Читать книгу The Best Of Me - Tina Wainscott, Tina Wainscott - Страница 8

CHRIS WEATHERED the rocks and dips in the narrow road as he sped toward The Caribe Plantation. The other drivers were the biggest hazard. His clothes flapped in the wind, the tips of his shirt snapping against his skin. The Caribe was just down the road from the park, a mere fifteen life-threatening minutes away. The plantation wasn’t in the touristy area of the island, something Chris was grateful for.

The plantation’s driveway was crushed shell, pristine white for those times when the Eastor family vacationed at their Colonial mansion on the ocean. Luckily they weren’t there, and even luckier, they had offered their grounds and lagoon to his cause. He wasn’t impressed by the flowering gardens and trees; what mattered was the private slice of azure water where Liberty would learn to be a dolphin again. He barely glanced at the mansion as he headed to the hut perched over the water that doubled as a boat dock—and constituted his accommodations.

Through the traffic and roar of wind in his ears, it was Lucy Donovan’s face he had seen and tried to exorcise. Lucy with her brown hair plastered to her cheeks and framing her dramatic features. He caught himself smiling at the terror in her face when she’d fallen into the pool. He shook his head as he parked the bike and made his way over the boardwalk that led out to the boathouse. Lucy with her brown eyes that shadowed when he’d accused her of her father’s neglect. He knew she had nothing to do with Liberty’s plight, because he’d investigated the park and found no Lucy anywhere. He’d only wanted to rattle her—and get rid of her.

The last thing he needed was a woman hanging around. Women didn’t take being ignored for long, especially a woman like Lucy Donovan. He could tell she was a lady who required care and attention. In her fancy suit and nice jewelry, she reeked of class. He hadn’t seen a ring on her finger, and he wasn’t going to bother exploring why he’d even looked. She wasn’t going to go for a quick fling with the likes of him. Besides, she wasn’t the type of woman he’d think about having a quick fling with.

But he was.

His body stirred as he walked around to the back of the boathouse and stripped out of his shorts and swimsuit. The freshwater shower faced the open ocean, which was free of anything but clouds piling up in the distance like whipped cream on a sundae. He rubbed the shampoo through his hair and focused his thoughts on the weeks ahead.

And again his thoughts settled back on Lucy. What was the point? He’d snubbed her but good, and tomorrow she’d return the favor. That’s how women were. Besides, she was no great beauty. Pretty, definitely, with a heart-shaped face and thick eyebrows. Full breasts molded by the wet shirt, the peaks of her nipples evident even through her lacy bra. A mouth that could have a man fantasizing in no time. And that derriere of hers, soft and shapely and fitting perfectly in his hands. He’d been going for the economy of the move; the rest was a bonus.

Forget about that derriere and the woman it belongs to. He directed that to his male member that obviously thought he was on vacation—and forgot that he was thirty-six. He thought of those few hello-goodbye affairs with women who lived by the ebb and flow of the islands. Lucy was a city girl. City and island didn’t jibe.

A seagull shrieked as it hovered nearby. Creatures of nature were his only friends. He found them easier to understand than people. Easier to live with. His passions didn’t leave room for a woman in his life. He knew he’d never find a woman who would share his dedication to saving dolphins, who would sacrifice a secure, stable life for the cause. A woman who would be okay with coming second to it.

It was easier to be alone.

He had grown up in a world that lacked compassion. His mother died when he was too young to remember, leaving his father bitter and cold. He’d lived only for his fishing charter business. He catered to his guests and criticized them later. All he cared about was having enough money to continue living on the boat and buying the beer he subsisted on…the beer that would later claim his liver, and his life. Chris had been a means to that end, a hardworking employee who found his only joy in the sea life around him.

After his shower, he stretched out on his lounge chair. He’d flown in that morning, found the Caribe, then went to the park to work on phase one: gaining Liberty’s trust. He should be exhausted, and lying down doing nothing sounded wonderful.

Exactly two minutes later, he was up again.

Restlessness ran through him. He walked to the beach, measured out where Liberty’s pen would go, and stretched out nets and floaters along the beach like some sea monster washed up on shore. When it was too dark to work, he took a ten-minute ride farther south down the winding road that followed the coastline to Barney’s Happy Place for a Red Stripe beer. Maybe that would purge Lucy and her incredible derriere from his mind.

LUCY HAD finally wrenched herself away from watching Liberty, changed into dry clothes, and found Bailey hosing down the cement walkways.

“You didn’t chase the wicked man away?” he asked.

“No, and honestly, I don’t want to.”

He shook his head. “I see the way you look at him. What a crosses! Our only hope, and she fall for the wicked man!”

“What are you talking about?” She’d only looked at his eyes maybe once or twice. Only been slightly bewitched by them.

He shook his head. “Everyt’ing gonna go down the drain now dat your pupa is gone.” He nodded toward the drain the water swirled down.

Guilt nagged at her when she thought of his six—no five kids. “What would my father—pupa have done?”

“He would have punched the wicked man out who tief the big fish.”

“He’s not a fish,” she said.

“Cho, now you even sound like the tief!”

She rolled her eyes, glad not to have to put up with such insubordination back home. “My father would have been arrested for punching him out. Besides, Chris Maddox says he has authority. Is that true?”

“He must have tickled dere noses with a bit of cash.”

Somehow she doubted that. “Well, why don’t you show me the books? Let’s see if my father had a head for business.”

The books did not look healthy, she soon found out. No wonder Sonny only had two employees. When she propped her chin on her hand, she caught sight of a small photograph on a shelf. She walked over and picked up the dusty frame, surprised to see her own childish face smiling at her. Something tightened inside her. Sonny hadn’t forgotten her after all.

“Miss Lucy, I be ready to leave now. You want me to take you where Sonny live?”

“Yes, please.”

Bailey drove her south on a winding road in need of some repairs—and police supervision. The drivers were crazy, regularly crossing the centerline or stopping for no apparent reason.

“The rich people buy the fancy places and only live in them a few weeks a year,” Bailey said, pointing to some elaborate entrances on the ocean side of the road. “Everybody else live over dere.” The housing to her left was lower- to middle-class. People sat out on rickety front porches watching the traffic while goats grazed on weedy front yards. She shifted her gaze to the right side and caught sight of an entrance proclaiming The Caribe Plantation in discreet lettering.

Bailey turned shortly after that and pulled up to a pink three-story building with thick white balconies. Sonny’s apartment was a one-bedroom efficiency, a hot, stuffy one at that. She turned on an air conditioner unit installed in the window. She was beginning to regret her decision to stay there while she packed up his belongings, practical though it was.

If she’d hoped to find traces of her father here, she was out of luck. Against one wall were shelves of broken tanks and pump parts he’d obviously intended to fix. The furnishings were sparse, old, but clean. The junk food that had been behind his heart attack filled the shelves. She found a stack of wrinkled, water-stained Caribbean maps covered in notations. She ran a finger over his small, neat script. He’d found pleasure in nature, apparently, noting various reefs and abundant water life.

It was after eight-thirty when she dropped onto the old green sofa. Her foot pushed in a drawer in the coffee table, and she pulled it open. Yellowed newspaper clippings were piled up inside. She sifted through them, her throat tightening. They were all of her, graduating college, getting married, opening the advertising firm.

Sonny had kept up with her life from a distance. She felt like crying and smiling at the same time. If he’d known about her wedding, why hadn’t he written? At least he hadn’t known about her divorce.

Lucy peeked out of the listless curtains and watched people come and go at the nearby store. She had to get out for a while, breathe some of that fresh, salty air, and think things through. Bailey had said the neighborhood was safe, so Lucy pocketed some cash and walked into the starry night air. The muggy, starry night, she amended, as moisture wrapped around her. She’d been so busy fighting with Chris, and then with the numbers, she hadn’t begun to appreciate the island.

She walked along the ocean side of the road and headed south to a place Bailey had recommend for “da best ribs on the island.” Her stomach gurgled at the aroma of spices and hickory smoke emanating from Barney’s Happy Place. She paused, trying to judge the clientele by the exterior. Barney’s was right off the road, perched several yards from the ocean, or what she guessed was the ocean beyond the sandy shore that turned to inky darkness. The place looked like a large shack, with its faded wood and half walls. Reggae music tainted the night air with a festivity punctuated by the red, yellow and green Christmas lights strung outside. Palm trees rustled in the evening breeze, cast in the glow of those lights. Her parents and ex-husband would be horrified to know she was going into a place like this. She smiled and walked up the ramp.

She almost walked back out again when she saw all the people. Many looked like locals, dressed in colorful garb, their heads adorned with dreadlocks and cornrow braids. Barney’s was not a tourist hangout, to be sure, except for one couple that sat at a corner table with froufrou drinks and burned noses. Music rivaled the laughter and conversation that flowed out the back, which was entirely open to the beach beyond.

A long bar stretched out to the right where a bartender was telling a joke, using his hands and face for expression. The people sitting on the stools laughed in unison. She took a deep breath. Be adventurous. You can tell everyone you went into a real island joint.

Yeah, like they’d believe her.

She made her way to the bar. At least she had brought her one pair of shorts and a tailored shirt with short sleeves. She slid onto the padded stool.

The bartender flopped a red napkin in front of her. “And what have you, miss?”

What was it with the “misses” around this place? First Bailey, then Chris’s mimicked version and now the bartender. She realized that she’d been ensconced in her own little world where she was in control. No one there would dare call her Miss Lucy, nor would they ignore her. “I’ll have a frou-frou drink like that couple is having.” She watched him splash several liquors into a glass with the grace of someone who loved his job.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Miz Lucy herself hanging out with the locals.”

Her heart lurched at the sound of Chris’s voice, but she attributed it to surprise and turned to the man at her left. She let her gaze drop from his curly hair to the tank top and jean shorts he wore. To cover what she hoped wasn’t appreciation in her eyes, she said, “So that’s what you look like with clothes on.”

The bartender chose that moment to bring her drink. “Ah, so you know the lady already,” he said to Chris with a smile and a wink.

Her face went up in flames. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. He was in the pool….”

The bartender waved his hand. “No problem, lady. The island bring out the animal in lots of people.”

“But—” The man had already walked away, and she turned to Chris who was chuckling. She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t move too fast to defend my honor, now. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He shrugged. “Hey, I’m way out of practice coming to a lady’s defense.”

She rolled her eyes. “To be sure.”

“So what if he thinks we’ve had a round or two of wild, steamy sex? He’s a bartender in a foreign country.” He gestured toward the lot of people behind him. “Probably sees illicit affairs all the time.”

Wild, steamy sex…just the thought of it sent blood rushing through her veins. She was not, absolutely not, picturing him on the other side of that steamy sex scenario. “But we are not having a steamy affair, I have not seen you naked, and I don’t want him thinking I have.”

He leaned one arm against the bar, facing her. Those green eyes had a lazy glaze to them, probably from those Red Stripe beers he was drinking. “Would you like to?”

“What?”

“See me naked?”

A tickle raced through her stomach even as she made a face and turned to her monstrous pink drink with the umbrella in it.

“Given that tiny bathing suit you wear, I don’t have to see you naked.” Oh, that was great. You sure told him.

He grinned even more widely. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

She couldn’t handle those eyes sparkling at her, teasing her. She turned back to her drink and caught the bartender smiling, probably catching the word “naked” a few times. She pretended to look at the paraphernalia on the walls depicting all kinds of happy faces: buttons, posters, bottle caps, even round yellow faces with dreadlocks.

Her gaze fell to Chris’s long fingers as they slid up and down the curves of his sweating bottle of beer. He had great hands, strong and capable, calloused and work-worn. He tossed back the rest of his beer and set the bottle in front of him. The bartender brought another. He tipped it to her and took a swallow. He seemed different away from his dolphin. More relaxed, open.

He turned around on his stool and leaned back against the bar, one knee jiggling to the beat. His curls dipped to the top of his shirt in the back, and his biceps flexed as his arms balanced him. A few freckles topped his shoulders and that necklace lay over the curves of his collarbone. His tank top was deep blue, which brought out the green even more in his eyes. Did he have maps and beer and not much else wherever he lived?

She turned around, too, after waiting the appropriate amount of time so he didn’t think she was copying him. She had to admit it was nice finding a familiar face among strangers. That was why she felt warm and easy sitting there with the fans pushing the air around and the music lulling her with its beat. Indeed, Barney’s was a happy place.

“Where are you staying?” she asked, keeping her gaze just shy of his eyes.

“At The Caribe Plantation, down the road a piece.”

She remembered seeing the fancy entrance earlier. It didn’t seem like his style. “Sounds nice.”

“The house is something, Colonial style with pillars and stuff. I’m staying in the boathouse.”

That sounded more like Chris. When he didn’t reciprocate, she said, “I’m staying at my father’s apartment a few blocks from here.”

He pulled one leg up and propped his chin on his knee. He leveled that gaze right at her, and she felt as though he were probing her mind. “So, Miz Lucy, what do you do back home?”

Even though she knew he was being sarcastic, something about the way he said her name felt the same way the music did as it washed over her in waves. “I own an advertising firm in St. Paul, Minnesota. Well, I own half of it. My ex-husband owns the other half, unfortunately.”

He lifted his eyebrows, but not in the admiring way most people did when they heard she owned her own agency. “Ah, so you own a company that promotes greed, materialism and bodily perfection that most people can’t live up to.”

She didn’t know what to say for a moment. “We get our client’s product out there in the best light, the light that’s going to appeal to people. And what appeals to people is—”

“Sex,” he said, that light expression now gone from his face. “And excess.”

“If that’s what the client wants. We have some big clients, like Krugel. You know, the largest manufacturer of paper products in America…Soaker paper towels, Cloud Soft toilet paper.” Her biggest client, and what did the lout have to say about it?

“So, you make your living telling people that if they wipe their tush with Cloud Soft, they’ll be sexier.”

It was so ridiculous, she almost laughed. Luckily she caught herself. “Forget about the toilet paper. We sell the company first, then their products. My company…” She narrowed her eyes at Chris. “Why do you make me feel like defending a profession I’m proud to be a part of?”

He shrugged. “Maybe somewhere deep inside, you aren’t so proud of it.”

“I beg to differ with you.” Her shoulders stiffened. “I am very proud of my company and what we do. I’ve worked hard for my success.”

He watched her, those eyes creating sensations that almost overruled her indignation. “What?” she asked at last.

“I was waiting to hear you beg.” He swiveled around and grabbed his beer, which was already beaded with sweat.

“I don’t beg for anything,” she said at last, lifting her chin. She grabbed her glass and turned back to the open area. When she glanced his way, she was unsettled to find him watching her again. She was still stinging from his earlier comments, not to mention the begging remark. “I suppose you think you’re some kind of hero, then. I mean, the irony of it—I push toilet paper and you save dolphins.”

“Not at all.” He took a sip of beer, scanning the crowd. “I put some of these dolphins where they are. It’s my duty to get them out.”

“What do you mean?” Despite his pigheadedness, she found herself wanting to know more about him.

“It’s a long story,” he said with a shrug.

“You’ve got a whole beer to go. Tell me.”

He glanced at that beer as if it had betrayed him. “I worked at Aquatic Wonders down in the Keys for nine years. I started as the fish boy and worked my way up to head trainer, but in between, I also went out and caught wild dolphins for the park and to sell elsewhere. That was before I realized how unhappy they were in captivity, how wrong it was to keep them from their real home. Now I’m only trying to make up for my wrongs.” He shrugged, as if it were all so inconsequential, though she knew by the look in his eyes that it wasn’t. When he reached out and took hold of her wrist, she jerked responsively. “I hope your watch didn’t get ruined when you fell in the pool.”

His fingers felt cool and wet on her wrist. Because he was leaning close, she caught a whiff of shampoo and sea air. She glanced down at her diamond watch with the steamed face.

“I hadn’t thought about it, actually.” That watch had been her treat to herself the first year she made one-hundred-thousand dollars. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He wore the kind of watch that looked waterproof to about a thousand feet. “Or you can buy another one.”

“Yes, I could do that, too.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

She found herself wanting to lie for some reason. “A BMW.”

“I knew it.”

“What do you know, mister almighty?”

“You’re a status girl, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“A Beemer, a diamond watch, you’re probably wearing designer clothes and perfume, too. Probably even designer underwear,” he added in a low, intimate voice that shivered through her.

As a matter of fact, she was, now that she thought about it. That’s what she’d always worn, at least since her mother had married her wealthy stepfather.

“My underwear is none of your business. And so what if I am? What’s it to you?”

He shook his head lazily. “It’s nothing to me, Miz Lucy. Not a thing. Ah, you can’t help it—you’re another victim of the Great Green Lie.”

“The what?” Why did it feel as though they spoke different languages?

“Green, money, the idea that money makes you happy, and the more you have the happier you are.”

“I am happy.” She wanted to shout it out, to somehow make him see how happy she was. “I am exactly where I want to be in my life. Not many people can say that when they’re thirty. Can you?”

He lifted his chin in thought. “When I was thirty…let’s see, I was in jail.” He tipped back the rest of his beer and set it on the counter, then stood and pulled out some bills. “Have a nice vacation, Miz Lucy.”

She watched him weave around the tables and out the front door, not a glance backward or a smile to soften his words. Her fingers clenched around the glass stem on her drink. She knew what he was trying to do: throw her off so she wouldn’t talk to him the rest of her stay. And in case that didn’t work, the jail thing might even scare her off.

Well, he didn’t have to worry about that. She had no use for a man with an ocean-size chip on his shoulder. She realized then that she’d come down here to eat, and he had distracted her. She ordered ribs and people-watched as she ate.

When the bartender brought her bill, she said, “My drink’s not on here.”

“Your man paid for your drink, miss.” He shrugged, giving her a sympathetic look. “All that sex talk and begging, and he still leave. Maybe next time you should play coy.” He batted his eyelashes.

She wanted to bat him. “If I need your advice, I’ll ask for it, okay?”

He smiled. “No problem, mon.”

She merely shook her head and slid off the barstool. This was not her night for men, and that was a fact.