Barefoot in the Sand (Barefoot Bay)

  “Wait a second,” he murmured, breaking their kiss. “I just heard my phone.”

  She clutched his hand and pulled him back to her. “Voice mail.”

  “It’s Darcie,” he said. “That’s my sister’s ring. She has a ten-minute window free today and this is going to take longer than that.” He kissed her on the nose, pushing himself up. “Hold that thought, Strawberry. I’ll be back in a minute, hopefully knowing who bought the land and how you can get a great mortgage on this house. Then we can celebrate all afternoon.”

  She smiled, watching him hurry to the other room, where he’d left his cell phone.

  Sighing, she leaned against the bed and stared at the blueprints again. How did he know? How did he know what mattered so much to her? This wasn’t part of the resort he had to build, this wasn’t something she’d asked him for. This was just him getting her.

  That was what caused a whirlwind of emotions every time she was with him. He got her. He understood. Overwhelmed, she let herself tumble back to the floor with a sigh of pure happiness. As she turned her head with a little giggle, she spied the other rolls of drawings tucked beneath the edge of the comforter.

  Actually, that paper would make good shelf liner.

  Reaching for the closest one, she drew it out, aware of Clay’s monosyllabic answers on the phone. Were any of these blank? She uncurled one corner and saw a drawing of—Ashley?

  Sitting up, she wiped away any guilt, rolling the rubber band low enough so she could see more of the drawing without actually opening it. Yep, it was a sketch of Ashley, looking up, laughing, a hammer in her hand.

  Along the outside edge of the paper, in his square architect’s printing, Clay had written the word Family.

  Family? Did he see Ashley as—

  No, that could mean anything. Maybe these were more sketches of the house. Should she look?

  From the living room she heard Clay’s baritone voice, a question, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. She was so, so tempted to open this drawing, but it wasn’t her place. She’d ask him when he came back. He needed to explain why he’d referred to Ashley as family.

  And then she’d show him just how happy that made her.

  Chapter 25

  Clay dropped onto the stool in front of the drafting table, picking up a pencil to shade a drawing instead of taking out his frustrations on his sister. “So, basically, all you’ve got is a Delaware-based corporation.”

  “And there are a million of those,” Darcie agreed, equally frustrated. “This one has no more than a P.O. box, and a bunch of brick walls around that. And they paid cash, so there’s no mortgage paper trail, or you know I’d be following it. I’m sorry, Clay. I really thought I got close to a name from a contact in D.C., but the flow of information shut off and now I can’t get anything. Do you have a backup plan for the property?” she asked.

  “A much smaller version of what we want,” he said. And it wouldn’t include that home he’d just showed Lacey, damn it. “But if we don’t get those two properties, we have to compromise on everything.”

  “You’re starting to sound French, big brother.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We, we, we. Or haven’t you noticed that you never refer to ‘the client,’ only ‘we’ and ‘us’ and ‘our’?”

  He’d noticed.

  “Now, do you want the information on the financing for the residence on the property?” she asked.

  “Without knowing if we have those lots, it’s moot. E-mail it to me.”

  “Okay, but…” She dragged out the last word, firing more frustration through him. He wanted to get back to Lacey.

  “But what?”

  “I have to tell you something.” There was the tiniest note of desperation in her voice and it caught him.

  “What?”

  “Dad had a TIA.”

  His pencil froze as the words settled on his brain. “What the hell is that?”

  “A transient ischemic attack, which, in English, is a mini-stroke. I wasn’t going to tell you. Jayna told me not to tell.”

  A stroke? “What happened?” He got up and walked to the balcony, shoving open the sliding glass door and stepping outside into the humidity and sunshine.

  “Nothing permanent, we think,” she replied. “He just had this weird incident while he was driving.”

  “He was driving?”

  “Yes, but no accident. Jayna helped him pull over and, oh, it was scary, Clay. Elliott was in the car and Dad just kind of blacked out. He couldn’t even talk for a few minutes, an ambulance came and—”

  “Is he in the hospital? Jesus, Darcie, why the hell didn’t you call me?”

  “Jayna said—”

  He smacked the balcony railing hard enough to make it shake. “Damn it! He’s my father I have a right to know if he’s sick.”

  “I didn’t think you’d care.”

  He didn’t think he would, either. “Just let me know if anything else happens.”

  “The doctors are watching him. And Jayna’s taking care of him.”

  “Checking all his bank accounts, no doubt.” He regretted the words the minute they were out.

  But Darcie just sighed into the phone as if she were so over the old wounds. Of course she was. He had the scars; his sister didn’t. “I gotta go, Clay. If I find out anything at all about those properties, I’ll call you.”

  He stood still for a long moment, staring at the Intracoastal Waterway shimmering in front of him, a lone skiff bouncing on the gentle waves. Nothing registered. Just emptiness.

  Is this what he’d feel if his father…

  Holy, holy shit. He couldn’t even think the words. If Dad died with all this crap between them, well, that would be on his father’s soul and take him right where he belonged, wouldn’t it?

  But Clay would carry it all around forever, like a bag of wet concrete hanging off his heart.

  What the hell was he supposed to do? Forgive him? No way. No, no way.

  “Hey, Clay, you coming back?”

  “Yeah.” Back to the comfort and warmth and escape he needed.

  In the bedroom he found Lacey sitting cross-legged on the bed, leaning over the blueprints, her hair falling into her face.

  She didn’t look up, mesmerized by the house he’d created. “You know what I love most about this floor plan?” she asked.

  Right then, he didn’t care. He didn’t want to talk about floor plans or buildings or families or fathers he should forgive. Right now he wanted help. And the woman who could give it to him was on his bed.

  He stood stone still next to her, his jaw clenched, his hands fisted.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, finally looking up, her eyes as bright as sun-dappled whiskey and just as potent for the numbing he needed. “What did Darcie say?”

  That my father is sick. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing. Did you find out who bought the property? Oh, God, it’s David, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head, snagging the blueprints and tossing them to the floor. “No, we don’t know yet. C’mere.” He dropped a knee onto the bed and reached for her.

  “Clay, are you going all caveman on me?”

  “Yeah.” He practically knocked her back, climbing on top of her, kissing her hard on the mouth.

  She managed to turn her head. “What the hell is up with you?”

  He remained suspended just inches from her, blood already racing south, making him hard and needy.

  “Lacey.” His voice felt as rough as it sounded. “Don’t take this the wrong way, honey, but I don’t want to talk.” He took her hand and very slowly brought it down to his erection, placing her palm on him.

  “Oh. I see that.”

  Did she? Did she know that needing her physically helped erase the terror of how much he needed her in other ways? In all ways?

  “That was a helluva conversation with your sister,” she said with a wry smile. “It was your sister, wasn’t it?
”

  “We don’t have a buyer’s name,” he said, swallowing. “And…” My father might be dying. Tell her. Tell her. “And she’s sending me information on your mortgage.”

  “And that got you this hot?”

  “You got me this hot.” He punctuated that with a slow kiss, rolling against her, taking it a little easier this time. “You started it,” he said. “I just want to finish.”

  And then he’d share Darcie’s news. When Lacey was naked and in his arms, when he’d given her everything and taken just as much.

  “Okay.” She kissed his throat, worked her way up his jaw until her lips found his mouth for another long, deep kiss. He slid under her shirt and up to her bra, thumbing her sweet, budded nipple, knowing that always numbed his brain.

  She sighed, bowing her back to allow him to touch every inch. He pulsed against her, desperate and anxious, steaming with need. His head buzzed with the sudden loss of blood, his fingers ached to squeeze and touch, his balls tightening, ready for release.

  Lifting his head, he bypassed another kiss, hungry to suck her breast and steal some comfort there.

  “Clay.” She pushed his forehead, forcing him to look at her.

  He shook out of her touch, determined to get his mouth on her.

  “Clay, what the hell is going on?”

  He froze in the act of kissing her breast, realizing what was happening. Holy shit, he was crying.

  Very, very slowly he lifted his head. She stared at him, neither saying a word.

  He took a few slow, steadying breaths. “My…” He couldn’t say the words.

  “Your what?” she coaxed.

  My dad might be sick. Why couldn’t he just tell her? Why couldn’t he share this intimate detail with a woman he was so, well, intimate with?

  “Is it the resort? Your family? What?”

  Your family. There, she’d opened the door wide and still he couldn’t step through. Why the hell not? Rolling over, he fell onto his back on the bed, throwing his arm across his face. If he told her, he knew exactly what would happen. She’d tell him to get his ass to North Carolina, mend his broken bridges, forgive the old bastard, and move on. Move on and have a healthy, happy, loving relationship with a fantastic, smart, beautiful woman.

  Wait a second. How had he gotten from point A to love? His mind, trained in every kind of geometry, couldn’t even get around that.

  “We could bake,” she whispered softly.

  “Pardon?”

  “I do when something’s really bugging me. I could show you how to make chocolate ribbons for the ruffle cake.”

  He actually laughed. “You want to teach me to bake. Now?”

  “Hey, if you can master a Julia Child chocolate ribbon curl, you can master anything. Even whatever it is that’s eating away at you right now.”

  Something warm and wonderful bubbled up in his chest as he looked at her. Something that felt complete. It wasn’t what she suggested, it was how. With so much tenderness and caring and genuine concern.

  And for some inexplicable reason, that turned him on more than anything.

  “We can bake later.” He eased his hand under her top again, “And the only thing eating away at me is all these clothes.”

  But she didn’t cooperate with undressing, tracing a line over his face, tapping above his brows. “There’s so much going on in here. If you let me in, I could help you.”

  “Please.” He just closed his eyes and pulled her closer.

  “Please what?” She leaned over him, her curls brushing his cheeks, her lips close to his. “You want sex?”

  “I want you.” It was a big admission, and he covered by working her top all the way up, concentrating on her body. “You.”

  The realization shocked him almost as much as the pressure of her kiss, the truth of it blinding him for a moment. He didn’t need this; he needed her.

  He unclasped her bra with one hand and started on her jeans with the other.

  “You can have me,” she whispered softly, a vixen with golden red hair and topaz glinting in her brown eyes. She fell on her back so he could suck the peak of one breast and caress the other.

  Under him, she rocked her hips and they met in a natural, ancient, unstoppable rhythm, each time he groaned and she gasped, each breath triggering more sparks of arousal and need.

  She wrapped her legs around him and he just rode her, his hard-on so close to where it needed to be, his shorts and her jeans the only thing preventing their bodies from being exactly how they both wanted them to be: connected.

  He kneeled up to get rid of those remaining barriers, his gaze locked on her slick nipples, taut and pink, still wet from his mouth. His brain went blissfully blank, his dick mercilessly rigid.

  He freed himself while she wriggled out of her jeans, the scent of sex already filling the room and his head, her hands closing over his erection the moment she’d shed her pants.

  Rocking into each stroke, he stayed on his knees, head back, eyes closed, pleasure shooting like fireworks up his back, down his legs, and straight through his balls. The world was forgotten, except right here in this room with this woman.

  She took it all away.

  She sat up, her lips inches from his shaft. He looked down at the very instant she looked up, their gazes locking as she opened her mouth and took one slow lick of his already moist tip. Then she slid him into her mouth. It was too much. A different kind of pleasure, a ripping sensation of closeness that electrified and terrified and stunned him.

  “Lacey.”

  Still looking up, still holding him with her eyes and her mouth—and her heart—she took him even deeper. He wanted to be inside her, he wanted to make—

  Pleasure jolted as she sucked, holding him like he was precious to her. Loving him with her mouth and kisses, giving everything just for his satisfaction. The act, as sexual and hot and mind-blowing as anything, suddenly felt like so much more.

  Like she was giving him all the comfort he needed, with her mouth and hands and heart.

  She licked again, closed her eyes, and slowly, lovingly, sweetly ministered her special brand of comfort. He relaxed into the sensation, letting the thrill of release build and grow and overpower every other thought or feeling.

  He lost any shred of control, an orgasm kicking through him, squeezing him until he called out, torturing him while he grew stiffer and more helpless. Sweat tingled and blood pumped and raw, pure, intense pleasure punched through his body until he finally let go of everything. Everything but Lacey. He clung to her shoulders, her feathery silken curls, and spilled into her mouth.

  Closing her eyes, she coaxed the very last drop out of him until they both fell back on the bed. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see straight, couldn’t talk.

  “Clay.” She stroked his skin, her delicate touch like a firebrand over the sheen of sweat.

  “Mmmm.”

  “I need to know something.”

  Of course she did. She needed to know why he had been upset on the phone. She needed to know how he really felt about her. She needed to know when this thing had gone from purely sexual to wildly emotional.

  “I just don’t know if I can tell you what you need to know, Lace,” he said, his voice still raspy from the heavy breathing. But he had to. He had to be straight with her. “But I’ll try.”

  “What are the drawings under your bed?”

  He turned to face her. “You looked at them?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “Not really, but I thought I could use the paper for shelf liner.”

  He didn’t want her to see those sketches. “I have some extra paper like that you can use.”

  “But what are they?”

  “Just ideas I have.”

  “For what?”

  He waited for his heart to slow before he answered, carefully choosing his words. “They are ideas for things I might build in the future.”

  She studied his face, definitely not sold on that. “Things that include
Ashley?”

  So she had looked at them. “They’re personal,” he said, a little more gruffly than he meant.

  She leaned up on one elbow. “If they include my daughter, they’re not personal.”

  “I told you, I draw what I visualize. It’s the curse of an overactive imagination.”

  “You visualize Ashley with a hammer?”

  Was that all she’d seen? It had to be. If she’d seen the rest of those drawings, the one with Ashley hammering a two-by-four would be the least interesting to her. “I expect Ashley to have a role in building the resort and your house, don’t you?”

  “I hope so,” she finally said.

  “Well, that’s all those pictures are. Memories of moments that haven’t happened yet. You know, if I see something well enough to draw it, I can make it happen.”

  “What else do you see?” The question was tentative, a little scared, and full of hope.

  “Right now I’m trying to visualize how you can make ribbons out of chocolate. Why don’t you show me and then we can come back in here and…” Go ahead, man, say the thing you cannot say. “Make love.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Can you visualize that, Strawberry?”

  Because he could. He could visualize it all too clearly.

  Chapter 26

  Later that afternoon, when Clay pulled up to Julia Brewer’s house, Lacey dipped her head to peer at the minivan in the driveway. “Well, it looks like we’re a lot less than six degrees away from Paula Reddick, town council member.” She gingerly shifted the chocolate ruffle cake on her lap. “She’s inside. Want to come in and charm her?”

  He shook his head, opening his door. “I have to call my sister back and ask her about something else while you take the cake in. But hang on. I’ll help you get it out.”

  Lacey’s heart slipped a little as he climbed from the truck. The afternoon had been amazing. They’d finished the cake, fallen into bed, and spent the last hour in the shower. And yet he still hadn’t told her what had had upset him so much about the phone call with his sister, and she didn’t want to whine or beg.

  Maybe he didn’t trust her, or maybe it wasn’t that big a deal. But, Lord, he’d cried. Something had upset him pretty badly.