There weren’t many things in Rowan’s life that were absolutes, except this: Mona and her mermaid mofos would never again get to mess with her love life. One matchmaking cluster-fuck per lifetime was all she could spare, thank you very much.
“All done!” Rowan stood up and smiled cheerfully, noting Imelda’s rather odd expression. “What?”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
Rowan laughed. “Uh, no. I’m not all right. I’ve got twenty-six guests in this place—no, twenty-seven—and, thanks to the storm, the yard is full of downed branches and there’s a new leak in the roof. And the parade starts in a couple hours.”
Imelda nodded. “I suppose your mother insists you wear your mermaid costume?”
“Of course.” It was at that moment Rowan realized her head was pounding. It was difficult to pick only one cause for this, since there were so many possibilities to choose from. Was it the vodka? How about the out-of-body and out-of-her-head sex-a-palooza with a total stranger—on the floor, no less? Or was it the knowledge that soon she’d be shoved into a tight spandex mermaid skirt and a pair of shells and forced to wave and smile from her perch atop the Safe Haven Bed-and-Breakfast parade float?
“I need another cup of coffee,” was the only thing Rowan could think to say.
Just then the swinging door to the kitchen opened and Zophie came bounding through, a huge tray of dirty dishes balanced on one palm. She seemed flushed and out of breath. Rowan was almost afraid to ask if there was a problem, since she spoke no Czech. Of course, she didn’t speak Russian or Polish and very little French, so it had been difficult to build relationships with her temporary summer help, all of whom spoke limited English.
“You okay?”
Zophie was a cute and hardworking nineteen-year-old who’d arrived on Bayberry in May looking for a job. Like thousands of foreign students on J-1 visas, she’d picked a sand-and-sea summer vacation spot to try to find work. Rowan had liked her immediately. Her smile was infectious and her laugh was genuine. But at that moment, Zophie looked like she was about to cry.
Imelda threw up her hands. “Is it a full moon? Is everyone on the same female cycle?” The oven timer buzzed, and she marched off to remove the latest batch of scones.
Rowan slowly approached Zophie, placing a hand on her shoulder. She felt the girl’s breath coming hard. Suddenly, Rowan got a very bad feeling about this. Had one of the guests done something? One of the male guests? Her blood chilled in her veins.
“Zophie.” She turned her employee around, to see that her mouth was trembling and tears were in her eyes. Rowan used her finger to push the girl’s chin up so she could make eye contact. “Hurt?” She checked her arms and hands.
Zophie shook her head.
It was moments like these that Rowan wished she knew the Czech words for Did some asshole give you a hard time? She sighed and began gesturing for her employee to tell her what had happened.
Zophie shook her head again, then wiped the tears from her face. She dug into the front pocket of her apron and pulled out a wrinkled and water-damaged hundred-dollar bill. She held it up with trembling fingers. “Teep,” she said.
Rowan laughed. This was so much better than what she’d feared. “A guest gave you a hundred-dollar tip?”
Zophie nodded, a huge smile breaking across her face. Rowan hugged her. “That’s so cool! Who was it? Show me!”
Her employee grabbed her hand and took Rowan to the swinging door to the guest dining room. She pushed the door open a crack so Rowan could peer out.
“Him,” Zophie said. “Good, nice man.” She pointed to Ash.
Rowan felt herself go stiff as a mast. She forced herself to smile as she retreated from the door. “That was generous of him.”
Zophie picked up on Rowan’s discomfort and frowned. “I take? Mine? Okay?”
“Of course!” Rowan patted her shoulder.
Zophie thanked her and went back to the sink, where she began to rinse off the dishes, humming sweetly as she worked. Rowan stared at her a moment, unable to move, trying to identify why this development bothered her so much.
Ash was filthy rich. A hundred bucks was a penny to him. So it was nothing to leave a huge tip for a pretty, young girl who barely spoke English but had a smile so bright it could guide ships to shore. What was the big deal about that? Men were mesmerized by the beauty of young women every hour of every day at every corner of the globe.
Then it hit her. She’d seen plenty of rich men come through here over the years, including all the summers she’d done the job Zophie did now—and none of them had been as generous as Ash. It was a private act of kindness, too, not done for show. It would have been easy for Rowan to never learn of his bighearted gesture.
She realized this was what bothered her. Rowan would have preferred to think of Ashton Louis Wallace III as a prick. It would have made it easier to dismiss what had happened with them as a horrible, awful mistake. Knowing he had a decent streak only complicated things.
“Take this into the dining room, please?” Imelda stood next to Rowan, holding out a silver serving tray lined with a decorative white paper doily and stacked high with warm scones. This batch looked like cranberry.
“Rowan?”
“Sure. Absolutely.” She grabbed the tray and slammed into the swinging door with her butt, determined not to look at him sitting alone at a table for two by the south window. Rowan approached the sideboard, then paid attention to the tasks at hand, the way any innkeeper would. She checked the coffee dispensers. The cream, sugar, and half-and-half. She made sure there was enough cereal, cream cheese, fresh fruit, and jams and jellies. Even the chafing dishes of scrambled eggs and sausage were filled, small cans of cooking fuel burning at just the right level. Her staff had done a wonderful job this morning.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stand. She froze.
“Rowan?”
The tiny hairs on her forearms pricked to attention at the sound of that voice. She swore she felt the heat of his breath on her skin. Tingling energy surged up from her toes all the way to her scalp. Before Rowan turned to answer him, she did a quick sweep of the dining room. Seven tables were still occupied, including the annual group of nudists and the unbalanced girls from the Tea Rose Room.
For some reason, everyone was staring intently in her direction, which made her worry that something was showing. Her bra strap? Her nervousness? The brain-numbing lust she possessed for the guest standing at her elbow?
Telling herself she could get through this, she looked up at Ash and smiled politely. “How was your breakfast, Mr. Wallace? Would you care for more coffee?”
The barest frown appeared between his eyes. Those eyes . . . The only time she’d seen them had been in the dim light of the reception hall and then during lightning flashes. When the power came on, she’d done everything she could not to look at him. But now there was no escaping the fact that his eyes were staggeringly beautiful, the deepest, darkest of blues, wide-set and framed in dark blond lashes and brows. But it was the intangible quality in those eyes that knocked the breath from her. Desire. Pain. Confusion. Wonder. Sweeping her face like a lighthouse beam.
“Everything was delicious. Thank you.” His voice was soft and hoarse.
“Wonderful. And was your room comfortable?” Rowan hoped she didn’t sound artificially chipper. After all, this conversation was designed for the guests still staring in her direction. If she had her way, she’d never speak to this man again.
Because talking to him was too unnerving. Too baffling. It brought up too many feelings.
Rowan started to sweat.
“Extremely comfortable,” he answered, the barest smile now twitching at the corner of his mouth. Oh God. That mouth. That wet, searching, skilled, hot mouth of his . . .
“In fact, it was probably the most enjoyable room I’ve ever stayed in.”
Boing! His words made her head snap up. Had he said what she thought he said?
Hi
s smile expanded just the smallest bit, and though she figured she had about fifteen seconds of small talk left in her before she did something incredibly stupid—like hurl herself into his arms—she used a few of those seconds to examine his face. He was a fine, fine-looking man. His forehead was smooth. His cheeks were broad but not cartoonishly masculine. His jaw was just a bit on the square side, and two deep grooves framed his lips when he smiled—which he was doing now. It was a full-on smile that showed his white, straight teeth and pushed his cheeks up into the dusky blue of his eyes. A dark blond curl cupped one of his ears, and Rowan desperately wanted to kiss him there.
All she could think was . . . Fucking Frederick. This was so much like what had happened three years ago. She’d met him in the dining room at breakfast, and he’d had the balls to just sit himself down at her table. And that was it—she’d fallen under his spell and she’d stayed hypnotized while he played her for a fool and her family for everything it was worth.
So, no. Never, ever again. And, yes, she’d made a terrible mistake yesterday, but it was done. It wasn’t too late to pull up the plane.
“Good to hear. Enjoy your day, Mr. Wallace.” Rowan turned toward the kitchen, still feeling the eyes of everyone boring into her back.
“Does the festival start today?”
Rowan stopped. Was he toying with her? Torturing her? She spun around to face him and realized that wasn’t it at all—he seemed to be unwilling to let her go. She couldn’t mistake the look in his eyes; he was grasping for an excuse to keep her close to him.
She gulped. “Yes, it does. The parade is followed by the opening ceremony at the fountain. Please feel free to take one of the brochures from the display rack near the front desk. There’s a list of events for the week—the community clambake, the children’s play, the reenactment at the public dock, the Mermaid Ball—there’s always something going on. Let me know if there’s anything else you might need.”
Again, she turned to go. Again, he stopped her.
“I do need a few extra towels.”
“I’ll have Zophie bring you some.”
“Thank you.”
Rowan couldn’t wait to escape to the protection of the kitchen. She burst through the door and immediately went to the butcher block in the center of the large room, where she placed her palms on the wood, closed her eyes, and rested. She needed a minute to shove down all the wildly inappropriate emotions that threatened to strangle her.
If she didn’t need the money so badly, she’d tell Ash to get his hot ass out of her B and B.
Imelda not so subtly banged some pans around until she got Rowan’s attention.
She slowly twisted her head in Imelda’s direction. “Yes?”
“Maybe this is none of my business—”
“Maybe it isn’t.” Rowan regretted her rudeness as soon as she spat out the words. It wasn’t like her to snap at Imelda that way. She loved her, relied on her, and would be lost without her. She shook her head, ashamed of herself. “Mellie, I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”
She shrugged. “I don’t mean to intrude. I’m only worried about your well-being.”
“I’m not sick.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Oh.” Rowan straightened up. “You mean my mental health? Yeah, okay. I’m going bat-shit crazy this week, but that’s to be expected, right? And it’s temporary.” She stopped. “I hope so, anyway.”
Imelda shook her head. “Not that, either.”
“Then what?”
She smiled sadly. “Your heart, honey girl. It’s your heart I worry about.”
* * *
After breakfast, Ash walked the half mile or so to the marine yard to retrieve his belongings from the cabin of the Provenance. He decided to take his sweet time on the half-mile walk, since reaching his destination wasn’t his primary goal. More important was examining the baffling and powerful attraction he felt for Rowan Flynn and figuring out a way to put an end to it.
His behavior the day before had been inexcusable. Period. Ash shouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation. Just because a beautiful woman happens to slam into your naked body in the dark doesn’t mean it has to escalate into an episode of hot, out-of-control sex on the floor. But that’s what happened, and it made no sense to Ash. He wasn’t a horny high schooler. He was a grown man with principles, responsibilities—and a free will, for God’s sake—and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his head like that.
True, most men would have found it difficult to resist temptation in the form of Rowan Flynn, but he could have at least tried.
Rowan was beautiful. Soft. Giving. Uninhibited. Wild. And maddening. She’d practically ignored him this morning! Of course she needed to behave professionally in front of her guests, but she’d completely closed herself off to him. How does a woman go from scorching hot to ice cold in a span of twelve hours?
He produced a groan of exasperation loud enough to scatter birds from the bushes. He watched them fly up from the roadside as if the flames of hell were nipping at their tail feathers.
Ash shoved his hands deep in the front pockets of his khakis and walked. He breathed in the salty air. He listened to the tap of his feet on the pavement and the screech of the seagulls. He felt the morning sun and fair-weather breeze on his face. And, of course, since the Flynns owned the best views to be found on Bayberry Island, he took the time to enjoy the stunning seascape. The main road may have been several hundred feet back from the south-facing bluff, but the blue-green ocean looked close enough to touch. It was no wonder Jessop-Riley wanted this particular piece of land to build what they hoped would be the finest destination resort in New England.
He’d viewed the architectural models often enough, but standing there in the salty breeze, he could really see the finished product—the sprawling cedar-shingle hotel and casino with sparkling white trim, huge decks and porches, a pool, a full-service beach area, and a first-class marina. West of the hotel would be the golf course. Jessop-Riley was in preliminary talks with pro golfer Greg Norman’s company, their dream design team for a one-hundred-sixty-three-acre, eighteen-hole beauty. And once construction began, the firm would fund improvements to the tiny Bayberry airport, making it feasible for small private jets to land on the island.
How satisfying it would be to come back here in two years and see a glittering first-class resort where the rotting and rickety disaster of the Safe Haven B and B once stood.
But only if he could make it happen. And if he wasn’t careful, everything could fall apart.
Ash had taken this job because he’d figured out a perfectly doable approach to closing the deal. But what was doable yesterday had become a tangled mess of confusion overnight. What was wrong with him? Why the hell had he felt powerless to fight his hunger for Rowan? She was supposed to be a pawn in a land deal, not the object of his lust and longing.
He’d really fucked this up. And he had to find a way to fix it—fast. Ash had exactly seven days and six nights to win her trust and get access to her mother, father, and the one brother who still lived on the island. But instead of seducing her from a level playing field, he now had to dig himself out of a mile-deep hole before making any progress. Ash knew that if the frosty glare she’d given him this morning was any indication, he was in for a serious challenge.
Just then, it dawned on him: Brian would have loved Rowan and definitely would have been pissed that Ash was using her.
He stopped walking.
Where had that come from?
Ash shook his head and continued on. He’d never enjoyed playing with people’s feelings. It didn’t give him any kind of twisted thrill. But it was sometimes the only way to get the job done. At least the Mermaid Island deal would be his last foray into this kind of sneaky shit, and he sure wasn’t going to miss it.
He soon reached the center of town, and it was rocking with activity. Everywhere he looked, he saw people preparing for the parade and kickoff ceremony. A swarm of v
olunteers was cleaning up tree branches, leaves, and windblown trash from the streets. A jazz quartet was setting up in the makeshift band shell in fountain square. Shopkeepers were hanging mermaid flags, streamers and bunting, and street vendors were claiming spots along the parade route. The rustic century-old seaside town appeared to have been scrubbed clean by the storm, and was putting on its Sunday best for the celebration. Ash looked out across the wide Atlantic, past the sailboat masts, and into the late-morning sky, now a canopy of perfect blue clarity.
He couldn’t help but smile.
On his way to the marine yard, he saw the ferry unloading—hundreds of adults and children spilling out onto the public dock, many in costume. For a fleeting moment, he wished he were the kind of guy who’d be comfortable walking around in public dressed like an idiot. But that was never his thing. He’d always been the kid too cool to wear anything but jeans and sneakers to the Halloween party.
Ash found the Provenance exactly where he’d left her, rocking gently against the temporary slip’s fore and aft bumpers, the sound of her halyards ringing like dainty bells in the breeze. Ash opened the combination lock and climbed down the companionway into the cabin. He grabbed a duffel bag from a narrow closet and crammed in a few days’ worth of clean clothes, an extra pair of shoes, his iPad, and some toiletries.
With a twinge of dread, he picked up his cell phone, which he’d left charging on the galley countertop yesterday afternoon. Five voice mails? How could that be? He couldn’t even name five living souls who had this number, especially since his attorney was on vacation for the whole month of August. However, he was on the clock for another week or so, so he figured he should at least check.
Ash’s eyes went wide. Jerrod Jessop had called him, which was a first. He decided to listen to the message.