Barefoot by the Sea (3 page)

“Then we’ll get some for you. You can eat it off my…body.”

Silently, she closed her eyes and dug for composure, coming up with nothing but a helpless shudder.

He blew more warm breath into her ear. “Want to know what else I can do?”

“I’m actually…no, well, yeah. Okay.”

He laughed softly. “How ’bout I show instead of tell you?”

The suggestion vibrated through her, tightening every muscle in her body, especially the ones between her legs. She tipped her head to get a look at his smoky eyes, the dark shadows of an unshaved face, the perfect bow of lips she’d already sampled and wanted to taste some more. “You better tell me first.”

“Show.” He closed in for a ferocious kiss, wild and hot, his tongue sliding right into her mouth as his finger continued straight down her body, between her breasts, over her stomach, and stopped right at the snap of her jeans.

“Um, we’re in a bar,” she murmured into his mouth.

“That can be changed.”

Sense. Common freaking
sense
disappeared at the sight of him. Was this the desperate act of a woman craving sex so badly that she could have it in a bar booth…or was he so unspeakably attractive that she’d let him…

Was that the sound of her jeans or the last shreds of her dignity? “I think we should…take a breather here.” She backed into the wall and he put his hand on her thigh.

“I’m breathing fine.” He scooted his hand a little farther between her legs. And, God help her, she didn’t push it away. Even though all she wanted was
a sperm donor.

Right? Yes…and no. She wanted the sperm, but she also wanted a man. This man. She closed her eyes and tried to take a steadying breath, putting her hand on his but not exactly moving him off the thigh real estate. Damn, girl, talk about giving mixed messages.

She cleared her throat. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

Actually, it did. There’d be explanations, interviews, legal documents. So not what this hot kisser had in mind. “I have some important issues.”

He frowned slightly. “Are you married, Tessa?”

“No.”

“Involved?”

“No.”

“Psychotic?”

Right now? Debatable. “No.”

“Straight?”

“Yes.”

Finally, he relaxed into a smile, a sinful affair that made his eyes gleam and hinted at sexy dimples under the shadow of his beard. “Plus you’ve got bedroom eyes, a delectable mouth, and”—his gaze dropped to her chest—“a sweet rack. Meets all my criteria. What are yours?”

She finally managed to grip his hand and extricate it completely from her leg. “Availability and attraction is all you need to go to bed with someone?”

“Don’t forget the sweet rack.”

Another soft laugh caught in her throat and she studied him. “Well, you are honest, and I like that.”

The faintest, fastest, nearly indecipherable response flickered in his eyes. “What else is on your list for a hookup?”

Someone who didn’t want a hookup. But then, maybe a hookup was exactly what the doctor ordered. No, the fertility doctor ordered sperm, not sex. Couldn’t she have both? Weren’t they supposed to show up at the same party?

“Tessa?” he prompted. “Your list?”

She conjured up the form she’d recently filled out in a clinic. “Blue eyes.” She’d always wanted a blue-eyed baby. Magnetic, mercurial, blinding blue with dark-rimmed irises like the ones she was staring into.

He winked. “Check.”

“Over six feet.” In case she had a boy, she’d want him to have a shot past her own five-foot-four.

“Plus an inch,” he assured her. “And maybe another quarter past that.”

“Athletic and strong.”

He raised his arm and tensed his biceps, letting the bunched muscle wrapped in a tattoo of deep purple thorns speak for itself.

“No illegal drug use, ever.”

Rattling his ice, he said, “As long as scotch is legal, we’re good.”

Things were looking better, so she decided to push her luck. “Highly intelligent with good math skills.” Because a child would need that in this world.

He raised a brow. “Seriously?”

“You asked my list. Math skills is on it.”

“Fine. You want me to figure Pi to twenty digits?”

“Can you?”

“Without a calculator.”

Oh, boy. He might be…perfect. “Okay, then. We need a clean bill of health, no allergies, and absolutely none of those, you know, tight white underwear.”

“I don’t have a cold, won’t get hives, and I don’t think I even own underwear.”

“You are sounding better every minute. Just one last thing…”

He laughed. “Don’t tell me. A quick DNA test?”

“Um, actually, yes.”

His smile froze, then faded. “You’re kidding.”

If only she were. “I’d really like to check for recessive genes that might carry a disease or disorder.”

“What?” He backed away, putting a good six inches between them. “You
are
serious.”

She swallowed against a bone-dry throat. “I told you it was complicated.”

“I’m not marriage material, sweetheart, and by the sound of your list—”

“No, no. I don’t want to get married.” Well, she did, but admitting that was like inviting him to leave.

He frowned, searching her face as though he could figure this out by a careful inspection. She doubted he could. “Then what
do
you want if not a hookup or a husband?”

“I’m looking for a…” Another failed attempt to swallow nearly choked her. “A sperm donor.”

In the two or three seconds it took to register, a symphony of emotions played over his face. Realization, surprise, disbelief, and, finally, rejection.

“Good luck with that.” He started to slide out of the booth.

“No strings attached,” she added, fighting the urge to reach out and stop him. “Not a father, not a husband, I need your—”

“Sorry, not your man.” He sliced her again with that icy blue gaze, one more emotion shimmering in them. Pain. Bone-deep, soul-searing, life-changing pain so real it took her breath away, then disappeared so fast she thought she might have imagined it.

“Nice talking to you,” he murmured, getting farther away.

She lost the battle not to grab him, closing her hand over his wrist, the sheer width of it surprising her almost as much as the insane rhythm of his pulse under her thumb. “Wait.”

He shook his head and he yanked out of her grip. “Good luck with your list, honey. I’m pretty sure you can find all that in a doctor’s office or something. No need to grill the guys who are trying to get laid at the bar.”

“I…” Any explanation sounded lame. Any explanation
was
lame. “I’d rather know what I’m getting.”

One mighty shoulder lifted in a shrug that tried to convey he didn’t care, but something in his expression said differently.

He might look like a bad-ass sex god, but there was more going on in John Brown’s head than getting laid. And damn if that didn’t make him even more attractive than his dirty talk and smooth tongue.

“Why?” he asked, pausing on his way out of the booth. “Why not do the anonymous thing?”

“Things could go wrong. They could be lying on the application. I don’t trust…anyone.”

His smile was slow, rueful, and never got anywhere near his eyes. “But you’re willing to trust me?”

“I was thinking about it.”

“Word of advice,” he said, leaning in one more time to a kissably close distance. “Don’t.”

And with that, he headed to the bar before she could even think of a reply.

In the space of one long sigh, Zoe slid into the booth, directly across from Tessa.

“What’d you do, demand access to his family health history?”

“Shut up, Zoe.”

“You did, didn’t you?”

“He’s not my type.” Tessa turned to look at the crowd, hating that her eyes misted over. Now she was going to moon over this tattooed loser who got her all hot and bothered with one wet kiss and a compliment on her rack?
Get a grip, Tess.

“Really?” Zoe almost crawled across the table. “’Cause he sure looked like your type when he had his tongue down your throat and his hand in your pants.”

“Zoe, stop,” Lacey said, slipping into the booth with two bottles of water. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”

“I’m not upset,” Tessa denied.

“I would be,” Zoe puffed, twisting the top off a water bottle. “Dude was totally digging you.”

Jocelyn appeared with two Blue Moons, giving one to Tessa. “What did you say to Channing Tatum’s brother?” she asked. “He practically mowed me down trying to get out of here.”

Tessa closed her eyes, trying to get her heart rate back to normal. “Well, let’s see, first we discussed how he was going to tattoo me with his tongue.”

Zoe’s bottle froze partway to her mouth. “I knew I liked that guy.”

“C’mon, Zoe,” Jocelyn said. “She’s kidding.”

“No I’m not,” Tessa said humorlessly. “He claims he could strip my top off without ever taking his tongue out of my mouth.”

“Oooh.” Zoe dropped her chin on her knuckles. “The guy’s got a good tongue.”

“You have no idea.” Tessa lifted the beer bottle, but the Blue Moon held little interest now. Zoe’s recently passed Great-Aunt Pasha may have predicted that Tessa would meet her man “after the next blue moon,” but she hadn’t meant
this
Blue Moon. She meant the kind that happened about as often as men like John Brown dropped into Tessa’s lap.

Which would be just about never, ever.

“So how did it go from mouth all over you to disappearing act?” Lacey asked.

“Well, I…” Tessa nibbled her lip, knowing they’d get the story out of her so trying to soften the truth was a waste of time. “I kind of told him…I mentioned that I…I thought I should be straight and—”

“You didn’t.” They all said it at the same time, which would have been funny except that, right then, nothing was funny.

“I did.”

“Did you actually
say
the five-letter word that starts with s, ends with m, and rhymes with worm?” Zoe demanded.

Tessa took a drink and stared at Zoe, who face-palmed. “Holy, holy,
holy
hell. She did.”

“How’d that go for you?” Jocelyn asked, rich with sarcasm.

“Not so great,” Tessa admitted. “One minute he was breathing fire down my neck and the next he turned to stone and disappeared.”

Lacey put her hand on Tessa’s arm. “Maybe you’ll see him again around town.”

“He said he was passing through and, honestly, if I never see him again it’ll be too soon.”

Zoe snorted a laugh. “Famous last words.”

“Spoken by whom?” Tessa challenged.

“All of us,” they answered. In perfect unison, of course.

A
sperm donor
? What the bloody hell was that all about?

Ian twisted the ignition on his bike and punched the starter, grinding through gravel as he exploded out of the bar parking lot. He revved the Ducati’s engine to get her soft lips and impossible words out of his head.

Didn’t work.

Just
what he needed. Another kid he never saw. Another life that belonged to him raised by a complete stranger. Another fucking mess.

And wouldn’t Henry Brooker love that? Ian could only imagine the response of his opinionated, short-tempered liaison when they had their next phone conference.

No doubt she’d pay, but offering up his seed to some chick who wanted a baby probably didn’t qualify as the “legit labor” his UK Protected Persons Service liaison said Ian had better find if he wanted to stay in the States.

And he did want to stay here, one country away from…

He took a curve so sharp he practically ate the sidewalk and refused to give a shit. Physical pain was always welcome. It drove away the other kind.

Warm, tropical wind smacked his face as he made his way across the main road of the island town, passed a convenience mart, and drove into the parking lot of the Fourway Motel.

The place wasn’t as much of a dive as the name would indicate, but it wouldn’t work long term if he decided he wanted to stay for a while. This morning it had seemed like a good idea: sultry weather, off the mainland, and away from crowds, Mimosa Key offered a chance to regroup after the mess in Singapore, a place to wait—and wait and
wait
—for news that might never come.

But if tonight’s unfortunate encounter was any indicator what the locals were like, he’d have to get the hell out and find somewhere else to lie low and do his infernal waiting.

He skidded to a parking place, automatically scanning the empty lot for trouble. Damn, he was sick of hiding.

As he pulled the key from the ignition, the motel-office door shot open and a woman walked out, the light behind her highlighting blonde hair and a silhouette that looked…interesting. Except he’d blown his interest wad in that bar. Now all he wanted to do was stuff his head under a pillow and end this day.

“Excuse me,” she called. “Are you Mr. Brown?”

He was now. In Singapore, he’d been Sean Bern. Now he was John Brown. Who would he be next week?

The thought turned his already sour stomach. As the quick click of her high heels against the walkway accompanied her approach, he took in sharp features and a predatory smile.

“I’m Grace Hartgrave.” She gave him an obvious once-over, and he considered—and instantly discarded—the idea of her as a replacement for the woman he’d been so close to in the bar. “I own the motel.”

He frowned as he climbed off the bike. “Something wrong?”

“I have to ask you a question.” She reached him, and he could see that she was a few years past forty, the lines of a lot of drinks and a plenty of cigarettes etched on what was a passably attractive face. “My morning desk clerk said you…” She dropped her gaze, lingering on his chest, her brows lifting appreciatively. “And damn, she wasn’t kidding.”