Up to Me (Shore Secrets)

by Christi Barth

  It had been a full year since she last sat on her therapist’s couch. The one with a box of tissues at each end and on the cherry coffee table, just to be safe. Maybe the smartest thing to do would be to have a catch-up visit with Dr. Takeuchi. Be assessed. Get his take on if she was truly ready to take a swan dive back into the dating pool. It wasn’t stalling. Not entirely. Ella preferred to call it reasonable caution. So even if Gray did ask her out, she’d say no. Definitely.

  Gray rolled his head in a circle with a satisfied sigh. “You really know how to rub a guy the right way, Ella.”

  The double entendre was doubly delightful. Okay, downgrade that definitely not to a maybe. Coated with a lot of you-only-live-once bravado. “Thank you. It was my pleasure.” She fiddled with stack of brochures on the countertop. Offering to set him up with a full massage didn’t feel right anymore. Not with having to explain that she wouldn’t be the one to give it to him based on the hot-and-cold-running lust he caused.

  “If the rest of my stay here is as good as the five minutes you spent with me, this vacation will be one for the record books.”

  “How long do you plan to stay?” Funny, the way his face solidified into an emotionless mask for a moment. Gray’s easy smile and laughing eyes went completely flat. Or maybe she’d imagined it, because a blink later he blew out a long breath and looked relieved.

  “Two whole weeks.”

  So the temptation wouldn’t be going away any time soon. It meant she had two whole weeks to give herself a headache from flip-flopping back and forth on what to do about him. If she should bite the bullet and ask him out. Two whole weeks to innocently chat with him, run into him in the halls, perhaps take up running herself. Two weeks to see if he asked her out, and decided whether or not to say yes. Two stomach-churning weeks of what if.

  “Let me ask you something, Ella.” Gray reached across the counter to take her hand. Brushed his thumb over the top of it with a touch so light it barely registered on her skin. It did register on every nerve ending in between her scalp and her fuchsia-painted toenails, however.

  Then his phone rang. As he let go and grabbed for his phone, a woman in a big red hat bustled into the spa.

  “I don’t have an appointment.” She dumped her keys, hat and purse on the counter to flap her hands in the air. “I know, I’m horrible. But we left early expecting traffic, and got here two hours too fast. Neil pulled out his clubs and went straight to a driving range. So I’ve nothing to do but beg you for an appointment. Massage, body wrap, scrub, whatever you can do to me in two hours.” Red talons tapped at Ella’s wrist. “Please say you can squeeze me in? I’ll pay extra for the inconvenience, of course.”

  The first rule of working in a service industry was to always be of service. No matter how badly it derailed your personal plans. Ella nudged over the brochure detailing their offerings. “I’m happy to help. By the time I’m finished, you’ll feel like a new woman.”

  Already on the phone, Gray melted toward the door with an apologetic wave. Forget what if. Ella was left wondering, what now?

  Chapter Two

  For the next two weeks, Gray would be on the job 24/7. Technically. But as he looked around, he didn’t see it as a hardship. He was staying in an honest-to-God castle. Sure, they called it a manor, but the stone walls, stained glass windows, coats of armor and freaking round turret sure added up to a castle in his book. A roaring fire pit sat just outside the French doors. And once the sun came back up, Gray knew that beyond it, across the wide lawn, he’d see the sparkling expanse of Seneca Lake. If the guys in accounting ever saw pictures of Mayhew Manor, they’d probably fry his ass for staying at such a swanky place.

  Said ass was comfortably resting on a leather couch. He had a giant platter of nachos in front of him, an interesting local beer frosting his hand, and the Knicks-Celtics game on the sixty-inch plasma screen hanging over the fireplace. A good crowd of Knicks fans filled the tables of the pub around him. Gray didn’t hesitate to call it the best working conditions ever.

  Not that anyone could tell he was working. Or should be able to tell, for that matter. Since he was officially on an undercover mission, Gray strove to blend in with all the other tourists here at Mayhew Manor. Jeans. Green-and-blue rugby shirt. Legs crossed, with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, iPad on his lap. Nothing about him gave even a whiff of his real identity as a corporate hit man.

  Okay, maybe hit man was going a bit far. But the term resonated with Gray way more than his actual title. Corporate realignment specialist made him sound like a chiropractor for businesses, when in fact, he came in, assessed a property to see if it should be swallowed whole by Ruffano & McIntosh Holdings, LLC or just purchased and helped to prosper. In other words, Gray was the one to pull the trigger. The one who snuck into town, did some reconnaissance and then decided if a company should be brought down. Killed, in essence.

  If anyone looked in his direction, they’d notice only the beer and his fixation on the game. They wouldn’t notice that Gray was taking notes on his iPad. Or at least, they wouldn’t notice what he marked down as noticeable about the place. The number of people who wandered in and out of the bar. Those who stayed for dinner over on the restaurant side. How many lingered out at the fire pit. The mood of the room; casual, comfortable, but not terribly busy. Rustic décor that didn’t fit with the rest of castle motif throughout. On the other hand, it could be seen as a good escape bunker for guys sick of the antique furniture and oriental rugs.

  No assessment yet—and not just because the game wasn’t over. Gray planned to come back several times. Just like he’d suit up and spend an evening in the fancy restaurant, too. No televisions to distract him in there. Hard not to attract attention flying solo when every table held rose buds. Maybe he’d take a date. Strictly as cover, of course.

  Gray took a long slug of his beer. No point lying to himself. He was looking for any excuse to head back to the spa tomorrow, to ask out the gorgeous woman who’d put her hands all over him today. That had been an experience he wouldn’t mind reliving. Over and over again. He’d gone in there to do a spot check. See what sort of customer service a sweaty guy in running shorts got. The spa’s usual clientele probably ran to cougar types who wanted to get worked over while their husbands golfed.

  The spa and its staff passed his test with flying colors, but Gray had walked out of there with a very big problem. About five feet and six inches of a brown-haired, green-eyed problem: Ella of the no last name. She’d grabbed the attention of his dick from the moment he saw her on the floor. Then once she started talking, her passionate sell of massage tickled his brain too. Sweet, pretty, and with fingers that he could tell in just five minutes knew how to wring pleasure out of every inch of a man’s body.

  Oh, he wanted Ella. Enough that it had slipped the truth right out of his lips. He wanted to learn about her, wanted to get to know her. And yes, he wanted to see if her lips tasted as raspberry-delicious as they looked. Dating on the job, though, could be tricky. Could be all kinds of tricky. Mostly because he hated lying to a woman. Yeah, he did it pretty much every day of every assignment. But Gray never lied to a woman once they were involved.

  Back home in Manhattan, he had a few friends-with-benefits he bed-hopped between. None of them were looking for anything serious. That arrangement suited him just fine. Gray only hung out in the city long enough to switch out his ties and grab a new assignment. Not like he was a monk out on the road. There were three flight attendants who knew his real story. Depending on their schedules, he’d meet up with one of them for a...layover. They bopped around the country so much that Gray provided them with a feeling of home, or at least continuity.

  Which was why his Herculean reaction to Ella surprised him. He met cute, interesting women all the time while undercover. Gray almost never followed up on that attraction. Thanks to his Slingbox setup, he’d go back to his hotel room and
catch up on all the stuff piled up on his DVR. He loved all the crazy, thousand-year-old hijinks the History Channel brought to light. His true secret obsession was worse. Nobody in the world aside from his cable repair guy knew that Gray had an addiction to court television.

  Something about Ella, though, tugged at him on a whole different level, above and way beyond sex. Gray didn’t know what and he didn’t know why. He crammed a huge glob of nachos into his mouth. There was no getting around the fact that dating her would complicate his job. The idea was eight kinds of stupid. Nevertheless, Gray knew that he’d be at the door of the spa the minute it opened tomorrow.

  A loud cheer went up from the crowd, both on the television and in the bar. Gray belatedly joined in, raising his beer. Already thoughts of Ella were screwing with his job. Refocused, he scanned around the room for anything noteworthy. Off in the corner were three guys in Knicks caps who’d clearly pre-partied before the game started. Lots of fist banging on the table, raised voices, too-loud laughter, and they’d started gifting every player and ref with the honorific title of “fucking idiot.”

  This wasn’t a rowdy crowd in general. After all, the pub was inside an actual castle. People who’d laid out the significant cash to stay here were on good behavior. But these three looked like they’d gotten down to the serious business of drinking in a cheap local watering hole, and just come in here to watch the game on the big screen. Some of the other customers had shot them dirty looks at the noise, but it hadn’t dialed them back one bit.

  A tall guy with something between scruff and the beginnings of a dark beard crossed past their table carrying a full beer mug.

  “Can’t stay on your feet off the football field, and damn sure couldn’t get a job on the field,” mocked one of the yokels with a spotty mustache. Then he stuck his foot out—really? Didn’t think anyone outside a junior high cafeteria crowd made that move—and tall guy went flying, flannel shirt flapping out to the sides. Along with most of his beer. Karma helpfully splashed it right onto the jackass who’d tripped him. Gray swallowed a snicker.

  But apparently the three idiots had it in for tall-flannel guy. As he started to get up, they booted his ass so he fell back to the floor on his knees. Hard. This time he didn’t get up as quickly, like he was figuring out his next move. Holy shit. In a hotel where the rooms started at four hundred bucks a night, Gray was really about to watch a bar fight. This would be a story to share at the next corporate retreat.

  “You don’t look much like the town’s golden boy anymore, Ward,” one of them taunted. “Wait, I can fix that.” He emptied his beer over Ward’s head. Then his friend winked at him and opened the door to the patio. “Maybe you should go clean up. In the lake.” Another kick to the ass that sprawled him halfway out the door. The third guy grabbed his waistband and tossed him the rest of the way onto the flagstones.

  Gray looked around. Of course, there was no bouncer to be found. Not at a nice place like this. The bartender, although a whirling dervish at pulling taps, looked to be just shy of five feet. No help there. His luggage probably weighed more than she did. All the other customers looked uncomfortable, but nobody looked willing to leap into the fray.

  Well, he couldn’t just let the guy get beat on, could he? Three-to-one weren’t great odds. He could at least try to break it up. Vaulting over the end of the couch, he yelled to the bartender, “Call the police.”

  By the time Gray made it outside, battle lines were drawn. The three dickwads stood on the far side of the fire pit. Blood trickling from a split lip, Ward stood on the other. A stack of crackling logs throwing flames three feet into the air made the whole scene feel melodramatic. Gray took a split second to think that a soundtrack of spooky drum rolls and acoustic guitars would be nice. Crickets—cicadas—something rasped rhythmically up in the trees. And then the lead guy turned on him.

  “Get outta here.”

  “Let’s go back inside. I’ll buy you all coffee. And dinner.” Something to soak up the alcohol fumes rippling off him.

  He gave a sneering look down at Gray’s sneakers, up to the collar of his rugby shirt. “Then what? You think this’d turn into a date, fancy-pants?”

  Shit. He really had to get his cleaners to quit starching his blue jeans. “Look, I saw the whole thing. He only spilled his beer because you tripped him. Let’s call it even and go back inside.”

  “Don’t want even. Want him to admit he’s too chickenshit to fight me and Bruce and Mike.”

  Gray hadn’t been in a fight in decades. He wasn’t really looking to break his streak tonight. Getting hauled off in the back of a cop car wouldn’t help him fly under the radar. He tried again to appeal to reason, even though reason rarely worked on the flat-out wasted. “Come on, nobody’s fighting. The police are on their way.”

  “Not here yet though, are they?” And with that, he plunged his fist into Gray’s stomach.

  Ward raced around the fire pit. “You’re an idiot, Chuck.” He let loose a flying kick that knocked Chuck all the way back against the doors. Bruce and Mike rushed him, swearing.

  After a last, desperate gasp for oxygen, Gray joined in. Then it all became a blur of kicked-over patio furniture, flying gravel, fists and elbows and knees. Damn, but they fought dirty. Or were hair pulling and cheek scratching now considered legit moves? He landed his fair share of solid punches. Couldn’t tell who was which, but everyone wearing a Knicks cap felt his knuckles by the end of it. And end it they did. He and Ward each had a guy by the collar and a fist cocked when the wail of police sirens startled the cicadas into silence. A couple of fast twists, and all three bloodied idiots ran away, into the darkness of the estate.

  The bartender cracked the door. “The police’ll be here any minute. You got a room here?” she asked Gray.

  No point lying. He’d run a tab, and she had his credit card. Gray looked over at Ward, bent in half, hands braced on thighs. Bloodied, bruised, but still standing, thanks in no small part to Gray’s help. So if he had to spend a night in a cell for being sober and disorderly, well, he’d suck it up. “Yeah. I’m in the Marshgrass Suite.”

  “Good.” She thrust a first-aid kit at him. “Take Ward with you and patch yourselves up. I’ll call you to come back down when the coast is clear. Even buy you a round, on the house.”

  “What?” The bartender wanted him to hide from the police? She was protecting them? It didn’t make sense.

  “Just go—hurry!”

  Ward actually led the way, taking Gray along the length of the castle. Looked like Ward knew the layout of the place. He must be a local. They slipped in a door adjacent to the ballroom, and up a set of back stairs he hadn’t known existed, probably because the door to them was hidden behind a freaking tapestry. God, he loved this place. The history buff in him reveled in all the authentic castle details.

  As he walked, the adrenaline of the fight still juiced him. But the stings and aches started to make themselves known as well. Gray catalogued pain in his knee, right hand, shoulder, jaw—no, make that a throbbing in his whole head—and his belly, thanks to the sucker punch that started it all. Wetness slid down his cheek. Gingerly, he swiped his thumb along his eyebrow. Yup. A cut. Bleeding like crazy.

  “You okay?” Ward asked.

  Gray pulled out his key—an actual brass key, as long as his finger with an ornate curlicue on top—and unlocked his suite. “Hey, I came late to the party. The real question is are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” Moving slowly, Ward shuffled inside straight to the bathroom. Flicking on the light, he asked, “You sure you don’t mind if I get blood all over your towels?”

  Gray shrugged from the doorway. Felt a twinge in his shoulder. So much for the benefits of his five-minute massage. “It’s a hotel. I can get more.”

  “Thanks.” The word was barely out of his mouth before Ward grabbed all three fluffy washcloths stacked on t
he marble counter. One he pressed to his cut lip with a wince. He turned on the old-fashioned spigot and ran water across his bleeding knuckles, then tied another cloth around them to staunch the blood.

  “If I call for more towels, maybe they’ll bring me another one of those bedtime chocolates. Worth a shot.” He could be a glass half full kind of guy. Hell, he’d just won a fight, against guys who looked like they’d been in more than their fair share.

  “No, I mean—” Ward soaked the third cloth and dabbed it at the long scrape down his arm where he’d hit the gravel path. “Thanks for butting in.”

  Gray just raised his eyebrow. Then hissed when the motion pulled at the cut still dripping blood. He grabbed a towel and pressed hard, trying not to think about whether or not the blood stains would come out of his shirt. Still totally worth it. He’d stood up to bullies, fought for someone. The rightness of it reverberated bone deep. And winning sure didn’t suck.

  “Sorry. I’m no good at heartfelt speeches. Ask anyone I’ve dated.” Ward sank to the edge of the tub, braced his wrist against his chin and started picking out gravel. “You risked an ass-kicking to help me. I owe you.”

  “I was just in the right place at the wrong time.” Gray thrust out his left hand, since both their rights were pretty battered from the fight. “Gray Locke.”

  “Ward Cantrell.” They fumbled into an awkward shake, then immediately went back to clean up.

  It was kind of surreal, trading off turns at the sink to rinse blood out of the towels in a room covered with floral wallpaper. Not to mention the cut glass bowl of potpourri on the toilet. To break up the weird vibe, Gray asked the question that had been circling his brain nonstop. “What’d you ever do to those guys?”

  A snort came from Ward, muffled by vigorous toweling to get the blood out of his mustache. “Led them—along with the rest of the team—to four straight seasons as divisional high school football champions.”