Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) (3 page)

Emma looked beyond her unexpected host to the turquoise waters of Barefoot Bay glinting in the late afternoon, warmed by pink clouds that heralded a spectacular sunset over the Gulf of Mexico.

At least, that’s how she’d describe it if she had to write copy for that postcard view. Throw in a happy couple walking hand in hand, barefoot, of course. They’d be laughing or caught in that split-second exchange of an intimate touch and…

A sob bubbled up, and she choked it back with a noise that sounded something like a cross between a strangled burp and a hiccup.

Great, Emma. Just great.
She’d never been a delicate crier. Hell, she’d never been a crier.

“So, what exactly did you mean by ‘your villa’?” the man asked.

“I meant that it was supposed to be…”
Ours
. “Mine this week.”

A frown creased his brow. “I was told there was a cancellation and that’s why Lacey—the resort owner—put me in this, the last available villa. I would have taken a room in the main building, but that was booked, too.”

“There certainly was a cancellation,” Emma said. “A big, fat, nasty, embarrassing, gut-wrenching brutality of a cancellation.” She wiped her face, vaguely aware that she must look like a red-faced freak, but honestly didn’t care. “Can I see the bedroom?”

“Sure. It’s through that doorway, to the left.”

Maybe this was a little masochistic—okay, no maybe, this was truly self-inflicted torture—but she just had to see it. Taking slow steps to a vestibule outside a huge double-doored entrance, she peeked into the bedroom.

Yep. The photographer had nailed it. A king-size four-poster bed with a puffy white comforter and sheer drapes all around, giving it a secretive, seductive feel. The pale marble floors continued in here, warmed by expensive Oriental carpets and layers of lush window treatments.

And the bathroom. She
had
to see the bathroom.

She crossed the room to a space that led into the spa-like sanctuary, drinking in a vaulted ceiling and blue tile trim that captured the Moroccan feel of the whole resort. Light bounced off the shiny floor, blinding her.

Just like she’d been blinded by…dreams and hopes and empty promises.

“Oh, Kyle. How could you do this to me?” She sighed and turned around, taking it all in, especially the magnificent tub surrounded by candles and a view out to the bay.

A tub built for…two.

“Seen enough?”

She startled at the voice behind her, low and close and as alluring as the surroundings. Looking up, she caught sight of the man in the mirror, pinning her with a look that fell somewhere between amused and annoyed.

No, mostly amused. And he had pretty eyes. If they hadn’t already been that piercing sky blue that matched the villa, she’d have suggested the art department Photoshop them to exactly that color.

Then her gaze shifted to her own reflection, and she gasped. “Oh Lord.” She put her hand to her mouth, laughing softly, because what else could she do?

She so did not match the cool and beautiful villa. “I look like I was dragged through a mascara factory.”

He put a hand on her shoulder, slowly turning her to face him instead of the mirror. “Were you supposed to stay here this week?” he guessed.

She let out a breath and gave a weak nod. “Yeah,” she managed.

“Special occasion?”

“Just, you know, a honeymoon. Is that special?”

“Oh.” His eyes widened. “Usually, yeah.”

She tore her gaze from him to take another longing look around. “Except there was no, you know…”

“Wedding,” he supplied gently.

“No wedding,” she confirmed. She heard the hurt and bitterness in her voice and wished she could hide those feelings, but they were out now. “Just a lot of frantic phone calls and canceled florists and returned gifts and sympathetic friends, and oh, that bitch at the dress place would
not
refund my money. And I woke up this morning, maybe a little hung over because last night was, you know,
not
my wedding night, as planned. Then I realized today would have been check-in day. I called, and the reservation hadn’t been canceled, so I thought why not?”

“Of course,” he said, as if that made perfect sense.

“Well, they do that in movies all the time, right? The jilted bride goes on her honeymoon alone and has…” She swallowed and looked up at him.

“And has…?” he prompted.

Wild sex with a hot guy.

No, no, good God in heaven,
no
. Except…
whoa
. He was easy on the eyes. “And has a chance to heal,” she finished.

Silent, he searched her face for a moment, his gaze sharpening as if he read her thoughts, which would not be good. “You could use that wine.”

He left her standing in the oversize Moroccan tile bathroom staring at her ravaged face.

Yeah, wine. To calm her jumpy nerves and misbehaving libido. Wine from the wine god who happened to be the lucky recipient of Kyle Chambers’s cold, second-guessing heart. Now, this man—whoever he was—knew her history, had seen her at her worst, and still offered wine.

Could anyone really be that nice? She’d think he had an ulterior motive, but one look in the mirror and she knew it couldn’t be a hot seduction on the sand. Pity, more likely.

She closed the bathroom door and went to the sink, unwrapping some sweet-smelling goat’s milk soap—made locally, exactly as she’d written in the brochure—to wash her face completely clean. She still looked pale and wretched.

Glancing down to the drawer in the vanity, she thought of a line from the direct-mail piece.
Every bathroom in Casa Blanca comes with all the extras, including a luxurious robe, fluffy slippers, and a supply of high-end cosmetics directly from our own Eucalyptus Spa.

She tugged on the drawer handle and, sure enough, there was a blue silk bag with the spa logo embroidered on the flap. Inside, she found a never-been-used brush wrapped in sealed plastic, which was like heaven in her hair. And some powder, fresh mascara, and a light peach lip gloss.

The note inside said, “Enjoy your stay in Barefoot Bay. Kick off your shoes and fall in love!”

Ah, yes, the clever and ridiculously optimistic tag line that came with the Casa Blanca account and had to be incorporated in every ad, brochure, and web design. Emma might kick off her shoes and enjoy the company of a handsome stranger, but she’d never fall in love again. Never, ever.

Love was for idiots and fools and losers who bought what advertisers were shoveling out. Love was a fabrication used to sell stuff. Who knew that better than an advertising copywriter?

She cleared her throat and took one more look in the mirror. Better. Still bitter, but better.

And she sure could use that wine.

* * *

Jilted
.

Mark thought about the word, and the woman who used it, while he sat at the table for two on the patio, enjoying the sight of the tangerine ball of sun slowly falling into Barefoot Bay. When the French door opened, he turned and tipped his head in silent appreciation of another sight equally as attractive.

She’d washed, brushed, and pulled herself together. Quite nicely, too. Her hair cascaded like a chocolate waterfall over her shoulders, her eyes bright, her skin clear, especially considering the tears. Thank God there were no more tears.

She walked toward him, giving him a moment to admire a feminine figure he hadn’t really noticed in the middle of her crisis. Trim but curvy enough to appeal to him, with long legs in tight jeans, her bare feet adding a surprising kick of sexiness.

What kind of blind and stupid guy walked away from that before the wedding bells rang?

There might be more to that story. One thing he knew about romance gone south—and he did know plenty considering the business he’d been in for so many years—there were always two sides to the coin. Although this side was definitely fine.

“Feeling better?” he asked, pushing his chair back to stand as she approached.

A quick flash of her golden eyes told him the basic level of chivalry surprised her. So the ex was a dick in all areas, he surmised.

“Better on the outside,” she admitted. “And thank you again for letting a bawling stranger into your villa.”

“It was silence you or face charges,” he joked.

She smiled. “But you didn’t have to listen to my tale of misery or share your wine.”

He reached for the stemless bistro glass and offered it to her. “I have a soft spot for orphans and strays,” he said. “I also like a nice sauvignon at sunset. I had the owner order a case of my favorite for the week.”

She lifted her brows. “Fancy.”

He laughed and met her glass in a toast. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rub it in.”

“It’s okay.” She took a sip and closed her eyes as the mix of oak and vanilla hit her palate just as it hit his. “The view is rubbing it in enough.”

“Please.” He gestured to the other chair. “Relax. I’m Mark, by the way, stealer of your villa.”

“Emma.” She sat down and gazed out to the view with a low, sad sigh. “And you can’t be held responsible for your good fortune and my bad choice.”

“Hello, Emma.” He tasted the name, like the wine, liking the feel of it in his mouth.

“Well, this place has lived up to its reputation, and I’m pleased about that,” she said. “I knew I’d love it here, just like I knew every word I wrote was the truth. For once, I wasn’t lying about the product.”

The product?

She gestured toward the water. “Panoramic views.” Then the villa. “World-class accommodations.” Then him. “High-end clientele.”

His confused frown deepened. “You lost me.”

She set her glass down with a rueful smile. “I wrote the advertising copy for this place. I’m a copywriter for an agency in New York, at least I was until I resigned two weeks ago. That’s when my boss, who was also my fiancé, walked into my office and said those four dreadful words no woman wants to hear when she’s on hold with her wedding planner to finalize the tulip delivery.”

Oh yeah, the guy was a monumental douchebag. “I don’t like tulips?” he guessed with a smile.

“‘We have to talk.’” She closed her eyes. “And you just know it’s not about the copy for next week’s new business presentation.”

“That sucks.”

She smirked at the understatement. “Anyway, Casa Blanca Resort & Spa is one of the agency’s top accounts. That’s how I knew about it and why I wanted to honeymoon here. This whole island is like a dream to me.” She gave a soft snort. “So was the wedding, come to think of it.”

“Oh man, now I feel even worse. You should have this place. You pulled strings and used your connections and—”

“No, no.” She held up her hand. “I didn’t. My ex pulled the strings, trust me. Including the one that canceled the reservation, except he hadn’t done it yet when I called or I would still be in bed in Brooklyn licking my wounds.”

“Didn’t you tell them at the front desk who you are?”

“Nah. I’m just the pen monkey in the bowels of the creative department who’d never been to a place like this and couldn’t stop thinking about it. For once in my career, I believed in what I was writing about. My other accounts? No, I didn’t care if a checking account earned more interest at Community Bank or if All Green fertilizer really improved the grass. I don’t believe that Colombian Cups coffee really has zero aftertaste. But is Casa Blanca Resort & Spa really perfection in paradise? Yes. And there’s something empowering about marketing the truth for a change.”

She finished her speech with a good slug of wine, and Mark couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. She was as refreshing as the sauvignon blanc and maybe as complex. And maybe, with the setting sun picking up flecks of gold in her hair and eyes, a little bit intoxicating, too.

“It was my fault, completely,” she said, dropping her head back a little and giving him a tantalizing view of the long, lean column of her throat.

“A broken relationship is never anyone’s fault
completely
.”

“Oh, it can be.” She peered at him through narrowed lashes. “But I meant assuming the reservation wouldn’t be canceled at the very last minute was my fault. Being left holding a Vera Wang gown and a truckload of embarrassment? All on his skinny shoulders.” She straightened her head and added a tight smile. “Sorry if I sound cynical, but I’ve spent the last two weeks realizing that the stupidest thing a human can do is buy into the dreams spun by marketing professionals.”

“Says the person who writes ad copy for a living.” He chuckled. “I imagine that could make you a little jaded.”

“Jaded, jilted, and jobless—that’s me.” Her smile loosened as she held up the glass. “I like a wine that brings out my alliteration skills.”

Laughing, he shook his head, enjoying this unexpected twist on his first day at the resort. “An alluring atmosphere for an afternoon of alliteration.”

Her jaw opened with her delight as she raised the glass in a toast. “A-plus!”

They both laughed and took a drink, the wine and sun warming him as much as the company. It made the whole concept of the event so much more bearable to be with someone. And not just anyone, but a woman with some…zing.