Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (7 page)

“Glad to be of service.” He didn’t like where that statement was headed. The images she’d painted in his mind didn’t make him nearly as happy as they seemed to make her.
 

Her smile remained broad enough for him to count every tooth in her dentures.
 

He asked, "Who is Ted?"

"Ted? He's Mr. Fix it. He can repair any and everything. Almost. We'd be lost without him. He usually comes in here around this time—just before lunch—and picks up whatever he needs to finish his daily work."

A repairman. Ted may be just the bloke to get to know. Brock could certainly use a hand with some of the projects he had in mind for the house.
 

"Tell me, Beautiful...to whom do I address this autograph?"

The older woman beamed. "Your dear friend, Louise."

He signed the photograph for Louise and handed it back to her. She pulled her rhinestone-studded glasses to the tip of her nose and peered over the lenses at the paper. "Brock Knight?"

"Yes. My name is Brock Knight. It's a pleasure to meet you, Louise."

“Brock? What kinda name is that?”

“It’s a rather romantic story, actually. My father first met my mother by the River Brock in Lancashire, England. A year later, he proposed to her in a field of bluebells in Brock Valley. Before I was born, when they were searching baby names, they stumbled across the boy’s name—Brock. They instantly agreed that should be my name.”

"That is a lovely story.” Louise’s expression was dreamy as if she was remembering a romantic story of her own. “I was named after my grandmother. Louisa was her name. My full name is Louise Moore. I live in the fuchsia house facing the waterway at Bare Point on the north end of the island. You can’t miss it. Are you visiting family?"

"No. I recently acquired a home here. I believe the residence was previously owned by the Marshall family."

"You bought the Marshall place?" She scratched her temple. "That place was never up for sale."

"No. You are correct. It never went on the market. I was fortunate enough to get it before it was listed. The Marshalls are my brother's new in-laws. Inside connections, I guess you’d say.”

“At least the house stayed in the family. I can't imagine Sam is too happy about it. You know, the pretty girl you helped over the bridge?”

“Yes. I’ve met Sam. Lovely woman.”

Louise leaned forward and shook her finger at Brock. "You best watch how you treat our Sam, or you'll have a fight on your hands. We take care of our own around here."

He was taken aback by the woman's threat. "You haven't a thing to worry about. I'm letting Sam stay on another six weeks."
 

"Glad to hear it." Louise gave a satisfied nod and looked around him. "Ted's here.” She motioned down the aisle with her cane. "He just went to the plumbing section a few aisles over. Come along."

Brock followed Louise to the plumbing area, and there stood a tall, tanned, and fit-looking bloke in his mid twenties. He wore a camo ball cap, a pair of khaki cargo shorts, steel-toed work boots, and a yellow t-shirt that said, "No. I will not fix your computer."
 

Louise said, "Ted, dear. This here is Brock Knight.”

Brock extended his hand. Ted hesitated, giving Brock a strange look before shaking. "Ted Davis. Nice to meet ya."

Louise piped up, "Brock bought the Marshall house."

Ted stiffened. "Sam's house?"

"Yep. That's right. Sam's place."

"Does she know about this?"

Brock interjected. "Yes. Sam and I came to an agreement this morning."

"Where are you from, dude?" Ted had a look on his face like he smelled a foul odor.

"Wales."
 

"Wales?”

Louise said, “He’s British.”

 
Ted looked confused. “British? Like from England?”

 
“Yes, dear, something like that.” With a proud-teacher grin, Louise patted Ted’s arm.
 

He twisted his mouth for a second. “What the hell are you doing here?"

The bloke was quite rude. Brock wasn't sure he wanted to pursue this any further. Most assuredly there were others he could hire. He didn’t need to dignify the question with an answer.

Brock had to be careful how he phrased things. “Louise tells me you do odd jobs here on the island. Do you perchance know of a good carpenter?"

Ted shook his head at Louise as if to say “I didn't get that, did you?"

Brock repeated himself. "A carpenter."

“A Cop and what?" Ted squinted one eye. "My buddy's a cop, but what was that other thing you were looking for?”

 
"No. You misunderstood. I want to hire a home repair contractor."

“Why didn’t you just say so? I’m your man. Only construction guy doing handyman repairs on the island. What do you need?"

Only one? Bollocks. "I'd like to start with the railing on the deck.”

"Nothing wrong with the railing on the deck at the Marshalls. I just checked everything out last month.” He seemed defensive.
 

Brock wasn't sure why the young man was so tense, but he didn't want to push the wrong buttons. Especially since this bloke was his only option for help with the repairs.

He asked Ted, “Do you have a business card?"

"Business card? Hell, Sam's got my number on the fridge beside a picture of me holding up the biggest flounder caught this year.” He seemed to be gloating about Sam having his number on the fridge. Did Ted have a crush on her? Why wouldn't he? Small island. Sexy woman.
 

Brock was beginning to wonder if he didn't have a crush on her himself.

"Very well, mate. I'll ring you."

“Ring me?”

“Call you. I’ll give you a call.”

Louise broke in. "I just love your accent, even if I can't understand a word you say."

Brock said, “Likewise.” Louise and Ted both laughed. Good. At least they got his dry sense of humor.

Brock left the hardware store and drove back over the bridge. He was becoming quite fond of how the scent of the ocean was able to soothe his nerves.
 

That ugly fish mailbox, however, had to go. He pulled into the carport.

“Pardon me.” Brock mimicked Louise from the hardware store. Shaking his head, he laughed and stepped out of his vehicle.

A nearby door was propped open by a large shell. He peered inside the room. Boxes and clothes cluttered the space.
 

This must be the flat Sam mentioned earlier. Good. She’d started clearing her things out so he could move in.
 

FATIGUE SET IN, and Sam’s arm muscles trembled under the weight of a loaded file-box. Moving all her things in an hour had taken a toll. She bent over and plopped the box onto the floor of the laundry area.
 

A low voice barked, “What are you doing?"
 

She popped up and whirled around. Brock’s mouth was pinched into a straight line, and his eyes narrowed like he was using x-ray vision to see what was inside the box.

A quivering nervousness crawled through her abdomen. He looked intimidating. Ferocious.
 

It took a few seconds to find her tongue. “I can't let you take the guest quarters. You're already being overly generous. I've only got a couple more boxes, and I'll be out of your hair. Fresh sheets are on the bed. The bathroom is clean, somewhat. I'll do a more thorough job of it tomorrow."

He moved closer. "I really didn't want to disrupt your life anymore than necessary. I'm not comfortable with this."

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I insist you remain in the master suite.” He reached for the box.

She didn't know what to make of his bossiness. “Listen, I've already moved most everything downstairs. Mazy helped before she had to go."

He straightened with the box in hand and leveled her with a contemplative stare. “I’ll move everything back for you.”

“No. I want to stay down there. Besides, you’re creeping me out. What’s your deal?” She put her hands on the box.
 

He pulled it away from her, “I apologize. I don’t mean to sound pushy. I feel badly for turning your world upside down in a matter of hours. I know this is technically my house, but by my standards, I’ve imposed upon you. That makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to come off like a jerk.”
 

With a playful elbow nudge to her side, he said, “If you insist on taking the one-room flat, at least allow me to carry the last of your things down there for you."

She put an even heavier box on top of the one he held in his hands. “Knock yourself out.”
Literally. Pretend you’re the World’s Heavy-Weight Champ and do it.

She led him downstairs to the efficiency. It had a sofa bed, a dresser that doubled as a flat-screen T.V. stand, a bookcase, a coffee table. A tiny kitchenette with a bar and two stools, and a small bathroom with a shower was on the right. The entire room was done in white, except for the splotchy, sand-colored concrete floor, and a coral-reef mural on one wall that made the room appear to be at the bottom of the ocean.
 

She motioned for him to put the boxes on the dresser. All her belongings were stacked in piles on the floor and counters, except for her trophies in the bookcase.

As soon as he offloaded the boxes, he checked out her awards.
 

With a wicked look in his eyes, he read the label. "Shagging champion?"

She laughed. "Yep. Three years in a row."

"Shagging? They give awards for that in this town?" The look on his face was priceless.

She knew what shagging meant to the British, and she considered clarifying that the shag was a regional dance with a long history in the south, but she decided it would be more fun to milk this misunderstanding.
 

With an intentionally dramatic head toss, she said, “A lot of credit goes to my partner. He did most of the work."

"Partner?"

"Yeah. Men have the tough job in shagging."

"Your partner was a man?"

Crap
. Had she just blown her cover about being gay? "All of my competitive shagging partners have been men, but never the same man twice. I like variety."

He gulped and returned the trophy to the shelf, but kept his hand on it. "So you don't mind shagging with men?"

How was she going to cover her tracks now? "Not if there's an audience and a prize involved." This conversation was turning into quicksand.

"Audience?"

"Oh my, yes. The annual contest on the island draws in quite a crowd. I've known people to come from as far as Canada."

"To participate or watch?”

“Both.”

He shook his head in disbelief. "It must be a sight to see."

"Yes, the floor’s covered with couples of all ages."

He let go of the trophy. "When is the contest?"

"The next one’s in three weeks."

"Good. I don't want to miss it."

"Are you considering competing?”

"No. I don't have a current partner. I think I'll just spectate. You're entering, right?"

"That goes without saying. I'm the reigning champ."

The aroma of shrimp scampi made Sam’s stomach growl as she entered Reel to Real Good for her regular gig with Bikini Quartet, thanks to the fact it was owned by their saxophonist Leah and her brother Jack. Break couldn’t come fast enough. Sam was raring to chow down on some of Jack’s delicious food. She’d been so busy, she hadn’t eaten anything other than a burnt piece of toast with peanut butter all day.

Mazy now wore a black strapless top and white skinny jeans. She assembled her drum set on stage. Kendal bowed her head of honey curls over her fingers and pounded out a series of scales and arpeggios on her electric piano. Sam was surprised to see Kendal wearing a curve hugging, magenta wrap dress and high heeled sandals, instead of a granny dress and flats like she normally wore. Maybe she had a man coming to the gig. If so, he’d be lucky to get the attention of a sweetheart like Kendal.
 

Behind the women, a rhinestone-studded-navy-velvet curtain hung as a backdrop. “Bikini Quartet” was projected onto the curtain by a rotary spotlight, making the words appear to be a watery reflection. Twinkling white lights and iridescent gossamer cascaded from pillars on each side of the stage, creating a waterfall effect.

A horrendous saxophone honk came from behind Sam, giving her a heart-thumping jolt. Leah’s familiar childlike laughter soon followed. Sam turned around. “You scared the heck out of me.”
 

Leah’s long, dark hair framed her exotic features—high cheekbones, slim nose, and pale green cat-eyes accentuated with winged eyeliner. Her lithe dancer’s body was flattered by a classic white sheath dress that alluded to her flair for fashion and sophistication. Leah grinned and said, “I love to rattle your cage. By the way, I heard you did some moving today.”

“Mazy already told ya, huh?”

“Not until I asked her some questions about it. Louise and Myrtle popped in for lunch. They had a folder full of pictures. One of them showed you and Mazy hauling boxes down to the dungeon.”

“Jeez. Why is Myrtle taking all these pictures of me and my business today?” Sam couldn’t believe what a little busybody Myrtle was being. “Is she spying on me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Myrtle’s always taking pictures of everything. You know she passes your house on her adult tricycle ride to the restaurant for lunch every day. She’s just being her nosy self.” Leah’s eyes surveyed the area like two flies looking for a place to land in tandem. Sam knew she was hiding something.

“Leah?” She moved her head into Leah’s line of vision. “What’s Myrtle up to?”
 

Leah removed the reed from her sax, popped it in her mouth, and shrugged as she stepped in front of Sam. With a head jerk, she motioned her toward the stage.

Crap
. Leah wasn’t going to tell her anything. Maybe she could pry some information out of Kendal or Mazy instead.

They wove through an obstacle course of tables draped in white linen and decorated with vases filled with pink roses.