But not today they wouldn’t. Not if the person in question was a grumpy mechanic who’d had far too much anguish and far too little sleep. Better the answering machine get it than that she snarl and lose a potential customer. Hugh could return the call when he got back from Nassau.
But when the machine picked up, she heard, “Hey, Mol’, it’s Carson. Give me a call when—”
And heedless of the grease, Molly grabbed the phone. “Carson!”
“Hey! Screening your calls now? How hotshot is that?” She heard the smile in his voice—the pure, easy, normal, Carson Sawyer tone—and almost wept with gratitude.
“Hey, yourself. Hugh’s in Nassau and I was working on an engine. How are you?”
“Good. Just wanted to tell you I’ve had a change of plans.”
Molly felt her heart sink. Of course she’d basically just vowed to let him take it in his own time. But she didn’t expect God to call her to account right now. “Change of plans?” she echoed.
“Yep. Thought I’d come early.”
Early? Molly’s heart picked itself up and dusted itself off. “Really?”
“Reckon I might fly over with Dena Wilson. You remember her? Tom’s daughter.”
“I remember her.” Hard to forget a woman whose father owned an entire island. “Where’s Dena? Is she in Savannah, too?”
“Miami mostly. But I’ve been working with her on a real estate deal for Tom. She’s coming this weekend, too, wants to run it past her old man. She has her own plane, so I figured if I could get away, I’d fly over at the same time. Figured maybe we could talk. You said we didn’t get a chance to last time I was home.”
“We didn’t.” Her hopes lifted another notch.
“So this time we will. I’ve got to talk to Tom, too. He’s putting together a meeting of some investors. Pretty hectic.”
“But you can…fit me in?”
“Of course I can.” He sounded surprised she would ask. “And there’s going to be a party at the Lodge on Saturday night,” he went on. “All very upscale and ritzy from what Dena says. Formal dress. Live band. And not a steel band, either,” he added with a grin. “Dancing. Ballroom, that sort of thing. I have to go. It’s a command performance if I want to do business with them.” His tone was apologetic.
“It’s all right,” Molly assured him, starting for the first time to smile. Thank you, God. “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ll wear my new dress.”
There was a split second’s pause. Then Carson said, “You want to come?”
“Unless you’re ashamed to be seen with me.”
“No! Of course not. I’m just…surprised.” He sounded stunned. “You bought a dress, Mol’? What kind of dress?”
Molly grinned. “Wait and see.”
“Guess I’ll have to.” He sounded slightly dazed. “Do me a favor, Mol’. See if you can find me a room for the weekend. I rang the Moonstone and the Mirabelle, but they’re all booked up.”
“Not a problem,” Molly said, recognizing an opportunity when it nearly knocked her over. “You can stay with me.”
HE COULDN’T STAY holed up in his room forever. Not even to read the blasted papers his father had sent that he’d been ignoring so long. So Joaquin skimmed over them—something about a proposed merger with the place his father had apparently been visiting in New York—and tried to formulate some opinion so he could sound knowledgeable if asked.
But his heart wasn’t in it and his mind wasn’t on it.
He was still thinking about Molly.
He hadn’t seen her since their fateful dinner, since her toe dance up his leg, since she’d run out of the room, furious with him.
He supposed he should apologize. But he didn’t see that he had a damn thing to apologize for! He was the one who’d been behaving honorably. He was the one defending her virtue! From himself!
Just thinking about the injustice of it could make him furious all over again. And caroming off the wall of his room in the Moonstone didn’t help. So he threw his father’s papers aside, shoved Molly into the deepest corner of his mind and went out for a run.
Charlotte was just coming up from the beach. He hadn’t seen her since that night, either, though she’d called his room to see if he was feeling better.
Now she said eagerly, “Want some company? I’ll come with you.”
But Joaquin shook his head. “Thanks. I’m fine on my own.”
At least he wasn’t stupid enough to drag another woman into the mess that was his life. After that first night at the Grouper when he’d thought some mindless sex would cure what ailed him, only to discover that mindless sex didn’t interest him at all, he hadn’t gone back to the Grouper or anywhere else.
If he could have, he’d have packed his bags and left. But with his parents showing up tomorrow afternoon, he was stuck. And of course they would just happen to have a prospective bride in their luggage.
His feet pounded along the sand. “Stuck,” they said with every footfall. “Stuck, stuck, stuck, stuck, stuck.”
He ran for miles. To the end of the beach, then he climbed the steps by the Mirabelle, then cut through the grounds, and when he got to the road that came back through the center of the island, he ran some more. It was hotter now. There was less breeze. Rivulets of sweat poured down his chest and back as he ran past the road to Nathan and Carin Wolfe’s place. Past Lachlan’s curving drive. Past the water tower and over the rise to look down on the cricket field which had, since Lachlan’s return, become the soccer pitch where the team was even now practicing.
Beyond the field was Fiona’s whimsical King of the Beach sculpture of island flotsam and jetsam. And beyond that was Fly Guy.
And Molly.
The door to the shop was open, which meant she was in there now, hard at work. He saw a flash of coppery hair pass the doorway. He stopped, attention caught.
He’d stopped in Fly Guy’s offices and shop dozens of times in the past few years to arrange a flight, to talk to Hugh, to meet up with Lachlan or just shoot the breeze. Molly had always been there, in the background, busy as a beaver. He’d barely noticed.
Now he noticed nothing else.
He could stop. Say hello. Test the waters, so to speak.
Or he could run on past. Pretend the past week had never happened.
As he considered his options, he heard a shout from the field and lots of people, both kids and adults, began running in one direction, crowding around someone down on the pitch. He began walking, and picked up his pace when he saw Molly appear in the doorway, then go running toward the cluster of people.
“Call the doc,” he heard. And then he heard, “Better call Hugh, too. Anybody got a mobile?”
He broke into a lope, heading across the field. “What’s up?” he demanded as he came up to them and the crowd parted. Molly was kneeling next to Lachlan lying, white-faced, on the ground.
“Lachlan’s broken his leg.”
CHAPTER SIX
“I’M NOT GOING TO DO IT!” Joaquin was pacing the floor of the shop, cracking his knuckles, ranting, furious and, unfortunately, as gorgeous as ever, Molly thought as she stood in the doorway, bouncing Duncan in her arms.
She shouldn’t be admiring his bare, muscled chest and rock-hard thighs, Molly told herself. She shouldn’t be looking at him at all.
It was insane. But he was here, had followed her into the shop after Hugh and Doc Rasmussen had loaded Lachlan into the chopper, and he and Fiona, Hugh and Doc were now on their way to Nassau.
“I never said you would,” she said mildly. Coach soccer, she meant. “He was worrying about the team! It wasn’t going to do anybody any good to have him worrying. And all I said was we could handle it.”
“We!” He pounced on the word like the panther he sometimes seemed. “And since none of the rest of you know a damn thing about it, who do you suppose that leaves?”
“No one is forcing you,” she said evenly. “Don’t d
o it. You’re very good at saying no, as I recall. In fact, I can personally attest to it.” The words were out of her mouth before she even knew she was going to say them.
Dear God, shut me up! she thought as she clutched Duncan close and Joaquin stalked across the shop to loom over her, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, a muscle ticking violently in his temple.
“You think walking out was easy?” he snarled. “You think I didn’t want what was on offer?”
She winced at his flippant “on offer” comment, but then drew herself together and met him toe-to-toe. “I’d say it was pretty obvious you didn’t. What was it you said? Oh yes. ‘You can’t just cold-bloodedly make a man want you.”’ She quoted him verbatim. The words were burnt on her brain. “And it was true. You didn’t want me.”
“The hell I didn’t!” he shouted.
Duncan’s face crumpled. He waved his fists and started to cry.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Molly turned away, shushing the baby, all the while her mind spinning over Joaquin’s furious claim “the hell I didn’t!”
So he had wanted her?
She’d thought he was telling her off, refusing what was distasteful to him.
But if he wasn’t, then why had he refused? She had been, as he’d so crudely put it “on offer” that night. To him, anyway. But he’d turned his back and walked away.
Why?
When Duncan had quieted sufficiently, she turned back to him, demanding, “So tell me, then, why didn’t you take me up on my offer? Why didn’t you take me?” She forced herself to be as blunt as he had been, though her cheeks burned as she said it. “And don’t tell me it was some misguided bit of nobility on your part.”
“I wouldn’t think of telling you any such thing,” he said harshly, and abruptly brushed past her, his arm brushing her sleeve, as he stalked toward the door.
“Running again?” she asked his back.
He stopped in his tracks, turned and glared. His jaw bunched. “Lachlan is my friend,” he said. “If you need my help—for anything but coaching—ask me.”
LACHLAN HAD SURGERY that evening.
He needed two pins in his ankle, a non-weight-bearing cast, and a battle-ax of a ward nurse to bully him into doing what he was told and into not getting up before he was permitted to, Fiona reported the next morning when Hugh brought her home to check on Duncan and Molly and to pick up a few things she needed.
“He’s very cranky,” she said. “He hates being laid up. And he’s worried about the team. He’s especially worried about Tommy.”
Tommy, Fiona’s nephew, was the one who had been challenging him for the ball. Lachlan hadn’t been wearing shin guards and Tommy had kicked him.
“It’s not Tommy’s fault,” Molly said. “We’ve all told him that.”
“I know. And I called him from the hospital after Lach’s surgery to tell him everything was okay. But he’s still upset. And Lachlan’s worried about him. And a thousand other things. He’s given me a list of things that need to be done. Things to practice.” She gave a long-suffering sigh as she pulled it out of her pocket.
“Give it here.” Molly took it and tucked it in hers.
“You’ll give it to Joaquin.”
“I’ll see it gets taken care of. Don’t worry. And tell Lachlan not to worry. His job is to get better. When can he come home?”
“If he behaves and does everything he’s supposed to do and nothing he isn’t—” Fiona rolled her eyes at the likelihood of that “—he’ll get to come home on Sunday.”
“Not in time for the tournament, then.”
“No. But Joaquin can manage.”
“Yes.” Molly agreed. Which meant yes, he could. It didn’t mean yes, he was going to. The Pelican Cay Soccer Tournament looked to be all hers. She packed a diaper bag with all Duncan’s stuff in it, took a couple of bottles of the breast milk Fiona had stored in the freezer, put them in a thermal sack, plopped Duncan into his baby backpack and headed for the door.
“You don’t have to take him with you,” Fiona protested. “I can take him with me when I go back to Nassau this afternoon.”
Molly shook her head. “We’ll be fine. You don’t need more distractions.” She hoisted the backpack—and baby—onto her shoulders.
“If you’re sure…” Fiona said. “It would be easier.”
Molly grinned. “I’m sure. Go take care of the big baby and leave the little one to me.”
GUESTS WERE STRAGGLING down to breakfast at the Moonstone when she and Duncan got there. At the sight of them, Suzette came hurrying out of her office.
“How is he? Have you talked to him?”
“No, but Fiona just came home. He’s okay. Had surgery last night. Might get home by Sunday. He’s only fretting about the soccer.”
“Soccer doesn’t matter,” Suzette said.
Molly shrugged. “It does to him. Gotta run. I’m going to be late for practice.” She sprinted up the stairs and banged on Joaquin’s door.
It was a minute—and a few more loud bangs—before she heard movement. And grumbling. But at last the door opened.
Joaquin stood there bare-chested, clad only in a pair of shorts, his hair rumpled, his cheeks unshaven. His scowl deepened when he saw her. “I’m not coaching.”
Molly shrugged. “Your choice.” She pushed past him into the room, dropped the diaper bag on the bed and shifted her way out of the backpack, then plucked Duncan out of it and thrust him into Joaquin’s unsuspecting arms.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“You said to call if I needed help. I do. Key to the house is in the backpack. There’re bottles in the bag and clean diapers.” She waggled her fingers at him as she went out the door. “Have fun.”
HE DAMNED WELL wasn’t going to go running after her!
But he kicked the door shut after she’d gone—loud enough that he was sure she could hear it on the front porch—and then he stood there staring at the baby, wide-eyed and bewildered, in his arms.
“What am I going to do with you?”
Duncan blinked guilelessly at him and waved his arms around with exactly the sort of vague aimlessness Joaquin felt.
“Sit here.” He plunked the baby on the bed so he could at least get dressed.
But Duncan wobbled, tilted, then toppled over.
Joaquin rubbed a hand down across his face. Jesus. What did you do with a kid who couldn’t even sit?
Well, you didn’t shave. And you didn’t take a shower, that was for sure.
He wedged the baby between the pillows, grabbed shorts and a T-shirt and yanked them on as quickly as he could, watching Duncan like a hawk the whole time lest the baby squirm off the bed.
But Duncan wasn’t interested in squirming. He contented himself grabbing the pillowcase and sucking on it. Did that mean he was hungry? Had the kid eaten?
He couldn’t exactly ask. But he did anyway.
“Want breakfast?”
Duncan grinned. Whatever that meant.
On the off chance that Duncan was hungry, he found one of the bottles Molly had put in the bag. He sat on the bed and picked Duncan up, cradling the boy in his arms and poking the bottle in the direction of his mouth.
Duncan gurgled and batted it away.
“Not hungry, then?” He tried again just to be sure. But Duncan wasn’t interested. He watched Joaquin carefully, his lower lip jutting every time Joaquin started to move away.
Damn Molly McGillivray anyway! How could she do this to him?
“So,” he said to the baby. “What do you want to do? Go to the beach? Take a swim? Pick up girls?”
Duncan looked interested in all three possibilities. He gurgled and waved his arms.
“Okay. Let’s go.” Joaquin stuffed his feet into a pair of thongs and combed his hair with his fingers. Then he picked Duncan up, plopped him in the backpack and wriggled it onto his shoulders—a feat of balance and dexterity he’d never entirely appreciated when he’d seen Lachlan do it. He appreciated it
now. Then together they went downstairs.
Every woman in the lobby made a beeline for them.
“Oooooh, isn’t he precious?”
“Oh, he’s darling.”
“Ah, he’s gorgeous. Look at that smile.”
They crowded around twittering and fluttering, making silly noises and chucking Duncan under the chin. Every one of them offered to give Joaquin a hand. If he’d been looking for a way to draw female attention, obviously carrying a baby around was the way to do it. If he’d wanted to foist his charge off on someone else for the morning, he’d have had no trouble at all.
But he didn’t. He was determined to prove he could do it on his own. Molly had obviously thought she could back him into a corner and force him to coach by sticking him with the baby instead.
Well, he’d show her.
It was not exactly a walk in the park. Or a day at the beach. Not the sort he was used to anyway. He took Duncan down to the sand where he spread out a towel on the sand, then he handed Duncan a rubber duck Molly had tucked in the bag. While the baby gummed it to death, Joaquin slathered him with sunscreen.
Then Duncan rolled in the sand.
Joaquin groaned. He picked the boy up and carried him into the water. Duncan was delighted. He wriggled. He bounced. He was as slippery as a fish. It took all Joaquin’s concentration to hang on to him. But it was fun.
The only drawback was that Duncan wasn’t much of a conversationalist. It would have been more fun to have Molly there to talk to.
But Molly was at the soccer field.
He refused to think about her. They bobbed around in the waves until Duncan began to fuss.
“What now?” Joaquin asked him. “Tired? Hungry? Bored?”
Duncan rubbed his eyes and cried because the saltwater stung them.
“Oh, hell.” What did you do for a baby with stinging eyes? If Molly had been there, she would have known.
But Molly was at the soccer field.
He carried Duncan back up to the towel and sat down with him, knowing enough this time not to plop him down and expect him to sit on his own. The tears solved the problem. The crying stopped. Duncan took a handful of sand and thrust it into his mouth.
Lessons from a Latin Lover Page 10
