by Amie Denman
“Rick Churchill?” she asked. It was too strange. What was he doing there to pick them up? This was the man Chris called? How did he know this sketchy business owner who was making her life a living hell? If he knew him, why hadn’t he mentioned it when she was pouring out her heart to him about the problems with East Pointe?
Rick glanced at Chris before acknowledging Whitney’s question with a brief nod.
“Thanks for coming to pick us up,” Chris said.
“I’ll ride in the back,” Rick replied.
Without another word, Rick disappeared, and Whitney heard him climb into the bed of the truck. She turned to Chris, an unspoken question on her lips. Unable to think of what to ask, she was afraid to hear the answer anyway. Her stomach flipped and she thought for a moment that she was either going to throw up or cry. She hated crying. She hadn’t toughed out the competition in the sportswear industry by crying. No, she was definitely not going to cry. She was going to demand some honest explanations.
“How do you know him?” she asked Chris. She was still standing in the beams of the truck’s headlights. Tried to keep her voice even despite the hurt and anger creeping into her throat and making it feel thick.
“We work together,” Chris said.
She let go of his hand and turned to face him, arms crossed over her chest. “By work together you mean at Blue Isle Construction?”
“Yes,” Chris replied quietly.
“Rick is your boss?”
“No.”
Whitney didn’t ask another question. She just stood there staring at him, her face a mix of anger and hurt.
Chris took a deep breath and forced himself to meet her eyes with his. “I own Blue Isle Construction.”
The night air was suddenly very thick around them and the headlights of the truck caught the dancing of insects in midflight. Whitney was sure it must have been some kind of cosmic interference with her hearing. Chris Maxwell could not have just said what she thought he said.
“You what?”
Chris stared hard at the ground even though he couldn’t possibly see anything in the darkness where he was standing. The twin beams of the headlights separated him from Whitney as she stepped back into the darkness on the other side.
“I own Blue Isle Construction,” he said again.
“How—” she began, but then she paused and looked at him in the fractured light. “I saw you,” she said slowly, “a big man in a blue shirt. The day Rick came out to meet me at East Pointe. I thought Rick owned Blue Isle. I only saw a shadow of you, and then you hid. You let me…”
She stared at him, putting all the pieces together. The pieces of conversation from the past week, every word and action that had marked their acquaintance since the first day at the airport.
“You jackass” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Whitney stepped closer. “Are you sorry you took my friend’s money and then did nothing? Are you sorry my friends are arriving in a few days and their house is still a total mess?”
Whitney raked her scalp with her fingers, frustration thrumming from her.
“Are you sorry my best friend is pregnant and getting married and the only reason she can get married at East Pointe is because I came down here and made sure the work will get done? Work that you should have done months ago.”
Whitney balled both hands into tight fists. “Are you sorry?” Her eyes shone with unshed tears. She swallowed hard. “Are you sorry you’ve told me nothing but lies since we met?” A tear escaped and slid slowly down her cheek, catching the light from the headlights of the truck.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Whitney squared her shoulders and stared hard at him.
“Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” she said in a low steady voice. “Take me home.”
****
She got in the passenger side of the truck and slammed the door without another word. Chris slid into the driver’s seat and backed slowly down the lane while watching the dim outline of his beloved boat disappear into the darkness.
He thought of Rick sitting in the bed of the truck. No doubt he heard every word. Rick had warned him, and the older man was right, but he didn’t know the half of it. Rick couldn’t see how far Chris’ heart had wandered into dangerous territory.
Chris drove to the marina where he and Whitney happily took off on the Sherwood just hours before. Whitney said not one word on the ten-minute drive. She didn’t look at him as he parked and they traded vehicles. She said nothing as Rick said goodnight and got in his Blue Isle Construction pickup. Chris knew Rick was happy to escape, like he was on the last flight out of an airport under siege.
Chris drove to East Pointe in continued silence. Whitney stared out the side window of the truck, not even looking at him. When he pulled in her driveway, she opened the door and stepped out.
She held the door open and said, “You have two days.”
These were the first words she had spoken in twenty minutes and Chris wasn’t sure he understood her meaning. He shut off the engine so he could hear her better.
“Two days?” he asked.
“Two days, and I want everything perfect. Better than perfect.”
Chris’ mind reeled. She was giving him a chance to finish the work. She was not calling in her lawyers and insurance watchdogs. At least not tonight. She was giving him two days. If he worked round the clock, he could finish the job and save his company. He wanted to say something about being sorry, being grateful for a chance, being in love with her. “Whitney, you have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything,” she said. “You do. Two days.”
“But—”
She slammed the truck door and leaned in the open window. “Maybe you think I’m stupid because you’ve managed to play me for the last week, but I didn’t get where I am by being a pushover, and I also didn’t get here by taking people’s money and giving them nothing in return.”
Chris’ hands gripped the wheel so hard he thought he was going to break it off.
“It would take me about one and a half phone calls to ruin you and Blue Isle Construction.”
She stepped back into the semi-darkness and he could barely make out her face. “Two days, or Blue Isle is finished.”
Chapter Seventeen
Chris waited, motionless, until Whitney entered the kitchen door and locked it behind her. It was completely silent at East Pointe. Although it was probably only about nine o’clock, it felt like it could be midnight. It seemed like an eternity since he stupidly thought he could take her out on his boat and romance her, reveling in hours alone with her.
He wanted to take a very large hammer from the toolbox in the bed of the truck and knock some sense into himself. How the hell did he think it would ever work out? He had known her only nine days, but she had turned his world upside down.
Now, he was facing the music. Two days to finish a job that should take a week. Two days to save his company.
He got out of the truck and slammed the door loud enough for Whitney to hear it no matter where she was in that ostentatiously large house. She wanted to see work done; she was going to see it. And hear it.
Chris stalked around the curving sidewalk to the beach side and used a small flashlight to find the switch on the generator powering the lights. He turned on the gas line, punched the starter, and filled the lawn with enough noise and light to host a home football game. He carefully turned one light so it shone directly on the house.
It was good business, he figured. Good to let the client know he was taking the work seriously and investing quality time on the project. She could just look out her bedroom window all night and see what kind of work he was putting in.
He imagined her standing at the window in nothing but a sheer lace nightgown, the cool night air raising her nipples into soft peaks. Chris shook himself back into reality. He had no time for thoughts like that, and she’d probably kill him with his own power tools if he we
nt anywhere near her right now.
****
Whitney threw her purse carelessly on the kitchen table and went upstairs. She turned on the faucets in the bathtub for a long, hot bath. It would be relaxing, she told herself. Sinking into warm bubbles was better than wallowing in angry self-pity and loathing. It might even bring her blood pressure down below stroke threshold.
How could she have failed to put the pieces together just a little bit sooner? How big an island did she think this was? She should have investigated Blue Isle a lot more carefully and a lot sooner. Whitney pulled off her clothes and got fluffy towels out of the cabinet in the large guest bathroom while the water gurgled noisily into the big sunken tub with luxurious jets. The tub was almost full.
If she had been thinking with her head all along, she would never have been taken in by a certain broad-shouldered, blue-eyed man. She wouldn’t have sipped Virgin-esias with him. She wouldn’t have kissed him by the moonlit harbor. She would never have poured out her heart to him about her construction problems.
What was he thinking when he listened to her story? Was he laughing at her the whole time? Was he just trying to distract her and hoping she’d give up and go away? What outcome was he possibly imagining to wining and dining her while hiding who he was the whole time? What kind of a dreamer or schemer was this guy?
Most importantly, what the hell was that noise she heard outside when she turned off the running water? It sounded like…
She grabbed a bathrobe off the hook behind the door and stalked to the window in her bedroom. Obnoxious white light poured into the room like there was a searchlight outside. The only thing more annoying than that was the jarring sound of an engine running. An incredibly loud engine shaking the foundation of the house.
She knew that sound. She heard it earlier in the week when they worked together late into the darkness. Whitney took a deep breath. And she was going to hear it tonight, too. Even if she got five minutes of sleep. If Chris Maxwell thought she was going to relent instead of putting up with a distraction out on her lawn, he had no idea who he was up against.
She went down the hallway into Taylor’s bedroom where the searchlights weren’t quite as strong. She carefully stood to the side of the window where she couldn’t be seen from the outside. She looked. Just one little peek. And then she wished she hadn’t.
Chris stood almost directly beneath her. His gaze wandered over the lit-up lawn as he pulled his shirt off and threw it away from him. It was a profoundly sexy move. Whitney couldn’t help but run her eyes over his bare chest and shoulders. She couldn’t believe that those same muscled arms had wrapped her up just a few hours ago and made her feel so…
She jerked back and leaned against the inside of the wall. She was done looking for the night. There would be no more watching him as he worked. He was going to finish her work, Taylor’s wedding would be perfect, and then she’d have to decide if she would press the legal issue with Blue Isle. If the work got done and the wedding wasn’t harmed, what would be the point of suing Blue Isle and running that miserable little thieving company into the ground? After being used by Chris Maxwell for the last week, Whitney sure thought he had it coming.
But then…he had worked night and day and the craftsmanship was amazing. Taylor’s parents would probably have a lot to say about Blue Isle, the property management company, and the obvious insurance problems, but Whitney would have to think about what she’d say if they asked her opinion about pursuing the legalities. Whitney had plenty to think about in the next few days. Which was a good thing, because she sure wasn’t going to be getting any sleep anyway.
****
The next morning, Whitney carefully pulled the thick pillows off her head and listened experimentally. She must have fallen asleep sometime long after midnight. Despite pulling down the shades, drawing the curtains, turning on her iPod to soothing music, and smothering herself with pillows, Chris disturbed her all night. The light and noise could be shut out to some extent, but thoughts of him were all over her mind like handprints on glass.
She felt about as fragile as glass this morning. Since her arrival on the island, things had pretty much gone wrong completely. The wedding venue was coming together, but she had entangled herself in a disastrous romance, and she was getting no sleep.
Maybe today would be the turning point. She would take charge of her life again and be the Whitney Oliver that people in Boston would recognize. She would call Taylor and assure her that all was well. Perhaps she would even call her business manager, Kelly, and discuss the future of her company. Buying property for a factory far, far away from here? Sure. Why not?
She was in the mood for anything that would take her mind off the infuriating Chris Maxwell. If he wasn’t so damnably attractive, incredibly likable, and so kissable, it would be a whole lot easier to find a distraction. Perhaps talking to Kelly about their business decisions and the company’s possible expansion would be just the thing to slap her with a dose of good sobering Boston reality.
Whitney climbed out of bed and cautiously approached the window. The soft early morning light felt its way through the window and gave her tired eyes a generous view of the lawn.
The gazebo looked perfect. It was perfectly straight, there were no missing boards, and there were no broken boards. She could see it clearly from her window and it looked almost exactly like it had the last time she was here to visit Taylor’s family. All the wreckage around it was cleared away. With a new coat of white paint, it would be perfect.
The pavilion was completely restored and already painted, thanks in large part to her own effort. And all that time she thought Chris was her knight in shining armor and helping her out of something that was a whole lot more flattering and sexy than obligation. He was trying to save his own ass the whole time he was flirting with her, making love to her, and making her fall…
No, she had not fallen for him. And even if she had, she would remove that sliver from her heart and forge ahead like it had never happened. She had a mission, a goal. East family arriving in less than two days. There would be no moping over being used by a man who happened to be the sexiest man she’d ever met. She would think about something else. Like making ribbon bows for all the folding chairs that she would have delivered in time for the wedding.
****
Whitney drove her rented Jeep to town and sought out the place where she’d eaten breakfast last Sunday morning, Bistro Sol. She and Chris had been back there once since then. It wasn’t that she was trying to revive the happy memories of earlier in the week; it was just that she didn’t know of any other place that was open early and made such good coffee. When she entered, though, she hadn’t planned on or thought about the reception she might get.
The young girl whom Whitney had seen blush and smile at Chris earlier in the week as she flirted with him was at her usual place. She eyed Whitney coldly.
“What’ll you have?”
“Coffee, for starters,” Whitney said.
Without waiting for Whitney to finish looking at the menu overhead to finish her order, the girl promptly poured a cup of coffee, smashed a plastic lid on top and handed it over.
“Dollar fifty,” she said. Her tone indicated complete dismissal.
“But,” Whitney began. She was bewildered by the girl’s attitude, but the light suddenly dawned. The girl resented her for being with Chris. Whitney was not going to be scared off from breakfast by a teenager. “I’d like to order something else also.”
“It’s time for my break,” the girl said and disappeared through the door into the kitchen.
Whitney waited for a minute, the only movement in the coffee shop coming from the sunlight glancing in the front window. She heard the shop door jingle behind her and was almost afraid to turn around. It couldn’t be Chris; she made sure he was working at East Pointe before she left. She briefly considered offering to bring him something to eat, but then she remembered how he lied to her since she met him. She decided he cou
ld go hungry. Still, the shop door jingling and the quiet tread behind her set her nerves on edge and she couldn’t help thinking of last Sunday when just such a thing had happened.
Whitney raised her chin and turned slightly so she could see the person standing close behind her. It was a middle-aged woman dressed like a tourist. Whitney smiled at her, partly out of relief and partly at the gaudy T-shirt the woman was wearing. It was not Chris, and she told herself that she was very glad it wasn’t.
“Is anybody working here?” the woman asked.
“There was, but she went in back.”
“I need coffee,” the tourist said, and she reached around Whitney and rang the little silver bell on the counter. “What’s wrong with people on this island?”
An older woman bustled through the swinging doors behind the breakfast counter looking somewhere between apologetic and pissed off. Whitney could only imagine the multitude of possible reasons for that.
“Help you?” she asked Whitney.
“I got coffee, but I’d like one of your delicious turnovers, too,” Whitney said politely.
“Thought Mr. Maxwell might have shared with you,” the woman said.
Whitney’s breath caught for a moment. So this was a new development. People on the island were talking about them?
“He was in here already today. Got enough food for five people,” the woman continued as she slipped an apple turnover into a white bakery bag.
Whitney couldn’t think of a thing to say except perhaps to ask the older woman if she’d ever seen Chris eat. He could probably eat the breakfast of five people.
“Course, he’s always doin’ stuff for other people,” the woman continued. “Probably down on the docks sharing it with anybody.”
Or storing it up to last all day, Whitney thought, because he sure as heck knew she wouldn’t be filling his tank. He could go hungry saving his miserable company for all she cared.
“Don’t mind my girl,” the woman continued as she took Whitney’s money and punched some numbers into the cash register. “She’s just a little jealous. Every woman on this island wants what rumor has it you’ve been getting.”
