He stuck his head inside. The room was packed with so many people he could barely squeeze in. He was almost overwhelmed by the scent of sunscreen and stale clove cigarettes. Obviously, this was the place to be if you were curious about any facet of mermaid sensuality.
Since the crowd seemed to be flowing clockwise, Ash began with the chocolate display to his left. He couldn’t help but chuckle. Despite his Boston blue-blooded origins, he was no prude, a point well illustrated with Rowan Flynn the night before. But Ash had never seen the likes of what lurked behind the glass display windows in this room. Most of the white, milk, and dark chocolate candies were standard-issue body parts. Some, however, featured human-human or human-mermaid encounters so complicated that Ash had to tilt his head to decipher the physics involved.
“I love, love, love this!” A young woman pulled her boyfriend to the glass and pointed to one of the more graphic depictions. “Will you get it for me?”
The guy’s grin indicated he loved, loved, loved anything she did. “We’ll take one of those,” he said to the shop assistant behind the counter.
“Hit me up as well,” Ash said, feeling swept away in the moment.
The cakes and cupcakes were next and, except for the proportions, most items were garden-variety sexual equipment. But Ash burst out laughing when he saw Annie Parker’s creative use of jujubes on all of her bare-breasted mermaids.
Annie’s novels were displayed under a banner that read, ALL SEA OF LUST BOOKS ON SALE HERE! Ash kept walking, past familiar titles like Desire at High Tide and Ship of Surrender, because he needed some air. He already knew how they ended, anyway.
A few minutes later, Ash stood at the cash register. Annie smiled at him as she totaled his purchases and reached for a small paper gift shop bag. “This sweatshirt design is my favorite. Totally retro.”
“It is.” Ash smiled at her in return and handed her two twenties.
“Enjoy your candy.” Annie had a twinkle in her eye as she gave him his change.
“I will.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” Annie looked puzzled. “Have you been to the shop before?”
“Nope. First time on the island, as a matter of fact.”
She shrugged. “Huh. Well, enjoy your day. Try not to miss any of the parade.”
“Not a chance. I’m looking forward to it.”
By the time he reached the boardwalk out front, a ragtag band approached, its lines staggered and the music’s time signature undetectable. Ash leaned his back against the shop’s weathered shingles, stuck his bag between his feet, and crossed his arms over his chest. Parade viewing was one of the few times that being six foot three was convenient, so although people were piled four deep in front of him, he could see everything and hear everything just fine. Maybe too fine. The local school’s rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In” was the most pitiful thing he’d ever witnessed, but that didn’t stop the crowd from going wild in appreciation. Two small kids struggled to carry the official parade banner but grinned like it was the best day of their lives.
Immediately following was the official Bayberry Island float, featuring elected and appointed officials. They gathered behind a cardboard version of the village as seen from sea, every church steeple and building made to scale. Ash had to admit it was well done, complete with tall sailboat masts and fishing boats and the random sizes, elevations, and hues of the island’s old buildings. Included among them was an unmistakable landmark—Rutherford P. Flynn’s mansion, the Safe Haven.
A cheerful, big man stood on a raised platform toward the center of the float, holding on to a rail built to mimic that of the bow of a ship. A recorded version of the movie sound track from Titanic blared out from a set of large speakers. Ash glanced around. No one else seemed to think the island council could have chosen a more optimistic theme song.
Mayor Frasier Flynn looked just like his photos, Ash decided. In fact, he looked like all the Flynn men who had come before him. He had a wide, ruddy face, an oversized smile, and an impressive physique for a man in his sixties. He waved like a true veteran of politics and parades, his arm making wide sweeps over his head and then to either side. He was dressed in an old-fashioned pin-striped cutaway suit, a top hat, and spats with large black buttons up the outside. And just then, the mayor seemed to look directly at Ash as he grinned and waved.
Frasier Flynn’s daughter had the same widely set and intelligent sea-green eyes.
A shock went through Ash, and he stood as if his feet had frozen to the boardwalk. For an instant he thought it was a reaction to seeing Rowan in the face of her father, but as he turned and looked toward the public dock, he knew better. Off in the distance, four or five parade entries away, was the most beautiful mermaid of all, and she looked an awful lot like the woman he’d recently held in his arms.
“Excuse me!”
Ash didn’t bother hiding his annoyance, because he’d just gotten a look at Rowan and here was some ass bothering him and maybe even about to block his view. He pressed further into the wall of the shop but didn’t acknowledge the man who’d just yelled at him over the parade noise.
“Excuse me. Sir?”
Ash turned, looking right into the lens of a camera. It was the last thing he’d expected—or wanted—and his head snapped back. “What the—? Get that thing out of my face.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but my name is Nathaniel Ravelle and I’m a documentary filmmaker working on a short about the island. Would you mind very much signing a release form?”
Ash’s eyes went to the clipboard. He saw a legal release with a blank where he was to print his name and then sign and date. That’s when it hit him—this was Annie Parker’s fiancé. This was the man from her Facebook page. How had this slipped past him in his research? He had no idea the dude was a filmmaker. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”
Nat didn’t budge. In fact, he lifted the clipboard a bit higher. “We’ve already got some wonderful footage of you, and we’d appreciate you allowing us to use it.”
Ash looked over Nat’s shoulder to see Rowan coming closer. He felt his mouth fall open. He could do nothing but stare. And maybe swallow.
She looked incredible. She was surrounded by glittering twinkles of light that made her exposed skin appear otherworldly. She posed with her tail tucked demurely to her side and her long brunette wig curling over one shoulder. Those perfect breasts he’d cupped in his hands and tasted with his mouth had been stuffed into a couple clamshells kept in place with either flat-out magic or dental floss, he couldn’t tell which. She was beautiful. Elegant. She was sex on the half shell. His chest hurt. His belly clenched. And if he didn’t do something fast, he would be tenting his cargo shorts in front of a documentary film crew.
“Fine.” Without taking his eyes from Rowan, he scrawled his name, signed, and dated.
“We really appreciate it. The footage we got of you yesterday with the kids was perfect—so funny and sweet.”
“Uh-huh.” Ash craned his neck to look around the film crew.
“Have a great day.”
Finally, they were gone. And just in time, because Rowan slowly glanced over her right shoulder and her eyes met his. She seemed to be unable to look away. He didn’t want her to. And even as the parade float passed by, she didn’t avert her gaze until she would have had to sit backward in her shell to maintain eye contact.
Having no other option, Ash stared at the smooth skin of her back, the way her delicate spine curved seductively at the base, the way the skintight scales cupped her ass, the tender way her hand waved to the crowd. He stared until she was too far away to see.
It took a moment for his breath to return to normal. He absently looked down at the bag between his shoes, confused. Why was there a bag? Had he bought something? Oh yes, the sweatshirt. The chocolate. Of course.
Then suddenly, the words finally registered, and Ash raised his head and let it fall back against the side of the building. Yesterday . . . footage wit
h the kids . . . funny . . . sweet . . .
“Fuck!”
“You should be ashamed!” A mother forced her way in front of Ash, her eyes angry as she pressed her hands over her kid’s ears.
She was right, of course. He should be ashamed at what a ridiculous fuckup he’d become, how he’d allowed all the thinking to be done by only one of his heads, and it wasn’t the one with neurons and synapses.
“My sincere apologies.” Ash reached down into the bag between his feet. “Here. Have some chocolate.”
* * *
Clancy turned off the chain saw, set the safety latch, and placed the tool on the grass. “Is that it?” He tossed another branch onto the pile, then pushed the protective glasses up on his forehead.
“That’s everything in the yard, but do you have time to look at the roof?”
“Let me check.” Clancy pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through messages.
Rowan would understand if he couldn’t stay. Her brother was responsible for public safety at a time when thousands of extra people had descended on the island. She’d had a lot of nerve asking him to help with storm cleanup in the first place.
“If you need to go, that’s cool,” she said, as if she’d been reading his thoughts.
He shrugged. “I’ve got a little more time. The opening ceremony’s still going on, and the boys have everything under control—at least for the moment.”
Rowan smiled at her brother. The “boys” consisted of his assistant chief—who was also the island’s only other full-time officer—and six of Clancy’s buddies from the Boston Police Department who took vacation every festival week to freelance.
“I really appreciate this.”
“No problem.”
Rowan tried to lift up on the wheelbarrow handles but stopped. Now loaded up with thick pine branches and smaller twigs, it was too heavy to move. She noticed a strange look on Clancy’s face and assumed he was about to poke fun at her. “I know. I’m a wimp.”
“Allow me help you with that.”
Rowan spun around, every nerve in her body on alert. There he stood, Ashton Louis Wallace III. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his cargo shorts. He wore a big smile and one of Annie’s tacky tourist sweatshirts. His hair was windblown and he looked relaxed and happy. He was so disarmingly attractive that Rowan could do nothing but stare at him.
“Clancy Flynn.” Her brother stepped forward to introduce himself, breaking Rowan’s temporary trance.
“Ash Wallace. Very nice to meet you.”
Clancy removed his work gloves and the two men shook hands. Rowan noticed how they sized each other up in a matter of seconds, judging each other’s height, strength, and the firmness of the handshake. They seemed to give each other a silent nod of approval.
Men.
“I’m Rowan’s brother,” Clancy said, throwing her an admonishing glare. Obviously, Rowan wasn’t doing her job as B and B proprietress.
“Sorry.” She cleared her throat and gestured toward Clancy. “My brother is the island police chief.” She motioned toward Ash. “Mr. Wallace is sleeping in my apartment this week.”
That hadn’t come out right. But Clancy was as cool as they came, and the only reaction he had was a barely detectable rise in his right eyebrow.
“I mean he’s renting my apartment. He’s staying there as a guest. We were booked up and he needed a place to stay. He had an emergency with his sailboat.”
“Gotcha.”
Clancy’s entire demeanor changed. He’d gone from approval to dismissal in a flash, and Rowan didn’t know why. There was now a smirk on his face where there had been genuine friendliness before.
“You were towed in yesterday, right?”
Oh. Now she understood. Only yesterday Clancy had referred to Ash as the Boston blue-blooded douche with a sailboat twice as valuable as his house.
Ash didn’t flinch at the change in attitude. He didn’t seem embarrassed. He made no apologies. “Yep. Ran out of gas.”
“Chain plate broke, too, right?”
Oh please. Rowan couldn’t stand the male posturing anymore. “Can you look at the roof, Clancy?”
He turned his attention to Rowan and she swore she saw reprimand in his eyes. Could he know what happened during the storm? Had Imelda said something? Did the entire island know she was a festival-week floozy?
Ash spoke up. “Your family’s been generous letting me stay here. If the roof’s damaged, I’d be happy to help you with it. I know a little something about roofing.”
Clancy shrugged and looked up toward the ancient slate roof four stories above them. “It’s pretty steep.”
“No problem.”
Clancy laughed, and Rowan couldn’t tell if he was laughing at Ash or at her, because he’d just glared her way again. “You current on liability insurance, sis?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“Let’s do it, then.” Clancy motioned for Ash to follow him. “We’ll go up into the attic for tools and we’ll be climbing out the cupola. Hope you’re not afraid of heights.”
“Not at all.”
Rowan rested her fists on her hips and watched the two men head toward the kitchen door, a vague discomfort hitting her. If Clancy didn’t already know, would Ash let it slip? She had no way of knowing if he was discreet, just as she had no way of knowing anything else about him—because he was a complete stranger. It felt like she needed to keep reminding herself of this fact.
“Hold up a second, please.” Ash suddenly turned away from Clancy and headed toward Rowan. He had purpose in his stride. His eyes were locked onto hers. Flashes of memory sliced through her—his kiss, his touch, how he’d coaxed so much pleasure from her body, over and over again. Was he going to kiss her? It looked like he was going to just come up to her, grab her, and kiss the hell out of her.
Rowan’s legs weren’t going to hold.
“Where to?” Ash lifted the wheelbarrow and waited for her instruction.
“Huh?”
“Where do you need this to go?”
Oh God. Her heart was running itself ragged inside her chest. She was disappointed that there would be no kissing, but was thrilled by his thoughtful follow-through. Rowan pulled herself together enough to point.
“Past the carriage house, down the slope. There’s a woodpile behind the old tractor shed. Just dump it anywhere near the pile.”
“Will do.”
She watched him walk away, taking pleasure in the strain of his defined calf muscles, the set of his broad shoulders under the sweatshirt.
“What the hell?”
Rowan jumped. Clancy had come up behind her. She looked at him over her shoulder. “Is there a problem?”
“You’re apartment? Seriously?”
Rowan turned to face her brother. “There’s a very good reason.”
“Oh, I can only imagine.”
“He’s paying us ten thousand for the week.”
Clancy pursed his lips. After a long moment, he nodded. “Yep. That’s a pretty good reason.” But then he narrowed his eyes and scanned Rowan’s face. “So it’s just business, right?”
She produced what she thought was a convincing laugh. “God, Clancy! Of course it’s just business.”
“Because—”
She held her open palm in front of his face. “Don’t even say it.”
“It’s just that . . .”
“Give me a break, wouldya?” Rowan was sick of being reminded of Frederick. Her family seemed to have forgotten that they’d liked him just fine at the time. They were happy for her. Clancy and everyone else had congratulated her when she’d fallen in love with Frederick. They’d been thrilled when he proposed three months after she moved into his Manhattan condo. Nobody had been concerned about how fast it was going. Nobody expressed any doubts about Frederick’s motives.
And now? Now everybody had something to say about how blind she’d been, how stupid and gullible.
Rowan turned
to watch Ash disappear down the slope with the wheelbarrow, a twinge of longing and confusion gripping her chest. So far, her unexpected guest had been nothing but kind and generous—not to mention the most incredible nearly anonymous lover a girl could ask for. But Rowan couldn’t help wondering if the whole Frederick thing had been nothing but a warm-up for the blind, stupid, and gullible moments she was about to have with Ash Wallace. Maybe she really couldn’t trust herself at all.
* * *
Something about the dude didn’t make sense.
For the past forty minutes, Clancy had kept a close watch on Asheville or Ashley or whatever his ridiculous upper-crusty first name was and decided something definitely was off. Not only did he know his way around a toolbox; he knew his way around a one-hundred-twenty-five-year-old Vermont slate roof. It made no sense at all.
Clancy just watched him remove a damaged tile with a slate ripper, then search for a serviceable replacement from a box of extras. The guy gently tapped the tile with the rubber handle of the slate hammer, listening for the crisp ring that would indicate it was still sound.
“This one’s still got a lot of life left in it.” After making that call, he flawlessly nailed it in and went about examining the flashing.
In his ten years as a cop, Clancy had learned to value his gut feelings as much as hard evidence. Sometimes even more. And right then, his gut was telling him that a man with this kind of knowledge and skill would never, ever mistreat and neglect the classic 1965 Pearson Vanguard sailboat that was towed to Sully’s the day before. Something was not right.
Sea of Love: A Bayberry Island Novel Page 10
