Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance)

by Lyla Dune

  “Relax.” Mazy’s voice was gentle.

  Sam drew in a deep breath and held it while she silently counted to ten. Slowly, she exhaled.

  Mazy continued, “He said he’d stay in the guest quarters. That’s generous. Don’t piss him off, or he might kick you out early.”

  Give her less than six weeks? He better not kick her out early. She had nowhere to go and no money to move with anyway. “He wouldn’t dare.” The only thing worse than having to live with him, was having to live in her truck.

  “Have you signed a new lease agreement? I mean an agreement with Brock.”

  “Of course not. I didn’t have to sign anything with the Marshalls either. That freaking email was the first mention of written record. Why?”

  “Sam, don’t you see? Legally, he could kick you out as far as I can tell.”

  “You can’t evict someone in a matter of hours.”

  “I beg to differ. If he’s the owner, and there’s no legal documentation stating you can stay here—documentation that all concerned parties have signed—I can’t imagine the police or judge would have much to view on your behalf. Seems pretty cut and dried. His house. His terms. Think about it—he could claim you’re trespassing. Granted, he might not be able to kick you out today, but I doubt it’d take six weeks.”

  “Trespassing? That’s ludicrous. He gave me permission to be here. You heard him. You’re my witness.”

  “He did say that, and I believe he meant it.” Mazy tugged a strand of Sam’s hair. “Don’t get your panties in a wad about it. You should be grateful. And be doubly grateful he’s willing to let you stay in the master suite while he takes the guest quarters. I know you hate staying down there.”

  Sam pondered a moment. She had her phobia of being trapped without fresh air under control. She hadn’t experienced a panic attack in years. Of course, she hadn’t stayed in that hell-hole downstairs in years either, but she believed she could handle it. She knew how to read her own body, and she had medication.

  “You know… I think I need to be the one staying in the guest quarters. It has a separate entrance, and I’ll be coming home in the wee hours of the morning after gigs. It’d be the considerate thing to do.” Plus, it’d make it easier to hide from him.

  Mazy shook her head no.

  “What? At least I’ll have my privacy down there.” Sam slid off the barstool. “Give me a hand?”

  “It’s not a good idea. Just ride things out like he suggested.”

  “I’ve made up my mind. You helping or not?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. If we hurry, we can get all my stuff downstairs before he comes back.”

  “Are you sure? That place sets you off. Don’t you remember?”

  Of course she remembered. The last time she’d stayed down there, she’d failed to take her meds and ended up in the ER.

  Okay, so she didn’t know if she could hack it, but she was sure gonna try. Living in the guest quarters while the owners were in town had been the arrangement made with the Marshalls anyway. Besides, this way, she’d be less likely to have to interact with Brock.

  Landing in the ER would be better than landing in jail for murder, or worse—sleeping with a man she was trying like hell to avoid.

  She could handle panic attacks better than another hit to the heart. Too bad she was incapable of sleeping with a guy and not becoming emotionally attached. Abstaining was the only remedy.

  Why did she have to be so attracted to him? Why? Maybe the feeling wasn’t mutual. Who was she to assume he wanted to sleep with her anyway. Maybe she was projecting her own desires onto him and misread some of his signals.

  Kinda hard to misread an erection.

  Okay, okay. She could do stuff to make him not like her. And she already told him she was gay, so there was that.

  The gay thing would have to buy her some time, time enough to mislead him while she earned some cash and fast. She’d stay in the downstairs apartment and avoid him. Done. She could do this.

  She settled her gaze on Mazy. “It’s okay. I have a full bottle of Xanax.”

  The expression on her friend’s face said “so what and bullshit.” Drinking games. Yep. Mazy was right. Sam was gonna need alcohol and Xanax to make it through the next six weeks.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Champ

  Brock passed the insect repellent at the hardware store and wondered how hard it would be to make cat repellent.

  A frail, feminine voice spoke behind him. “Pardon me, young man.”

  He chuckled under his breath. To a Brit, pardon me implied the speaker had passed gas. Hopefully, the phrase held a different meaning for Americans.

  He swallowed his amusement and turned around.

  A surprisingly tall elderly woman with bright orange hair leaned on a cane. In a green track suit, silver sequined shoes, and an over abundance of jewelry, she resembled a Christmas tree with a pumpkin topper. One of her blue-veined hands clasped a cane. Her other hand was hidden behind her back. The overhead lights cast such a glare on her glasses, he couldn’t see her eyes.

  He said, “May I help you?”

  She whipped her hidden hand toward him. It clenched a pen with a red plume and a sheet of paper. “Could I have your autograph?”

  This aged woman knew of his status as a rugby player? He didn’t realize Americans paid attention to rugby.

  “Certainly, my dear. How long have you been a rugby fan?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “How long have I been a pudgy man?” With a vigorous head shake, her gigantic, turquoise earrings clinked against her spectacles. “What a mean cuss you are.”

  “No, ma’am. I believe you misunderstood.”

  The way she looked at him—with rapt attention—reminded him of his grandmother, the most remarkable lady he’d ever known.

  His chest tightened just thinking about her. She’d lost her battle with heart disease earlier that year, and it’d torn him apart. He hadn’t been able to show it though, not with paparazzi tailing him all hours of the day and night. He’d been forced to wear a brave face in the public eye, while inside he’d crumbled.

  The elderly woman stamped her cane against the floor in annoyance.

  Adorably feisty. She and his grandmother could have been sisters. He reached out and touched the woman’s arm. “I didn’t call you a pudgy man, love. You’re quite beautiful. I assure you.”

  She wiggled her arm, and he removed his hand.

  She scoffed. “Quite cuticle? You endure me?” She shoved the paper toward him again. “Sign this, and keep your comments to yourself. You talk funny. I can’t understand a damn thing you say.”

  Bossy like his grandmother too. “I’m from Wales. Perhaps that’s why you’re having trouble understanding me.”

  “Wales?” She drawled the word out into three syllables. “Oh, you mean like Harry, the Prince of Wales? The Queen of England’s naughty grandson who likes to play billiards in the nude?” She gave him a once over and smacked her lips. “Can’t say as I blame him. Everything’s more fun naked.” Her grin widened and pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “So…you’re one of those hoity-toity British boys. That’s a pity.” With a tsk, tsk, she shook her head, and her earrings rattled once more.

  He glanced at the paper in his hand. Bollocks. It was a photo of him helping Sam on the bridge that morning. “Where did you get this?”

  “Myrtle gave it to me. She snapped your picture while she was stuck behind you. We’re declaring you our new boy toy. We’ve grown tired of using Ted as our muse.”

  “Your new boy toy?”

  “Yes. My friends and I adopt a handsome man a month to be our boy toy for our craft projects. I make mouse pads. I must say, I can’t wait to roll my mouse all over you. Myrtle makes toilet-seat decals. She’ll enjoy sitting on your—”

  “Glad to be of service.” He didn’t like where that statement was headed. The images she’d painted in his mind didn’t make him nearly as happy as they
seemed to make her.

  Her smile remained broad enough for him to count every tooth in her dentures.

  He asked, “Who is Ted?”

  “Ted? He’s Mr. Fix it. He can repair any and everything. Almost. We’d be lost without him. He usually comes in here around this time—just before lunch—and picks up whatever he needs to finish his daily work.”

  A repairman. Ted may be just the bloke to get to know. Brock could certainly use a hand with some of the projects he had in mind for the house.

  “Tell me, Beautiful…to whom do I address this autograph?”

  The older woman beamed. “Your dear friend, Louise.”

  He signed the photograph for Louise and handed it back to her. She pulled her rhinestone-studded glasses to the tip of her nose and peered over the lenses at the paper. “Brock Knight?”

  “Yes. My name is Brock Knight. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Louise.”

  “Brock? What kinda name is that?”

  “It’s a rather romantic story, actually. My father first met my mother by the River Brock in Lancashire, England. A year later, he proposed to her in a field of bluebells in Brock Valley. Before I was born, when they were searching baby names, they stumbled across the boy’s name—Brock. They instantly agreed that should be my name.”

  “That is a lovely story.” Louise’s expression was dreamy as if she was remembering a romantic story of her own. “I was named after my grandmother. Louisa was her name. My full name is Louise Moore. I live in the fuchsia house facing the waterway at Bare Point on the north end of the island. You can’t miss it. Are you visiting family?”

  “No. I recently acquired a home here. I believe the residence was previously owned by the Marshall family.”

  “You bought the Marshall place?” She scratched her temple. “That place was never up for sale.”

  “No. You are correct. It never went on the market. I was fortunate enough to get it before it was listed. The Marshalls are my brother’s new in-laws. Inside connections, I guess you’d say.”

  “At least the house stayed in the family. I can’t imagine Sam is too happy about it. You know, the pretty girl you helped over the bridge?”

  “Yes. I’ve met Sam. Lovely woman.”

  Louise leaned forward and shook her finger at Brock. “You best watch how you treat our Sam, or you’ll have a fight on your hands. We take care of our own around here.”

  He was taken aback by the woman’s threat. “You haven’t a thing to worry about. I’m letting Sam stay on another six weeks.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Louise gave a satisfied nod and looked around him. “Ted’s here.” She motioned down the aisle with her cane. “He just went to the plumbing section a few aisles over. Come along.”

  Brock followed Louise to the plumbing area, and there stood a tall, tanned, and fit-looking bloke in his mid twenties. He wore a camo ball cap, a pair of khaki cargo shorts, steel-toed work boots, and a yellow t-shirt that said, “No. I will not fix your computer.”

  Louise said, “Ted, dear. This here is Brock Knight.”

  Brock extended his hand. Ted hesitated, giving Brock a strange look before shaking. “Ted Davis. Nice to meet ya.”

  Louise piped up, “Brock bought the Marshall house.”

  Ted stiffened. “Sam’s house?”

  “Yep. That’s right. Sam’s place.”

  “Does she know about this?”

  Brock interjected. “Yes. Sam and I came to an agreement this morning.”

  “Where are you from, dude?” Ted had a look on his face like he smelled a foul odor.

  “Wales.”

  “Wales?”

  Louise said, “He’s British.”

  Ted looked confused. “British? Like from England?”

  “Yes, dear, something like that.” With a proud-teacher grin, Louise patted Ted’s arm.

  He twisted his mouth for a second. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The bloke was quite rude. Brock wasn’t sure he wanted to pursue this any further. Most assuredly there were others he could hire. He didn’t need to dignify the question with an answer.

  Brock had to be careful how he phrased things. “Louise tells me you do odd jobs here on the island. Do you perchance know of a good carpenter?”

  Ted shook his head at Louise as if to say “I didn’t get that, did you?”

  Brock repeated himself. “A carpenter.”

  “A Cop and what?” Ted squinted one eye. “My buddy’s a cop, but what was that other thing you were looking for?”

  “No. You misunderstood. I want to hire a home repair contractor.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so? I’m your man. Only construction guy doing handyman repairs on the island. What do you need?”

  Only one? Bollocks. “I’d like to start with the railing on the deck.”

  “Nothing wrong with the railing on the deck at the Marshalls. I just checked everything out last month.” He seemed defensive.

  Brock wasn’t sure why the young man was so tense, but he didn’t want to push the wrong buttons. Especially since this bloke was his only option for help with the repairs.

  He asked Ted, “Do you have a business card?”

  “Business card? Hell, Sam’s got my number on the fridge beside a picture of me holding up the biggest flounder caught this year.” He seemed to be gloating about Sam having his number on the fridge. Did Ted have a crush on her? Why wouldn’t he? Small island. Sexy woman.

  Brock was beginning to wonder if he didn’t have a crush on her himself.

  “Very well, mate. I’ll ring you.”

  “Ring me?”

  “Call you. I’ll give you a call.”

  Louise broke in. “I just love your accent, even if I can’t understand a word you say.”

  Brock said, “Likewise.” Louise and Ted both laughed. Good. At least they got his dry sense of humor.

  Brock left the hardware store and drove back over the bridge. He was becoming quite fond of how the scent of the ocean was able to soothe his nerves.

  That ugly fish mailbox, however, had to go. He pulled into the carport.

  “Pardon me.” Brock mimicked Louise from the hardware store. Shaking his head, he laughed and stepped out of his vehicle.

  A nearby door was propped open by a large shell. He peered inside the room. Boxes and clothes cluttered the space.

  This must be the flat Sam mentioned earlier. Good. She’d started clearing her things out so he could move in.

  FATIGUE SET IN, and Sam’s arm muscles trembled under the weight of a loaded file-box. Moving all her things in an hour had taken a toll. She bent over and plopped the box onto the floor of the laundry area.

  A low voice barked, “What are you doing?”

  She popped up and whirled around. Brock’s mouth was pinched into a straight line, and his eyes narrowed like he was using x-ray vision to see what was inside the box.

  A quivering nervousness crawled through her abdomen. He looked intimidating. Ferocious.

  It took a few seconds to find her tongue. “I can’t let you take the guest quarters. You’re already being overly generous. I’ve only got a couple more boxes, and I’ll be out of your hair. Fresh sheets are on the bed. The bathroom is clean, somewhat. I’ll do a more thorough job of it tomorrow.”

  He moved closer. “I really didn’t want to disrupt your life anymore than necessary. I’m not comfortable with this.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I insist you remain in the master suite.” He reached for the box.

  She didn’t know what to make of his bossiness. “Listen, I’ve already moved most everything downstairs. Mazy helped before she had to go.”

  He straightened with the box in hand and leveled her with a contemplative stare. “I’ll move everything back for you.”

  “No. I want to stay down there. Besides, you’re creeping me out. What’s your deal?” She put her hands on the box.

  He pulled it away from her, “I a
pologize. I don’t mean to sound pushy. I feel badly for turning your world upside down in a matter of hours. I know this is technically my house, but by my standards, I’ve imposed upon you. That makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to come off like a jerk.”

  With a playful elbow nudge to her side, he said, “If you insist on taking the one-room flat, at least allow me to carry the last of your things down there for you.”

  She put an even heavier box on top of the one he held in his hands. “Knock yourself out.” Literally. Pretend you’re the World’s Heavy-Weight Champ and do it.

  She led him downstairs to the efficiency. It had a sofa bed, a dresser that doubled as a flat-screen T.V. stand, a bookcase, a coffee table. A tiny kitchenette with a bar and two stools, and a small bathroom with a shower was on the right. The entire room was done in white, except for the splotchy, sand-colored concrete floor, and a coral-reef mural on one wall that made the room appear to be at the bottom of the ocean.

  She motioned for him to put the boxes on the dresser. All her belongings were stacked in piles on the floor and counters, except for her trophies in the bookcase.

  As soon as he offloaded the boxes, he checked out her awards.

  With a wicked look in his eyes, he read the label. “Shagging champion?”

  She laughed. “Yep. Three years in a row.”

  “Shagging? They give awards for that in this town?” The look on his face was priceless.

  She knew what shagging meant to the British, and she considered clarifying that the shag was a regional dance with a long history in the south, but she decided it would be more fun to milk this misunderstanding.

  With an intentionally dramatic head toss, she said, “A lot of credit goes to my partner. He did most of the work.”

  “Partner?”

  “Yeah. Men have the tough job in shagging.”

  “Your partner was a man?”

  Crap. Had she just blown her cover about being gay? “All of my competitive shagging partners have been men, but never the same man twice. I like variety.”

  He gulped and returned the trophy to the shelf, but kept his hand on it. “So you don’t mind shagging with men?”