Barefoot Bay: When You Touch Me (Kindle Worlds Novella) (5 page)

“I’ve always liked helping people, and this serves that purpose.” She pressed against his shoulders more firmly, which positioned her chest even closer to his face.

“You could have become a nurse. Or a doctor.” Conversation had become more difficult. He let his eyelids drift shut, hoping to regain some control.

“Too much blood for me,” she replied.

“Especially if you practice in a war zone.” Memories of blood and moans and the stench of death sobered him.

Jillian didn’t respond. She pulled the wet towels from his shoulders and used the dry ones to wipe away any moisture.

“We live in an impersonal society where we’re almost deprived of touch as adults. Touch is vital to human well-being. I had a few massages when I was in college, and I always felt better when I got off the table than when I got on it. Those experiences touched me. I wanted other people to feel that way, too. I wanted to be the best hour in a person’s day.”

“You can get a college degree in massage?” Sam asked.

“No,” she said, gently manipulating his shoulder. “I went to community college and got an associate business degree, and then I went to massage school for a year after that.”

“I never made it to college. I had planned to go after my first enlistment was up, but then I stayed in and decided to become career Army. They taught me about computers and network security, but I don’t have a diploma and letters to put behind my name.”

“The letters don’t mean much. I know plenty of people with big degrees who make no meaningful contribution to the world. I like to think that’s what is most important – helping others in some way. Making sure their lives are a little more pleasurable.”

Twitch.

“Are you from around here?” he asked in a continued effort to control his uncooperative lower half.

“I grew up on the island but left for a while.” Why did he have a sudden interest in her life and career? Jillian wondered. The man had hardly said a dozen words to her after their initial encounter on the beach. Her life was no secret. She had nothing to hide. But she didn’t need to get cozy with clients, especially not this one.

“I grew up in North Carolina,” he said. “In the mountains. It’s very different from here. The geography, of course. But the attitudes are different, too.”

“Island living is quite unique for sure. The mainland is just across the causeway, but it’s like another world. Busier, more hectic. Most of the locals hate to leave the island. Of course, once I got older, I couldn’t wait to get away. I wanted to escape, and lived in Arizona until recently.”

“I couldn’t wait to make my big escape from that little mountain town, too. I figured the Army would give me the opportunity to see the world.” He paused, then continued in a more sober tone. “Only problem was I saw parts I didn’t much care for.”

She gently traced the scar hear his eyebrow. “Is this from those parts?”

“Yeah.” The single word seemed to catch in his throat.

Jillian decided to change directions, so she moved down the table and lifted the sheet from his leg, then tucked it underneath. His leg muscles tightened. She mentally ran through his chart trying to remember any mention of leg injury. There was none unless he’d omitted it.

She squirted massage cream on one palm and rubbed her hands together before massaging long strokes from thigh to ankle. Despite her efforts on both legs, he refused to relax. His sudden tension confused her. Unless…. Many men feared having a sexual reaction during a massage. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Sam, will you allow me to give you Reiki?” she asked as she covered his legs with the sheet.

He released a tired sigh. “I guess so. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he said, repeating what the spa manager had told him. “Anything special I need to do?”

“Just lie there. I’m going to put something over your eyes, though, to help block out distraction.”

“Whatever.”

Sam’s skepticism rolled off him in waves. Jillian straightened the sheet, covering him from the neck down. She also asked him to place his arms beside his body and to keep his legs straight. Then she placed an eye pillow across his eyes.

“Smells good,” he said.

“It’s lavender, like I used before. For relaxation.”

She pressed her palms together for a few moments, her eyes closed and head bowed as if in prayer. Next she held her hands flat several inches over his left shoulder and waited.

Sam lay motionless, his breathing slow and even. Jillian wondered if he was asleep given his restlessness the night before. Just as she was ready to move her hands to his other shoulder, he spoke.

“Did you put a heating pad on my shoulder? It feels good.”

Jillian pulled the eye pillow off with one hand, leaving the other in place over him.

“Look at your shoulder,” she said. “I’m not touching you and there’s nothing there.”

His expression grew wary. “You might not be touching me, but I felt, I mean, I feel heat. Where’s the heating pad?”

“Look around, Sam. Where would I have hidden one so quickly? It’s the energy I told you about.”

Sam snorted. “Voodoo.”

“Call it what you will, but you felt it, Sam. You said so.”

She pivoted to walk away and Sam grasped her by the elbow, then ran his finger down her arm to the wrist. Jillian squirmed and pulled her arm away.

“Remember that professional line I mentioned?” she warned.

“Am I crossing it?”

“You are.” Her answer was short and curt. “And I’m finished here. It’s almost time for lunch anyway. Why don’t you eat, then change into swim trunks and meet me at the main pool at two o’clock? We’ll do some aquatic work.”

He sat up, and the sheet fell to his waist. “My villa has a pool. A nice private one. I’ve gone skinny dipping every night.”

Jillian fought unsuccessfully against the vision of Sam’s naked body gliding through the crystal clear water.

“I think it’s best if we work at the resort pool.”

“Don’t you trust me?” One dark eyebrow lifted slightly.

Jillian planted her hands on her hips and sent him a pointed look of frustration.

He slid his legs off the table and stood, wrapping the sheet around him and tucking the ends to hold it in place. Jillian took a step back.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked with a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Am I afraid of you?” She choked out the words.

“Answering a question with a question. That’s very telling, Jilly.”

She bristled both at the nickname he used and at his boldness.

“I’m not afraid.” She hoped her erect posture convinced him of her statement because she wasn’t at all sure he didn’t terrify her just a little bit.

“I’m not either,” he said, advancing toward her. “I like you. A lot. Even when you make me hurt on that damn table.” He winked and Jillian’s heart thumped in her chest.

He continued to walk toward her, and she inched back until she could move no further. Sam placed his hands on the wall, his muscular arms on either side of her, trapping her in place. His head lowered toward her face, his lips parted.

Was he going to kiss her? She wasn’t sure she could resist if he did. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to resist. She hadn’t dated at all in the short time she had been back on Mimosa Key. Her job and all the responsibilities on the home front had swallowed her time. What could one kiss hurt, anyway? Sam would be leaving in a week, and she wouldn’t let things go any further than this kiss.

Jillian let her head drop back and her eyelids drifted shut. His breath was hot against her cheek and then….

Sam brushed his fingers against her temple. Down her cheek. Along her jaw. Her skin burned where his fingers touched her. He traced the pulsing vein in her neck down to the V of her uniform top and then stepped away from her. A whimper caught in her throat and heat pooled deep in her belly.

“I hope that didn’t cross your line too much.” His voice was a throaty whisper.

If she didn’t need this job so badly, she would have straddled him right there on the massage table. Reality brought her to her senses. She had too much at stake – the shop, the house, her sister.

“I think I’ll give your massages in one of the beach cabanas from now on. The salt air has marvelous healing properties.”

Sam snorted cynically. “Yeah, right. A little more of your voodoo,” he said before turning his back to her.

He dropped the sheet. Heaven help her, but she couldn’t stop herself from staring at his bare ass as he strode to the chair and pulled on his shorts and t-shirt. “Is that the only reason? I know you felt something just now. I sure as hell did. Or is it because I crossed your precious line, Jillian?”

What was the reason? She wasn’t really sure. And why did it bother her so much that he’d actually used her real name?

The tail on the black retro cat clock ticked off the seconds as Jillian jiggled the plug on her mother’s ancient percolator and made a mental note to order a one-cup coffee maker and a supply of decent coffee. Her morning dose of caffeine was the one bad habit she hadn’t been able – or even willing – to give up. Though as habits went, coffee was relatively benign. She could only hope that dreaming about Sam Hartman didn’t become a habit, too. She could ill afford too many nights like last night.

After coaxing the reluctant appliance into action, Jillian showered while the coffee perked. She was meeting with Jocelyn in a little over an hour regarding Sam’s progress, and she needed to be awake and alert for it. When she emerged from the tiny 1960’s era master bathroom with its pink sink, toilet and tub, the aroma of dark roast permeated the small three-bedroom beach cottage she had always called home.

Jillian dressed quickly in her uniform, and instead of taking the time to braid her hair, she pulled it into a ponytail. She glanced around the small bedroom that had been her parents’ and then her mother’s. The bed still had the same spread her mother had ordered from a catalog as a Christmas gift to herself after the divorce. The pink and beige cabbage rose print with matching curtains left no doubt this was a woman’s bedroom. Althea had been determined to make the room her very own and eliminate as many traces of her ex-husband as possible.

Jillian tried to imagine how four people had managed to co-exist in such a small dwelling. Even after her father left his family behind, there never seemed to be enough room.

Maybe it wasn’t so much the square footage as her outlook at the time. Daryl Logan had walked out because he said he’d had enough after six years of dealing with Becca’s cerebral palsy. Enough of what? Jillian hardly remembered him ever helping with Becca. Thankfully by the time he left, her mother had opened Mimosa Memories in the storefront that had previously housed Logan Realty, Logan Insurance, Logan Island Tours, Logan Imports and Logan Bike Rentals. All of her father’s businesses had failed and somehow, Daryl always blamed his younger daughter. Her therapy took too much of his time or the cost of her leg braces ate into his working capital.

His excuses were as flimsy as the spider web in the corner of the bedroom. She made another mental note to ask someone at the resort for an exterminator referral. Just one more thing to add to her already too-long To Do list.

Althea’s best friend Daphne was already working at the souvenir shop when Daryl filed for divorce and moved to Tallahassee. The last time Althea had been able to track him down to try and collect child support, he had been in Daytona Beach selling time shares and claiming to be broke. Eventually her mother gave up since family law attorneys didn’t work on contingency.

Even as ditzy as she was, Daphne had provided stability for Althea and her two daughters. And after Jillian moved to Arizona, Daphne had moved into the house, taking Jillian’s old bedroom.

On her way back to the kitchen, she passed Daphne’s room with its eclectic mixture of interior design – island tropics with a dash of Moroccan and a pinch of arts and crafts. Next she paused at the door to Becca’s room, the only room with décor dating from the twenty-first century. The pink princess theme that had still been in place when Jillian moved out had been replaced. A blue and white striped quilt covered the bed and white plantation shutters provided relief from the relentless Florida sun. The teen idol posters were gone and pastel watercolors of island scenes hung in their place.

Shame crashed over her like a tidal wave. After her father left, Jillian had waffled between resentment that Becca had broken up the family and needed even more of their mother’s time and guilt over having those negative feelings. She also carried unrealistic guilt about having been born healthy. That self-reproach and the eventual release of it were some of the other reasons Jillian had studied massage therapy. In Sedona she had volunteered at a children’s clinic and gave massages and Reiki for free. Sometimes she volunteered at Red Rocks House, a facility with home-like accommodations for parents of hospitalized kids. There she worked on weary parents who were often so stressed they could barely function. She considered the clinic work her penance for her ill-directed blame.

The iPad she had given Becca for her eighteenth birthday had allowed them to video chat from time to time. She should have paid more attention, though. To Becca. To her mother.

Jillian had vowed that once Becca returned from camp, all that would change. They would talk, eat meals together and do the things sisters do. With Daphne leaving, it would be just the two of them, and Jillian would make sure her sister’s life was the best it could be in spite of the issues her cerebral palsy raised.

Back in the kitchen, Jillian poured coffee into a travel mug, added sugar and milk and screwed on the lid. She had fifteen minutes to drive from the house to Casa Blanca. Fifteen minutes was just enough time for the coffee to kick in and jolt her brain cells into high gear. Now if she could just find something to erase the memory of Sam’s touch, she would be in perfect shape.

At eight-thirty, Jillian knocked softly on Jocelyn Palmer’s usually open office door. Jocelyn was a hands-on manager who inspired everyone around her. While she held regular weekly staff meetings each Monday before clients arrived, the Hartman case was special. Jocelyn had wanted an update, but she had texted just after five o’clock the previous day to reschedule their meeting.

Jillian heard voices, then quiet and then voices again. She pulled her cell phone from her tote bag to double check her calendar. She had the correct date and time, but at any thriving business, interruptions occurred to throw a well-planned day off schedule.

Then the door suddenly swung open. A dark-haired, athletic man sporting a Mimosa Scorpions baseball t-shirt exited, nearly bowling her over. He steadied her with strong hands and Jillian recognized him as Jocelyn’s husband Will.

“Sorry,” he said to Jillian, then called back into the office. “Honey, I’ll text you as soon as the mechanic lets me know something about your car.”

“Good morning, Jillian.” Jocelyn stood behind her desk and waved her in. “Thanks for understanding about the schedule change. Last night my car’s dashboard was flashing like Times Square. Anyway, I just wanted to see how things are progressing with Sam Hartman.”

Had Jocelyn heard something about the near-miss kiss the previous morning? She and Sam had spoken in near whispers, and even though they had been right by the wall, the rooms were well soundproofed to maintain the proper atmosphere of quiet and serenity.

She had held the afternoon session at the resort’s infinity pool, showing Sam various ways to use the water’s resistance to help strengthen his shoulder. He had behaved himself, but he had still been sluggish, no doubt continuing to suffer from his restless night. The water should have relaxed him and helped with sleep. Today she would ask him to make sure.

She didn’t want him turning to pills or alcohol to try and coax his body to sleep. If he had answered the intake questions truthfully, he took nothing more than over-the-counter pain medications and had the occasional social drink. She hoped his declaration at their first meeting about getting drunk was a joke. He had never appeared inebriated around her, and she had never smelled alcohol on his breath. If he had been drinking, she would have been able to smell it yesterday. She had been close enough to count the fillings in his teeth.

“How is he coming along?” Jocelyn continued.

“Sam is a…challenge,” she answered, trying to be as diplomatic as possible.

“Aren’t most men?” Jocelyn laughed.

None like the blue-eyed soldier, Jillian thought.

“I believe a lot of his issues stem from pain and the resulting lack of sleep,” Jillian explained. “And I am certain he has PTSD to some degree even though he denies it. The massage I’ve done on his shoulder and back is already making a difference according to him, but he still has a way to go before he has full range of motion.”

“I forgot to tell you, but I mentioned putting an essential oil diffuser in his villa to help him sleep. He seemed skeptical, but he didn’t say no.”

Jillian shook her head. “That man’s middle name is skeptical. But I think he might be coming around. I gave him Reiki the day before yesterday, and he accused me of using a heating pad on him. Honestly, the negative energy coming from him was so strong I had to soak my hands in cold water for ten minutes after he left. The diffuser is a great idea. Thanks for suggesting it.”

The cold water had also helped cool off her libido after their too-close exchange. Maybe she needed to diffuse some eucalyptus and peppermint to sharpen her mental focus and keep her thoughts off Sam. And his touch.

“Let Poppy know to put the diffuser in Artemisia and you can tell him how to use it,” Jocelyn said. “Mrs. Granger aside, I certainly hope we can help this man. I can’t imagine what he went through in that bombing. He lost friends, was seriously injured and forced to leave the job he loved at a young age. I really want him to be a Eucalyptus success story – not for any publicity, but for his personal welfare.”

Jillian nodded. “I’ll get with Poppy.” Then she chuckled. “I don’t know whether I should warn Sam about his language or just let him contribute to Poppy’s swear jar.”

The women shared a conspiratorial look and both grinned broadly.

“Let him contribute,” the women said simultaneously, laughing at their evil plan.

* * *

The woman was a brute. Gorgeous and undeniably desirable, but a brute nonetheless. Sam sat on the side of the massage table waiting for the beast’s return after a two hour session of deep tissue massage. The beginning of his ten day sentence had been undemanding and had lulled him into a false sense of relaxation. Two hours ago he had stretched out on the table expecting more of the same – easy massage or more of that energy stuff. As leery as he had been, he had to admit he always felt better after she did it.

But today. Today she had warned him she was going to work deeper into his lower back muscles, and by the end of the session, he had been ready to slug her. He would never hit a woman. Never. But she came damn close to making him break that rule.

“Deep breaths,” she had told him again and again. “Inhale, then blow it out,” she crooned while she dug a thumb into a spot near his hip. And a damn lot of good all that huffing and puffing had done. At least she had smeared menthol gel over the area when she finished, though now he smelled like the arthritis brigade at his grandmother’s retirement home.

Three knocks sounded and the door swung open.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, offering him a bottle of chilled water. “Remember to drink plenty of water to flush the toxins I released.”

“Like you give a flying shit,” he mumbled, twisting off the bottle cap and taking a long drink.

His tormenter dismissed him with a laugh that reminded him of wind chimes in a gentle breeze and strode to the counter where his folder lay. How could she bring him nearly to his knees in pain one minute and have him dreaming of having her in his bed the next?

“Yeah, I’m just a big old meanie who bends grown men to my will with my fingertips and a little bit of massage oil.”

“Laugh if you want. I might not come back tomorrow.” He took another drink of water as he arched his back and rubbed a tender spot near his ass.

She scribbled in the folder. “Oh, you’ll be back,” she said in an offhand manner. “You can’t resist me.”

Sam wondered if she had any idea how irresistible he did find her. He had come damn close to kissing her two days ago, and every time she touched him, his nerve endings jangled like high-voltage electrical wires. Or maybe it was just that energy stuff she did to him. He could try to blame the tingling on that, but it didn’t explain why her smile made him hate sand a little bit less and why her mere touch diverted all his blood supply south of his navel.

At least today’s session had kept him in enough agony to avoid an erection. Pain might arouse some people, but not him.

“I know our sessions are supposed to be from two to four each day,” she began as she approached him. She smelled like vanilla, and her hair was in a high ponytail instead of its usual braid. “But I’m going to let you go early today because I did work your back pretty hard.”

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest little thing?” he drawled.

Jillian flipped her hand and her ponytail swung behind her. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Hartman. I’d also like to try something new a little later today if you’re agreeable.”

“New? Like that torture session you just put me through?” He grunted and rubbed his back again.

“You’ll thank me for working those knots out of your back. And no, what I’d like to do won’t hurt at all.”

He lifted one eyebrow in disbelief.

“I’d like you to try meditation. We can meet at the far end of the beach away from everyone and meditate as the sun sets over the gulf. Trust me.”

“Trust you, Lady Rasputin?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “I might consider trusting a rattlesnake more than you.”

“Oh ye of little faith. You just keep pouring on the flattery, don’t you, Hartman? It will be a good way to end your day.”

“But meditation? Really? You mean like chanting and incense and all that crap?”