No Tan Lines (22 page)

“Trace ... Trace.”
Olive flew from her perch and landed on Shaye’s shoulder. The parrot pecked at her hair.
“Handsome but an ass. ”

Shaye inhaled so sharply, Dune swore she’d swallow her tongue. She coughed and couldn’t catch her breath. He circled the counter and patted her on the back. “Sounds like Olive’s made a new friend,” he said casually.

“I said his name in anger,” Shaye finally managed. “Olive’s a quick study.”

“M-Mmmm, big guns.”
Olive was on a roll.

Shaye put one hand over her heart and looked at the ceiling, as if in prayer. Her cheeks reddened to the color of the long-stemmed roses that decorated her coffee table. Dune had looked but hadn’t seen a card.

It was obvious that Olive had eavesdropped and gotten an earful. The Quaker loved to repeat what she overheard.

He leaned a hip against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Big guns,” he said slowly. “Cowboys or condoms?”

“Olive likes Westerns,” Shaye said. “The older shows:
Gunsmoke, Rawhide, The Rifleman.
”

“Head ’em up, move ’em out.”
Olive mimicked the opening lyrics to the theme song for
Rawhide
.

Shaye stroked the top of the parrot’s head, then rewarded her for the Western music. She reached across the counter and opened a jar of sunflower seeds. She passed the parrot one. Olive accepted it, then flew to her cage to crack the seed and eat it.

“You lucked out,” Dune said.

“How so?” asked Shaye.

“Another minute, and Olive would’ve talked condoms.”

Shaye blew him off. “I need to get dressed.”

He glanced at his watch. “The invitation said beach casual.” He’d worn a
Cinco de Drinko
Jose Cuervo T-shirt and black board shorts. “No need to dress to impress, unless there’s someone—”

“There’s no one, Dune.”

Shaye couldn’t fool him. He’d keep one eye on his sister and one on Trace. He’d know with their first look if they’d slept together. A part of him dreaded the truth.

Shaye was ready in no time. She looked pretty and sporty without pretense in a lavender tank top, navy shorts, and purple flip-flops. She’d worn the same clothes time and again; only the blue and silver hair band was new since his last visit.
A gift?
he wondered.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded. “Good luck. Tonight’s all about you.” “I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “This isn’t my first time with fans and reporters.”

“Tell it like it is,”
Olive squawked as Shaye locked the parrot’s cage and they left the houseboat.

Shannon Waite, a female reporter for
Sun Sports
magazine, cornered Dune the moment he entered the ballroom at the hotel. Shannon was good press. Dune had known her for years, and the articles she wrote were truthful, never crossing the line into favoritism or enmity.

She allowed him thirty minutes to mix and mingle, then motioned him onto the balcony. They stood by the railing overlooking the Gulf. Those who weren’t partying inside The Sandcastle were doing so on the beach. Torches were lit, and a band played. The music rose to their ears.

Shaye had set the tone for the evening. Her head held high, she’d taken the initiative and approached Trace Saunders, thanking him for his hospitality. He’d nodded, and the mood mellowed.

Dune had watched them both, looking for the smallest sign they were more than acquaintances. Nothing surfaced. They were cordial but distant and now stood on opposite sides of the room. Dune felt comfortable leaving the party for a short time.

He followed Shannon outside. The reporter knew he was in demand and was quick to start her interview. “You’ve had an amazing season, Dune,” she praised as she turned on her palm-size voice recorder. “How does it feel to be halfway through your season with six Open victories for you and your partner, Mac James?”

Dune Cates grinned. “Guess you weren’t at our latest victory party.”

“I was in Newport, California, covering the Junior Surf Tour,” she said with regret. “I heard Mac played strip volleyball on the beach at midnight.”

Dune’s partner was a wild man both on and off the court. “Mac played against six women in a T-shirt and board shorts. Two missed points, and the man was naked.”

“You’re more conservative?”

“I prefer to have a woman undress me, not drop my own drawers.”

“You and Mac are opposites, then?”

“We train, compete, and room together on the tour, but we have different lifestyles off the court.”

“Being top-seeded on the men’s tour makes you a target for every male player in the room,” she continued. “The press gives you generous coverage, and the corporate sponsors rely on you to bring your A-game to every event. You sell the show. How do you handle the pressure? How do you let off steam?”

“I avoid too much stress,” he said. “Mac lets off enough steam for both of us.”

Shannon glanced at her research notes. “You have an amazing history with pro beach volleyball. There’s been a major reorganization of the sport, but your past speaks for itself. You’ve taken the King of the Beach victory and were awarded Most Valuable Player and Best Offensive Player several years running. What’s left for you this year?”

“More wins.”

“You’re pretty confident.”

“The sun and sand are good to me.”

“You’re great for the sport,” she said. “Female fans call you Beach Heat. I’ve seen the T-shirts worn in your honor.”

He liked the red shirts with his caricature on the front. Woman wore him over their breasts. His face was often cuddled in their cleavage.

“You were injured recently,” she commented. “How long can you continue playing in the sandbox?”

Damn, he was only thirty-five. He had lots of volleyball left in him. “I hope to have the longevity and productivity of Karch Kiraly and Sinjin Smith.”

“Volleyball gods, both,” said Shannon. “You’ve big shoes to fill.”

“We play barefoot.”

She smiled at him. “Ready for the ‘Man Facts’?”

“Go for it.”

“Female fans want to know if you wear a Speedo beneath your swim trunks.”

Dune rubbed the back of his neck. A lot of guys protected their junk in case the waistband on their trunks dropped when jumping and spiking the ball. They didn’t want to flash the fans in the stand. “Fans are safe” was all he’d say.

“Your ideal woman?” she asked next.

“Someone independent, intelligent, and happy. A woman who doesn’t need me to define herself.”

“How would she know you’re crazy about her?”

“I’d think about her first.”

“Is there anything better than sex?”

“Winning.” It was a major high for him. “I’m very competitive. I set goals and work to achieve them.”

“Do your parents still attend your tournaments?”

“There were fewer events this year than last, and they made it to each one.”

“You’re back in Barefoot William,” she said. “Is it true your family owns the entire town?”

“We call it home.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“One week. Then Mac and I head back to California.”

“You’re a workaholic,” Shannon noted. “Tournament sponsors hire you for commercials. You’ve modeled your personal sportswear line in
GQ
. During the off-season, you’re a spokesman at volleyball clinics across the country for aspiring players.”

“I like to keep busy.”

“What do you do on your days off?”

“Sleep in. Dine out with friends. Play cards or see a movie.”

“Last question,” Shannon wrapped up. “Any engagement news?”

“I’m still single.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Rumors say otherwise.” Shannon was referring to Lynn Crandall, who played on the women’s volleyball circuit. Lynn now hovered by the door while he conducted his interview. Media considered them a couple, and Lynn believed their press.

They’d dated for a year now, but Dune was close to ending the relationship. He planned to break the news to Lynn before word broke in the article. “I’m free and always easy,” he said.

Shannon shut off her recorder. “ ‘Easy’ works for you,” she said. “I’ll send a photographer to the event tomorrow. Smile pretty.” And she left him to his thoughts.

His thoughts were soon interrupted by Lynn. She came to him, a woman standing six foot two to his six-six. She wore heeled sandals that brought them eye to eye.

They were the only two people on the secluded terrace. She curled her hands in the front of his T-shirt and tugged him close. “You didn’t mention me in your interview,” she pouted. “Shame on you.”

She punished him by nipping his bottom lip, then slipping him her tongue. Her red halter dress showed a lot of skin, and her feminine heat embraced him. The lady was aroused. She tried to deepen the kiss, but Dune disengaged. He didn’t believe in leading a woman on. He wasn’t as into her as she was into him.

The cocktail party rocked. Trace Saunders had gone all out. The food, drinks, and music were first-class. Dune wanted to work the room, embrace family, and get reacquainted with old friends, yet Lynn wanted alone-time with him. She had him cornered now.

Tonight twenty-four top-seeded female and male players would be auctioned off as volleyball partners to the highest bidders. Fans had come from far and wide to participate in the pro/am. Players would go for big bucks. The money raised would benefit Barefoot William.

Tomorrow local commerce would thrive. The two-person teams would hit the beach and sweat volleyball. Souvenirs and sunscreen would be sold and kegs of beer drunk. Everyone would have a good time.

“You’re distracted,” Lynn said, breaking into his thoughts.

“I’m concentrating on the tournament,” he said. “It’s important to me.”

“And I’m not?” Her expression tightened a fraction.

His slow response made her apprehensive. She tried to get closer, but they were already bumping hip bones. “We’re good together,” she said. “I love you, Dune.”

He didn’t love her back.

“Marry me.”

Her proposal blindsided him. He breathed deeply as he prepared his answer. He tried to remember the good times before their relationship had turned stale. Those memories were few.

Lynn Crandall was a superfox. Her auburn hair, green eyes, and athletic body left men dumbstruck. Dune had done a double take on their first meeting, then gone on to date her. She’d chased him hard.

From the beginning she’d shown him her fun, sexy side. Only recently had her demands turned ugly. Her beauty only ran skin deep. He didn’t do superficial.

The longer he knew her, the less he liked her. She had a love-hate relationship with his popularity. She overlooked his power to promote beach volleyball and only saw the women who crossed his path as potential hookups.

She’d gone territorial on him. She’d turned from babe to bitch in the blink of an eye, and she didn’t wear jealousy well.

She had more invested in their relationship than he did. He’d never led her on, never promised more than a good time. “
I do
” was nowhere near the tip of his tongue.

Their relationship was over.

He just wished there was a way to break it to her gently.

He took a step back, and her gaze narrowed as he distanced himself. “What the hell’s going on?” she asked. Anger etched the corners of her mouth. The scene was about to head south.

He crossed his arms over his chest, tucked his thumbs into his armpits, and kept his cool. He needed to give her an honest answer. One she couldn’t twist to her liking.

“We’ve had a good time, had a lot of fun,” he said.

“It’s only going to get better,” she rushed to say. She attempted to close the gap between them, but he took hold of her shoulders, stopping her. A foot separated them, marking his space. Her lips pinched. “What the fuck, Dune?”

“I’m not ready to get married.”

Her eyes flashed. “Not now or not to me?”

“Not to anyone for a long time to come.”

“You bastard,” she hissed. “I put my life on hold for you. I’ve turned down dates—”

“We were never exclusive,” he quietly reminded her. “We were both free to see other people.”

“Have you dated other women behind my back?”

He thought of Marlene Mason and their one-night stand. There was no need to toss that into the mix. He and Lynn had hit the end of the road. There was no reason to rile her further.

He held silent and hoped she wouldn’t press. He hadn’t had time to cultivate a new relationship. Between practice and his celebrity status, he worked fourteen-hour days, six days a week. Sundays he crashed, his only companion a gray Weimaraner named Ghost.

“You said you loved me,” she accused.

“Sorry, never did.” He hadn’t spoken those words to any woman ever, outside his family.

Her face twisted, and she looked downright feral. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“We were never officially together.”

“You prick.” She slapped him the way she spiked a volleyball. The lady had power. Her force could’ve dislocated his jaw.

His cheek stung, and his left ear buzzed.

He swore she’d loosened a back molar.

Her growled curses turned the air blue as she spun and stormed back into the ballroom. Her fists were clenched, and her stride was fierce. The short skirt on her halter dress swished wildly, flashing the creases between her thighs and bottom.

It was evident she wore a thong.

“Damn.” Dune massaged his cheek, then slowly shifted his jaw. Nothing appeared broken, but it hurt like a son of bitch.

He glanced toward the ballroom. The French doors leading inside revealed a room packed with people. Dune recognized nearly everyone in attendance. He needed a moment alone, to clear his head, before returning inside.

By now, word would have spread that Lynn had dumped him. Dune didn’t give a damn how the gossip went down. He seldom cared what people said or thought about him.

Anyone who knew him well recognized he didn’t do serious. He concentrated on what he loved, and that was beach volleyball.

Those who spent time with Lynn soon realized her moods shifted with the tide. She was unpredictable at best.