Barefoot Bay: SEALed With a Twist (Kindle Worlds) Read online

  What a pair they made, him and Skye, both of them walking away from wealth and privilege. He’d gone into a brutal world of physical hardship and combat, but it was rewarding too, or had been until his failure with Maverick. She’d…what? Become a maid? Dyed hair and heavy makeup couldn’t hide Skye’s breeding. “Worst disguise ever,” he muttered to himself. It’d be laughable too if he hadn’t fallen for it himself, even with her buck naked before him, even sensing something was off, he hadn’t recognized her.

  He knew what it felt like to no longer be able to stand his own skin. Maybe that’s what had driven her to change her look and come back here.

  Maybe, like him, she’d needed to be someone else.

  In under an hour, he hit the ten-mile mark, nearly reaching the northern end of the Key where the marina flourished. He detoured back down to the beach, stripped off shirt and shoes, and emptied his pockets before jogging down to the water’s edge and plunging out into the surf.

  The late afternoon sun glittered off each crest as he cut through the water in a swift crawl stroke that had his lungs cycling oxygen like some rusty steam pipe, wheezing air from his nose every fourth stroke when his head slanted right. When he was five miles out, Grant floated for a minute, buoying long enough to take inventory of his condition.

  Then he marked the distant seashore and headed back.

  Emerging from the water, he used his shirt to towel off enough that his running shoes wouldn’t waterlog before tying it around his waist and heading back towards town at the same steady pace.

  The rude blare of a car horn snapped Grant back into his body in time to avoid being tagged by a Honda. Stuck in his training headspace, he’d run all the way into what passed as downtown Mimosa Key and had unknowingly swerved into the line of traffic. He skipped up the curb and out to the way, bending over at the waist, chest heaving, as he got his bearings.

  His eyes hooked on the Super Mini Mart Convenience Store on one corner of the main intersection. Mimosa Key wasn’t exactly Orlando, but with the resort and the goat farm and the destination wedding business and now a minor league baseball team making its home here in the yet-to-be finished stadium, life on the Key had come a long way.

  Not that it appeared to have any effect on the Super Min, which looked the same as it had six months prior. Across from the convenience market was the Fourway Hotel where the jokes wrote themselves. Couples and families roamed the quaint streets and it struck him suddenly that most of the day had gone. Though the Florida light blazed on strong even for March, a cooler breeze now pebbled his sweat-dampened skin.

  Grant mopped his face with the tail of his shirt as he caught his breath and idly wondered if the cash he’d stashed in the pocket of his workout shorts was intact. He could really pound back some Gatorade right now. Spying a grassy alcove too small to be called a park, he headed over and stretched out, nodding once or twice to the curious to avoid getting reported as creepy sweating dude, like he was some unnamed extra on Law & Order.

  Screw it, he needed to replenish electrolytes before heading back to Casa Blanca and if his money was wet, it was still money and paper dried.

  He’d reached the intersection when a neon yellow McLaren screeched up in a last-minute decision not to run the red light. Grant winced at the car’s abuse. His gaze narrowed in on the pristine machine, but the tinted windows kept him from seeing the asshole occupant.

  Something about the car was off and not only its obscene color. Only a dickward would ruin such an elegant not to mention expensive vehicle and think it made him more of a man. Grant studied car and driver as the light turned green and the McLaren pulled into the Super Min’s lot and parked.

  A man climbed out of the low-slung beast looking like he’d stepped out of central casting for Pretty in Pink. Blonde and tall with a posture that told Grant he liked to intimidate people with his height, the man wore pleated chinos and designer shoes (no socks) topped by a pale blue dress shirt whose sleeves had been carefully rolled up to precise points on his elbows. As Grant closed the distance, he noted the man’s fit form, but suspected it a physique carved out by a trainer and nutritionist, privilege on display.

  This guy was a pampered desk jockey. Grant would bet his trident on it.

  The picture didn’t add up. He’d seen men drive sports cars to make up for their limp dicks and men who drove them to shove their wealth down the world’s throat. Hell, Grant had even rented a fucking Porsche this weekend for shits and giggles.

  He’d also seen men drive cars like the McLaren who fit the look, professional drivers or genuine alphas like Queen who effortlessly pulled it off.

  This guy was none of that. This guy was a douche, that was clear, and wore his wealth like a ball boy did his varsity jacket—hoping no one would remember he was with the team, but not on it.

  And Grant had no idea why this douche was wigging him out.

  The bell above the door jangled as he followed the guy inside, catching the notice of the harridan who owned the joint, which was the point of a bell in the first place. Situated on a stool perch behind the register, the woman sized up the preppy boy and Grant bit back a grin when her lip curled.

  “If your name is Blane, you can turn right around, get back into that embarrassment of a car, and go away.”

  Grant ducked past and headed for the cooler in the back. He watched via the ceiling’s security mirror as the douche drew up to his full height so he could look down his nose at the woman.

  Called that. Asswipe.

  “Do you know who I am?” the douche asked.

  “Am I psychic?”

  “I’m Brandon Collinsford.”

  “Well, la di dah. Sounds about as dumb ass as driving a neon yellow sports car. Jeez Loo-eeze. Might as well tattoo ‘I have a tiny penis’ on your forehead and be done with it.”

  Gatorade in hand and halfway back to the register, Grant snorted. The woman’s acid gaze tagged him, then quickly returned to her prey as she continued.

  “I’m Charity Grambling. And not only don’t I know or care who you are, Mister Bran-don Collinsford, but I couldn’t give a horse’s patoot neither.”

  “Charity? Are Faith and Hope somewhere nearby?”

  “Ha. How original,” Charity snarked back. “You want something? Buy it and go. Otherwise…” She waved her hand at the door and went back to her trashy magazine, dismissing him. “Just go.”

  Brandon sneered at her, and when this had zero effect on the woman’s death glare, he looked for support from a fellow customer. “Is everyone in this town as rude as this bitch?” he asked Grant.

  Grant dumped his bottles on the counter. “Watch your mouth,” he ordered, humor gone, adding a lethal look that made the man take a large step back from the counter.

  Grant knew how he looked. He had at least three inches on the guy and was big and bare-chested, wet and sweating from his run. This guy might look down his nose at people, but he didn’t have the spine when it came to people he couldn’t bully or intimidate.

  A flush broke under the douche’s tanned skin. Realizing the weakness this all revealed, he bristled and visibly tried to find his balls.

  “It would seem having an upscale resort that caters to the right kind of people failed to class up this town.”

  “Thank Christ.” Grant leaned an elbow on the counter, the picture of ease, but his hard gaze remained pinned on Brandon. “Probably shouldn’t spend more time here than needed or we might contaminate you with our bad manners.”

  “I’m shocked you have enough brain cells to realize your lack.”

  Grant smiled then, a lean, unfriendly arrow. “That’s me. Always surprising people.”

  “Soon as I collect my fiancée, we’ll be leaving. This time for good,” he muttered, ringing Grant’s alarm bells again. “I was told she was here.”

  Poor woman.

  Grant made a show of looking around the store. “Not seeing her, pal.” He thought Charity may have smiled at that, but her face was so perman
ently set to—Grant failed to come up with anything kinder than “resting bitch face”—he must have imagined the slip.

  “Here as in at the resort. Casa Blanca,” the douche clarified. As if there was more than one resort on Mimosa Key and Grant might get confused.

  Grant jerked his chin in the direction of the resort. “Casa Blanca is that way.”

  “I know. I was married there last year.”

  Married last year and already with a new fiancée? Definitely a douche.

  “Best get to it then, pal.” Grant turned his back on Brandon and found Charity studying him under a cross-looking brow. “What do I owe you?” he asked as the jangle of the bell signaled Brandon’s exit.

  “I could’ve handled him.”

  “Did from where I stood.” He dredged up some of his old trademark charm. “But no one insults a lady on my watch. My mama would roll over in her grave.” His mother was alive and well and likely shopping the shit out of the runway shows in Milan, but whatever.

  “I know every single body that lives on this island, if not personally, then enough to call them by name.”

  “I’m only visiting for the weekend. Repeat customer, if that helps any.”

  “It doesn’t. Any fool who’d shell out to stay at that resort deserves to be saddled with idiots like that one.” Wincing, she looked out the window as the car roared out of the lot and through the intersection. “He should apologize for insulting that car with such a color. Where does he think he is, Miami Vice?”

  “Well, when you’re named after a major appliance…”

  She smacked his arm with her magazine. “Always liked that Duckie. Though not in that stupid Man show.” She punched some buttons on the register. “Two fifty for the Gatorade. I’ll give you the first one since watching you take him down was damn fine entertainment.” Unasked, she slipped the empty bottle into a waste can, then her face got tight and defensive. “Not that I needed a rough looker like you to rescue me from some trust fund ass.”

  “Never doubted it.”

  “I got a reputation in this town. It ain’t for givin’ out freebies.”

  “Your secret, one-time, never-to-be-repeated act of kindness is safe with me.” He snagged a protein bar from the end cap and tossed it on the counter before digging out his cash.

  She eyed the wet cash he spread out on the counter. “Do I look like some kind of money launderer?”

  “Went for a swim earlier. Forgot to wait before putting the cash back in my pocket.”

  “Humph.” Reaching under the counter’s edge, she came up with a roll of paper towels. “It’ll dry.”

  Gnawing on his protein bar, Grant headed back to Casa Blanca, breaking into an easy jog once he’d dispensed with the second bottle. When he arrived back at the resort, Grant bypassed his villa for the main building, following a feeling that nagged at him for the whole return run. He had no trouble picking out the douche’s McLaren, not with that color, but a quick recon of the lobby revealed no sign of Brandon.

  Here in the lobby, he could see the appeal of Casa Blanca’s Moroccan theme. The carefully laid tiles. The eye-catching wall tapestry. He’d seen enough exclusive resorts in his prep school days to recognize quality and Lacey and Clay, the married owner and architect who’d brought the resort to life, had infused every brick with class and quality. They’d also had the smarts to build on that with amenities, not the least of which was the spa called Eucalyptus whose services, he knew, Skye currently enjoyed.

  He should go clean up, come back after, and start working on getting in there again while digging more deeply into piecing together her puzzle. Wine and dine Skye till she gave up all her secrets, hopefully without giving any of his own away.

  But a nagging disquiet wouldn’t let him leave. He slipped back into his shirt when he caught the disapproving eye of the concierge and settled into a plush arm chair with a direct line of vision to the spa’s front door.

  Unfinished business.

  Hoo-rah.

  Chapter Seven

  Eucalyptus Spa

  Casa Blanca

  Barefoot Bay

  “You had sex with him?!” Mandy exclaimed.

  Skye grimaced. “Say it a little louder, Mandy. There’s a woman in a seaweed wrap over there who may not have heard you.”

  Wrapped in a plush spa robe, her friend reclined on a chaise, one arm raised above her head, about half a breath from unconscious. She looked like some oiled-up, muscled Adonis was going to walk in at any moment and beg to feed grapes to her by hand.

  Exerting great effort, Mandy languidly reached over to pinch Skye’s arm. “You little stinker.”

  “Ma’am please don’t jerk your arm while I’m polishing,” the nail technician admonished.

  “It’s always the quiet ones,” Quinn, situated on Skye’s left, interjected.

  Skye eyed the woman askance. “You’ve known me for two hours.”

  “Yeah, but they were two spa hours. Second best way for women to get to know each other quickly.”

  “What’s the first?”

  “Margaritas,” Quinn and Mandy said together, Quinn lifting her margarita glass to prove her point, and Skye laughed.

  “As a mixologist,” continued Quinn after a healthy slug. “I’ve spent a lot of time in bars. The only thing that loosens tongues faster than booze is communal pampering. Throw the two together, eh voila.” She brandished the glass like a rapier. “Instant BFFs.” The glass tilted, sloshing some fluid over the rim and onto Quinn’s equally lush robe. “Dammit,” the woman hissed, then she leaned down to lick her now damp hand. “Never waste good booze,” she told Skye’s raised brow.

  Skye rolled her eyes and settled back in her chaise. Soothing music piped through the speakers above her head. Bach, if she wasn’t mistaken, thanks to all those culture lessons she’d had drummed into her head.

  She had a hard time arguing with Quinn’s BFF logic given she’d met the woman soon after disrobing in the changing room and they’d been hanging out ever since.

  “My husband had to take a work call on our honeymoon,” Quinn had explained while stripping down without an ounce of shame. “Since his job doesn’t interrupt without good reason, I can’t exactly object.” She’d grinned with clear, sexy affection for her missing man. “Especially when he apologizes with a spa package.”

  Skye had liked the woman immediately, and not only because her brash, matter-of-fact attitude was so refreshing. Quinn gave off an easy self-confidence Skye envied, obviously at home in her form and environment wherever that turned out to be. She was mid-height—not tall but neither petite—and curvy with long brown hair she’d gathered into a sloppy knot and cheekbones Skye was sure could cut a man if he got too close. Quinn somehow managed to channel attitude and elegance at the same time and it worked for her big time.

  Declaring she couldn’t possibly let Quinn be alone during her honeymoon, Skye had invited her to join her and Mandy, whose billionaire husband was likewise treating them to a couple hours of a different kind of bliss.

  “Grief therapy,” Mandy had said, waving off Skye’s second attempt to refuse the gift since, in her Thornquist guise, she could more than afford her own way.

  She’d been trying to choose off the menu of services when Mandy plucked the list from her hands and ordered the deluxe package. Then her friend had taken Skye by the shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. “Stop it,” she’d ordered. “You had some good beach time and now I’m going to make sure you relax even more with a massage and a mani/pedi and a facial and whatever else is in that package. Then tonight we’ll hit the Pelican and get you sloshed.” She gave Skye’s shoulders a good squeeze. “We’ll give your grandmother a proper wake, and if we share a few laughs and shed a few tears on her behalf along the way, so much the better.”

  “Thornquists don’t cry,” Skye had whispered through a throat tight with unshed tears, never realizing she’d slipped and used her real last name.

  Mandy slung her arm throug
h Skye’s and guided her deeper into the Temple of Woman. “Of course not.”

  With addition of Quinn, they’d done all Mandy had listed. Turned out, Quinn often worked at the resort restaurant, sessions of her mixologist expertise she called “gigs,” and that was enough to jog Skye’s memory.

  “You worked my sister’s wedding,” she said without thinking, an image coming to mind of Quinn pattering away behind the pool-side bar as she mixed something called “The Bees Knees”. “About six months ago.”

  Oh shoot, she blurted that out in front of Mandy! God, she sucked at this clandestine thing. Or at least she did lately; she had lasted this long without slipping up so badly. Maybe this was a side-effect of Grant knowing who she was now. What really was the point in keeping it any longer from her closest friend?

  Quinn’s confused expression eased as she made the connection. “I met your grandmother,” she realized. “Only for a few minutes, but she left an impression.”

  “She tended to do that,” Skye said, wry and fond.

  “Quite a lady.”

  “Yes.” Skye waited for the fresh shot of pain to settle into its customary ache before she quietly added, “Thank you.”

  Quinn peered at her a little more closely. “Don’t think I saw you though.”

  “Probably because I…ah…had a bit too many tequila shots at the rehearsal dinner and might’ve, well…woundupinthepool.” She said the words quickly, running them together in an undertone in the hope they might skip right over Mandy’s head.

  “You did what?!” Mandy cried out.

  So much for that hope.

  Great, she skirted over the whole “sister’s wedding” thing, but the mention of the most ignoble moment of her life caught Mandy’s attention.

  Well, in for a penny…

  “I got a little drunk at my sister’s wedding rehearsal dinner and I may have—jumped into the resort pool.”

  Quinn made a noise in her throat. “Honey, if you went into the pool, you were more than a little drunk.”

  “It gets worse. When a security guard pulled me out, I…went to bed with him.”