Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) (2 page)

“Julia…” One of the women on his right stood, her word echoing the very name that hung on the edges of his brain.

“I’m Mark Solomon.” He turned to her, not recognizing the woman with dark hair with one thick streak of gray running down the front and a serious, sad expression.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Julia was a good friend of mine and seeing you…” She sighed and extended her hand. “Allison McMurphy. My maiden name was Breyer.” She held out her hand. “Do you remember me? Julia and I were co-captains of the cheer squad. I saw you last at her, uh…”

Memorial service, which passed in a blur. “Of course I remember you.” He reached to give her a hug, a jolt of a memory rushing through him.

Coming to Mimosa Key was probably not the smartest move he’d ever made. He’d gone sixteen years without Julia, and each year had gotten easier and easier. He’d long ago numbed the pain of her loss and left the last stage of grief in an underwater cave dive in Sardinia.

But embracing a woman his late wife had called one of her best friends put some pressure on the tough skin of that scar. He hugged tighter.

“So good to see you,” she said. “When Lacey told me you’d agreed to be on the planning committee, I admit I was stunned. I’ve heard you lead quite the jet-setter life now.”

Is that what people called a life of freedom and adventure? “I was able to retire early, so I travel a lot,” he acknowledged. “And I have time for…things like this.”

“And I shamelessly begged.” A red-headed woman with a bright smile and dancing eyes—Lacey Walker most likely—stood at the other side of the table. She offered a friendly salute in greeting. “We are so happy you—you three guys—are here.” She gestured to the other men who’d found seats. “We have to have some representation from the boys in our classes, and it wasn’t easy bribing, er, finding you.”

The three men obviously had their reasons for accepting those bribes, and Mark’s was a small ring in his pocket.

He laughed softly at Lacey’s joke. “I don’t think we qualify as boys anymore.”

“No, you’re definitely men.” This came from a blonde he hadn’t noticed, sitting on his left. She stood slowly, crimson lips curling up. She wore white, Mark noticed, so she wasn’t the object of Ken’s attentions. Though the woman was attractive in that Palm Beach big-money kind of way that usually meant high heels and high maintenance.

“Mark Solomon, I’ve heard of you. Libby Chesterfield, class of ’89.” She gave a secret point to her generous breasts. “Also known as Chesty Chesterfield,” she added with a playful wink. “Oh, those Mimosa High nicknames do haunt you for the rest of your life.”

The school had a weird tradition of awarding everyone a nickname. He’d been…he drew a blank. Of course, there must have been another nickname, but he remembered only the couple he was once part of.

MarkandJulia.

“Libby, sure. Nice to see you.” Although, to be honest, he didn’t remember Libby or her chest.

“So you two were in the same class?” Libby asked, looking at Allison, the first woman who’d greeted him. “Wow. I mean, you look good, Allison, but…
wow
.” She raked Mark up and down and up again. “Now that is what I call timeless.”

He managed a smile.

“That’s it!” Lacey gave a quick clap and brought all the attention to the other side of the room. “Timeless! Forget clocks, watches, and sundials.”

“Thank you,” Mark muttered, making Chesty give a throaty chuckle and place a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m with you on the sundials,” she whispered. “It’s like we graduated during the Roman Empire, for heaven’s sake. It was just the eighties, right?”

“There is no time,” Lacey continued. “When we get together for the annual all-class Mimosa High reunion at Casa Blanca, time disappears and we’re all young again.”

“You’re still young,” Chesty whispered to Mark, adding a squeeze, even though her gaze had shifted across the table…directly to Law.

“Timeless is perfect!” one of the other ladies said.

“I love it!” a few others agreed.

A petite brunette came around to where Mark still stood, since he’d been flanked by females and hadn’t even sat down yet. “You are a genius. What is your name again? Mark? I don’t think we’ve ever met, but then, this is only my fifteen-year reunion.” She sidled in closer and pushed a wayward lock over her shoulder. “I’m Fiona, by the way.”

Ah, man. Law was right. He wasn’t going to last ten minutes. He had to get out of here.

“So, how can we bring the timeless theme to life?” Lacey asked.

“Don’t look at me,” Mark said, stepping back before he was forced into a chair and someone climbed on his lap. “I did my part.”

In all fairness, he hadn’t said a word, but he wanted to escape before the questions he didn’t want to have to answer were asked.

Are you married, Mark? Still a widower? Why haven’t you—

“Are you married, Mark?” Fiona whispered.

“Speaking of time, I’m out of it. Ladies.” He nodded to the table, then looked at Law and Ken. Law was talking to one woman, but sneaking eye contact with Chesty. And Ken was trying hard to look like he wasn’t staring at…a woman across the table in a scarlet sweater.

So much for manly solidarity.

“Great to see you all, and Lacey, you have my number. Call me in time for the next meeting.”

“I will,” she agreed. “But, Mark I have to tell you—”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it, despite the fact that it hadn’t rung. “Really sorry, but I have to take a call.”

He hustled out of the room, a low-grade resentment seething in him. Not against the women. Technically, he was fair game. And they all seemed…nice. Probably really good women. And he liked a good woman as much as the next guy.

But here, on Mimosa Key, Florida, he was profoundly reminded that none of those women was his soul mate, and once you’ve had that, all the lesser attachments were just…lesser.

He bypassed the lobby and took a side door out to the beach, the late spring sun blasting over the wide, white sands of Barefoot Bay. Gulls screeched, children ran in the surf, and vacationers lounged under the cheery yellow umbrellas along Casa Blanca’s private Gulf of Mexico beach.

He kicked off his Docksides and held the shoes in one hand, oblivious to the heat of the sand or the occasional shell that stabbed his foot. Pain didn’t bother him. He’d spent years on risky adventures that were rarely comfortable, and he’d yet to be inflicted with any physical pain that was close to the agony of losing the only woman he’d ever loved.

He shook off the unexpected punch of mourning, the feeling unwelcome and unfamiliar.

He didn’t come to this island or this reunion to stroll down memory lane and cry into his beer because he’d lost his wife in the prime of their lives. He was here to chill out, to check out the changes in the town, and because…

Julia wanted him to come.

The truth, a small whisper in his brain, hit as hard as his foot on the stone path he took to get to Blue Casbah, the villa he’d checked into this morning. He rounded a thicket of flowering plants, the sickeningly sweet fragrance of honeysuckle mixing with salt air, and then he paused at the sound of a sigh. No, that was…what was that? An animal being strangled?

Very slowly, he inched past the hedge to peek at the walkway and small stone patio in front of the villa. A woman sat there, a roller suitcase and oversize bag next to her, her head in her hands.

Weeping. A full-out, shoulder-shaking shudderfest of misery unfolding on his porch.

Well, this was embarrassing. Mark looked left and right, dreading a resort guest passing by, then he took a step closer, dropping his shoes to make some noise louder than the gurgling and moaning coming from her throat.

But she didn’t even look up, choking on the next sob.

“Excuse me,” he said loudly.

She kept her face in her hands. “Go away!” she mumbled.

“But I…”
Want to get to my villa…where you’re crying.
“Are you all right?”

“No. I am not all right.” The words were garbled, teary, and spoken into hands that covered her whole face. “Give me five minutes before you drag me off, okay?”

Drag her off? “Okay.” He took a few steps closer, trying to make sense of the scene. All he could see of her was long dark hair falling over narrow, hunched shoulders, jeans, and a white shirt.

“Would you, uh, like to cry inside?” Before someone got a very wrong impression.

Her head shot up. “Yes,” she said softly. “I would very much like to cry inside. Inside
that
villa.” She turned and pointed at the front door painted deep orange and trimmed in white. “In fact, that’s the whole reason I’m here, a thousand miles from home, completely alone on what was supposed to be the happiest…” She grunted and stopped herself.

Brown eyes flecked with topaz and rimmed in red stared up at him, her cheeks little more than rivers of running makeup. Her face was shredded from tears, and her deep-brown hair spilled around her as if she’d combed it with a rake, the remnants of pink lipstick smeared around her mouth.

She’d almost be comical if she wasn’t so…miserable.

“I swore I wasn’t going to tell a soul my story,” she finally said.

“Well, out here you’re telling every soul.” He pulled out his card key. “So you might as well come inside and weep.”

She blinked at him. “You’re not with resort security?”

He shook his head, then eyed her. “Should I be?”

“You’re not going to take me in there and…rob me, are you?”

“It’s my villa, with all my stuff in it. Maybe I should be the one worried about being robbed.” But he was pretty sure the only thing she’d steal of his was some peace and quiet, and tissues. Lots of tissues.

“
Your
villa?” she asked.

“Well, this week anyway.”

“Your villa for this week?” She choked the words, kicking the stone paver with her loafer. “Well, that’s just perfect. I suppose you’re here with your wife for a…” She narrowed her eyes at him, sizing him up. “Oh, I know. An anniversary in paradise?”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m here alone.”

He gingerly bypassed her on the step and walked to the door, sliding in the key card.

As he opened the door, he turned to find her watching him over her shoulder, distrust and uncertainty in those golden-brown eyes. She shuddered on the next pathetic inhale, and he held out his hand.

“Come on and make that noise inside. I have tissues. And wine.”

A slight, unsure smile lifted the pink-stained corners of her mouth. “I like wine.” Very slowly, she took his hand and let him pull her up, leaving her suitcases on the step.

Chapter Two

Emma had to see the place. She wasn’t about to leave without at least placing her feet on the imported, cream marble floor or touching the posh furnishings or gazing out over the infinity pool that disappeared into the bay.

And don’t forget the beach-facing bedroom balcony or the stunner of a bathroom with a Jacuzzi the size of a small country.

All designed for fairy-tale romance.

The copy on page three of the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa brochure still danced in her memory, torturing her. Oh yeah.
Fairy tale
. Those were the words that sold people on villas that cost this much. Not, you know,
real life
. But then, advertising copy wasn’t real life…and who knew that better than the woman who wrote it?

Sniffing back some tears, she stepped in so she could fully wallow in her misery. Wasn’t that why she’d dragged her suitcases along the path, gulping great mouthfuls of humiliation with the desk clerk’s words still echoing in her head?

Oh, I’m sorry, that reservation was canceled by Mr. Kyle Chambers’s secretary. Would you like to see the cancellation number?

No, but, damn it, she wanted to see the villa.

She’d hoped to find a kindly housekeeper who might let her take a peek inside when she’d marched over here after her failed check-in attempt. She was totally prepared to use her six degrees of separation trump card to get inside.
I’m with the ad agency that handles the resort…
Well, she had been with the agency, before quitting in shame.

But a housekeeper was nowhere to be found, and the villa was locked tight.

That was when frustration, sadness, and the total unfairness of life had kicked Emma in the chest so hard, she’d dropped onto the patio step and gave in to the first real sobfest since her fiancé broke their engagement.

This guy must think she was a total loon. She glanced at him, already soothed by his baritone voice and commanding presence, and grateful that he hadn’t treated her like an unwanted piece of litter strewn outside his expensive accommodations.

She inhaled a quick breath as the impact of the place hit her. Here it was, in full three-dimensional living color, so much more beautiful than the photos they’d dropped into the brochure and on the website. The luxurious living area led straight to French doors that opened to a jaw-dropping, heart-stopping view of…that man.

No, no.
He
was not in the brochure, but could have been, easily. She’d know exactly what to ask the modeling agency to send, if they’d used a model: a gorgeous, confident man, maybe mid-forties, a little dusting of silver, a strong jaw, piercing blue eyes, and an air of authority and power. Yes, he’d be the perfect accent to the stunning villa.