The Beach Bachelors Boxset (Three Complete Contemporary Romance Novels in One) (The Beach Bachelors Series)

by Pamela Browning

  And then he was there, slamming the front door (the front door?) behind him, walking jauntily into the dining room as though it belonged to him. Aunt Sophie's adoring smile was not lost on Paige, nor was Aunt Biz's obvious delight at Chad's presence. Paige tried to hide her dismay at their clear capitulation. What in the world was going on here? How had Chad's influence become so pervasive in her aunts' lives?

  "Sorry I'm late," he apologized, slipping easily into the chair across from Paige. His eyes rested approvingly on her for a moment, taking in the way her dress clung to her figure. "My, you look spiffy tonight," he observed, favoring her with a smile.

  Spiffy? She flushed, compressed her lips, and narrowed her eyes into slits, hoping he got the message: I don't trust you, Chad Smith. If he did, he didn't show it. Instead, upon Aunt Sophie's urging, he helped himself to a generous portion of squash casserole and an even bigger helping of country-fried steak.

  "I can see why you wanted to visit St. Albans," Chad said, addressing her. "Aunt Sophie's southern cooking is such a treat. I've never tasted squash prepared this way before—delicious!" He took another mouthful.

  Paige's eyes joined with his over the wildflower centerpiece. "That's not the only reason I came to St. Albans," she said coldly, hoping he understood her meaning.

  "Oh, I'm sure," he said. His eyes were laughing at her, and she fixed him with a meaningful stare before taking another bite. The man was impossible! He knew what she was trying to say, and he was mocking her. Clearly he knew how firmly entrenched he was with the aunts, daring her to challenge his position. Fuming inwardly, she continued to eat, but the food had lost its taste. Chad's lighthearted banter with the aunts did little to help her mood.

  When the dinner was finally over and Chad had excused himself, Paige helped carry plates and dishes into the Manse's spacious kitchen with the full intention of helping clean up. But Aunt Biz and Aunt Sophie were so determined that she leave it all to them that finally she gave in.

  "We know you must be tired after your trip, dear," Aunt Biz insisted warmly. "And we like working in the kitchen together, we really do. Let us handle the evening meals, but we're each on our own for the others, okay?"

  Paige good-naturedly let them push her out of the kitchen and wandered delightedly through the house, renewing her happy acquaintance with all the old things she remembered so well from her childhood summers. The big walnut grandfather clock on the landing, its brass pendulum swaying slowly back and forth, its chime still clear. The round gilt mirror in the hall, reflecting the once well-polished banister and newel post of the stairway. The tiny brass cat, tarnished now, that had sat, tail curled around its front paws, on the rosewood desk since the aunts were little girls.

  Reminiscing, she wandered through the study, located behind the parlor, and flung open the French doors to the veranda. The floor of the balcony above, the one outside her room, cast the study in shadows, but in the distance she could hear the steady rush of waves to the shore. It didn't take her long to decide that what she needed to clear her head after a long, trying day was a swift walk on the beach.

  The Manse occupied a rise of land sloping gently to white sand. Page walked slowly down the slope, watching her shadow precede her. The moon was full tonight and shed its light over St. Albans, tipping the crests of the waves in silver.

  When she reached the beach, she slipped her feet out of her shoes and hid them in a clump of sea oats at the dune line. Sand crunched beneath her toes as she ran swiftly to the edge of the ocean, stopping just short of the high water mark.

  She turned northward and walked beside the sea, inhaling deeply. The fragrance of the Golden Isles was like no other, a heady blend of sea and sun and marshland wafted overhead by the gentlest of breezes. She wondered again why she had stayed away so long. Four years of college in California and her subsequent swift entry into her present jet-hopping life weren't really adequate excuses for depriving herself of the pleasures of St. Albans.

  With a start she saw a figure walking quickly toward her along the beach. She realized with a sinking feeling that it could be no one but Chad Smith.

  She whirled quickly and began to retrace her footsteps along the shore. She would go back to the house and retire for the evening with a good book. She most certainly did not want to encounter him again tonight—dinner had been enough of an ordeal.

  Chad apparently didn't feel the same way. "Paige," he called. "Wait for me!"

  Paige ignored this, planting one foot in front of the other with absorbed determination. It must be obvious that she didn't want to talk. She pretended not to notice him when he jogged up.

  He fell into step beside her. "Plotting a 'Ban Chad' march? With banners? Would you like to burn one of my T-shirts in protest? "

  She shot him an aloof look. "Which one?"

  "I'll probably never wear the Wish You Were Beer one again."

  "Maybe you should hang onto it," she said. "In case you get desperate." Though he didn't seem like the type to be desperate, ever. If only he didn't look so irresistibly handsome in the bright moonlight; if only his eyes didn't penetrate her usual reserve and incite her body to respond in the most insane manner!

  "That T-shirt was always too big. Size XXL. I plan to use it for a tent next time I go camping. I'm sorry you don't like me, Paige. A walk in the moonlight with you is preferable to the way I usually spend my evenings."

  "And how is that?" Paige couldn't resist asking. St. Albans was hardly what she would have thought a stimulating environment for a bachelor like Chad.

  Chad's expression became slightly guarded. "Alone," he said, and effectively switched topics.

  "You know," he said smoothly, his tone conversational, "I've often thought that St. Albans had everything I needed—sun, sand, sea, good company, fine food—except a beautiful woman. And now circumstances have even provided that."

  She knew that he was looking down at her with that infuriating grin of his. "Looks aren't everything," she said in the frostiest tone she could muster, aiming for the tone she used when drunks harassed her in mid-flight.

  "In the dark, it doesn't matter how anyone looks," he said amiably. "But there's all this moonlight, and you're stunning. Even with broccoli between your teeth."

  Paige reflexively ran her tongue over her upper incisors.

  "We didn't have broccoli for dinner," Chad said helpfully. "Just to remind you."

  "Look, Chad, I'm not in the mood for this," she said in exasperation, though privately she was amused.

  His upper arm brushed her shoulder—she didn't know if it was by chance or design. "What are you in the mood for?" he asked.

  She dared a quick glance, but nevertheless it lasted long enough to tell her that his blond hair captured the moonlight in a halo effect and that his eyes were warm as they rested upon her face. She deliberately turned her eyes to the ocean, willing herself to ignore him.

  Realizing that she wasn't about to reply, he continued. "I see. You're in the mood for what I'm in the mood for. And who wouldn't be?" He waved his arm at the surrounding scenery. "Beach. Ocean. And we're alone, except for each other."

  Paige stopped walking altogether. She could feel her heart speeding up, pulsating in a rhythm, the rhythm of the sea. The rising beat threatened to engulf her, to distract her from her good intentions. "Listen, Chad Smith, I'm tired of your hints. Go away. Can't you see that I..." She spoke frantically, trying to rid herself of him before it was too late.

  He spoke slowly, huskily, but with conscious deliberation. "I see what I want to see, a beautiful woman with flowing dark hair and eyes the color of the sea. And I sense that she wants to kiss me almost as much as I want to kiss her. Broccoli or not."

  Amazed to the point of silence, Paige watched in utter disbelief as he drew her close to him. The strong angular planes of his face reflected the glow of the moonlight, and his eyes seemed lit with an amber fire. Slowly, slowly, Chad gathered her into his arms. She found herself unable to move and stared up at him,
lips slightly parted, wondering why she found it so difficult to breathe.

  Her hair, teased by the soft breeze, blew forward and trailed wispily across his cheek. He noticed it and smiled, but he didn't brush it away. Instead he lowered his head even more so that his lips were all but touching hers. She found herself anticipating his kiss in dismayed wonder, feeling his soft breath on her cheeks and the tensing of his muscles as he pressed her unresisting body to his.

  And then his knowing lips brushed hers, gently at first, then gradually, more masterfully. Paige felt swept away on a tide of sensation, an emotional surge that bore her away from any vestige of restraint. Her body responded helplessly to the onslaught of his kisses, and he was kissing her again and again. She felt her arms sliding around him, thrilling to the flexing of the muscles in his broad back as he glided his hand upward to wind it in her hair.

  Paige had never been kissed like this, not by Stephen, not by anyone else. She had never been so aware of her own curves fitting those of a man's body, nor of the sensitive throb of her swelling breasts where they crushed against his chest. When at last his searching, seeking mouth, so coaxing and so powerfully insistent, released her lips, she gasped, then pushed him away only to clutch helplessly at his shirt when her knees nearly gave way.

  Chad looked down at her shrewdly, and she was aghast to read the amusement in his eyes. "Well," he said, "time for you to tell me that you don't kiss on the first date."

  She drew herself up sharply. "We're not having a date. We're not even having a conversation as of this minute." She could barely force the words out, and she briefly contemplated how his hand would feel if it cupped one of her breasts.

  "As you wish," he said smoothly. "What are you doing next weekend?"

  "Full up," she replied in a strangled voice. "Or something like that."

  Chad backed away and took a few backward steps down the beach before he said, "Maybe by then you'll get tired of sitting around the Manse and watching your lovable but eccentric aunts crochet pot holders. I can hope, can't I?" Laughing softly, he wheeled and hurried away, his retreating shape washed in moonlight.

  Paige stood, little wavelets lapping at her bare feet, and watched until he was out of sight. Then, raising one hand to her bruised lips, quelling the primitive desire that had run rampant through her body, she murmured to herself, "Who are you, Chad Smith? Who are you, anyway?"

  Chapter 2

  "Blackberry jam or muscadine jelly?" asked Aunt Biz, popping a piece of toast out of the toaster.

  "Blackberry now, muscadine later," said Paige. The aunts made all their own jams and jellies from fruits native to St. Albans and either would be delicious.

  Aunt Biz handed Paige her toast and the jar of jam before sitting down across from her at the big round oak kitchen table. "I hope you don't mind that breakfast is such an informal affair," said Aunt Biz. "Sophie likes to sleep late, sometimes until ten or eleven o'clock, and I prefer a quick morning meal so that I can work in my garden before the sun gets too hot. And without a housekeeper—" Aunt Biz shrugged apologetically.

  "Why don't you find another one?" suggested Paige. "This is such a big house for the two of you to keep up." She didn't mention the obvious coat of dust over everything, or the tarnished silver and brass, or the floors that needed waxing.

  "There isn't anyone."

  "Surely you could find someone who would be willing to come over from the mainland, perhaps a live-in," said Paige. "You could have Chad take her back to Brunswick for the weekends if she preferred."

  Aunt Biz furrowed her brow. "No one wants to live so far away from town. It's not exciting enough here. If they get bored, they can't exactly run out to see a movie, you know. Cell phones don't work on the island. People like to be connected with their tablets and what do you call it, the online face page where you post all those ridiculous private things about yourself. No, I'm afraid a housekeeper's out of the question."

  Paige stifled a smile at Aunt Biz's description of modern living, which both aunts seemed determined to ignore. As for her, it might be good that Stephen couldn't reach her by text or phone. Her tablet and laptop could stay in their cases until she went home.

  "I hope you won't mind if I pitch in and help you and Aunt Sophie with the house while I'm here," Paige said, striving to be tactful. Secretly she couldn't wait to get her hands on a dust cloth.

  "This is your vacation," objected Aunt Biz. "We want you to enjoy yourself."

  "Nothing would please me more than helping you take care of these fine old things," Paige insisted with enthusiasm. "I live in a tiny apartment in the city, and everything I own is jarringly new. I'd love working around the Manse if you'll let me."

  "Only if you promise to leave plenty of time for swimming and sunbathing and some of the other things you like to do."

  "I promise," said Paige, smiling at her aunt. "And I hope you don't mind if I dig up that old sewing machine. I'd like to make some bright pillows for the couch in the study while I'm here. I enjoy sewing but seldom make time for it."

  "Goodness, if you think you can use that old relic, go right ahead. It's in the closet next to your room, and you'll find thread and scraps of fabric there too."

  Paige looked forward to refurbishing, even in a minor way, the tired decor at the Manse. It pained her, for her aunts' sake, to see the place looking so decrepit. She'd found that a bank of pillows in cheerful colors could hide even the most dismally upholstered couch and brighten spirits as well.

  Also, she had brought her current needlepoint project with her, a small picture of a heron in flight that she had designed herself. She often worked on needlepoint when she had a long layover at an airport because it helped pass the time pleasurably and made her feel as though she really wasn't wasting it. If she could complete the heron picture while she was at St. Albans, Chad could frame it and the aunts would have a cheerful picture to hang in the foyer, which desperately needed a lift.

  Then, thinking of Chad and recalling the night before, she said, "Aunt Biz, there are some things I want to ask you about Chad Smith."

  "I know, isn't he wonderful?" Aunt Biz beamed across the table at Paige. "We were lucky to find him."

  "How did you find him?"

  "It was at the dock at Brunswick. I'd gone over to pick up the mail at the post office, and I had trouble with the boat motor—again. There didn't seem to be anyone else around except him, sitting on a coil of rope. He came over and offered to help. He fixed the motor, but he asked me how far I had to go with it because he was worried that it would stall or something, and when I told him St. Albans he seemed really interested and asked me if I had any work he could do—"

  "He asked you? I thought you offered him the job."

  "Well, not exactly. I said we had lots of repair work that could be done here. He was looking for a place to live and—"

  "You told me his boat had sprung a leak," said Paige, bewildered. She folded her hands in front of her, her elbows on the tabletop, and rested her chin on her knuckles, regarding her aunt with troubled eyes.

  "Did I? Well, it was something like that. Mostly I was glad that he wasn't an aluminum siding salesman," Aunt Biz said vaguely. "Anyway, he came home with me and he's been here ever since. We don't pay him a salary, he only takes room and board. I don't know what we would have done without him."

  "But Aunt Biz," Paige said patiently, thinking of the glaring state of disrepair at the Manse, "exactly what has he done to improve things around here?"

  "Oh, there were the plumbing and the locks," said Aunt Biz, and out of kindness Paige decided not to remind her aunt that both of these episodes had turned into fiascos. "He chased a skunk out of the basement for us. And he's very good with the boat motor. He's been fixing up the Sea House too."

  Paige felt a quickening of interest. The Sea House had always been one of her favorite places on St. Albans. Once used as a guest house when previous generations entertained, it was built of the round ballast stones from ships that had
long ago plied the ocean between Europe and the Golden Isles. It nestled amid the tall pale green spears of sea oats behind the dune line on a slight promontory that extended into the Atlantic Ocean. The view from its windows was magnificent with the sea on three sides, and in the old days Paige had often taken her sketchbook there at times when she particularly wanted to be alone. Because no one had used it for years, the Sea House had been allowed to become more and more rundown.

  "What has he done to improve it?" Paige wanted to know.

  Aunt Biz seemed unsure. "Maybe some carpentry work," she hedged. "He's taken a lot of things down there, a table, for instance."

  "Don't you know what he's doing? After all, it's your property." Her voice sounded sharper than she had intended, and instantly she regretted her harsh tone. It was just that she felt so perplexed, so unnerved, at this stranger's involvement in her aunts' lives. She couldn't bear to think that these two elderly ladies, so dear to her, might have fallen under the influence of someone who could very well turn out to be unscrupulous.

  "I've only been inside the Sea House once or twice since he got here, but he's trimmed the shrubbery," Aunt Biz said, and Paige was amazed. Aunt Biz had always insisted on a hands-on approach to running St. Albans Island, personally making every decision that affected the island, the Manse, or their inhabitants. In the past she would never have turned over an important project such as rehabilitating the Sea House to a stranger. She would have been there supervising, giving orders, and probably wielding a hammer herself.

  For the first time Paige admitted to herself that the aunts were getting old. They were both well into their eighties, and Aunt Biz was the elder by three or four years. A slowing down was to be expected.

  "Anyway," Aunt Biz went on, oblivious to Paige's uneasiness, "why don't you take Chad's breakfast down to him? I'm sure he'd be happy to show you what he's done to the Sea House."