No Tan Lines (4 page)

The booth closed in. He felt trapped.

It was bad news all around. His plan had backfired. He’d toyed with her, and she’d turned him on. She made him feel like a high school jock, horny and with no girl to score.

Could it get any worse? She was a Cates.

Her last name should have rendered him impotent.

Shaye quickly recovered from his scrutiny, now a woman fully composed. The color of her mood ring softened to a clover green. The lady was calm while he sat on edge. He needed to make an adjustment.

She didn’t give him time to do so. She slid into the booth across from him,
accidentally
kicking him in the shin. The sole on her flip-flop left dust on the leg of his black slacks. His pain shifted from his groin to his calf. She dipped her head. He swore her hooded eyes smiled.

The back of her bare legs stuck to the leather seat as she scooted to the middle of the table. She tugged down her short skirt and retrieved an orange flip-flop that had slipped off as she settled in.

Over the years he’d seen her relax with relatives, friends, and close business associates. She had deep dimples and sexy lips. Her frowns were reserved for him. The lady could scowl.

Her features were once again set, her shoulders squared. Her intensity poked him in the chest like a finger. She was all business.

Trace willed his erection away. He concentrated on Shaye’s proposition instead. The sports weekend interested him, but he’d been slow to respond. He knew how much she hated depending on anyone but herself, yet today she needed him. His decision would make or break the tournament. For his own purpose, he wanted her to squirm a little longer, though it wasn’t easy on him. It took more discipline than he knew he possessed to keep his mind on business and off his cock.

The menacing flick of her fingers across the prongs on her metal fork told him she was ready for battle. They hadn’t exchanged a word, yet she looked ready to wound him. She bit her lip. And stared.

More amused than threatened, he reciprocated. He ran his index finger along the dull blade of his knife, then palmed it. He waited for her reaction. She drew back. Barely. She continued staring at him, her expression telling him she could not have been more eager to play a mental game of jab and stab.

He laid the knife flat on the table, and she folded her hands in her lap. The score was even, for now.

“Shaye.” It killed him to speak first, but manners forced him to.

“Trace,” she returned.

As soon as the formalities were out of the way, a waitress approached with red vinyl menus and glasses of ice water. The server looked from him to Shaye, her expression curious. She’d probably expected dinner forks at twenty paces.

Shaye cleared her throat. “Trace, my cousin Violet,” she stiffly introduced.

Violet handed Shaye a menu, then slammed one down like a gauntlet before Trace. He frowned. He imagined whatever he ordered would be laced with Tabasco sauce.

“The volleyball tournament?” Violet asked, not looking at him.

“Still under consideration,” Shaye said.

Trace wasn’t surprised that Violet knew the reason for their meeting. The Cateses were tight-knit. Family worked for family, and all Barefoot William stood under one umbrella.

“Would you like to eat now or later?” Violet asked.

“I’d like a few minutes,” said Trace.

“Now is fine.” Shaye was either hungry or out to provoke. He figured she’d counter anything he said.

Violet sided with her cousin. She offered the two lunch specials. “Fish sandwich or a basket of clams.”

“I’d like—” Shaye started.

“To study the menu.” Trace put his foot down.

He refused to be rushed by either woman. He’d never eaten at Molly Malone’s prior to today, yet the waiting line now forming at the door was a testament to the woman’s cooking. People stood six deep. He might as well enjoy the food, since that was most likely the only thing he’d enjoy during this meeting.

“There’s coconut cream pie,” he overheard Violet whisper to Shaye.

Shaye’s expression softened. One corner of her mouth lifted, and Trace swore she sighed. Apparently pie did it for her.

He returned to the menu, and Shaye took to tapping her fingers on the Formica tabletop. Her nails were just long enough to be annoying.

Her attempt to hurry him failed. He ignored her.

She wanted to talk volleyball.

He forced her to wait, only glancing up to ask her, “Your recommendation?”

“Everything is good.”

“What are you having?”

“Cobb salad and coconut cream pie.”

He settled on a roast beef sub. “I’m ready to order.”

Shaye motioned to Violet. The waitress refilled cups of coffee at a four-top before crossing to their booth. She quickly jotted down their orders. “Drinks?” she asked.

“Water’s fine,” he and Shaye simultaneously said.

They had one thing in common, Trace noted. Water. Not much to go on. He reminded himself he wasn’t there to form a friendship. They simply had business between them.

Shaye hit him with a hard look the moment Violet left to turn in their order. She got right to the point. “It’s decision time.”

He admired her tenacity. In his experience, people who beat around the bush had little to say. Shaye ran Barefoot William Enterprises. She pushed as hard as any CEO of his acquaintance. Sometimes even harder.

He held her gaze. He took a mild interest in the contrast of her dark brown eyes and pale blond hair. Her lips were lush and pink. She was pretty, but her attitude sucked.

He worked his jaw, cut a glance around the diner. He knew the majority of customers were keeping an eye on him. Most of them strained to hear their conversation. All would jump to Shaye’s defense if he raised his voice to her.

He leaned forward, rested his forearms on the table, and kept his voice low. “I’ve given your request a great deal of thought,” he said. “You need two hundred feet of my sand over the Fourth of July weekend.”

She nodded. “We’ll draw a holiday crowd.”

“The event will be loud. Rowdy.”

“Fans cheer and party.”

“They’ll drink on my beach.”

“Hot day, cold beer—it’s all part of the game.”

“The gathering could get out of hand.”

“A city permit guarantees police for crowd control, along with additional lifeguards,” she pointed out. “The profit margin will still be high.”

He shrugged. “Saunders Shores doesn’t need the revenue.” A cheap shot. Could he stoop any lower?

Her lips pinched, ever so slightly. “We could run the tournament without you. Work on a smaller scale.”

Less space would cut into her returns. Good. He’d hit her where it hurt, in the pocketbook. She needed him more than he needed her.

He could call her bluff, or not. Every document she’d faxed was well researched, from the concession stands, sponsors’ tents, to the price of tickets. She’d gone big, and she needed his sand. Downsizing wasn’t an option for her.

“Our split?” Which he already knew. He’d only asked to irritate her.

“Seventy-thirty.”

Not good enough
. “Fifty-fifty.”

“I’m doing all the work.” Her mood ring darkened to brown. The lady was reactive.

“Sixty-forty, then. I’m renting you beachfront.”

“Rent it cheaper.” Her ring went black.

Hell, no.
If their situations were reversed, she’d rob him blind. She wouldn’t rent her beach for cheap. He wasn’t about to either.

Their meals arrived. The sandwich Violet set before him could’ve fed two men. He faced down an oven-warm, foot-long hoagie stacked with roast beef and smothered in Swiss cheese. Shaye’s Cobb salad pushed the rim on her plate. He was surprised she didn’t dive right in. Instead, she openly stared as he cut his sandwich in thirds and took his first bite.

She was on a tear. She didn’t lighten up, didn’t give him time to chew. “Your answer, Trace?”

He covered his mouth with one hand, his words slightly mumbled. “I’ll tell you once we’ve eaten.”

“You’re dragging this out for no apparent reason,” she accused.

“My stomach doesn’t think so.”

“Skip breakfast this morning?” she asked.

He swallowed. “A meeting.” Business in bed had replaced great sex.

“Blonde or brunette?”

“No one you’d know.”

She tapped her fork against her plate but didn’t take a bite. “I’m waiting.”

“And I’m still eating.” His hunger pains subsided with his second bite.

Shaye’s stomach tightened. She was hungry but wasn’t certain she could manage to eat. Trace Saunders made her nervous.
Very
nervous. He was a formidable presence in the small booth with his broad shoulders that no expensive tailoring could hide. He was always well dressed. He looked rich and competent. And way too complacent.

She, on the other hand, grew fidgety. His procrastination gave her pause. She shifted her weight in the booth, slipped off her flip-flops. She pressed her toes into the old linoleum. The floor felt cool and familiar amid the dozens of scuff marks.

She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her nerves were getting the better of her. Barefoot William had a grapevine for news. She’d told Dune not to announce the tournament prematurely. She would spread the word once Trace gave his approval. Dune, however, played by his own rules. She hoped her brother had abided by her decision this one time.

Trace would be one angry man if he discovered she’d already set the wheels into motion. Shit would hit the fan.

She studied him now as he ate. He wore his hair longer than he had as a kid, and a little less spiky. His angular bone structure carved lean hollows in his cheeks. He had a strong jaw, heavy with stubble. She would get whisker burn if he kissed her.

Kissed her?
She dropped her fork, and it rattled onto the tabletop. She picked it up quickly before he noticed her clumsiness. Such a ridiculous thought and one that would never have crossed her mind had Trace not given her the once-over on her arrival. Her outfit had done the trick, just as Kai had said it would. Yet no one fooled Trace for long.

He’d seen through her ploy and countered her pretty woman with male pursuit. He’d humped her with his eyes. A far different reaction from what she’d expected. Amusement, maybe. Excitement, a little. But a visual seduction, not in this lifetime.

She’d been as shaken by his look as by the tent in his pants. The teeth on his zipper had grinned at her. A full-out jack-o’-lantern smile.

He’d crossed their line in the sand.

Enemies fought.

They didn’t attract.

She hated the fact that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She needed to speed things up. “You finished?” she asked.

He looked down at his plate. “Does it look like I’m done?” He had two-thirds of his sandwich to go.

He was taking his sweet time, while her stomach turned sour. He was one aggravating man.

She spooned lemony chive dressing from a side bowl onto her salad. Molly’s signature salad dressing was tart yet tasty. Shaye took several small bites before setting down her fork. She wasn’t hungry anymore. She’d have a piece of pie later, once Trace consented to the event.

Molly Malone soon appeared at their booth. The owner had made the rounds, spoken to all her customers. She wore kitchen whites and a broad smile. “I chatted with your grandfather this morning right after he’d spoken to Dune.” She pumped one chubby arm in victory. “Volleyball! Sign me up for a concession tent on the beach.”

Shaye winced, wishing herself invisible.
Damn
. The cat was out of the bag. The whole boardwalk was depending on a deal that
wasn’t
a deal. Yet. She was a fraud. And had no immediate way to right the situation.

Across from her, Trace slowly set his hoagie on his plate and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. All the customers turned and stared at their booth, awaiting Shaye’s confirmation. No one seemed to breathe.

Her chest squeezed painfully.

She’d stretched the truth.

Trace was about to call her on it.

Her family would lose faith in her ability to run Barefoot William Enterprises. She’d worked so hard for them. She fought down all emotion, refusing to let her fear show. Failure wasn’t an option.

“Shaye?” Kai pushed through the diner door, all sweaty and out of breath. He hurriedly crossed to their booth. He curved his hand over her shoulder, digging his fingers deeply in a warning that came far too late. “I’ve talked to your grandfather—”

“Who’s spoken to Dune,” she said softly. Now there could be no question in Trace’s mind as to what she’d done.

“The news is out?” asked her cousin.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Ah, shit.” Kai was sympathetic.

The silence grew oppressive and weighty. Those in the restaurant waited for Shaye’s thumbs-up. She now clutched her hands so tightly, her fingers were numb.

Trace sat still, his face stone-cut. His eyes had turned a gunmetal-gray, dark and questioning. She wondered what he was thinking. She was certain they weren’t good thoughts. He was about to condemn her.

He took a sip of water, then cleared his throat. “Shaye negotiated the tournament to my satisfaction,” he finally said. “We’ve agreed on all terms. It’s a go.”

Trace had made her a hero.

Stunned, she sagged deeply into the booth as applause erupted all around her. Violet jumped up and down. Molly offered free blackberry lemonade to every customer.

Family and friends rushed Shaye’s table. She mumbled a few words but nothing that made sense. The men shook her hand, and the women hugged her. Trace remained detached. He received only the briefest of nods.

Her conscience scolded her. The glorious moment was diminished by her scheming. She’d treated Trace poorly. She hadn’t finessed the deal; she’d outright cheated. She knew it, and he knew it. She owed him a great deal. He would not take her deception lightly.

He told her with no more than a narrowing of his eyes that he had something up his sleeve he wasn’t yet telling her. He would get even, sooner rather than later. She would suffer. Paybacks were hell.