Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance)

by Lyla Dune

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Storm

  Heavy rain hit the convertible’s ragtop with such force Sam feared the fabric would give way. The windshield wipers swooshed back and forth at top speed without doing much to improve visibility. How Brock was managing to drive in this downpour amazed her.

  She leaned forward and squinted. “Here. Turn here.” She’d never been so happy to see that ugly fish mailbox and those tacky flamingo-shaped reflectors at the edge of the driveway.

  The rain pounding against the car abruptly stopped as they pulled into the flooded carport. For a brief moment, relief and the sense of being safe rendered her calm.

  That sense of safety died when she opened the passenger door and the wind jerked the handle out of her grasp, causing the door’s hinge to pop like a dislocated joint.

  She jumped. Brock reached over and placed a comforting palm against her shoulder. The warmth of his touch helped her racing heart lull into a steady rhythm once more.

  “Are you all right?” His caring tone felt like a warm blanket for her nerves.

  She gave him a nod, and then stepped out of the vehicle into the puddle—more like tidal pool—that was the carport. Despite her three-inch heels, the water reached her ankles. She’d never seen the carport flood like this, and she’d been through many storms. Had the waves swelled worse than ever? If so, why wasn’t there water standing in her neighbor’s yard?

  She and Brock slogged to the guest quarters. Once inside, they moved Sam’s personal belongings from the floor to the countertop, tables, dresser—higher ground of any kind. Clothes floated around them like colorful logs on a river. Brock scooped some of her wet clothes into his arms and dropped them onto the fold-out sofa.

  Any plans she had for living in the apartment were gone now, and she was too stunned by the whole damn day to even react to the new turn of events. She’d taken one blow after the other since she got out of bed, and the hits kept coming. Fate had it in for her. That’s all there was to it.

  She couldn’t think about that now, though. She had to focus on protecting the house from further storm damage. If they didn’t get upstairs and take care of those windows, the rest of the house would flood too.

  Sam touched Brock’s arm. His hot muscles writhed beneath his drenched shirt. “Don’t worry about it. We need to board up.”

  Truth be told, she didn’t own anything extremely valuable beyond her bass, and that was safe and sound at the restaurant.

  He cradled one last armful of her clothes and used his chin to signal her to lead the way upstairs. She waded through the cold water and trudged to the carport. Rounding the corner of the house, she clutched the handrail and pulled herself onto the first step. Her feet squished and slid around in her wedge sandals as she climbed the stairs. The gusting rain threatened to throw her off balance.

  Brock followed her into the laundry area and dropped the wet clothes onto the tile floor. “I think we can wash them, and they’ll be okay.”

  “Of course.” There was that considerate nature of his again. As much as she wanted to tell herself he was evil, his actions proved otherwise. She knew she needed to find a way to thank him for his kindness.

  Sex was out, gay and all that. Cookies were out. She didn’t bake. Sex and cookies. Her favorites. Damn.

  A loud crash followed by the tinkle of shattering glass came from the dining room. She rushed toward the noise but staggered back when stinging pellets of sand and saltwater struck her flesh.

  “Christ.” Brock pulled her to him, shielding her from the flying debris. He put one of his big hands on the back of her head, his thick fingers tangling in her hair.

  She curled into the shelter of his arms and closed her eyes. Could he really be as wonderful as he seemed? Maybe fate was trying to tell her something she was too stubborn to hear.

  With her body flat against a mass of muscle that smelled like rain mixed with what was becoming her favorite cologne of all time, her hands settled on each side of his waist—clutching his wet shirt. She trembled, and her pulse thudded in her ears like the rapid footfalls of an Olympic runner sprinting across the beach.

  His granite arms tightened around her, and his velvet lips brushed against her forehead. “I’ve got you.” His voice was hoarse and sexy.

  She soaked in the comfort of his embrace briefly, then snapped to her senses and tore herself away. Shards of glass clung to the frame of the front window, and an unfamiliar surfboard that must have crashed through the window laid in pieces on the dining room floor. Rockers and wrought iron furniture clattered against the planks of the deck, and the two hammocks in each corner twisted into knots. Loud creaks and hollow groans poured from the house itself. Just beyond the deck, monolithic waves devoured the shore like a ravenous monster.

  She had to yell to be heard over the howling wind. “We’ve got to get boarded up fast.” Her dress whipped around her legs, and her hair flogged her face and neck as she leaned into the wind and forced her way to the storage closet where the window boards were kept.

  She pulled out the board labeled dining room window. Brock pocketed a hammer and nails then grabbed the board and dragged it onto the deck. He lifted the large piece of plywood over the broken window with one hand and nailed it into place. Dear Lord, he was strong.

  He wiped his face with his shirtsleeve. “Next board?”

  The lights flickered twice then the power went out. Sam reached out to get her bearings and felt Brock’s hot chest beneath her fingers. She took a step back, and glass crunched under her shoe and made her jump.

  He grabbed her hands and pulled her close. “You’re okay.”

  Whew. Standing so close to him, she was anything but okay. “I’ll get flashlights.”

  He didn’t let go of her hands when she took a step backward. He said, “I can go with you.”

  “No. Stay here.” He didn’t seem to understand she needed to put some space between them. And even though her brain understood why she needed to keep her distance, her body wanted to keep him as near as possible.

  She slipped her hands from his and went to the kitchen, blindly rummaging through a junk drawer next to the fridge until she located a couple of small flashlights.

  The storm had triggered anxiety she tried desperately to keep under control. Her experience with panic attacks taught her to recognize the chemical taste of adrenaline in the back of her throat. Nasty. Bitter. She staggered and reached for a barstool for balance as she took a few deep breaths until her dizziness subsided.

  When she returned to Brock on the deck, they made quick headway with the boarding. The windows along the side of the house were fairly protected by the close neighbors that blocked most of the wind, and all they had to do was tape x’s on the glass in case of breakage. Hurricane shutters shielded the windows on the street-side of the house. Sam showed Brock how to work the mechanism, and they pulled all of the shutters snug against the sills and locked them down. With every window tightly closed, darkness fell around them. The banshee wind—a howling demon clawing to get in—shoved the skinny-legged house like a bully.

  Sam shined her flashlight around the living room and located her ocean breeze scented candles. She fished a lighter from a glass bowl on an end table and lit the candles. The room quickly filled with a soft glow and an aromatic spa-like scent.

  The lines in Brock’s rugged face seemed to deepen in the candlelight, making him all the more chiseled and distinguished.

  He sat on the couch. “What sort of damage should I expect?”

  His question was obviously referring to the damage caused by the storm, but Sam couldn’t help but wonder what sort of damage she should expect if she and Brock were to become physically intimate.

  After all the disasters from her past, she was due something good. Could he be her something good?

  Her gaze moved from the lines of his handsome face and traveled over his muscular chest and broad shoulders. A few dark, wiry curls stuck out through the opened neckline of his tr
anslucent, wet button-down.

  She imagined undoing those white, plastic buttons and trailing her fingers from his Adam’s apple to his belt buckle.

  He cleared his throat. “I suppose if you’ve ridden out worse there’s nothing for me to fear.”

  That astute observation made her laugh. “I’ve ridden worse and survived.”

  A mischievous smile played on the edges of his mouth. “Then we’ve nothing to be concerned about. I turn the reins over to you.”

  What was he implying? Was it what she thought? Was he suggesting she take the lead here? “I don’t need reins. I have a whip and spurs.”

  “Ouch.” He laughed.

  Good grief. Why did she say such a stupid thing? He’d get the impression she was into dominance and pain. Well, she was into dominance if a hunky guy was doing the dominating. Say…silk ties binding her wrists to the bed posts. Pain on the other hand. Safe word—hellno. That about summed it up. Pain was not on her “to-do” list.

  Damn it all, now she felt as awkward as a teen who’d accidentally walked into the boys bathroom, found herself secretly excited, was unsure where to look, and was unable to get out of there fast enough.

  Music, that was what they needed. She sauntered over to the kitchen counter and unplugged the boombox. There were plenty of fresh batteries in the junk drawer by the refrigerator. She popped a few Duracells into the back of the radio and flipped it on. Static crackled. She fiddled with the antenna, trying to get something to come in, but everything was muted with white noise. She checked the CD compartment. Her favorite Miles Davis CD was loaded. She turned up the volume and let it rip.

  Primal tones of an acrobatic trumpet filled the room, and the atmospheric energy surrounding them changed. The raging winds outside blended with the electrifying jazz and created a boldly organic and passionate rendition of “Giant Steps.” The music made a sensual, heady rush come over her, and she began to sway.

  Brock rose from the sofa and moved closer to her. “What is it about this song that brings out that look in your eye?”

  She responded without giving much thought, “This music is unleashed and contagious.” She looked into his eyes and fell silent for a beat, distracted by the fluttering in her belly. She had to do something to snap herself out of this, or she’d pounce all over him.

  “It brings out the shaggy beast in me.” She tried to emulate the voice of Jessica Rabbit as she batted her eyes coyly, making a joke out of the sexual undertones.

  His brows lifted. “Let it out. I’ve got a shaggy beast of my own.”

  A loud clap struck the roof. She fell backward into her favorite chair. Another crash sounded above them. She pulled herself to her feet and scrambled upstairs, Brock right behind her.

  At the top of the stairs, she looked up to see a huge, gaping hole in the ceiling. Rain poured in. This leak wasn’t something you could catch in a bucket or collect in pots. This was a deluge.

  Brock rushed down the stairs.

  She called after him. “Where are you going?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She chased him. He stopped at the lower-level storage room and pulled out several tarps, a box of nails, and a hammer. “Do you have a long extension ladder, the kind a fire fighter would use?”

  Extension ladder…where was it? Oh yeah, it was hung on the side of the house. She led the way outside and around the corner, barely able to keep her balance as the wind and rain slapped her body and face, causing her long dress to cling, making it difficult for her to move. He handed her the items he’d retrieved and yanked the ladder down.

  She yelled over the demonic noise created by the storm. “What are you doing?” Surely he didn’t plan on going up on the roof now.

  “I’m going up there and covering that hole.”

  “You can’t do that right now. You’ll get yourself killed.”

  He gave her a fierce determined look and jerked the tools from her grip. Ladder over his shoulder, tarps and equipment in his fists, he marched to the side of the three-story house and extended the ladder until it reached the edge of the roof. “Hold this still while I climb up.”

  Was he out of his ever-loving mind? The winds would tousle him around and send him flying like a dislodged beach umbrella tumbling end over end.

  His nostrils flared, and his jaw twitched. There was no reasoning with a bull. She grabbed the base of the ladder and watched as he shimmied up three stories. His foot slipped, and he slid back down a few feet before grasping a wrung and catching himself.

  The gusts died down slightly. Thank God. He got his feet back under him and continued his ascent. She clamped her eyes shut to protect them from the needle-like rain pricking every exposed surface of her body. She felt the ladder shift and looked up as he stepped onto the roof.

  With the empty ladder in her white-knuckled fists, her stomach clenched into a hard, nauseated stone. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t help him. All she could do was hold on and pray he’d make it back down safely. Holding her breath and straining to hear the hammer strike, she heard a bang. She told herself that was him nailing the tarp onto the shingles. But the bang was much louder than just a hammer and nails. Frozen in place, she wrestled with the decision to run inside and see if he’d fallen through the hole or stay put to man the ladder so he could get back down.

  She bit her salty lower lip and ground her teeth against the grit that had blown into her mouth.

  “Sam….” Brock’s voice was distant and edged with pain.

  No sight of him. She shouted up at the sky. “Brock, are you all right?”

  “Sam, go upstairs.”

  She let go of the ladder. It smacked against the house next door and became wedged between the two buildings. With her dress hiked to her hips, she ran upstairs.

  Brock hung by one hand from the hole in the ceiling. His feet dangled less than five feet above the floor. Rain poured in on top of him. Why didn’t he just let go and drop?

  “Let go, you crazy man.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  As soon as the question left her mouth, she saw blood running down his arm, staining his sodden white shirt.

  “You’re hurt. Oh God, Brock. What have you done?”

  “My hand is pinned. I need something to stand on.” His voice was strained to a grunt.

  She wrestled a chest of drawers over and placed it beneath him. He was able to put his feet on top of it. He groaned and yanked his hand free. In a blur of movement, he hopped down from the chest of drawers, bolted to the bathroom, and slammed the door behind him.

  She knocked. “Are you okay? Let me take you to the doctor.”

  He emerged from the bathroom, bare-chested, shreds of his shirt tightly wound around his hand. He’d rinsed his arm, and it looked clean, but the white cloth bandage was quickly turning crimson, which told her he was still bleeding.

  She hated herself for lusting at this moment, but she couldn’t help it. The sight of him shirtless, with his rippling abs exposed, made her quiver. She focused on the droplets of water sliding down his torso. She could lap those droplets up and die happy.

  He turned slightly and she caught sight of a red scar on his shoulder. She could tell whatever caused that scar had happened recently. “What happened to your shoulder?

  He glanced at his shoulder. “Surgery. I had a rugby injury that required some doctoring. Nothing to worry about.”

  She didn’t like how nonchalant he was about injuries. “We’ve got to get you to the hospital.”

  “I’m fine.” He shrugged it off so easily. Maybe he wasn’t hurt as badly as she thought, not that he seemed to care what she thought. Pigheaded man. Mr. Perfect did have a fault after all.

  He went back downstairs, and she trailed after him. He ripped the ladder free from its wedged position and leaned it against the house again. “Hold it still.” Every speck of the bandage on his hand was now red.

  “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”


  “Hold it still, I say.”

  He’d found his sexy drill sergeant voice. It made her nipples salute. Yes, sir.

  Arguing with this man was pointless. She did as he instructed, and he climbed back up the ladder. She soon heard the tapping of the hammer. The wind died down enough so the rain no longer stung when it hit her.

  Within five minutes, Brock stood at her side under the carport with a proud grin on his face. “I got her all covered up. We’ll be fine.”

  “What about you? I’m more concerned about your injury than the roof.”

  He looked down at his hand. “Might require a stitch or two. No bones broken.” He rubbed his left shoulder, sucking in a breath. “I’m going to check upstairs again.”

  He was a complete madman. She followed him and shined the flashlight at the ceiling. No more leak.

  They went down to the living room, and he collapsed on the sofa, a satisfied look on his face. She got him a beer.

  He took a long pull. “Ahh.”

  His dark, wet hair glistened like onyx in the candlelight. He slouched, rested his head against the back cushion, and closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell with slow steady breaths.

  She sat across from him and watched in awe at how peaceful he seemed after such an ordeal.

  He lifted his head and smiled. “Thanks. That was fun.”

  “Fun? You call that fun?”

  He laughed. “Yeah. Most fun I’ve had since….” A pensive expression replaced his smile.

  “Since what?”

  “No matter.” He looked down at his hand and chewed his bottom lip. “I think my fingers are starting to swell.” Then without missing a beat, he turned the beer up to his mouth and chugged the remainder of the bottle. “American beer sucks.”

  She laughed. “What kind of beer do you prefer?”