Barefoot in the Rain (5 page)

But the main building of Casa Blanca was of no real interest to Will. His work centered on the six private villas the resort’s most well-heeled guests would rent. He’d spent the better part of the last year building those smaller structures, including all of the finishing carpentry in Rockrose, the first completed villa at the north end of the main path.

He peered through the palm fronds and elephant-ear leaves that had grown lush since a hurricane stripped the trees over a year ago. He studied the unpaved road that led to the villas. Deep, fresh wheel grooves cut through the dew-dampened dirt. Had someone driven up there on a Sunday?

Even if there had been a sub here on a Sunday—which was really unlikely—the construction crew was primarily focused on Bay Laurel, the villa closest to where he stood now and the destination of the African wood flooring he’d loaded in his truck.

Why would someone drive up the path? Lacey and Clay’s new house stood at the very far north end of the property, but you couldn’t drive all the way up there from here; they’d take the back road around the property.

He paused at the passenger door, pulling it open to grab the cup of coffee he’d picked up at the Super Min on his way to the site. As he unwedged the cup from the holder, a drop of hot black coffee splashed through the plastic top, dribbling onto the seat.

Well, not the seat. Onto the newspaper he’d left there. And not exactly a newspaper, either, unless the
National Enquirer
qualified.

The headline taunted him.

Coco Cries on Set: “I Was Blind to the Affair!”

Why the hell did he buy that shit, anyway? To revel in someone else’s misery? To get the dirt on a woman he’d once thought was perfect?

Well, hell, people change. Who knew that better than Will?

Holding the coffee in his right hand, he used the other to lift the front page to see the blurry shot of a woman with long dark hair, big brown eyes, and features so burned in his memory that he didn’t need a wide-angle lens to capture them.

She had only changed for the better, at least physically. The years had been kind, even if the media wasn’t. The memory that had haunted him for almost half his life nearly swallowed him whole when he looked at her picture.

Then don’t look, you idiot.

Closing the page, he nudged the door closed with his hip and finished his coffee, intrigued enough by the tire prints to follow them after he tossed the empty cup in the trash. He strode along what would eventually be the resort’s scenic walkway, canopied by green and lined with exotic flowers from Africa, each villa named for a different bloom.

He passed the partially built villas, mentally reviewing each construction schedule, but his thoughts stopped the instant he rounded the foliage that blocked Rockrose, the only fully finished villa.

That’s
what was different.

He squinted into the sun that backlit the vanilla-colored structure, highlighting the fact that the french doors along the side were wide open, the sheer curtains Lacey had installed fluttering like ghosts. There was no breeze, so someone had to have the overhead fan on in there.

Shit. Vandals? Squatters? Maybe Lacey’s teenage daughter or one of her friends taking advantage of the place?

There was no other explanation. Rockrose had been given a CO two weeks ago. But a certificate of occupancy didn’t mean
actual
occupancy, and Lacey kept the secluded villa locked tight so that none of the construction workers traipsed through or decided to use the facilities.

He took a few steps closer, instinctively flexing his muscles, ready to fight for the turf of a building that somehow had become “his.”

He took cover behind an oleander bush, slipping around to get a better view into the bedroom. He could see the sheer film of netting Lacey had hung from the bed’s canopy, the decor as romantic as Morocco itself.

If anyone defiled one inch of that villa there’d be hell to pay. He’d laid the marble in the bath, shaved the oak wood crown molding, and hand-carved the columns on the fireplace mantel from one solid piece of rosewood. The whole job had given him more satisfaction than picking off a runner trying to steal second ever had.

Irritation pushed him closer to the deck, another damn thing he’d made with his own two hands. If some stupid kid had—

The filmy gauze around the bed quivered, then suddenly whisked open. Holy hell, someone was
sleeping
in that bed. He bounded closer, sucking in a breath to yell, then one long, bare, shapely leg emerged from the clouds of white.

His voice trapped in his throat and his steps slammed to a stop. The sun beamed on pale skin, spotlighting pink-tipped toes that flexed and stretched like a ballerina preparing to hit the barre.

The other leg slid into view, followed by an audible yawn and sigh that drifted over the tropical air to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He took a few stealthy steps, wanting to keep the advantage of surprise but, man, he didn’t want to miss what came out of that bed next.

The feet touched the floor and a woman emerged from the netting, naked from head to toe, dark hair falling over most of her face. Not that he’d have looked at her face.

No, his gaze was locked on long limbs, a narrow waist, and subtle curves that begged to be handled. Her breasts were small, budded with rose-colored nipples, her womanhood a simple sliver of ebony that matched her sexy, messy hair.

She stretched, widening her arms, yawning again, giving him a centerfold-worthy view as her breasts lifted higher. Every functioning blood cell careened south, leaving his brain a total blank and his cock well on its way to being as hard as the planks of African wood in his truck.

Son of a bitch. He backed up, ducking behind the oleander and cursing himself for being some kind of pervie Peeping Tom. He had to get back down the path and come
back later—noisily, in his truck—to find out who the hell she was.

A footstep hit the wood deck and Will inched to the side, unable to stop himself from looking. At least she had on a thin white top now, and panties. With both hands, she gathered her hair up to—

His heart stopped for at least four beats, then slammed into quadruple time.

Jocelyn
.

Was it possible? Was he imagining things? Was this a mirage spurred by a couple of lousy pictures in the paper and three days of fantasies and frustration?

She let go of her hair, shaking her head so that a thick, black mane tumbled over her shoulders like an inky waterfall. Then she closed her eyes and turned her face to the rising sun.

Any doubt disappeared. Along with common sense and years of rationalization and a decade and a half of telling himself he had no choice—even though he knew differently.

Everything suddenly changed at the sight of Jocelyn Mary Bloom. The sun was warmer. The air was cleaner. And his heart squeezed in a way it hadn’t for fifteen years.

She turned, rubbing her arm as if a sixth sense had sent a chill over her. “Is someone there?”

Make a joke. Say something funny. Walk, smile, talk. C’mon, William Palmer, don’t just stand here and gawk like you’ve never seen a female before.

“It’s me.”

She squinted into the bushes, then reared back in shock as he stepped out and revealed himself. Her lips moved, mouthing his name, but no real sound came out.

“Will,” he said for her. “I thought someone was trespassing.”

She just stared, jaw loose, eyes wide, every muscle frozen like she’d been carved out of ice.

He fought the urge to launch forward, take the three stairs up to the deck in one bound and… thaw her. But, whoa, he knew better with Jocelyn Bloom. One false move and
poof
. Out at the plate.

“What are you doing here?” They spoke the words in perfect unison, then both let out awkward laughs.

“Lacey brought you here?” he guessed.

She nodded, reaching up to run a hand through that mass of midnight hair, then, as if she suddenly realized how little she had on, she stepped back into the shadows of the villa, but he could still see her face.

“How about you?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “I work here.”

She looked completely baffled. “You play baseball.”

“Not at the moment. I work for the builder.”

“Lacey said I’d be the first guest. I’m… staying here.”

Hiding here, more like. The pieces slid together like tongue in groove. She’d run away from the mess in L.A., and her best friend had cloistered her in a place that wouldn’t even show up on a GPS yet, let alone at the other end of a reporter’s camera.

Then another thought hit him like a fastball to the brain. “You alone?” He must have had a little accusation in his voice, because she raised an eyebrow and looked disappointed.

“Yes,” she said quietly, sadness in her eyes and a softness in her posture.

Shit. He’d hurt her. He regretted the question the
instant it had popped out. She was hiding from prying eyes and personal questions and what had he done? Pried and questioned.

He held up a hand as though that could deliver his apology and took a few steps closer. “How long are you here? I’d love to…”
Talk to you. Kiss you until you can’t breathe. Spend every night in your bed
. “Get caught up.”

“I shouldn’t be here that long.”

In other words, no. “Too bad,” he said, hiding the impact of disappointment. “Maybe I’ll see you on the south end when you go home.”

“I won’t go there.” The statement was firm, clear, and unequivocal.
Don’t argue with me,
dripped the subtext.

She wouldn’t even
see
her dad? A spark flared, pushing him closer, up the stairs. She wouldn’t even do a drive-by to see if her old man was dead or alive? Because he’d bet his next paycheck she didn’t know… anything.

Something hammered at him, and this time it wasn’t his heart reacting to the sight of a beautiful, not entirely dressed woman. No, this was the physical jolt of a whole different kind of frustration.

“So, what exactly do you do for the builder?” she asked, apparently unaware she’d hit a hot button.

But her casual question barely registered, her astounding near nakedness practically forgotten despite God’s professional lighting that gave him a perfect view of her body under those slips of white silk.

“Carpentry,” he said through gritted teeth, a little surprised at how much emotion rocked him. He had to remember what she’d gone through, what her father was in her eyes, but right now all he could think about was a harmless, helpless old man who had no one to call family.

Even though he had a perfectly good daughter standing right here.

“A carpenter just like your father,” she said, nodding. “I remember he was quite talented.”

“Speaking of fathers.” He dragged the word out, long enough to see her expression shift to blank. “I’m back in my parents’ house. They moved out to Oregon to be closer to my sister and her kids.”

In other words, I live next door to your father
. He waited for the reaction, but she just raised her hand, halting him. “I really have to go, Will. Nice to see you again.”

Seriously? She wouldn’t even hear him out?

She backed into the opening of the french doors, hidden from view now. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, though,” she called, one hand reaching for the knob to close him out.

He grabbed the wood frame and held it as tightly as he had when he’d installed the very door she was about to slam in his face. “Jocelyn.”

“Please, Will.”

“Listen to me.”

“I’m sure our paths will cross.” But her voice contradicted that cliché. And so did history. One wrong word and Jocelyn would find another hiding place in another corner of the world.

Was he willing to risk that? If he so much as spoke the name Guy Bloom, she’d be on a plane headed back to California. But, damn it, shouldn’t she
know
?

He let go of the door and she pulled it closed. He thrust his boot in the jamb to keep the door from closing.

“Will, I have to—”

“Your father has Alzheimer’s.” He had enough
strength in his foot to nudge the opening wider and see the shocked look that drained all the color from her cheeks. “I take care of him.”

He slipped his boot out and the door slammed shut.

Well, he was right about the winds of change. And maybe that change was simply that after half a lifetime, he could finally get over Jocelyn Bloom.

Keep telling yourself that, buddy. Someday you might believe it.

M
imosa Key curved exactly like a question mark, forming the perfect metaphor for the childhood Jocelyn Bloom had spent there. As she took the curve around Barefoot Bay in the car she’d borrowed from Lacey—with the excuse that she had to go shopping for clothes—and headed to the south end of the island, Jocelyn considered the eternal question that loomed for the seventeen and three-quarters years she’d lived on this barrier island.

What would happen next?

With Guy Bloom, no one was ever sure. When she was very young, nothing had been terribly out of the ordinary. But then, overnight it seemed to her childish perception, he’d changed. He’d go weeks, even months, on an even keel—hot tempered, but under control, before he’d snap. Dishes and books could sail across the room, vicious words in their wake. And then he had to hit someone.