by Lori Foster
Jesse straightened, using the latex glove to shield his eyes from the bright morning sun. He repeated his position to his agent. “Tell them I need two more weeks, Beverly,” he said into the phone. “Tell them it’s real simple—if they want a manuscript, they can have it today. If they want a good manuscript, they’ll have to wait two weeks.”
Jesse heard Beverly produce another heartfelt sigh before she updated him on his latest mediocre sales figures and a movie studio’s bid for his screenplay.
“I’ll get back to you in a couple of days about everything. Promise.” Jesse said his goodbyes and hung up, shoving the phone into his pocket.
Since he was already on the sidewalk, he decided to pick up the trash in front of his absentee neighbor’s house, a cute craftsman bungalow rental shaded by two old palmetto trees. Being Saturday morning, he knew the current invading horde would soon be heading out. Then the cleaners would swoop in to do their magic—scrubbing bathrooms, hosing down porches, cleaning the pool and wiping down the inside of the fridge. By late afternoon, a new group would move in, thrilled by the charm and comfort of their temporary island home, excited that their vacation stretched out before them, days of azure skies and eternal ocean followed by nights of booze, music, food and laughter.
Jesse didn’t begrudge them their good time. Most of the renters were polite and responsible. Every once in a while, he’d meet someone truly interesting. And a couple of times, he’d lucked out with a group of beautiful women escaping their minivans and office cubicles for an all-girls week of mischief.
Jesse swallowed hard, thinking of Cammy. She’d seemed so sweet and real. And yet, she was neither. To this day, it still amazed him how months of pain had been the price he paid for a few nights of pleasure. Jesse shook his head. Never again would he do something so profoundly stupid. If he wanted to remain sane and solvent, Renter Chicks would be forever off-limits—no matter how pretty they were. No matter how sweet and real they seemed.
Jesse returned to the cool shade of his own little private oasis and locked the gate behind him. He couldn’t help but smile. Yes, the steady stream of tourists was part of life in Key West, but it was worth it. He got to call the most unique city in the United States his home.
Though he’d been in the cottage for two years now, it still gave him a rush of pride every time he stood here, on the walkway, looking up at the original Batista homestead. He’d put a huge chunk of money into the place and poured his heart and soul into returning it to its original beauty, and now it suited him perfectly.
Of course, he hadn’t always been thrilled with the prospect of owning the place. When grandmother Ella left it to him five years before, he felt put-upon. He didn’t want the hassle or the responsibility. Just because he was a well-known author didn’t mean he was filthy rich, and it was obvious that restoring the dilapidated house and grounds would be an enormous undertaking.
But the cottage was his family legacy, and if he didn’t take it on, who would? His brother who lived on a ranch in Wyoming? His brother’s chronically broke ex-wife, Lelinda, who hustled a living off the tourists? His unemployed cousins in Miami?
So Jesse set out to save what he could—the bathroom’s original vintage tile and claw-foot tub, some of the exterior clapboard and all the Dade County pine flooring, the rosewood fireplace mantel, the carved front door and the ornate wrought iron from the upstairs back veranda. Everything else was gutted and rebuilt, and as soon as work was completed, he sold his condo.
Though the Queen Anne cottage was now a historic landmark and part of most of the city’s architectural walking tours, to Jesse it was simply home. It was where he let his imagination run free, where he slept with the windows open to the sea breeze whispering in the banyan tree and where he wrote. It was his retreat. His heart. The cottage was his place in the world.
Jesse went to the side of the house to ditch the trash and recyclables and check on a hurricane shutter that was coming off its hinges, making a mental note of what tools he’d need to repair it. He went back around to the front and climbed the porch steps, opening the door to a view of gleaming floors and an elegant center staircase. It never ceased to amaze him that his great-great-grandparents came from Cuba with nothing, yet within a generation the Batistas had become one of the most influential families in the Southern Keys.
And to think—Jesse was the last local descendant of the original clan. He was the proverbial end of the road.
The phone in his pants pocket began to ring. It was Fred Luna’s number on the caller ID. Jesse knew what this meant, and his heart sank in sadness—Fred’s wife, Yvette, was probably back in the hospital and he needed Jesse to captain the boat. Of course he’d do it. Spending an evening as “Captain J.D.” on the sunset cruise was the least he could do for his lifelong friend. As a bonus, a night in the company of drunken tourists almost always gave him an idea for a future fictional character. Between the occasional captain gig on Fred’s party boat and helping Lelinda with her walking tours—one of which, unfortunately, he’d long ago promised to do first thing tomorrow morning—Jesse was never hurting for inspiration.
“No problem, man. Of course I will,” he told Fred. I’ll be at the dock at four. Give Yvette my love, and let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
HOLLY HAD DECIDED SHE’D make the best of it. It wasn’t as if she had much of a choice. The way her mom had put it, it was either spring break in Key West, with her coming along as chaperone, or spring break in Beaverdale, also with her as chaperone. Duh! Holly and Hannah talked about it and decided they could work with that first option.
A guy they knew in Honors Biology knew a guy at the college who could get fake Pennsylvania IDs custom made for fifty bucks a pop. Holly and Hannah scrounged up the cash and were quite pleased with the results. (Holly’s claimed she was twenty-three years old and a resident of Philadelphia.) They had the IDs packed in their suitcases, along with their new bikinis, anklets, suntan lotion with body glitter already added and all kinds of cute outfits and sandals.
At first, Holly’s best friend was really worried the trip wouldn’t be any fun. Hannah had all kinds of questions, but Holly had convinced her to give it a try. What if Key West didn’t have the same all-out party scene as Daytona or South Beach? she’d asked. (Then they’d make their own party scene.) What if the guys were older? (That might be a nice change of pace—older guys tended to have more money anyway, right?) And how would they possibly be able to slip under the Mom Radar to have any fun?
That one had been the easiest for Holly to deal with.
First off, Holly assured her friend that her mom wasn’t the worrywart type. “She trusts me completely. I’ve never given her any reason not to.”
Hannah laughed. “You just haven’t been caught.”
“Exactly. And anyway, you know my mom’s asleep by nine every night. As long as we’re home by sunrise, she’ll be clueless.”
So at that moment, as the plane descended onto what already looked like a tropical paradise surrounded by a neverending blue-green sea, Holly and Hannah gave each other a wink and a thumbs up.
Let the partying begin.
CHAPTER TWO
OH, YESSSS.
Gail pulled the chain on the ceiling fan, and the wide rattan blades began to whir. She placed her glass of lemonade on the wicker table, along with the stack of brochures she’d collected at the airport, then settled into the porch rocker. She pulled the cotton sundress down over her thighs and wiggled her toes in the shade provided by the big palm tree. This was hard to believe. For ten glorious days she and the girls would be relaxing in this adorable, tidy little house on Margaret Street. What luck it was to find this place at the last minute—and right in the heart of historic Old Town! The rental agent said a family called to cancel only six hours before Gail made her inquiry.
“It must be fate,” the woman had said.
Whatever it was, the place was idyllic. They had their own inground pool out back, where the
girls were already swimming, reggae music pumping out of a pair of outdoor speakers. They had a gas grill, a big-screen TV with cable and DVR, and in Gail’s master bath she had a Jacuzzi tub and a shower stall! It was heaven on earth! Now all she had to do was decide which activities they’d do when they weren’t relaxing at the house. They could choose from snorkeling, water scooters, sailing trips, deep-sea fishing, swimming with dolphins and all kinds of historical tours.
Sure, this vacation was pricey, but it had been a snap to justify the expense. Since this was the first vacation Gail had taken in six years, she’d calculated that she’d spent only $447 per year on vacations during that time. If that wasn’t thrifty, she didn’t know what was.
Gail took a sip of the ice-cold lemonade, savoring the complexity of the sharp sweetness as it slid down her throat. As she rested her head against the rocker, she felt a lock of hair stick to her damp neck. She was perspiring. Already. This was fabulous! Thanks to the miracle of flight, she’d been picked up in a bone-chilling Philadelphia rain and dropped off in the subtropics.
Gail let go with a sigh of relief, the stress falling away like a shell, her dry winter skin sucking in the humidity like a sponge. Her chest and bare arms were gently tickled by the ceiling fan’s breeze.
Oh, how she’d needed this chance to unwind. Kim had been absolutely right.
“What the goddammed fucking hell?”
Gail’s head popped up and her ears perked. The man’s voice was so close it sounded as if he was right on top of her.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
She swiveled her head to her right. She saw movement on the other side of the thick screen of foliage separating her yard from the house next door. Then she heard a few banging sounds, like someone taking a hammer to metal.
“This is patently absurd,” said the baritone voice in the next yard. “I pay twenty-five bucks each for historically accurate reproduction shutter hinges, and this is the kind of substandard crap I get? In less than two years? Does no one have a sense of pride in their artistry anymore?”
Gail leaned forward on the edge of the rocker and peeked between two large flowering bushes, looking to see if the man was speaking to anyone. She determined that he was alone over there, which made her even more curious. What kind of man would buy historically accurate reproduction shutter hinges and then talk to them? Curse at them? While using words like “patently” and “substandard,” no less?
She craned her neck. She could almost see him. If only he’d turn to his left a bit…almost there…now just a little bit more…
Gail’s eyes widened in comprehension.
Oh.
So that’s what George Clooney would look like after a month on the beach—all sun-roasted and sexy, salt-and-pepper scruff on his face and threadbare jeans hanging low on his chiseled hips.
Gail watched her foulmouthed neighbor examine what was obviously the offending hinge. He moved it back and forth in his hand, his scowl deepening, the muscles undulating in his hands, wrists and forearms.
She couldn’t take her eyes from him. A hot heaviness started low in her belly, and the longer she stared, the more intense the heat became, spreading, rising, causing her breath to become jagged. Despite the warm air, full-on goose bumps broke out on Gail’s arms.
She blinked. She licked her lips. The dark-haired hinge examiner wore a tiny silver hoop that glinted in the dappled sunlight. Maybe he was a pirate, one of those dangerous smugglers Kim had mentioned, a pirate smuggler with a rippling layer of muscle beneath the tanned skin of his abdomen. A pirate with defined biceps and strong shoulders. A pirate with an English degree.
Without warning, he looked up. His piercing blue eyes flashed at Gail, first with surprise, then with irritation. She gasped. She slammed herself into the back of the rocker, eyes straight ahead, hands gripping the armrests while she held her breath. How embarrassing. She shouldn’t have done that. Now her neighbor would think she was nosy.
“Oh, great.” An instant after the scholarly pirate made that sarcastic comment, Gail heard his sandaled feet clomp up his porch steps. Then she heard his door opening and closing.
Well, that had been awkward. Apparently, Gail didn’t even remember how to behave around extremely attractive men. Kim had been right. She really should’ve gotten out more.
“DID YOU SEE THE WAY THAT dude looked at us?” Hannah spread herself out on her stomach at poolside, dangling her fingers in the shallow end while Holly floated nearby in the warm water. “I swear he was undressing us with his eyes.”
Holly laughed. “All guys do that. They can’t help themselves.”
“Yeah, but that dude was sick hot.”
“You need to slow down,” Holly said, paddling over to where Hannah lay. “Pace yourself, girlfriend. We’ve been here, like, two hours. He was just the cabdriver.”
“I know, but he was hard-core exotic!” Hannah lowered her forehead to her arms and sighed.
Holly swam to the pool edge and propped herself on her elbows, kicking her feet lazily in the water behind her. “I’ve got a feeling this place is going to be crawling with sick-hot guys, and we’ve got ten whole days to meet every one of them, right?”
Hannah lifted her eyes, her expression now serious. “Your mom’s sweet and this place is totally tight. I kinda feel bad in a way, you know? We’re going to be having such a ballin’ time and she’s just going to be sitting around reading on the porch. It’s sad.”
Holly laughed. “But that’s her idea of fun! She’s not much of a partier. She can’t dance or anything. So I wouldn’t worry too much about my mom.” Holly wagged an eyebrow and was careful to lower her voice—not that her mom could hear anything while that Shaggy tune was pumping out into the courtyard:
Who da man dat love to make you moist and wet—uh?
Who da man dat love to make you moan and sweat—uh?
“If you say so,” Hannah said with a shrug.
“So what do you want to do tonight? Should we sneak out to the main party area? What’s it called again?”
“Duval Street?”
“Right.”
Hannah ratcheted her neck back in response. “What are you, wack or something? Of course we should sneak out to Duval Street!”
“All right, then,” Holly whispered. “We’re going to need a plan.”
SHE SMELLED HIM BEFORE she saw him, catching a whiff of clean male skin and fabric starch in the breeze. He stood on the sidewalk, head covered in a bright white captain’s cap with a navy blue bill, the barest hint of a smile spreading across his clean-shaven face. For some reason, he’d gotten rid of the salt-and-pepper scruff and the hoop earring. Why? Why would he do that? It was a tragedy!
Equally tragic was the fact that he was now fully clothed, wearing a pair of pressed white slacks and a pale blue golf shirt embroidered with the words “Luna Cruises, Captain J.D.” He knocked playfully on the front gate, though it was unnecessary. Gail had been staring at him, openmouthed, for a good three seconds.
She flew to her feet, a brochure for therapeutic massage skidding across the porch floor.
“Good afternoon. My name is Jesse,” he said in the same baritone voice he’d used to curse the shutter hinge about an hour before. “I’m your neighbor. Just thought I’d introduce myself and welcome you to Key West.”
Gail’s throat had seized shut. She couldn’t speak. She felt like an idiot—a mute idiot. “Guh,” she finally croaked out. “Guh-ail. From Pennsylvania.”
The man approached the porch, stopping on the bottom step, careful not to invade her space. He held out his big, browned hand.
Gail shoved her damp palm toward him. After an instant of contact, he withdrew, hiding his hand in his trouser pocket. It was almost as if he couldn’t stand the idea of touching her, even though he’d initiated it.
“Well,” he said, looking down toward the porch floor uneasily. “Here. You dropped this.” He scanned the cover of the brochure before he returned it to Gail. “So you’re t
hinking of getting a massage?”
Gail blinked several times and continued to stare. She couldn’t help it. He wasn’t George Clooney. He was better. And he wasn’t a pirate. He was a legitimate boat captain! And all she could think of was how the clean-shaven captain’s big hands would feel rubbing her naked flesh, some type of aromatic tropical oil providing a friction-free slide from her heels to her hairline, and everywhere in between.
“Oh, yeah, that would be so great,” she whispered.
He studied her for a moment, then his dark eyebrows drew together in a scowl. She thought he had the sultriest deep blue eyes she’d ever seen in her life—even with the grimace.
“Okay, then. Enjoy your visit.”
Just then the front door flew open, and Hannah and Holly literally stumbled onto the porch, laughing loudly and dripping pool water at their feet. They stopped in their tracks, backs straightening. Holly’s gaze went from the man to her mother, eyes wide in wonder.
“Girls, this is our neighbor, Jesse,” Gail said, somehow regaining the ability to speak in full sentences. “Jesse, this is my daughter, Holly, and her best friend, Hannah.”
“Hi,” Holly said.
“Hey there,” Hannah said, shifting her weight and sliding a hand along the slope of her well-rounded hip.
“Hello,” Jesse said, averting his gaze.
Gail rubbed the back of her damp neck, anxiety coursing through her. She’d never seen that bikini on her daughter before. The garment—if you could call two partially shredded strips of fabric a garment—was not appropriate for a high school student, or anyone who didn’t make their living thrusting her pelvis onto a pole. However, Holly’s swimsuit was a burka compared with the three triangles Hannah was sporting, and Hannah was far more endowed than her daughter.
“Excuse me, but I need to get to work. Enjoy your stay.” Jesse smiled politely and tipped his cap to the ladies before he left. They watched him walk from the house, out the gate and down the sidewalk.
