She had tried to convince Oliver to keep the mill and just sell the patent, but he refused. The mill was as good as sold; the deal done.
So Cassie had no choice but to try to meet with Hunter Axon himself. She was convinced that the mill’s fortunes could be turned around if it was allowed to produce the patented fabric.
Cassie had cashed out her meager bank account and flown to the Bahamas to try to talk to him. But her mission hadn’t been as simple as it sounded. Hunter’s receptionist had refused her an audience with her boss. Desperate, Cassie had even gone to his house, but was once again refused entry. In the two days she’d been in the Bahamas, she had not so much as caught a glimpse of the elusive man.
Now, on the eve of her departure, she was forced to face the truth: she had failed. Demion Mills was doomed to become just another deserted warehouse, its beautiful old looms designated to museums or scrapped for parts.
Cassie picked up her bill. Twenty-four dollars. Twenty more than she should have spent. After all, she only had thirty left, and she needed cab fare for tomorrow morning. She knew she shouldn’t have splurged on eight-dollar piña coladas, but she couldn’t help herself. She glanced back toward the aquamarine water and set the bill back down. A warm breeze swayed the graceful palm trees that flanked the beach. Perhaps, she thought, she could afford to stay just a few more minutes.
She picked up her empty glass and popped a half-melted ice cube into her mouth. Sinking back down in her chair, she stared at the fiery red sun sinking into the Atlantic.
“Can I buy you a drink?” asked a husky voice.
Cassie almost jumped out of her chair. But it was not her hunky bartender. It was a blond-haired, portly gentleman sporting a sunburn that outlined the shape of sunglasses, making him look like a red raccoon.
“No, thank you,” she said. She swallowed the cube. “I was just leaving.”
“What’s a beautiful girl like you doing all alone?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a crime, that’s what it is. But I have good news. You’re not going to be alone any longer.” He flashed a thumbs-up sign to some men sitting at the bar. They were snickering and laughing, giving him the thumbs-up back in encouragement.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I have to get going.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “Let us buy you another drink.”
“No, but thank you.”
She opened up her wallet, and before she could stop him, he had reached over and pulled out her license. “Miss Edwards of 345 Hickamore Street. Shanville, New York.”
“Give that back to me, please.”
“You’re a long way from home, Miss Edwards.”
“I asked for that back.” She stood up and glanced around. The music had picked up, and although there were quite a few tables around her, the patrons seemed too busy with each other to notice.
He raised the license above his head. He glanced at his friends at the bar. They snickered and laughed, encouraging him. “For a kiss,” he said. Before Cassie could move away, he had grabbed her by the waist. “One kiss.”
“Is there a problem?” said a voice from behind.
The man dropped his hands. Cassie turned around and found herself staring into the deep, brown eyes of her bartender.
“No problem,” the blond man said.
The bartender’s eyes narrowed as he crossed his muscular arms against his chest. He was an intimidating figure with an inherent air of authority.
“The lady here just dropped her license. That’s all,” the man said, flicking Cassie’s license toward the table. His eyes darted nervously toward his friends. They were still at the bar but were staring down at their drinks, pretending not to notice the drama unfolding only feet away.
The bartender’s eyes blazed. It was obvious he didn’t like being lied to. He took another step toward the man and said in a lethal voice, “I want you out of here now. I prefer to avoid a scene. However,” he said, unfolding his arms, “if it’s necessary—”
Before he could finish, the man swung a punch. But the bartender was too fast. Like a trained fighter, he spun around and grabbed the man by the lapels, lifting him off the ground. “I’m not going to ask you nicely again.”
“Okay,” the man said, raising his hands in surrender. “I give.”
The bartender set him back down. The man glanced toward the bar. His friends had disappeared. “Some vacation,” he mumbled, stumbling away.
Cassie could feel the bartender’s eyes on her once again. “Are you all right?” he asked gently.
“Fine,” she said. Her camera was sitting on top of the table, its lens cap off. She glanced back at the bartender. Despite her scuffle, all she could think about was his deep, brown eyes. She didn’t think she had ever seen eyes so intense.
“You’re welcome to use the house phone if you’d like to call someone.”
“Call someone?”
“Someone to pick you up. Drive you home.”
“No,” she said.
“All right, then,” he said. “I’ll call you a cab.”
She remembered the lack of cash. “No, I’m staying close. I’ll just walk.”
Actually, it was not close at all. After her unsuccessful attempts at meeting with Axon, she had gone back to the motel, a sorry-looking building blocks from the beach. But she couldn’t see spending her last night in the Bahamas cooped up in a small, dark room, so she had walked the beach, stopping to photograph anything and everything that caught her fancy: a woman braiding hair, an old man selling shell necklaces, a young child splashing in the waves.
How far away was that hotel, anyway? A half hour? An hour?
She was distracted by a loud holler from down the beach. In the distance she could see her perpetrator. He had rejoined his friends and they were jumping up and down and hollering, making lewd gestures at a group of women.
“I’ll see you home,” the bartender said. She turned back toward him. He was watching the men. “Where are you staying?”
She hesitated. She suddenly realized she could not tell him where she was staying. Nor did she want him to see her to her hotel. She didn’t know him. And although only minutes earlier she had been dreaming about a seduction, the truth of the matter was she was still Cassie Edwards, the town Goody Two-shoes. The twenty-three-year-old virgin. The fiancée of Oliver Demion.
Make that ex-fiancée.
“Thank you for your help, but I’ll be fine.” No, she could not have him see her home. But there was one thing she desired of him.
He was staring at her, not saying a word.
She picked up her camera. “Would you mind if…” She hesitated.
“If what?”
“If I took your picture?”
He looked at her as if it was the first time anyone had ever asked for such a thing.
“I’ll be quick,” she said.
“Sure,” he said. He stood still, not moving.
She looked through the lens and focused. He stared directly at the camera, looking at her with an intense, yet almost amused expression.
She snapped the photo and smiled. “Great. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “No problem.”
She wondered if he was just going to stand there until she left. She opened her purse and took out the money. She set it on the table. “Like I said, I’m a photography buff,” she began. “Ever since I got my first camera I—”
But she was talking to the wind. He was gone.
She glanced around the bar. There was no sign of him. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air. She sighed. She had a chance and she blew it. What had she been thinking?
With one last glance toward the bar, she turned to leave. Suddenly she stopped. Her bartender was less than fifty feet away. He was leaning against a palm tree, his hands tucked in his pockets as he stared at the water.
She found herself suffering from yet another case of nerves. Should she hurry by as if she hadn’t noticed him? Or should
she try and strike up a conversation?
He turned around. He smiled, almost as if he had been waiting for her. “Which way are you headed?” he asked.
There was something about his sweet, crooked smile that made her mind turn to mush and her heart beat faster. “That way,” she said, nodding toward her left.
He said, “Me, too. Do you mind if I walk with you a bit?”
She laughed nervously. “Sure.”
He stopped. “You do mind, or you don’t?”
“I don’t mind,” she said quickly. He grinned. They began walking again.
She wasn’t sure if his being there was a coincidence or not. She almost hoped it wasn’t. She stole a peek at him out of the corner of her eye, and when she saw him looking at her, she blushed and glanced away. She realized they did not even know each others’ names. But for some reason, it didn’t seem to matter. She was content to escape her life and identity, if only for a while.
“Are you in the Bahamas for business or pleasure?” he asked.
“Business,” she said.
“What do you do?”
She hesitated. “I’m a…” She paused. She did not want to talk about the mill. Not tonight. Not in this magical, beautiful place. Tonight she was Cinderella at the ball.
He said, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“I’m in town for a meeting.”
“A meeting? Sounds mysterious.”
“I assure you it’s not.” She smiled at him. “So,” she said, quickly changing the subject, “I noticed you working the bar. How long have you lived here?”
“About ten years,” he said.
“What a nice place to live.”
“It can be.” He stopped at a small marina and said, “I have to check on a boat. If you’re not in a hurry, perhaps you’d like to come with me?”
Once again she found herself hesitating. Part of her would have liked nothing better than to spend as much time with him as possible, but the other part was telling her she should leave while she still had her wits about her.
He said, “I should admit that I lied to you. I’m not going to let you walk home by yourself. It’s not safe for a woman to walk this beach by herself after sunset.”
She glanced down the beach. She could hear some male voices. Did they belong to the raccoon man and his friends?
It would be ridiculous to take a chance walking the beach by herself. But then again, wasn’t it equally ridiculous to accept a stranger’s invitation to his boat?
But was she ready to say goodbye? Besides, as he said, she didn’t have much choice. She was not getting rid of him in either case. Not that she wanted to. Not by a long shot. “Thank you,” she said.
She followed him down the dock. The boats seemed to increase in size as they walked. He stopped at the last and largest yacht. “There she is.”
When he climbed aboard and held out his hand, she accepted his help. She jumped onboard and looked around. “Wow,” was all she could say.
It was not only the size that was impressive. The boat looked brand-new. Everything seemed to sparkle with polish—the floors, the doors. It exuded wealth, from the rich mahogany of the hull to the beautiful cushioned deck chairs.
It was the type of boat that looked as if a tuxedoed butler might appear at any moment. The type of boat that was bought and sold with a crew. “Does somebody actually own this thing?”
He nodded and smiled. “Somebody actually does.”
“Do you crew on this?”
He hesitated. “When needed.”
“I bet that’s a nice job.”
He laughed. It was the first smile she had seen since they’d left the bar. “It beats sitting at a desk.”
“Where is everybody?”
“There’s only one crew member that actually lives onboard, and he’s visiting his mother in Ohio this week.”
“And the owner doesn’t live onboard, I take it.”
“No,” he said. Once again he flashed his crooked smile.
“Mind if I take a look around?” she asked.
“I’ll give you the guided tour.”
She followed him through a pair of mahogany doors and into a galley. The cabins looked as if they were out of the pages of Architectural Digest, each grander than the previous one. At a bedroom door she stopped. She went over to the drapes and felt the material. “Jacquard silk lampas,” she said, not realizing she was speaking out loud.
“What?”
“This material is woven by hand,” she said. “It’s very expensive.”
“How do you know that?”
She blushed. How did she know that? Because she spent her days at a loom, making that exact material. “I’ve photographed it.” She ran her hands over the sleek, heavy silk. “It has a wonderful texture.”
“You really are a serious photographer.”
She shook her head. “No. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore?”
“When I was growing up, I thought I wanted to be a photographer. I took pictures of everyone and everything.”
“Sounds interesting.”
She nodded. “I was an arts major in college.”
“But?”
“But life intervened. My grandmother got sick.”
“And you never went back?”
“No. She needed me. And then when she didn’t…Well, things had changed.”
“That’s too bad.”
“No,” she said. “I’m happy with my life and the path I’ve taken. It may not have been the path I thought I would choose, but I have no regrets.” She looked at him and smiled. “I don’t believe in them, anyway, do you?”
“Regrets?” He shook his head. “Not tonight, at least.” He grinned.
Not tonight? She pondered the meaning as she followed him back out the galley and onto the deck. “That’s it,” he said, turning around to face her.
“No swimming pool?” she teased. “No grand ballroom?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess it’s okay.”
His smile faded. For a second she thought she had offended him. He did know she was being sarcastic, right?
“Are you in a hurry?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He nodded toward the lounge chair. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll get us something to drink. What would you like?”
“Are you sure it’s all right?”
Once again he smiled. “Yes. Do you like champagne?”
She nodded.
He came back carrying a bottle and two glasses. He opened it up and poured some into a flute. “Cheers,” he said, handing it to her.
She took a sip as she leaned back in her chair and breathed in the warm, salty air. “This is nice,” she said. “I almost wish I didn’t have to go home tomorrow.”
“Where’s home?”
“New York,” she said.
“Is that where your family lives?”
“Lived,” she said. “My parents died when I was young. I was raised by my grandparents. My grandfather died about ten years ago and my grandmother…” She hesitated. “A few months ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. There was a tenderness in his eyes that made her feel like crying. “That must be hard for you.”
“Yes,” she said. She was suddenly tempted to tell him her whole sad story, but she stopped herself. She did not want to tell him about Oliver, nor did she want to tell him about the mill and the horrible Hunter Axon. She wanted to forget about all that, at least for tonight. She stopped talking and focused on drinking.
“You’re not married.”
She took another sip and said, “I almost was.”
“Almost?” he repeated, refilling her glass.
Oh geesh, she just couldn’t help herself. Why would she bring up her broken engagement? Didn’t she have anything happy to say? Anything fun? “I was engaged but it didn’t work out.”
“So that’s another r
eason why.”
“Why what?”
“Why you looked so sad tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“I was watching you.”
He had been watching her. Was he…interested in her? “You were watching me?”
He nodded. “You looked like you were ready to cry.”
No, he was not interested. He was a nice guy who was feeling sorry for her. Pity was not often a precursor to lust. She shook her head. “I might have been thinking about my grandmother, but I wasn’t thinking about him—at least, not like that.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No more ‘I’m sorrys,’” she begged. “Please. I’m beginning to feel like a pity case. Anyway, I’m over him. I am. I think everything happens for a reason.”
“I agree,” he said, nodding. “But it’s still never easy saying goodbye to someone you cared about.”
She sighed. “True. But sometimes exes can do things that make it a little easier.”
“Like?”
“Like leaving you for another woman.” Oh damn. There she went again. Couldn’t she keep it buttoned up for two seconds?
No. It was not only the alcohol but the anonymity that was getting to her. The ability to talk to someone she would never see again. Someone who did not know her or Oliver, or their situation.
He was staring at her. “He left you for another woman?”
Her name was Willa Forchee. She was about ten years older than Oliver and worked as a vice president for Axon Enterprises. Cassie had met her several times and thought she seemed just as mean and vindictive as her boss was reported to be. In any case, Oliver admitted they had been involved for months. He claimed to be in love for the first time in his life.
Ouch.
But Cassie had not spent much time wallowing in the self-pity of a jilted lover. Every ounce of energy was used up in anger over the mill and herself for not stopping Oliver sooner.
“I’m sorr—” he began.
She put a finger to his lips to silence him. “No more ‘I’m sorrys.’ Please.”
He took her finger away. But he did not let go. He began stroking it. Softly and gently. Even though it was a simple, tender act, it took her breath away. It was far more sensual than a kiss. And so intimate. What was happening? They didn’t even know each other.
Best of Virgins Bundle Page 104
