A Woman To Blame (13 page)

Tonight after sunset every commonplace sound broke into his escape plan. Screaming gulls, the dinging bell on his microwave, and the far-off buzz of an outboard motor caused him to lose his concentration and his steady hand. These were all momentary and forgettable distractions, he told himself.
Just like she was.
He began breathing easier as they melted into the background. Just as he reached the edge of the galaxy, he heard the sound of an approaching car. Moving back from the telescope's eyepiece, he felt a warning prickle across his shoulders. No one drove to the end of Marina Road unless they wanted to see him. Skidding back his chair, he walked to the edge of his upper deck, prepared to deal quickly with the uninvited visitor. Until he saw who it was.

Bryn appeared in the side yard carrying a dry-cleaning bag over her shoulder. She stopped next to a weed-filled planter before looking up at him with a tentative smile.

"You forgot your blazer again."

Worse than that, I forgot to make love to you,
he thought. Shifting uncomfortably under his stare, Bryn gave in to an embarrassed wince. Removing her sunglasses from the top of her head, she said, "You have company, don't you? I'm sorry, I should have called first." When she started back to the driveway, he quickly motioned for her to join him.

"Don't go. I'm alone," he said.

Her shoulders instantly relaxed while genuine relief smoothed her brow. Cripes, what did she think was going on at the end of Marina Road? Drug smuggling? Seances? Nightly orgies? "What's up?" he asked. "Did my check for the jukebox bounce?"

Lifting the plastic-covered dry-cleaning over her shoulder, she walked toward the stairs laughing. Thank God for that tall flight of stairs. Otherwise he wouldn't have time to take in her splendid details. Her hair, which once reminded him of fiery sunbursts, tumbled and bounced in soft curves around her head. Beneath her cherry-colored T-shirt, her full breasts jiggled just enough to cause his lips to part in breath-stealing appreciation. As she moved closer he grimaced with masculine approval. Not simply a T-shirt, a
cropped
T-shirt. She was definitely out to get him tonight.

Rick felt the smile, or at least the beginning of one, lifting one corner of his mouth. She'd come to Malabar Key unannounced. She'd shown up in his dreams with amazing regularity. Why should he be surprised that she was moving up his stairs like a blithe spirit? Or an angel taking flight with that plastic bag flapping behind her. A very determined angel out to capture his soul, if he let her.

"I cashed your check yesterday," she said. "No problem."

There was too a problem. A terribly wonderful problem that made his heart thump twice as fast when he imagined trying to solve it. Her pebbly nipples were poking against her shirt, presenting him with a troublesome question. Was she or wasn't she wearing a bra? The only way he could know for certain was by a firsthand examination.

He forced himself to raise his gaze, but he didn't get very far. The embroidered blossoms skimming across her perfect cleavage were an irresistible invitation to keep on staring at her breasts. He hadn't pulled petals off a flower in years, but he was willing to give it a try tonight. "Nice flowers," he murmured as she arrived near the top of the steps.

"Thanks. I bought the outfit this morning at Rita's shop," she said, reaching to hang the bag on a hook above one of the three sets of French doors.

Up went the hem of her T-shirt, exposing the velvety smooth, tautly muscled place above her waistband. The place he'd tracked with his tongue. He could drop to his knees and do it all again, but this time that love-hungry moment wouldn't be the final act of a kiss gone crazy. If he had his way, it would be a prelude to the wildest night of their lives. All she had to do was ask.

"Rick, I need to ask you for a favor."

His gaze flicked to her face. He didn't believe she could read his mind, but recognizing the pressing evidence behind his fly was another matter. With an inward sigh he sent up a prayer of thanks. She was looking over his shoulder, and she was as tense as he'd ever seen her. Without warning, his roguish ideas disappeared, replaced with a rush of compassion. Her tentative, nervous expression was altogether out of character for the Bryn Madison he'd come to know.

"Is everything all right?"

She ran her hand along the thick pipe railing, patting a bubble of gleaming white paint. There was something about her hands and fingers that usually inspired erotic images for him, but her uneasiness overshadowed those pictures tonight. Working her fingers without a plan, she stroked the pipe, then lightly drummed her palms against it.

"Is it Pappy, Bryn? Is there something—"

"No, no. Grandfather's fine. They'll be starting his physical therapy tomorrow."

"That's good to hear," he said, pulling up a teakwood deck chair for her. "The visit home must have been good for him."

Moving her head and shoulders in an unconvincing shrug, she turned toward the water, grasping the pipe rail with both hands this time. "That's part of the reason I came by tonight," she said looking out toward the mangroves covering half the shore.

Sensing her deepening tension, he waited quietly, concentrating on the way she raised her eyes toward the last of the pale light on the horizon. As she grappled with her troubles, the tension showed in her profile. A warning prickle zipped between his shoulder blades for the second time in five minutes. He crossed his arms, fighting the desire to pull her near and kiss the strained expression from her mouth. He looked over the rail at the snarl of mangrove roots. He was not going to get involved with the personal details of Bryn's life. He'd stayed clear of those things with Sharon Burke, and that relationship had served its purpose. Of course, Sharon had never wanted to talk about personal things. He stared harder at the mangrove roots, fighting the next thought. Rolling his eyes, he gave in with a sigh. Okay, so Bryn wasn't Sharon Burke. Maybe he'd give on that rule just this once. "Talk to me, Bryn," he said quietly. "Tell me what's bothering you."

Making a fist, she thumped on the rail before turning back to him. "I want you to know that coming to you like this wasn't easy for me. But after talking with Grandfather and thinking hard and long about things, I decided there was no one else I could turn to." Pressing her fingers over the soft fullness of her breasts, she said, "Rick, it had to be you."

Lighthearted music from the old song played through his mind while visions of her smiling face hovered near his. He shoved his hand halfway through his hair, stopping when she whispered his name.

"Rick...?"

Was he turning into a romantic fool? What was going on with her, and why was he suddenly caring about it so much? Hell, she'd probably figured out a theme for the ambulance fund-raiser and wanted to run it by him. No, she was too upset for that. Maybe it had to do with Pappy's stay in the hospital. "Bryn, does Pappy need money? Do you?"

"Oh, Rick, no. Nothing like that." She reached to press her fingers against his arm, warming him all over with a light stroke of her fingertips. When she touched him like that, it was all he could do not to fold his arms around her.

"Grandfather told me about how you helped him out after the hurricane." Her hand slipped away, and he was suddenly missing her even though she was inches from him.

"But, like I said, it's not money this time," she said, sinking down onto the end of the deck chair. Her hesitation returned; she rubbed her chin. When she finally raised her head to look at him through those impossibly thick lashes, he could feel her sizing him up. Whatever it was that she was going to ask him had her fidgeting with her glasses, circling her knees with them, and then twirling them until she accidentally let go. They landed with a clatter at his feet.

"Better spill it," he said, reaching to pick them up in the same moment she did. Her T-shirt slipped off one shoulder, and he forgot how to breathe. Their hands met, but he wouldn't let go of the glasses. Neither would she. He was close enough to her to nibble a wet string of kisses from the top of her arm to that tender spot below her ear. Close enough to kiss those few golden freckles scattered there like the fragile light of a comet's tail. Close enough to think she wanted him to do those things, and more. He sucked in a breath. Maybe she didn't want those things from him. Maybe he was reading too much into his own desire for her. In the strange light she appeared half fantasy, half reality, and all wanting, giving woman. If he didn't get hold of himself, he'd make the first move. But the first move had to be hers, because he had to be certain she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

With a nonchalance he didn't feel, he slid the T-shirt back onto her shoulder. What he wanted to do was pull off the cherry-colored material and cover her breasts and belly with hungry, hot kisses. His throat ached at the next thought, a thought he'd been fighting since the moment he saw her in his side yard. He hadn't been with a woman on this deck since Angie died. Suddenly he let go of the sunglasses, and she moved back to the edge of the deck chair.

"What do you want, Bryn?"

"I need your help."

"My help? With what?"

After two false starts and a series of darting glances, she looked up at him. "I need your help with the restaurant."

He cocked his head as if he hadn't heard her quite right. "You're joking, right?" he asked, before giving in to silent, shoulder-shaking laughter. So it was that damn restaurant again.

"Yeah," she mumbled, clicking the earpieces together. Her nervous gesturing wound down until she carefully folded the glasses and set them underneath the deck chair. "I mean, no." Pushing up from the chair, she moved away from him. "You were right. I was wrong, Rick. I never should have attempted such a drastic makeover of the Crab Shack." Walking alongside the rail, she stopped when she reached the spot where the telescope jutted over it. "Go ahead and laugh. I know you think I deserve it, and maybe I do," she said quietly.

"Sorry, but this is the last thing I ever thought I'd hear from you." More importantly, in the matter of self-preservation, it was the last thing he
wanted
to hear. He'd been longing for a steamy session of hot sex, but he could no longer deny she rattled him higher up, where it counted more. Proud and accomplished as she was, and as much as it cost her to come to him, she was willing to put all that aside to do the right thing. Her generous spirit was larger and more powerful than any of his own selfish goals. He wanted her in his bed, but he wanted her there on his terms. And he wanted the Crab Shack the way it was. He struggled to keep his focus on his goals. It was the only way he could survive, the only way he could keep his life of the last five years alive.

"What do you think I could help you with? Picking out finger bowls? Checking to see that your customers are wearing their ties?" he asked, keeping an edge to his voice in case he'd read her wrong.
Argue with me, dammit!

She struck him again with a pulse of a smile.

"No," she said, avoiding his eyes as she ran both hands over the telescope's sleek barrel. "There aren't going to be any tie-wearing customers expecting sliced lemons in their finger bowls."

Anew kind of tension gripped him. Was she leaving Malabar Key? He had no defenses for this kind of assault. She was bringing him to his knees with her humility. "You're giving up, Bryn?"

"Rick, I watched my grandfather's reaction when I wheeled him into the dining room. Chez Madison is not what he wants. He never told me that, but I know." Bowing her head, she twisted a small ring around her middle finger as her voice trailed off. "And I think I've known that for a long time."

Bryn sensed the moment he dropped his first shield. With everything to gain and nothing to lose, she closed the space between them. She reached out to his hand resting on the deck rail, covering it with her own.

"Help me, Rick. I want all of his friends to feel welcome there, but no more beer-soaked tables, no more peanut shells ankle deep on the floor. I want to make the Crab Shack better. Help me find a middle ground."

"Why me?"

"Because you care. No, don't roll your eyes when I say that. You spent a considerable amount of your own money rebuilding other people's businesses after the hurricane."

"I did that to protect Malabar Key from turning into just another slick resort zone."

"Not only for that, Rick."

"What? I did it to help out a few friends."

"And?"

"I give up. Is there something else I'm not telling you?"

"Yes," she said, nodding.

"Really?"

"Rick, you wanted your bar back then too."

"All right," he conceded. "I wanted the bar back then. Hell, I want it back now."

"So does my grandfather. So does everyone." When he didn't speak, she let go of his hand. "You know, I actually thought I was changing Pappy's Crab Shack for my grandfather's benefit. Somewhere, my stubborn pride got in the way of common sense and sound reasoning. And I hate to admit this, but I wanted to prove something to you too."

He jerked his head in her direction.

"Anyway," she continued, "I know I have to make things right again, but I'll be damned if things are going back exactly the way they were." His smile sent her confidence soaring. "When I think about Pappy's Crab Shack and the way it was, I know I can still—"