He wouldn’t take a job this small.
He might refuse to come to Florida in August.
Lacey had plenty of reasons why she shouldn’t press the Call button and ask to speak with Clayton Walker, president and CEO of Walker Architecture and Design. A trickle of sweat meandered down her back and trailed into the waistband of the cutoffs Ashley had pronounced too short for a mom to wear.
Too short? Too bad. She could walk around Barefoot Bay naked if she wanted to. Ever since the storm had ravaged the north hook of the island, she and Ashley had been alone out here at the beach. The insurance adjusters had come and gone, promising the rebuilding money, and the bulldozers had already leveled the storm-damaged house. Lacey’s two neighbors, one to the north and one to the south and neither very close by, had bailed after settling their claims and promising to sell her their lots for a song.
The next step in her ambitious scheme didn’t require age-appropriate attire, anyway. Her sweaty finger streaked the smooth glass of her phone, but before she dialed, she set the phone on the picnic table, one of the few items she’d salvaged from the storm.
What was stopping her from calling the architect?
Fear of rejection? Of course, an architect with Clayton Walker’s outstanding credentials, reputation, and portfolio of glorious hotels and resorts might not want to design her beachfront bed-and-breakfast.
But he had responded to her e-mail personally. And he had said, “Call when you have the insurance money and I’ll take a look at the property.”
She swiped beads of sweat from her upper lip and scooted the bench closer to the table, trying to slide into the one slice of shade formed by the trunk of a royal poinciana that had survived the storm. Peering through humidity-drenched curls, she studied her daughter at the water’s edge a few hundred feet of burning sand away. Madly texting, something she’d been doing more and more of lately, Ashley seemed oblivious to the squawking seagulls fluttering around her.
Ashley had rebounded remarkably after the storm, moving into Lacey’s parents’ house with a fairly positive attitude, probably since living down on the south end of the island put her closer to more kids she’d be going to Mimosa High with in a few weeks.
Most of the twelve-mile-long barrier island hadn’t fared quite as poorly as the northern end, where Barefoot Bay was located. South of Center Street they’d lost only screens and roof tiles, and a few windows. Businesses were all open in town and life was nearly back to normal down there. Even still, Lacey’s parents had decided to stay longer up north with her brother, giving Lacey and Ashley a place to live.
Good thing, because if Marie Armstrong were breathing down Lacey’s neck right now, harping on the complete impossibility of these plans, Lacey would never have the nerve to make this call.
She angled the phone and eyed the architect’s name, imagining the conversation with a man she considered a legend. She’d seen his picture on the company Web site and on the Internet. The guy looked like Colonel Sanders with all that white hair and a Southern-gentleman bow tie. How scary could he be?
Okay. It was time. She turned so the sight of Ashley wouldn’t distract her, and put her finger on the phone.
Wait.
Should she call him Mr. Walker? His e-mail seemed so casual, at least for an architectural genius. So maybe he wouldn’t want—
A voice floated up from the beach. A male voice.
Lacey glanced over her shoulder, inhaling a quick breath at the sight of a man five feet away from Ashley. A half-naked man, wearing nothing but low-hanging board shorts and sockless sneakers. Shaggy hair, big muscles, and, dear God, was that a tattoo on his arm?
Was he a tourist? A surfer? More likely one of the many debris scavengers who’d popped up all over the island since they’d reopened the causeway, ready to make a buck off the misfortune of others.
Ashley laughed at something he said, and he turned just enough for Lacey to get an eyeful of sweat-glistening chest and abs and—wow.
Ashley flipped her hair and the man took a step closer.
Okay, stop right there, buddy. Lacey launched forward, driven by primal instinct, forgetting the call and ignoring the fiery sand singeing her bare feet.
“Excuse me.”
They both turned at her words, Ashley’s body language screaming disgust as she rolled her eyes. But Lacey barely saw her. Her gaze was locked on the predator, preparing her counterattack in full mother-lioness mode, quickly assessing his danger level.
His danger level was… hot.
Ridiculously so.
He stunned her with a blinding smile. He disarmed her with a shake of his honey-colored locks, revealing a handsome, tanned face and a tiny gold hoop in one ear. Then he stopped her in her tracks by stretching out his hand.
“I’m Clay Walker.”
What?
“Are you Lacey Armstrong?”
“No. I mean, yes. But…” She froze, completely thrown, her brain short-circuiting at his words.
Colonel Sanders he was not.
He looked nothing like his picture. No white hair, no bow tie—no shirt! He absolutely couldn’t be Clayton Walker because, well, he was gorgeous.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, not caring that she was a sweaty mess of venom-spewing, short-short-wearing, almost-thirty-seven-year-old mom staring at his washboard abs. Or that she still held the phone that she was just about to use to call him. Well, not him. Colonel Sanders.
“I told you I’d check out the property.”
“Oh, I expected someone…” Older. Dressed. Not gorgeous. “… after I called.”
“I didn’t want to wait,” he said. He kept his hand out and she had no choice but to take it, her hand instantly lost in big, calloused, masculine fingers. “I was too intrigued by the idea of building here.”
“So am I.” Intrigued, that was. Intrigued and wary.
“I hope you don’t mind.” He gave a cursory glance to his naked torso. “It’s hot as hell here.”
“It’s no problem,” she lied, extracting her hand and forcing her eyes off his body and onto his face. Like that was any less stupefying. “But there’s been a mistake.”
Dark brows shot up, revealing eyes just about the color of the water behind him. “A mistake?” he asked.
“You’re not Clayton Walker.”
“I go by Clay.” He smiled, kind of a half-grin that crinkled his eyes and revealed straight white teeth. “Got ID in my truck if you want me to get it.”
The hint of a drawl fit him as well as the shorts that hung off narrow hips. “That’s not necessary because I’ve been to the Web site and I’ve seen Clayton Walker, and he’s not…” Sexy. “You.”
“Don’t tell me.” The smile turned wry. “You were expecting Clayton Walker Senior?”
Senior? Like his father? “I was expecting the owner of the firm.” The man who designed some of the most stunning hotels in the world, who probably didn’t have hair to his shoulders or an earring or a tattoo of a flame-encircled star on a sizable bicep. “The Clayton Walker. That’s who I e-mailed.”
“Actually, you e-mailed me,” he said simply.
“I got the contact off the Web site.”
He shrugged a brawny shoulder. “I guess my name’s still there. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s made the mistake.”
“Do you work for him?”
“No, I don’t have anything to do with my father’s business anymore.”
“Oh. That’s a shame.” Disappointment dribbled in her stomach and mixed with some other unfamiliar tightness down there.
“But I am a contractor,” he said, an edge taking some of the smoothness out of his voice. “And a builder.”
“But you aren’t the Clayton Walker.”
He laughed softly, a rumbly, gritty, sensual sound that reverberated through Lacey’s chest down to her toes. “Look, I’ve been checking out this property for a couple of days and, based on that e-mail you sent, I’m totally capable of d
oing this job for you.”
Except he wasn’t capable because he was too young and too inexperienced and too… shirtless. “Are you an architect?”
“Technically, it depends on how you define architect. I am, but not completely licensed, so not officially.” He fried her with another smile, taking a step closer, giving her a better look at his really remarkable blue eyes. Not that she was looking for remarkable eyes on her architect. Which, by the way, he wasn’t. Not officially.
“Why don’t we take a look at the site and go over some ideas I have?” he suggested.
“How could you have ideas when I haven’t even told you exactly what I want?” She didn’t mean to sound snippy, but she couldn’t possibly trust this young man with her dream. She’d have to get rid of him and find out how to get to the real Clayton Walker.
“Maybe we want the same thing.” His gaze dropped ever so quickly over her, a stark reminder that she wore far too little today. And it was hot out here.
Oh, no. No no no. Don’t you dare go there, brainless hormones. This guy was twenty-nine on a good day, at least six or seven years younger than she was. The son of the man she wanted, not a man she wanted.
“When were you here?” she asked. Since the storm she’d been up here almost every day. “I haven’t seen you.” Because she sure as hell wouldn’t have missed him.
“A few days ago.” He finally tore his mesmerizing gaze from her and focused on the property behind her. “This is a truly legit location for a resort.”
Legit? He sounded like Ashley’s friends. Maybe he was even younger than she’d thought. “No resort,” she corrected. “Just a little B and B is all I have in mind.”
“Really? I’d dream bigger than that, Miss…” He inched imperceptibly closer, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “It is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?”
Was he hitting on her? “Miz,” she said, a little edge in her voice. “And this isn’t a dream, it’s a plan for my—our—future. My daughter’s and mine.” Did he get the emphasis? “I have very specific plans.” But they don’t include you. “And I was hoping to meet—”
“My dad, I got that. He’s not who you want for this, trust me.”
Trust him? Not likely. “Your father’s a legend in his field.”
“But he’s in North Carolina, and I’m here,” he drawled with one more brain-numbing smile. “And I already have a couple of ideas for the kind of place you could put here.”
“Well, I have ideas, too. A… vision, actually.” And a bedroom-eyed, not-yet-thirty not-officially-an-architect wasn’t part of it.
“God, Mom, just give him a chance.”
Ashley’s voice startled her. She’d forgotten her daughter was there, taking in the whole exchange, and, of course, having an opinion. “Honey, this isn’t your concern. And, Mr. Walker—”
“Clay. The younger one.”
“I have to be honest with you,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “This is obviously a huge commitment for me, and I had my heart set on the man who designed Crystal Springs and French Hills, which, as you probably know, were built by Clayton Walker. The Clayton Walker. I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, but I want someone with more experience.”
His expression grew tight and cool. “Sometimes experience can work against you and what you need is”—he ran a hand through sixteen different shades of caramel hair, leaving it just a little more tousled, a lock falling to one eye—“a fresh perspective.”
Behind him, Ashley was staring at his backside perspective.
No. Yeah. Wow. This guy had to go. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t think there’s any reason to pursue this. Good-bye.”
He half laughed in disbelief. “Good-bye?”
“And thank you.”
He took one step backward. “I’d say you’re welcome, but I have a feeling you don’t really mean that.”
“Well, I do mean good-bye.”
With his head at a cocky angle that somehow managed to say “You will regret this,” without saying a word, he tipped a nod to Ashley and turned to jog off in the opposite direction.
“Mom!” Ashley choked with exasperation. “You were such a b-word to him.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that he’s not the person I want to hire. He’s not Clayton; he’s not the man I wanted.”
“But he’s obviously the man you e-mailed.”
She fired a look at Ashley. “In error.” Or was it? “Or maybe he hijacks his father’s e-mail or something, looking for lonely women.” Not that she was lonely.
“Well, I bet he finds them.”
“Dear God, he’s twice your age.”
“Is that why you sent him away?”
“No. He’s too young.”
“You just said he was too old.”
Frustration zinged through her. “Too old for you to ogle, too young to build my dream.” And for me to ogle.
Ashley pulled out her phone and thumbed the screen. “Great excuse, Mom.”
Chapter 3
I had my heart set on the man who designed Crystal Springs and French Hills.
Well, you had him, darlin’, right in your silky little paw. Of course if she called Clayton Walker Architecture and Design, she’d get a different answer.
He ran hard, each jolt of packed sand fueling his determination. He wanted this job. He needed this job. And he had to close the deal before she hooked up with the legend who would squeeze out any competition, including his very own son.
Especially his very own son.
Damn it. He wasn’t about to let C-dub near this one. It was a matter of pride. Hell, it was a matter of survival.
And all that stood between him and what he wanted was a closed-minded, uptight, opinionated, voluptuous strawberry blonde. How could he change her mind?
From the minute he’d heard of the hurricane grazing Mimosa Key, he’d known it was the perfect solution. Remote, untouched, and off the competitive radar, he could get the soup-to-nuts job he needed to reinstate himself professionally. Post-disaster rebuilding wasn’t his favorite thing, but people in this situation tended to move fast and not take months to bid out work to competitive firms.
There had to be a way to win her over.
Well, there was the obvious. She had been pretty busy eyeing his personal landscape. While the idea of spending a long, hot summer night convincing her he was the man for the job had definite appeal, using sex to get the job was flat-out cheesy. It was bad enough that she thought he’d stolen the lead from his father—an understandable mistake since his sister refused to take his name off the Walker Architecture and Design Web site contacts. He wasn’t going to try to screw the work out of her, too.
Of course, she’d have the old man on the phone before Clay got back to his truck. The thought made him run faster, hurdling a fallen tree to get to the clearing in the road where he’d parked.
So call him, Strawberry. There’s nothin’ I love more than a challenge.
He opened the door to climb into the truck, glancing in the back cab at the sketches he’d brought. Bet she’d change her mind if she saw his ideas.
But maybe not. She might not have that much imagination if all she wanted to build on that gem of a property was “just a little B and B.” She’d go traditional. Cookie-cutter. Dull as dirt. Come to think of it, Dad would be perfect for her job. Reaching back, he grabbed the sketches.
After his first drive to this beach, he’d raced back to the rental unit to draw page after page of thumbnails. Nothing too detailed, just his gut-level reaction to the pristine, tropical hideaway of Barefoot Bay. It had all come together, too, looking like the success he needed so he could give the finger to his father and take the first step to rebuilding a reputation.
But Lacey Armstrong wanted the legend. The legend who would slap down a four-story stucco box, adorn it with Palladian windows, and pronounce it La Bella Vista at the Sea.
Damn stupid woman with her sexy thighs and preconceived no
tions.
He slid the rubber band off one sketch and studied what he’d drawn. How the hell could he convince her to look at these? And if he did, would it be enough to stop her from calling his father?
Just as he was about to toss them back, an engine rumbled from around the bend, and a muscular, roofless, high-end Jeep Rubicon accelerated toward him, a woman at the wheel, another next to her, and one in the back. Bass-fueled rock music blared from the speakers.
He was checking out the wild blonde hair, sunglasses, and tanned skin of the driver when one of the others yelled, “Stop, Zoe! Ask that guy!”
Tourists, no doubt. The Jeep came to a screeching stop fifteen feet away from him. The driver threw it into Reverse, fishtailing as she backed up to him.
“Excuse me!” she called, turning down the music. She glanced over her shoulder to say something to the other two as he came around the truck to get closer.
The one in the back didn’t look like a tourist, more lady exec with black hair secured in a ponytail and a crisp white shirt. She didn’t reply to what the driver said, but the woman in the passenger seat laughed softly, leaning forward to look at him, dishwater-brown locks falling over an angular face.
Blondie slid her sunglasses into her mane. “We’re trying to find Barefoot Bay, but the roads aren’t marked at all up here. Do you know if we can get through this way?”
Some time to come for vacation, ladies. “The beach is right there.” He pointed behind him. “Your best bet is to park here and walk down, or drive a little farther that way. You can get through, but there’s a lot of storm damage and the road gets pretty dicey.”
“Let’s go straight through,” the business-like one in the back said. Probably the Realtor helping them snag a cheap lot, he mused. Good luck with the bitchy property owner. “Once we get closer,” she added, “I’ll recognize Lacey’s place.”
Oh? Friends of Strawberry’s?
“Thank you,” the blonde said to him, adding a dazzling smile. “I really appreciate it. Looks like you’ve been to the beach.”
“Zoe,” the passenger said, giving the driver a nudge. “Do you have to flirt with every man?”