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.
FIVE
"Mr. Seaholm, 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 o
ut 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 fiancee'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 fiancee," 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 fiancee," 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 fiancee 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 fiancee," he admitted, chagrin in his eyes.
He didn't have a fiancee. So what? Big deal. That news shouldn't make her feel so damned happy. It shouldn't make her feel anything at all.
"I made it up to get out of that Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year thing," he continued. "I didn't realize reporters were following me around, taking pictures of us like that. I had no intention of dragging anyone else into this. Particularly not you."
"Well, I'm here," Molly said. "I'm all over the evening news—at least all over Channel Ten."
"I've already issued a statement to the press explaining that we have a business relationship. Nothing more."
Suddenly aware of the exposure from the windows and the blackness of the night outside, Molly began closing the blinds. "And you, of course, hold hands with all of your business acquaintances."
He wasn't amused. "I feel really awful about this, Molly."
She glanced back at him. "Relax—we'll get through it."
"I'm not sure I'd be so understanding if you were the one who yanked me into the public eye."
"Maybe the publicity will spark some interest in Chuck's books," Molly said lightly. "I could use an extra couple hundred bucks in royalty payments next year."
Pres was staring at her as if she were from another planet. But then he laughed, shaking his head. "Somehow I expected you'd be angry about this. I'm . . . amazed you're not."
"What's the worst that can happen?" Molly asked. "I get asked a few questions." She shrugged. "It's only a matter of time before the reporters find out how deadly boring I am."
Pres couldn't believe what she'd just said. Boring? Was she crazy? She was so much the opposite of boring. He was standing in her living room, his pulse rate elevated just from being in her presence.
He followed her as she moved to shut the last of the blinds. "You're kidding, right?"
Her hair was down loose around her shoulders and shiny clean. Her nose and cheeks were a healthy shade of pink. She wasn't a beauty queen—not the way Merrilee had been. But there was something about Molly, a sensitivity, an awareness in her blue eyes, an aura of razor-sharp intelligence softened by a serious helping of kindness and sincerity. Whatever it was, it was something that Merrilee never had, something Merrilee would never have.
And it was something that made Molly attractive in a way that Merrilee would never be.
Molly backed away and bumped into the window. She was trapped, and Pres was still moving toward her. She cleared her throat nervously as he took her hand.
"You smell like cigarettes."
That stopped him. She watched his eyes, saw him consider hiding the truth for only about one tenth of a second before he spoke. "Yeah," he admitted. "I didn't know that the second I quit all hell was going to break loose. I've been smoking all night."
"It's not so easy, is it?" She broke free, slipping past him and escaping into the middle of the room.
"I didn't think it was going to be easy." He smiled ruefully. "I just didn't think it was going to be this hard."
"Some of those questions the reporters asked you . . ." Molly stood behind the rocking chair, using it as a sort of a shield. "It was awful."
Pres winced. "How much of the interview did they play?"
"Let's just say that the entire Florida viewing public knows that impotence is not on your list of problems."
"Of course they'd play that part." He ran his hands through his hair, clearly embarrassed. "Mother of God." He turned back to her. "And you're not afraid of the questions they're going to ask you?"
"Like I told you... I'm boring. What can they possibly ask that I'd be unable to answer? No, I haven't slept with you. And no, I haven't slept with Merrilee Fender, either. . . ." She shrugged. "You're just some guy who's trying to buy my house. The hand-holding bit and the dinner invitation were just attempts to charm me into selling you the property."
Pres was leaning back against the windowsill, watching her intently. "You don't really believe that, do you?"
She crossed her arms. "Please. I'm hardly your type."
"Four major networks and five newspaper syndicates had no trouble at all believing you're enough my type to be my fiancee," he told her.
"Yeah, well, they would believe Medusa was your type if they thought it would sell more advertising."
He pushed himself forward, standing up and digging his wallet from the back pocket of his shorts. "Look, I want to try to make this up to you." He took a business card from his wallet and held it out to Molly. "Here."
She met him halfway across the big living room and took the card from him, careful their fingers didn't touch. "What's this?"
Emerson James, the card read, along with a local phone number.
"He's a roofer," Pres explained, "specializing in historical restorations. He owes me a favor—a big favor. He'll fix this roof for you at cost. I've already put in a call to his office. He'll be contacting you tomorrow."
At cost. Molly gazed at Pres. "I don't know what to say."
He shook his head. "You don't have to say anything. I feel as if I've somehow tainted you—God, I didn't mean to do that." He turned away. "I better go."
Molly stopped him with a hand on his arm. His skin felt warm beneath her fingers, and she could feel the tension in the tightness of his muscles.
"Thank you," she said.
Pres looked down at her. "Helping you with the roof doesn't begin to make up for the grief I've caused you."
"It's not that big a deal. Everything's going to be all right," she told him.
As if on sudden impulse, he pulled her in close, holding her tightly against him. Molly didn't resist his embrace. She knew he needed to be held. And to her surprise, she found that she had a similar need.
His arms felt sinfully good wrapped around her, and she closed her eyes, resting her head against his chest. He was even more solid than she'd expected, all hard muscles and broad shoulders and powerful legs. He smelled like cologne and cigarette smoke, and for the first time in her life the smoky smell didn't bother her.
Sunrise Key 3 - Otherwise Engaged Page 5
