Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) (11 page)

“We
have contractors we use,” Monica’s father said tightly.

“That’s
fine. I just thought I’d have a look.” Ty gave her father a dazzling smile, but
apparently it did not have the same effect on her father as it had on her. She
was impressed by Ty’s poise, though. He didn’t seem at all rattled about being
scrutinized and judged by the father of a woman he’d slept with just a couple
of nights ago.

He
probably didn’t care what Monica’s father thought of him. He’d be gone soon
enough, anyway—back to Florida or to jail.

Lacking
a better idea, she took her cue from him. “Come on, Ty,” she said. “I’ll show
you the cottage.” Before her father could intervene, Monica led Ty around the
building. Once she was sure they were out of her father’s range, she said,
“Thanks.”

Ty
laughed. “I can’t imagine why he didn’t welcome me with open arms.” As relaxed
as he seemed, he peered over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed.
“Is he going to come after me with a shotgun?”

“As
far as I know, he doesn’t own any guns.”

“Phew.”
Ty mopped his brow with an exaggerated swipe of his hand, then surveyed the
pool patio at the rear of the main building. The grounds crew had arranged
lounge chairs and tables on the decorative slate surrounding the pool, although
the chairs weren’t wearing their cushions yet, and the tables weren’t equipped
with their sun umbrellas. That would all be taken care of next week, in time
for the holiday weekend guests. The pool was filled, its water reflecting both
the pool’s blue walls below and the sky above, reminding her of the vivid,
shimmering blue of Ty’s eyes. “Wow, this is nice,” he said, shifting his gaze
from the patio to the acreage beyond, the azaleas blooming, the trees dotted
with new leaves, the cottages nestled into the landscaping and the tennis court
visible behind Hydrangea Cottage.

Monica
used to appreciate the inn’s beautiful grounds more when she hadn’t been in
charge of maintenance. Viewing them through Ty’s eyes reminded her of how
lovely the resort was. The cottages were homey white clapboard structures with
small porches and peaked roofs. The lawns were a lush green, much healthier
than they would look in a few months, once the summer heat had parched the
grass. Her family and their staff worked hard to keep the place beautiful. The
Ocean Bluff Inn was a destination, after all, not just a rent-a-bed at the end
of a highway exit ramp.

She
led Ty to Rose Cottage, which appeared deceptively intact from the outside.
Inside, the parlor looked as bad as it had when she’d left to meet Emma an hour
ago. The large rectangle of plasterboard that had been cut out of the wall lay
on the floor; the hole exposed a skeleton of vertical beams, wiring and pipes.
The furniture that usually stood in front of that wall had been moved to the
other side of the room and left in a jumble of chairs, tables and ottomans.
Thumping noises penetrated the ceiling from above, where the plumbers were
apparently busy tearing apart the second-floor bathroom.

“Oh,
this looks good,” Ty said, crossing to the gaping hole. Monica eyed him
skeptically, certain he was being sarcastic. But he actually seemed serious. “They
did a neat job. Didn’t mess with the I-beams, even though that left them a lot
less space to access the pipes.”

“This
does not look like a neat job to me,” Monica said, noticing the plaster dust
scattered across the rug like confectioner’s sugar.

“Trust
me, it is.” Ty ducked to peer inside the hole, then straightened up. “It’ll be
easy to fix. Fit the drywall back in, seal it, paint it. The only thing that’s
going to take much time is waiting for the plaster to dry. And the paint. The
actual work’ll be nothing.”

“Really?
Nothing?”

“A
couple of hours of labor. Maybe not even that. Then waiting for stuff to dry.”
More thumping prompted him to glance up at the ceiling. “I don’t know what the
bathroom looks like. If you’ve got tile work in there, fixing that could be a
pain in the ass.”

“The
plumbers removed the sink and vanity.”

“All
right, so that’ll take a little time to replace. They’d have to hook up the
sink. Putting in the vanity, though… Another couple of hours. You’ll be fine.”

Monica
thought about the contractors the inn had always used. They never told her
something could be done in a couple of hours and she’d be fine. They definitely
never told her the actual work would be nothing. If they admitted that, they
wouldn’t be able to charge as much.

“The
plumbers will probably reinstall the vanity. They’ll have to hook up the sink,
anyway,” Ty said. “All you need a carpenter for is the walls. Patch them, paint
them. I could do that for you in an afternoon.”

She
stepped back and regarded him, confused. Was he looking for work? Hoping she’d
hire him? Did he need the money to pay for his lawyer, or the room he was
renting in the main building? He had a trust fund, didn’t he?

Evidently,
he was able to read her mind. “I’d do it for free,” he said.

“Why?”

He
shrugged. “It’s what I do. I enjoy it. Besides, I’m stuck here in town,
anyway.”

Stuck.
Given an opportunity, he would
have departed by now. He would have hopped on that motorcycle and
headed…somewhere. Somewhere that wasn’t Brogan’s Point.

His
gaze softened, his smile losing some of its brilliance but deepening as he
lifted a hand to her cheek. He cupped it, his palm warm and strong against her
skin, and then slid his fingers into her hair. “I’d do it for you,” he said,
then tipped her face up as he lowered his mouth to hers. His kiss began gently
enough, but swiftly deepened, his tongue probing her lips, demanding entry. She
gave it willingly, leaning into him, wrapping her arms around his waist,
thinking that as fun as it had been to hug him while perched behind him on the
motorcycle, embracing him face to face was much better. Embracing him while his
mouth was conquering hers was much, much better.

She
felt swamped by need, by yearning, by every sensation he’d awakened her the night
he’d made love to her. How could she have deprived herself of him last night?
Knowing he was under the same roof as she, just two floors separating them…
What strange willpower had kept her from racing up the stairs to his room, or
begging him to sneak downstairs to hers?

The
strong muscles of his chest pressed into her breasts as he slid his free arm
around her waist. His hand crept down to her bottom and guided her hips to his.
She could feel the hard swell of his erection through her slacks and his jeans.
His low groan implied that he knew she was as aroused as he.

A
loud thump from above jolted them apart. A breath escaped him, half a sigh,
half a laugh. “Wrong time, wrong place,” he murmured.

Monica
struggled to regain her bearings. What if, instead of a noise from the plumbers
upstairs, they’d been interrupted by her father?

What
if? She was twenty-seven years old. She could be with Ty if she wanted. She
could do the unexpected. She could swoon over a sexy guy—and kiss him as if her
life depended on it. “Figure out a right time and a right place,” she said,
pleasantly surprised by her own bravery. “I’ll be there.”

When
she returned to her office at the end of the day and saw the message light on
her phone flashing, she knew the caller would not be Ty. They’d exchanged cell
phone numbers before parting outside Rose Cottage. Given her father’s apparent
disapproval of him—or of his motorcycle, or of his having spirited Monica away
from her work for a brief respite that afternoon—she thought it best that Ty
not contact her on her business phone.

She
lifted the receiver, punched in her code, and listened to the message: “Hi,
sweetie. It’s Mom. Let’s have dinner tonight. We need to catch up.”

Great.
Her disapproving father must have informed her mother about their wild daughter
straddling the back of a motorcycle and clinging to a tall, buff, sexy
stranger. “Sure,” Monica said. She might be a wild daughter, but she was also a
dutiful one. “What time?”

“Just
come on up whenever you’re done for the day,” her mother said. “I’ll see you
soon.”

The
apartment where Monica’s parents lived occupied about a third of the top floor
of the inn’s main building. Growing up there, Monica had always known her home
was a bit unusual—her friends had yards to play in, while she had acres and
acres of resort property but couldn’t organize kickball games or invite her
playmates to splash in the pool if guests were using it. On the other hand, she
and her friends used to love racing up and down the fourth-floor hall, playing
hide-and-seek among the buildings or in the woods surrounding the cottages, and
hanging out in the kitchen, where the Jerry and the other chefs would sneak
them leftover desserts. And no one expected them to be prim and quiet on the
inn’s private beach.

The
apartment itself was spacious, filled with odd nooks and unexpected closets.
Monica’s old childhood bedroom, tucked beneath the eaves, featured an
upholstered window seat wedged into a dormer window that overlooked the pool
patio and the cottages beyond. Monica had spent many lazy hours curled up on
that window seat, a book open in her lap while her daydreams carried her off.
She’d imagined herself running the inn someday, ruling over all that acreage,
all those buildings. All that history.

Her
mother had furnished the apartment with pieces removed from guest rooms that
had been renovated and furnishings from the public rooms once they no longer
served their purpose. As a result, the rooms contained a hodgepodge of
mismatched pieces, faded rugs, and a few antiques in need of tender loving
care. But as eclectic as its décor was, the place was always clean and tidy.
There were definite advantages to having a housekeeping staff at one’s
disposal.

Monica
and her parents also had the dining room chefs at their disposal, but her
mother enjoyed cooking and made frequent use of the small, outdated kitchen
located at one end of the apartment, overlooking the driveway where it snaked
around the side of the building to the staff lot. No stainless-steel appliances
in that kitchen. No granite countertops. No sub-zero freezer or trash compactor
or Viking range. But the stove, the refrigerator, and the sink worked, and that
was adequate to feed a family of three.

When
Monica arrived at the apartment, she found her mother in the kitchen, filling a
large pot with water. “Pasta with clam sauce,” her mother announced. “Louie
picked up a ton of fresh clams down at the dock this morning. I asked him to
buy some extra for us.” Louie was the inn’s sous-chef.

Monica
nodded and kissed her mother’s cheek. Her mother looked youthful in a pair of
capri slacks and a Red Sox T-shirt, her hair tied back into a ponytail. Then
again, her mother always looked youthful. Monica hoped she’d inherited her
mother’s smooth-skinned, energetic beauty, but she feared she took after her
father more. At least she didn’t have a bald spot like his.

Within
a minute, her mother had armed her with a sharp knife and a pile of vegetables
for a salad. While Monica rinsed the romaine and tomatoes, her mother chatted
about the early summer bookings and shared some gossip. “Guess who was in this
morning to discuss booking a wedding here?” she asked, then didn’t wait for
Monica to answer. “Nick Fiore, from the community center. He’s thinking of a
December wedding. Since most of the guests live in the area, he isn’t worried
about the weather. And this place can be so gorgeous in the winter. Warm and
cozy in the main function room, while pristine white snow is piled up on the
other side of the windows. Fires in all the fireplaces. It would be beautiful.”

Monica
hoped her mother wasn’t leading toward mention of the lack of an imminent
wedding in the Reinharts’ immediate family.

“But
here’s the funny part,” her mother continued. “Nick’s fiancée— Diana something?
They met when she was here checking out the place as a wedding venue for
herself and some other fellow.”

“I
remember.” Monica smiled and nodded, still bracing herself.

A
good thing, too. “Speaking of weddings,” her mother said as she peeled a couple
of garlic cloves. “What’s going on with you and Jimmy?”

“We
broke up,” Monica said.

Her
mother nodded. She’d probably already heard gossip. She and Gus Naukonen were
friends, and while Gus was pretty tight-lipped, she might have mentioned
something to Monica’s mother. “You’ve broken up before.”

“This
time it’s for good.”

Her
mother turned her attention back to the pearly, teardrop-shaped cloves. As she
minced them, the room filled with the tangy scent of garlic. “You’ve been with
him a long time, sweetie. Do you really want to throw all that away?”

“I’ve
been with him too long.” Monica kept her attention focused on the tomato she
was slicing. “We weren’t growing. We weren’t growing closer. We were just going
along, same as always, in a rut. It’s time for something new.”

“Something
new wouldn’t happen to be riding a motorcycle, would it?”

Monica
believed her mother truly did want to have dinner with her. But the real reason
for this invitation was now clear—and it was what Monica had suspected. Her
father must have informed her mother about Monica’s new “friend.”

Rolling
her eyes, she swallowed the sarcastic whine that threatened to color her voice.
“Mom,” she said as calmly as she could. “I’m an adult. I’m allowed to make
friends without checking in with you and Dad about it.”

“Oh,
I love that you’re making friends,” her mother agreed. “But riding on a
motorcycle? Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

The
real danger wasn’t the motorcycle, Monica thought. It was Ty. His bedroom eyes.
His seductive smile. His ability to make her toss caution aside.

And
his possible criminality, added a small, nagging voice inside her skull—a voice
that sounded uncomfortably like her mother’s.

“Dad
met Ty,” she said, pleased that her tone remained level, neither defensive nor
hostile. “He’s a nice guy. He’s in town for a few days. He’s going to help me
with Rose Cottage. He’s a carpenter, and he says he can repair the wall once
the plumbers are done there.”

“Even
though he’s just a tourist? Why would he want to do that kind of work if he’s
only here for a few days?”

Monica
couldn’t very well tell her mother that he was stuck in Brogan’s Point because
he was under investigation for smuggling drugs into town—drugs no one had
found, so they might not even exist. Nor could she tell her mother that Ty’s
desire to work on Rose Cottage’s walls might be related to the fact that he and
Monica had spent an orgasmic night together in her bed. “He enjoys the work,”
she said, assuming that was pretty close to the truth. “And…he’s a good
friend.”

“A
very good friend in a very short period of time.” Her mother poured some olive
oil into a skillet and added the garlic. More mouthwatering aromas plumed into
the air. “If he’s that good a friend, maybe we should invite him for dinner.”

“We
can think about it.”

“I
mean now,” her mother said. “Louie gave me way too many clams. Does your friend
like clams?”

***

“I’m
sorry,” Monica said. “I know this is last-minute, but my mother wants you to
join us for dinner.”

Ty
turned off the motorcycle engine and digested Monica’s words. He had decided to
explore Brogan’s Point a little, cruising around the winding, tree-lined
streets, journeying along the waterfront well south of the marina and the inn
and the restaurant Monica had taken him to for chowder last night. He’d set his
cell phone on “vibrate” and stuffed it into a front pocket of his jeans. In his
hip pocket, the phone’s vibrations would melt right into the vibrations of the
bike’s engine against his butt. He’d never detect an incoming call.

He
had to keep his phone close at all times, in case Caleb Solomon needed to reach
him with news about his legal predicament. But the truth was, he was far more
eager to hear from Monica. They hadn’t figured out their plans for tonight yet,
although when he’d departed from that flower-named cottage at the inn, he’d
done so with the assumption that those plans would include hours spent naked
and sweaty and gasping for breath. Just kissing her for a few seconds in the
cottage had turned him on like a light—the sort of blinding light stadiums
relied on for night games. He’d glowed with it, blazed with it. If there hadn’t
been workmen banging around upstairs, he would have dragged her onto the sofa
across the room from the broken wall and done the naked, sweaty,
gasping-for-air thing with her right there.

When
his cell phone vibrated against his thigh, he pulled it out, saw who the caller
was, grinned, tugged off his helmet, and shifted into neutral. When he heard
Monica’s invitation, he shut the bike’s engine off completely. “Dinner?” he
asked. “With your parents?”

“Spaghetti
with clam sauce. It’s delicious the way my mother makes it, if you like
garlic.”

“I
like garlic,” he said, although his mind was not on food. It was on Monica. And
her parents
.
Christ, he hardly knew her, and now he was supposed to have
dinner with
her parents
? “I got the impression your father wasn’t my
biggest fan,” he muttered.

“The
invitation came from my mother. I’m in her apartment now. In another room,”
Monica added, although she lowered her voice slightly. “You can say no if you
want.”

Gazing
out at the tranquil water lapping against a pebbly stretch of coastline, he
mulled over the invitation. He wanted to say no, but he wanted to be with
Monica even more. And he did like garlic. “What time?” he asked.

She
gave him the details, assured him he didn’t have to dress formally, and thanked
him. After stuffing his phone back into his pocket and wedging his helmet back
on, he ignited the bike’s engine, pulled a U-turn, and steered back toward the
heart of Brogan’s Point. The wind coming off the ocean mixed with the stronger
wind blasting his chin and neck below the helmet’s eye shield. It carried a pleasant
trace of warmth. Not the furnace heat of southern Florida at this time of year,
but definitely a hint of summer.

The
road paralleling the coastline wasn’t clogged with vehicles, but he shared the
pavement with enough cars to have to remain below the speed limit. This must be
what passed for rush hour in a small New England town, he thought.

He
didn’t mind the traffic. He needed to think.

Why
had he agreed to have dinner with Monica’s parents? The obvious answer was that
he wanted to have dinner with Monica, and accepting her parents’ invitation was
the only way he could accomplish that. But Ty didn’t trust obvious answers.

More
than spending mealtime with Monica, he realized that he wanted to prove her
father wrong. He didn’t know exactly what her father thought of him, whatever
it was, Ty suspected it wasn’t good. He wanted to turn the old man around. It
was a challenge. It would be fun to prove to Mr. Reinhart that Ty knew to
spread his napkin across his lap and chew with his mouth closed. His grandparents
drilled good manners into him during those stultifying years in Kansas.

It
was more instinct than any brainwashing on his grandparents’ part that guided
him into a parking space when he spotted a florist shop. Survival instinct.
Bringing Monica’s mother some flowers might earn him her approval. He reminded
himself that he didn’t have to go out of his way to impress the Reinharts; they
weren’t going to be a part of his life for very long. Sooner or later, he’d be
exonerated and allowed to return to Florida. But for as long as he was stuck in
Brogan’s Point, he intended to spend time with Monica, and if bringing a smile
to her mother’s face made that easier, he’d do it.

Five
minutes later and fifty dollars lighter, he strapped a bundle of flowers wrapped
in green tissue and protective cellophane to the back seat of the bike and
continued up Atlantic Avenue, past the downtown shops, past the rows of modest
three-story row houses squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder along the sidewalk across
the road from the sea wall, past larger houses with broad green lawns, and onto
the driveway leading to the inn. He parked in the visitors’ lot, carefully
gathered the flowers from the back seat, and jogged up the porch steps into the
main building and up two more flights of stairs to his third-floor room. The
inn had an elevator, but he needed to burn off some nervous energy. Stairs were
good for that.