Читать книгу Tempted By The Single Dad - Cara Colter - Страница 11

IT WAS A perfect moment. Of course, if there was one thing Alicia Cook had a right to distrust, that was it. Perfect moments.

Still, with a sigh, and a sip of her lime-infused club soda, Allie gave herself over to it. The setting sun was gilding the foam on the ocean waves, and turning the beach sand to pure, luminous gold. From the hanging porch swing in the shadows of her covered veranda, she observed as the daytime crowds dissipated.

Now, one last family remained, the father deflating a humungous ride-on dragon water toy, the mother shaking out a picnic blanket and calling the children back from the water’s edge as she packed the remains of their day into an oversize basket.

A pang of pure longing hovered at the edges of Allie’s perfect moment, so she shifted her focus. Farther down the beach a couple strolled, hand in hand.

The sense of longing intensified.

“Don’t believe a word he says,” Allie muttered, watching through narrowed eyes as they stopped, leaned into each other and he nuzzled her ear and said something to her that made her laughter carry up the beach.

Allie’s muttered words were a defense, of course, against all that weakness that was still there, even though she, of all people, should know better than to long for dangerous things.

Perfect moments. To not be alone. To share life. To be deeply connected…there, her perfect moment was gone. She looked away from the couple, ignored the family and took a determined sip of her drink, concentrating furiously on the beauty of the setting sun, hoping to get it back.

No, the moment had been as iridescent—and as fragile—as a soap bubble blown from a child’s wand. It was gone.

She set down her drink, leaned over and drew her guitar from a shadowed corner.

“Perfect moments do not pay bills, anyway,” Allie told herself sternly. The contract to produce a jingle was the practical approach to solving her financial difficulties.

The guitar, however, was unmoved by the urgency she felt. She ran her thumb coaxingly down the six strings—E, B, G, D, A, E—but the guitar refused to be seduced. The instrument was acting like a friend who was mad at her, silent, refusing to speak.

It was almost a relief—a reprieve—when Allie heard a muffled noise through the patio door that opened into the cottage behind her. What was that? Was someone at her front door? She strained her ears. That had to be her imagination.

The very same imagination that would not give her a song, was quite happy to indulge her fears, she noticed.

But as she strained to hear, she could have sworn the sound she was hearing was very real. She was hearing the creaky front door handle being tried!

A recent newspaper article had been pinned to the community bulletin board in front of the post office. Mimi Roberts’s villa—located just down the beach—had experienced a break-in. An audacious thief had come in the front door while Mimi was home, but fortunately for the well-known celebrity, she was out back enjoying her deck. A Sugar Cone Beach police spokesman said there had been several similar break-ins in the neighborhoods surrounding the beach community and urged people to lock those front doors, even while they were at home.

Honestly, Allie had had trouble sleeping ever since, awaking to every sound, too hot because she was keeping the doors and windows firmly locked. No wonder she couldn’t write a simple jingle. Sleep deprived.

A muffled bang made her jump. Okay. It was definitely her front door. Being kicked in? No, probably something way less threatening, like a newspaper being thrown up against it.

You don’t get the paper, a little voice insisted on reminding her.

Still Allie tried to reason with herself. It would take an extraordinarily unambitious thief to choose her little cottage for break-and-enter purposes. The end of Sugar Cone Beach that was farthest away from her had long since gone to developers. High-end hotels and condos, with their main floor restaurants and shops, vied for every inch of space along that baby-powder-fine stretch of sand.

But the beachfront properties at this end of Sugar Cone Beach—a sheltered bay—were largely single-family homes that had become the enclave of the very wealthy, like Mimi Roberts. For the past twenty years extravagant beach houses had been popping up here. The glass, concrete and steel behemoths rose out of the sand on either side of Allie.

And there she sat, in the middle of them all, in a sagging and tiny gray-shingled cottage, that had been her grandmother’s for as long as she could remember.

Gram. Allie felt the ache in her throat that momentarily overrode the adrenaline that was beginning to pump through her. Her Gram was the one person who had stuck by her, believed in her and never given up on her.

Gram was gone now but the cottage that was so beloved to them both had been her final gift to Allie.

If Allie could hold on to it. The taxes alone took her breath away. And every day, someone came, ignored the unfriendly sign that said No Soliciting and knocked on her front door. They were developers and real estate agents, and people just passing by, putting temptation in front of her, offering her ridiculous sums of money to sell the one place in the world where Allie felt safe and hidden from prying eyes.

And where the love of her grandmother remained, as comforting as a hug.

There was definitely somebody at the door but Allie calmed herself with the rationale it was probably not a thief, though it was unlikely to be a real estate agent at this time of day, either. Whoever it was, they weren’t ringing the bell.

The bell hasn’t worked for three weeks, Allie told herself. It’s not a thief.

But whoever it was, they weren’t giving up, either.

Allie put down her guitar, not unaware that she felt relieved for a distraction, no matter how unpleasant that distraction might be. She got up, and went through the back into the cottage, not sure of the proper protocol for a would-be break-in.

Should she make lots of noise and throw on all the lights so it was apparent someone was home? Or should she tiptoe up to the door and peek out the front window?

Coming from the brightness outside into the cottage was like being plunged into a mine shaft. It had originally been a fisherman’s place—the only one that remained on this stretch of beachfront. Back in the 1920s, when it was built, no thought at all was given to such frivolous concerns as where to place windows to take most advantage of the view. Windows would have been regarded as a luxury in those days.

And so the kitchen was in the back of the house, cramped and dark. Faucets dripped and cabinet doors hung crookedly, and the painted wooden floor was chipping. Despite all that, there was a determined cheeriness to the space, a laid-back beach vibe that Allie adored.

One summer she and her grandmother, in an attempt to brighten things up, had painted all the cabinets sunshine yellow, and they had liked the color so much they had done the kitchen table, too. They had installed a backsplash of handmade sea-themed tile, and hung homemade curtains with a pink flamingo motif.

Off the kitchen, there was a narrow hall, painted turquoise, with Allie’s childhood art hung gallery style. There were three tiny bedrooms on one side of the hall, each holding little more than a bed, a bureau and a nightstand. Her grandmother, a quilter, had loved fabric and every closet in the whole cottage was stuffed with it. Allie could not bring herself to throw a single remnant away. Each bed was adorned with a handmade quilt. Allie’s favorite, the double wedding ring pattern, was on her own small bed.

Still tiptoeing, Allie followed the hallway to the front door, and the arched opening to the living room, where a paned picture window looked onto the street. The furniture and the wooden floors, worn to gray, sagged equally with age and good use.

In the heyday of her career—imagine being twenty-three years old and the heyday of your career was already over—Allie had been in many houses that looked like the ones on either side of her. Houses that were open plan, with light spilling in huge windows, and stainless steel appliances bigger than most restaurants required. They had miles of granite countertops, gorgeous beams and sleek furniture. Not one of them had ever made her feel this way.

Home.

That’s what she needed to remember about the career that had soared like a shooting star, and then fizzled even more quickly, and that’s what she needed to remember when another million-dollar offer was made. Neither success nor money could make you feel at home. She steeled herself to the possibility of temptation as she moved past the door to have a peek out the window.

But before she made it past, there was another thump. Someone had kicked the door! Her heart flew into double time. Then, to Allie’s horror, the door creaked open an inch. Allie stopped and stared, her heart in her throat. Her first instinct, the one she had reasoned herself out of, had been correct.

Home invader.

She was sure she had locked the front door since seeing the news report.

Not that it mattered. Locked or not, her space was being invaded! Her safe place was being threatened.

In one motion, she reached out and grabbed the nearest thing she could lay hands on—a heavy statue, one of her grandmother’s favorites. It was a bronze of a donkey, looking forlorn and unkempt. Weapon firmly in hand, Allie threw her weight against the opening door, trying to force it closed again.

Sam Walker was beyond exhaustion. He’d been late getting away. The traffic heading to the beaches of Southern California, in anticipation of the upcoming Fourth of July holiday, had been horrendous. And his traveling companions were cantankerous.

The key had been sticky, but finally worked. But despite trying to persuade it with his foot—twice—the door remained stuck.

He was used to the cottage being a touch temperamental, but his patience was at a breaking point. Sam had had quite enough of cantankerous anything for one day. The floorboard beneath the door was probably swollen with moisture or age. He’d put it—and the lock—on his list of things to fix while he was here. Not even in the door yet, and he had a list of things that needed doing. Normal, mature man things. What a relief.

The door had finally opened a miserly inch and then jammed stubbornly. Sam’s patience broke. He put his shoulder against it and shoved, hard, two years on the college football offensive line finally put to good use.

The door flew open, and his momentum catapulted him through the opening. He was rendered blind by the sudden entrance into cool darkness, in sharp contrast to the outside, where the world was being washed with end-of-day light.

The hair on the back of his neck rose when he heard a startled grunt somewhere in the dark space in front of him. He squinted, his muscles bunching. Hadn’t he seen on the news there had been break-ins along this stretch of beach?

Sure enough, there was the intruder. The force of the door opening had slammed him to the floor, where he lay, stunned, catching his breath. He didn’t look immediately threatening—small, probably a teenager up to no good.

Casting one quick look at his cantankerous companions—thankfully, stuck in the yard—Sam thrust himself forward. He realized the kid, burglar, intruder, whatever, was starting to sit up. It appeared he had something in his hand to use as a weapon.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sam asked, his voice a growl of pure threat. And then he lunged forward, easily won a tug-of-war for the object and tossed it aside. He pressed down on the kid’s shoulder, hard, forcing him to sit, not rise.

The squeak of pain was sharp and, he registered slowly, not masculine. At all. A light, clean fragrance tickled his nostrils.

The momentum that had been propelling Sam forward came to a screeching halt.

His eyes adjusted to the lack of light. It wasn’t a kid. And it wasn’t a boy, either. Eyes as big as cornflowers, and nearly the same color, flashed up at him, filled with fury and indignation.

He let go of her shoulder instantly, but still, held up his hand, warning her not to get up.

It was the perfect ending, he thought wearily, to a perfectly awful day.