Sunrise Key 3 - Otherwise Engaged

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "Sir, are you even aware that you were voted Fantasy Man magazine's Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year?"

  Dominic Defeo pushed his way up to the front. "I'm sorry," he said in his slightly disdainful, totally authentic-sounding, yet absolutely contrived blue-blooded Boston accent. "Mr. Seaholm doesn't have a prepared statement at this time. We'll be in touch to arrange a scheduled interview at a later date."

  Pres let the concierge shepherd him back down the hall, back toward the parking lot and his pickup truck. "What the hell is going on?" he hissed through his teeth. "Fantasy Man magazine . . . ?"

  But Dom had on his Jeeves-the-Butler smile, clenched teeth and all. "I'll fill you in completely in a moment, sir," he said.

  The reporters were persistent, following them all the way down the hall, shouting their questions.

  "Mr. Seaholm, what's your idea of a romantic evening?"

  "Mr. Seaholm, what does your ex-wife have to say about all this?"

  "Mr. Seaholm, do you intend to shoot the photos for the magazine in a studio, or here, on location at the resort?"

  "Mr. Seaholm, is there truth to the rumor that you intend to skydive nude for the photo spread in Fantasy Man magazine?"

  Preston stopped short and looked back at the reporters in shock. "Do I intend to do what?"

  "You're Fantasy Man magazine's Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year," Dominic told Pres as they sat in his pickup truck. Dom had slipped off both his jacket and tie and his upper-crust accent. He sat now in his shirtsleeves, his dark hair wet from the rain, and his usually world-weary brown eyes glistening with unconcealed amusement. "Congratulations."

  "Fantasy Man," Pres echoed. "As in ... Fantasy Man?" He shook a cigarette free from the pack he kept rubber-banded to the sun visor and lit it with a quick snap of a match. He inhaled deeply, praying he'd somehow gotten it all wrong.

  "Fantasy Man as in full frontal nudity, my friend." Dom's regular accent was pure Boston thug. When he was behind the front desk, he put on a gentrified act that made him seem quite a bit older than he was. But when not on the job, he didn't look much more than forty, and in reality was probably closer to Pres's own mid-thirties. "They sent a photo team down. They pulled me aside and asked my esteemed opinion as to what it would take to convince you to pose au naturel for a five-page spread."

  Preston choked.

  "Think of the publicity you could generate for this place," Dom continued. He was enjoying this much too much. "Beautiful color photos of you frolicking in the surf, the resort flag waving in the breeze—among other things...."

  "You told them I'd never agree to do it."

  "No, I didn't."

  Pres stared. "Why the hell not?"

  The greenish light from the dashboard threw shadows across Dom's craggy features. His thick, dark eyebrows moved closer together as he frowned. "Well, frankly, because I wasn't sure whether or not this might be something that would appeal to you."

  "Posing nude for an international magazine . . . ? Mother of God, Dom!"

  "I honestly didn't know. For chrissake, Pres, you skydive, you parasail, you bungee-jump, you windsurf, you mountain-climb, and when you really want to relax, you scuba-dive in shark-infested water. How was I to know whether or not having your picture snapped while in your birthday suit wouldn't provide some similar kind of thrill?"

  "It doesn't."

  "Okay, so now I know."

  "I can't believe you thought I would. . . ." Pres shook his head.

  "Well, I can't believe you would throw yourself out of an airplane at twelve thousand feet, with or without your clothes on," Dom told him.

  "Tell the people from Fantasy Man thanks but no thanks. I don't want to be their most eligible anything."

  "You can decline the photo spread, but the title's already yours, my friend."

  Frustrated, Pres pushed his wet hair back from his face, then took another long drag on his cigarette. "I don't want it. I don't want this kind of publicity."

  "You should have thought of that before you divorced Merrilee," Dom said. "According to the article in Fantasy Man, the fact that you not only walked away from Hollywood's brightest new starlet, but that you did it without paying a single penny in settlement or alimony placed you in the superhuman category."

  Merrilee. God, she would have died for this kind of publicity. And she would have taken off her clothes for those pictures without batting an eye. "Obviously they don't know the whole story," Pres told Dom.

  "Obviously," he agreed. "The way I figure it, the only people who know the whole story are you and Merrilee."

  "As it should be." Pres took the turn that led to the private bungalows at the edge of the resort grounds.

  "What do you want me to tell the news teams from American Lifestyles and Online Entertainment? And the countless local news affiliates?"

  "Tell them if they want to do a story about the resort, I'd be happy to accommodate them."

  "You're the story here, pal. Not your resort. Although the free publicity for this place would be phenomenal if you talk to these guys. I don't see how you could turn it down."

  Pres pulled alongside Dom's cottage. "I can turn it down because I don't feel like answering questions about my idea of a romantic evening, or my favorite place to have sex."

  Dom laughed. "Yeah, well, you've got to use their lack of tact to your advantage. If they ask something like that, you bring it right back to a free commercial for the resort. You tell 'em your favorite place for creating the beast with two backs is in the king-size Jacuzzi tub that's a standard feature in every one of the resort's master suites. You see what I mean?"

  "The beast with two backs? That's a nice one. Maybe I'll save that for the interview with the national news." Pres shook his head, stubbing out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. "Like it or not, I'm going to have to do these interviews, aren't I?"

  Dom nodded. "The reporters are going to follow you around until you give in. Short of getting married tomorrow, I don't see what else you can do."

  "That's a handy solution. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire."

  "I was kidding."

  "They're going to ask all kinds of questions about Merrilee, aren't they?" Pres asked.

  "Probably."

  "And it's not going to stop there, is it? After the interview airs, I'm going to be besieged by desperate single women."

  Dom snorted. "We should all have such terrible problems."

  "When you go to bed with a woman, do you have any trouble figuring out whether she's sleeping with you or the things your money can buy, including Hollywood contacts?" Pres asked sharply.

  "Well, I don't have the kind of money that would make a difference, so . . ."

  "Until you do, until you know what that's like, don't make light of my problems, okay?"

  Dom was silent. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "I shouldn't have—"

  Pres rubbed his forehead. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so—"

  "I stepped over the line, boss."

  "Don't start with the 'boss' crap. Yeah, you work for me, but so what? We're friends. You should be able to say anything—I don't want that to change. I'm just . . . I'm not having a very good day. The new owner of the Kirk Estate isn't going to sell for the figure I offered, and now this Fantasy Man thing . . ." Pres swore under his breath. "I need a shower and a beer—not necessarily in that order."

  Dom opened the door of the car but then turned to look back at Preston. "You know this friends thing works both ways, pal. You should be able to say anything to me, too, you know."

  Pres had to look away from Dominic's perceptive gaze. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

  I met this lady today. Molly Cassidy. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her. She doesn't seem to give a damn about money and she has the bluest eyes I've ever seen. . . .

  But he couldn't say it. He couldn't give even that much of himself away. He just shrugged.

  "I'll have your secretary set up the interviews
for tomorrow," Dom told him.

  Pres nodded. "Thanks."

  The morning sun was hot and the air was already humid. After the previous night's rain, it should have been clear and much cooler. At least it would have been if they were still living in the New York suburbs.

  "Toto, we're not in Katonah anymore," Molly murmured.

  Zander looked up. "You talking to me or yourself?"

  "Myself," she said cheerfully, giving him a big smile as he helped her carry the laundry basket inside the laundromat.

  "Can I go next door to the pizza place? I saw some video games through the window."

  Molly nodded. "Sure. Just help me get the wash started, and I'll go over with you to scope it out, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "What did you think of your new school?" Molly asked as they sorted the laundry into two loads.

  Zander looked up at her. "What?"

  She repeated the question while he watched her lips and she signed the word school. His blue eyes were huge behind his glasses, and he gazed at her very seriously for several moments before answering. "It was pretty small," he finally said.

  Molly nodded. "This town is a whole lot smaller than Katonah. There's gonna be only about twelve kids in your class—and that's both the fifth and sixth grades combined."

  "So I'll be in a class with sixth graders?"

  Molly nodded. "Yup. That's what your teacher, Mr. Towne, said. Weren't you paying attention when he was talking to us?"

  Zander shrugged, digging through his mother's purse for her container of quarters. "He was kind of hard to understand."

  Molly felt her heart sink. Zander's new teacher wasn't the warmest person in the world. In fact, she'd come away from this morning's meeting with the feeling that the man was less than pleased about the addition of Zander to his classroom. In fact, the first thing he'd said after the school principal had introduced them was that he had no intention of learning sign language. No one expected him to learn sign language, and his statement came off sounding defensive and hostile.

  "He had a funny voice," Zander continued.

  Mr. Towne had had a rather thick Southern drawl. And he had a large, droopy mustache that had no doubt prevented Zander from being able to read the man's lips accurately.

  And Zander would be in his classroom for not just the remainder of this year, but for all of next year as well.

  "Hey, Zander. Molly. How's it going?"

  The faintly raspy voice was unmistakable, and it made Molly's pulse leap. It was none other than Preston Seaholm, King of the Island, and newly crowned Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year. She'd seen him on the TV news the night before—wearing the same ratty clothing he'd had on when he'd helped her with her roof. He was still soaked, and he hadn't looked very happy that the news teams had caught him that way.

  On camera, Pres had looked nothing like the billionaire playboy that he was. He'd looked more like a romantic, handsome castaway, forced to live by using only his wits and his physical strength. And with his wet T-shirt clinging to the hard muscles of his chest and arms, it wasn't hard to imagine him succeeding.

  Fantasy Man, indeed.

  Molly finished pouring the detergent powder into the washing machine, using the opportunity to take a deep breath and steady herself before she turned to face him.

  He was smiling, and despite the glare of both the fluorescent lights and the afternoon sun pouring through the plate-glass windows, he managed to look as good as he had the night before. Better.

  He casually leaned against one of the washing machines. "These are my going-out-in-public clothes," he said. "What do you think?"

  He'd shaved at some point between then and now. And instead of his ratty T-shirt and worn-out shorts and sneakers, he wore a dark pink polo shirt that hugged his trim upper body and emphasized the powerful-looking muscles in his arms. He also had on a crisp-looking pair of brown Bermuda shorts. On his feet he wore simple leather sandals and on his left wrist was an expensive-looking gold watch. His eyes were still hazel, though, and still quite warm.

  "You look ... well behaved without being too stuffy," she told him, turning back to her laundry, suddenly aware she'd been letting herself stare. "The shorts and the polo shirt are traditional, but a pink shirt ... It gives you an air of individuality. And the watch is a nice touch, of course—there to remind the masses who you really are."

  He laughed. "The masses?"

  "Zander and me, for instance." Molly glanced around the nearly empty room, taking in the rows of humming washing machines and the clothes being tossed about, visible through the glass portholelike windows in the fronts of the dryers. "Please tell me you're not here to do your laundry. There must be some law that prohibits persons in a certain tax bracket from washing their own clothes."

  "Actually, I saw you come in, so I followed you."

  "No," Molly said sternly.

  Pres blinked, his Robert Redford smile slipping slightly. "Excuse me ... ?"

  FOUR

  "No," Molly said again. "I figured we could get this out of the way so that you're not wondering and I'm not waiting."

  Preston looked confused for only the briefest moment, then he smiled again, amusement making his hazel eyes sparkle. "You think I followed you in here to make another offer on the estate?"

  "Didn't you?"

  "No. No, I was going to wait till later this afternoon to do that."

  She closed both lids of the washing machines and gathered up her purse. "Well, I'll save you the return trip. My answer's going to be no."

  He lowered his voice. "You don't even know what it is that I intend to offer."

  His soft, textured voice conjured up images of a different kind of offer altogether, images of candlelight and satin sheets and . . . Molly forced the rather breathtaking picture that made from her mind and turned to smile at Zander, who was watching the exchange with wide eyes. She then smiled in the general direction of Pres, without managing to meet his gaze. "Well, we were about to save the world from alien invasion and maybe get a slice of pizza to celebrate, weren't we, Z? We got a welcome basket from the Sunrise Key Chamber of Commerce that included a coupon for a sample slice and a free soda from Paulo's Pizzeria."

  "Mind if I join you?"

  Yes. Surprised by his question, and startled at the strength of her response to it, Molly found herself staring up into Preston Seaholm's eyes. She knew he could read her mind—he saw that yes written clearly across her face. There was a glint in his eyes and an edge to his smile that dared her to say it aloud.

  But that would be flatly rude. Instead, she settled for slightly rude. "Why?"

  "Because I'm hungry?" He said it as if it were a question, as if he wanted her to know that he wasn't being quite truthful either.

  Zander tugged at her arm. "Can I go?"

  Molly nodded and he was out the door in a flash. She followed her son at a slower pace, turning back to look at Pres. "It's not quite your style, is it? I mean, Paulo's Pizzeria hardly serves four-star cuisine."

  "No, but it serves four-star pizza. And I oughta know—I own the place. Look, would it help when we talk if I took off my Rolex watch first? Yes, I have lots of money, but that doesn't mean I don't like pizza."

  Outside the Laundromat, the heat and humidity were oppressive. But Molly stopped on the sidewalk to look up at Pres. "If you want me to forget that you're richer than God, you don't have to take off your watch or your clothes or ... or ... shave your head or ... anything. You just have to stop trying to buy my house out from underneath me."

  "It's my house. You just happen to be living there temporarily."

  Molly laughed in disbelief. "Now, that was pompous."

  "You were being honest," he protested. "I thought I would be too."

  "That wasn't honesty. That was arrogance."

  "I thought you said it was pomposity."

  "It was both."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to be." He reached out and pulled a strand of hair free from where
it had caught on her eyelashes.

  Molly froze, startled both by the gentle sensation of his fingers barely touching her face and his quiet apology. For several breathtaking seconds she thought he might lean forward and kiss her. For several breathtaking seconds she found herself hoping that he would.

  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.