unaware she’d hit a hot button.
But her casual question barely registered, her astounding near nakedness practically forgotten despite God’s professional lighting that gave him a perfect view of her body under those slips of white cotton.
“Carpentry,” he said through gritted teeth, a little surprised at how much emotion rocked him. He had to remember what she’d gone through as a child, what her father was in her eyes… but right now, all he could think about was a harmless, helpless old man who had no one to call family.
Even though he had a perfectly good daughter standing right here.
“A carpenter just like your father,” she said, nodding. “I remember he was quite talented.”
“Speaking of fathers…” He dragged the word out, long enough to see her flinch… like she had whenever her father had taken a step toward her. “I’m back in my parents’ house. They moved out to Seattle to be closer to my sister and her kids.”
In other words, I live next door to your father. He waited for the reaction, but she just raised her hand, halting him. “I really have to go, Will. Nice to see you again.”
Seriously? She wouldn’t even hear him out?
She backed into the opening of the French doors, hidden from view now. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, though,” she called, one hand reaching for the knob to close him out.
God damn her. He grabbed the wood frame and held it as tightly as he had when he’d installed the very door she was about to slam in his face. “Jocelyn.”
“Please, Will.”
“Listen to me.”
“I’m sure our paths will cross.” But her voice contradicted that cliché. And so did history. One word she didn’t want to hear and Jocelyn would find another hiding place in another corner of the world.
Was he willing to risk that? After all his dreams of seeing her again? Of a reunion? Of one more night? One more chance? If he so much as spoke the name Guy Bloom, she’d be on a plane, headed back to California.
He let go of the door and she began to pull it closed. Then something shot through him. Anger. Justice. Vindication. Whatever. He thrust his boot in the jamb to keep the door from closing.
“Will, I have to—”
“I just thought you should know.” He had enough strength in his foot to nudge the opening wider and get closer to leave his parting shot. “Your father has Alzheimer’s. I take care of him.”
He slipped his boot out and the door slammed shut.
Well, he was right about the winds of change. Maybe now, after half a lifetime, maybe now he could finally get over Jocelyn Bloom.
Keep telling yourself that, buddy. Someday you might believe it.
“BAREFOOT IN THE SAND—the first in Roxanne St. Claire’s new Barefoot Bay series—is an all-around knockout and soul-satisfying read. I loved everything about this book—the indomitable heroine, the wow!—hot hero, the lush tropical setting, and secondary characters I can’t wait to read more about. Roxanne St. Claire writes with warmth and heart, and the community she’s built in Barefoot Bay is one I want to revisit again and again and
again.”
—Mariah Stewart, New York Times bestselling author of The Chesapeake Diaries
ACCLAIM FOR ROXANNE ST. CLAIRE
“St. Claire is one of the best romance writers in the genre today.”
—TheRomanceReader.com
“Her stories are ripped from the heart.”
—Winter Haven News Chief (FL)
“St. Claire writes books that keep the reader engrossed in the story from cover to cover.”
—Booklist
“Roxanne St. Claire’s writing is spellbinding.”
—BookLoons.com
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Roxanne St. Claire
Dear Reader,
BAREFOOT IN THE SAND opens during a powerful hurricane that forces the heroine and her daughter to hole up in a bathtub under a mattress and pray for survival. The scene, I’m sorry to say, took very little imagination for me to write. I’ve been there. On August 24, 1992, one of the worst hurricanes in the history of this country slammed into Dade County, Florida, and changed hundreds of thousands of lives. Mine was one of them.
Exactly one month pregnant with a baby that had taken four years and a quadrillion deals with God to conceive, I decided to spend the night at my sister’s house when Hurricane Andrew approached Miami. Despite the fact that the forecasters predicted the storm would turn north before making landfall, my husband and I had worried that our proximity to the coastline made us vulnerable, and that our east-facing double front doors might buckle with the wind. We braced the doors with the living room sofa and evacuated just eight miles north. My sister’s house sustained little damage that night, though freight-train winds ripped her patio screen and took down some beloved trees.
We headed home the next morning, and with each passing mile, it was clear that the southern section of Miami had taken the brunt of the storm. We sure hoped that sofa had held the doors closed.
We still laugh about that because, well, we never did find that sofa.
When we arrived at what we thought was our street—all the trees were uprooted or stripped bare and not a single street sign survived—all we could do was stare. The sofa was long gone (but our neighbor’s love seat was in our driveway!), along with our doors, every window, all the roof tiles, the garage doors, and just about everything we’d ever owned. Everything.
Inside, all the ceilings had collapsed, leaving snow-drifts of insulation. My beautiful home was covered in mud, drywall, and broken glass. Every remaining wall was green from the chlorophyll in the leaves that had blown around during what had to have been mini-tornadoes in the house.
I stood in the midst of that chaos and started to cry, of course. Shaking uncontrollably, unable to process what might lie ahead, I could barely suck in shuddering breaths and weep at the sight of my rain-soaked wedding album and shattered bits of my precious Waterford crystal.
Everything we had was gone.
Then my husband gripped my shoulders, giving me a stern shake and silencing me with two words: The baby. The baby.
Obviously, not everything was gone. When Mother Nature has a temper tantrum and breaks all your stuff, the only things that really matter are the people who are left.
When I needed the catalyst to set Lacey Armstrong’s story in motion and start the Barefoot Bay series, the lessons I learned from surviving and rebuilding after Hurricane Andrew were still fresh in my heart, even almost two decades later. It wasn’t hard to imagine riding out that storm in a bathtub; I had many friends and neighbors who had done just that. It wasn’t impossible to put myself in Lacey’s shoes the next day, digging for optimism in a mountain of rubble.
But I also had twenty years of perspective and knew that no matter what she lost in the storm, Lacey’s indomitable spirit wouldn’t merely survive, but thrive. She not only found optimism in that rubble, she found love.
P.S. “The baby” turns nineteen this year. And, no, we didn’t name him Andrew.
From the desk of Cara Elliott
Dear Reader,
Psst! I’ve got a secret to share with you about my hero in TOO TEMPTING TO RESIST. Okay, you already know that Gryffin Owain Dwight, the Marquess of Haddan, is rich, handsome, titled, and an incorrigibly charming flirt. But I’ll bet you weren’t aware of this intimate little detail—he speaks a very special language.
No, no, not French or Italian! (Though as a dashingly romantic rake, he’s fluent in those lovely tongues.) It’s the secret language of Flowers, a highly seductive skill. For example, he knows that red roses signify “Love,” while orange ones mean “Fascination.” He can tell you that yellow irises murmur “Passion” and peach blossoms say “I am your captive.”
Now, you might ask how he came to know all this. Well, here’s an interesting bit of history (as the author of historical romances, I love discovering interesting little facts from the past): Flowers have long been powerful symbols in Eastern cultures, and in the early eighteenth century, Lady Mary Wortley Montague, wife of the British ambassador to Constantinople (and a fascinating woman in her own right), learned of a little Turkish book called The Secret Language of Flowers. Intrigued, she had it translated and brought it back to England with her… and from there the romantic idea that lovers could send hidden messages to each other via bouquets was introduced to Europe.
Today, the symbolic use of flowers is still flourishing. Here’s another secret! Kate Middleton’s bouquet at the Royal Wedding to Prince William was carefully designed using the language of flowers to express special meaning for the bride and groom and their families: Lily-of-the-valley, which means “Return of Happiness” (chosen in memory of Diana); Sweet William, which means “Gallantry” (isn’t that romantic!); Hyacinth, which means “Constancy of Love”; Ivy, which means “Fidelity, Friendship and Affection”; Myrtle, which is the emblem of marriage and love.
Now, getting back to my hero, Gryff has a number of other intriguing secrets. He’s a man of hidden talents—and hidden passions. It’s no wonder that Eliza, Lady Brentford, finds him irresistibly alluring, despite her distrust of rakes and rascals. She too has an interest in flowers, so when she discovers that he speaks their language…
And how does Gryff use this special skill? Well, that’s for you to find out for yourself! I hope you’ll take a peek at his story and let him whisper his petal-soft seductions in your ear!
From the desk of Caridad Piñeiro
Dear Reader,
I’ve been reading romances for as long as I can remember, going back to when I was twelve and read and re-read Wuthering Heights all summer long. At one point the librarian told me I could not take the book out again since other people needed a chance to read it!
Denied my broody Heathcliff and doomed Catherine, I turned my attentions to what some might say were an odd mix: Shakespeare and Ian Fleming.
It’s safe to say that those choices as a young reader were later reflected in what I wrote, especially in THE CLAIMED, the second book in the Sin Hunters series.
Action. Adventure. Angst. I’ve incorporated all those elements that I love into this tale of a determined and broody alpha hero, Christopher Sombrosa, and a woman who is the absolute wrong choice for him, Victoria Johnson.
So why is Victoria not the woman for Christopher? Think Romeo and Juliet, Capulet and Montague.
Victoria is destined to be the leader of her Light Hunter clan, while Christopher is not only one of the Dark Ones, he is likewise supposed to assume command of his Shadow Hunter people.
Add to the mix some rather nefarious villains in the form of Christopher’s father and ex-fiancée and the betrayal of someone dear to Victoria, and I think you’ll find THE CLAIMED will keep you turning pages until the very end.
I am very glad to say, however, that despite the hopeless Catherine, Juliet, and assorted Bond girls who could never win James’s heart, there is a path to a new and exciting place for Christopher and Victoria.
I hope you will en
joy their fight for a better tomorrow for not only themselves, but their race of Hunters.
Contents
Welcome
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
A Preview of Barefoot in the Rain
Acclaim for Roxanne St. Claire
The Dish
Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Roxanne St. Claire
Excerpt from Barefoot in the Rain copyright © 2012 by Roxanne St. Claire
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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