Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) (38 page)
Read Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) Online
Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
“Cash.” While she reached for her wallet, Gussie stole a look out the door, seeing him standing next to a white pickup truck, thumbing a cell phone. Her heart crawled up to her throat again, pounding like a teenage girl backstage at a boy-band concert. Because TJ DeMille was a god in the fashion world, and Gussie an unabashed groupie. She’d loved his work since he burst on the scene a few years ago.
He turned to get a better angle on his phone, shooting a vile look at the store. The unforgiving Florida summer sun poured light over him, making his black hair glisten and emphasizing the shadows under sharp cheekbones. Wow. She’d had absolutely no idea he was so…gorgeous.
Of course a photographer who captured the nuances of beauty would be beautiful himself.
“Cash or charge, or would you just like to stand there and drool all over the magazines so I can’t sell them to anyone now that Tommy Jefferson himself had his sweaty palms all over them?”
Gussie instinctively reached for the issue of
Vogue
, the need to touch what TJ DeMille had just had his very hands on. Once again, she slid a look toward the convenience store parking lot.
Maybe she should run out there and gush about his delicate touch, his clean eye, his—
“Oh, for crying out loud, pay for the soda and candy, please.”
Gussie tore her gaze from the man to the beast in front of her. “And the magazines,” she said impulsively. “And whatever else he was buying. I’ll take it all.”
Charity’s eyes grew wide behind her bifocals. “And do what with them?”
“Exactly when did that become your business?”
She pffted out a breath. “Everything on this island is my business. Like, why do you wear different-color wigs every day? Someone asked me about it, and I just assumed, you know, chemo or something.”
Gussie almost laughed, because how else could you even respond to such rudeness? “So that’s what you told them?”
“I told them I’d find out.” She leaned way off her little stool to peer hard at Gussie’s face. “And all that makeup. What’s the deal?”
A slow heat slid up her chest and into her cheeks, which Charity probably couldn’t see because of
all that makeup
. She dug for the snappy retort about how Charity could benefit from a touch of mascara and came up with…nothing. Clearly, an encounter with TJ DeMille had killed her witty brain cells.
Reaching into her wallet, she grabbed two twenties and slapped them on the counter. “I’ll take it all. His and mine.” She scooped everything into her arms, using the magazines to cradle his wine and her Diet Coke.
“What the—”
“Keep the change,” she called as she hustled away. The bell dinged as she shouldered the door open, the sound all but drowned out by the growl of an engine.
“Don’t leave!” she called out, darting toward the pickup truck. But he was already backing out, sunglasses on, his face turned as he hit the accelerator—hard.
“This is for you!” she cried.
But he was flooring it, the motor screaming. She ran to the truck, just in time to reach it and do the only thing she could to stop him—kick the bumper. The move nearly cost her a forty-dollar armload. “Hey!”
He slammed on the brakes, whipping around to look at her. He froze for a moment, then inched down his sunglasses, disbelief drawing his thick brows together.
“I have…your…stuff.” She lifted her arms, making her Swedish Fish fall to the ground and the liter of Diet Coke roll to a dangerous angle on top of the magazines.
He stared at her like she was a complete and total lunatic. Which, right at that moment, was quite accurate. Her impulses would be the death of her someday. Hell, they nearly were once.
He still didn’t move.
“Your…magazines,” she said, taking a step toward the curb, angling her whole body so the soda bottle was caught by her elbows. “And…wine. I bought them for you.”
“You did?” He stayed right in the driver’s seat, clearly uncertain of the possible danger of a pink-wigged woman who just spent way too much money for a stranger.
“I’m a…”
Fangirl. Stalker. Crazed admirer
. Right now, she felt like all of the above. “Good Samaritan,” she finished, using all her might to hold the Coke with her elbow. “And I kind of hate that woman who owns this place.”
Finally, he relaxed into a half-smile, taking the sunglasses off completely as he opened the door and climbed out. “That makes two of us.”
He reached for the liter bottle, and she moved to protect it from a fall at the same second, and his hand went right smack against her boob.
He drew back—not terribly fast—but so did she, and she felt the wine slip right between the magazines and her stomach. “Oh!” She gasped, leaning into him to save the bottle from the fall, but it slipped and crashed to the concrete, making them both jump back as red wine and glass splattered all over her sandaled feet and his…oh, man. His crisp khaki trousers.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she cried.
“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping back and shaking some wine off his pant leg.
“I’m…fine.” Except for the rain shower of glass over her foot. She lifted her leg out of the mess and the heavy issue of
Marie Claire
toppled, splatting right onto the puddle of wine. “Oh, God.”
He inched back again, his smile fading as he eyed her. “This is getting worse by the second.”
“I know, I’m…” She looked down and saw a tiny trickle of blood in the arch of her foot.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine. I’m…”
A freaking idiot
. “It’s tiny.”
But he reached for her foot, and she automatically leaned into him, sending the
Vanity Fair
to the same fate. It landed face-up, with the ethereal and vicious model staring up at them.
“Really, I’m fine,” she said. “Just take this and…”
He took the last magazine and the bottle of Diet Coke from her hands, and she brushed at the tiny cut, happy to see it was nothing. “I’m sorry for this,” she muttered.
“No, no, you were being kind. Here.” He handed the remaining magazine—
Vogue
the size of a phone book—back to her. “You should keep this. It’s a great issue.” When she took it, he returned his attention to her cut, his large hand cradling her foot, forcing her to hold on to his arm for balance. Damn, the man had muscles.
“That’s not too bad,” he said, finally meeting her gaze. “And wine that bad should definitely kill any germs.”
His voice was so low she found herself inching closer just to wallow in the timbre of it. And the sandalwood smell of him.
Finally, he let her foot go, and she had enough balance to stand on her own. Well, nearly enough. TJ DeMille made her downright wobbly.
“I just wanted to do something nice for you,” she said, sounding as lame as she felt. “I’m really sorry about your pants.”
He shook his pant leg again. “It’s par for the course this week, I’m afraid. But that was very kind of you, um…miss…” He let his voice rise with a little question.
“Gussie,” she supplied. “Gussie McBain.”
“Gussie,” he repeated, reaching out a hand. “I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are.”
Thick eyebrows rose in surprise, the look in his eyes—his very sky-blue eyes, she noted—a mix of distrust and uncertainty.
“I mean, I heard you tell…her.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Thomas Jefferson DeMille.” His name rolled off her lips like she’d said it quite a few times in her life, because, well, she had.
“Just TJ,” he said, closing his fingers over her hand in a slow shake. They weren’t sweaty at all, she thought fleetingly. On the contrary, his palms were dry and warm and strong and…more wobble-inducing than his smile. “And that was very thoughtful of you since that woman obviously assumed I just arrived from the local prison.”
She laughed. “What does bring you to Mimosa Key?” A photo shoot? Her heart danced a little at the thought. She would
kill
to watch him work. He was a master and she was…a dreamer.
“Family business,” he said vaguely, the only discernable note one of pure disgust. “Anyway, thanks.” He smiled, and she could have sworn the sun shone just a little bit brighter. Gussie couldn’t help staring up at him, drinking in the sight of a man who’d previously been nothing but a photo credit…on the most beautiful photos she’d ever seen.
“Is someone going to clean up that mess?” Charity’s grating voice broke Gussie’s moment of reverie. “Or do I have to call the sheriff and report vandals at the Super Min?”
They both turned to her, and the woman just shook her fried-blond head, shooing them off with one hand. “Nevermind. Go, I’ll fix it. You…” She pointed to TJ. “I know who you are now. I made a few phone calls. Just get on your way and take care of that mess your sister left behind. And you.” Her finger slid to Gussie. “Lose the wig, and you’d be prettier.”
Gussie felt a flush in her cheeks as Charity backed into the store and let the door close.
“Well,” she said awkwardly. “Whatever has you on our lovely little island, please don’t judge us all by Charity Grambling.”
He studied her face and of course, her wig. She should be used to it—she was, really—but his eye was so incredibly trained, the scrutiny nearly melted her.
“I think you’re stunning,” he said softly.
“Wow, thanks.” She tried to laugh, but she sounded as nervous as he was making her feel. “You, too.” Oh, brother. Did she just say that?
“And I owe you a favor,” he said, letting her off the hook for the lame compliment. “Really, thank you.”
“For a broken bottle of wine and ruined magazines?”
He looked like he was about to argue, but then gave the chips a shake. “You saved my Fritos and, thus, my ass.”
His cell phone rang, interrupting them. He pulled it out and angled the screen, that same look of disgust darkening his face. “I have to go. Like the woman said, another mess calls. Good-bye, Gussie.” He stepped back to get in the truck, but took one more moment to study her again. “Really, stunning. I mean it. I have an eye for these things.”
He closed the door and backed away before she could respond.
Well, no damn wonder he was a gifted photographer. He even made Gussie McBain feel beautiful, and that was saying a lot. Smiling, she stepped gingerly over the broken glass, knowing exactly the favor she’d like to collect from him.
Thank you for reading
Barefoot in White!
Roxanne loves to hear from readers, so feel free to email her at [email protected] or sign up for the mailing list on the home page of her website,
www.roxannestclaire.com
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About the Author
Roxanne St. Claire is a
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of nearly forty novels of suspense and romance, including several popular series (
The Bullet Catchers
,
The Guardian Angelinos
, and
Barefoot Bay
) and multiple stand-alone books. Her entire backlist, including excerpts and buy links, can be found at
www.roxannestclaire.com
.
In addition to being a six-time nominee and one-time winner of the prestigious Romance Writers of America RITA Award, Roxanne’s novels have won the National Reader’s Choice Award for best romantic suspense three times, and the Borders Top Pick in Romance, as well as the Daphne du Maurier Award, the HOLT Medallion, the Maggie, Booksellers Best, Book Buyers Best, the Award of Excellence, and many others. Her books have been translated into dozens of languages and are routinely included as a Doubleday/Rhapsody Book Club Selection of the Month.
Roxanne lives in Florida with her family (and dogs!), and can be reached via her website,
www.roxannestclaire.com
or on her Facebook Reader page,
www.facebook.com/roxannestclaire
and on Twitter at
www.twitter.com/roxannestclaire
.
Books by Roxanne St. Claire
The Barefoot Bay Billionaires Trilogy (Contemporary Romance)
Secrets on the Sand
** Free **
The Barefoot Bay Quartet (Contemporary Romance)
The Guardian Angelinos (Romantic Suspense)
