Barefoot Bay: When You Touch Me (Kindle Worlds Novella) (2 page)

So what if the resort had a rule against employees fraternizing with guests? Sam Hartman had never met a rule he didn’t feel challenged to break. He would ask around, find out which part of the resort she worked in and if she was unattached. That was one rule he didn’t break. If the lifeguard’s fiancée had been wearing an engagement ring, he would never have hit on her. And if Trip Granger’s fiancée had kept her panties on instead of screwing Trip’s best friend, maybe Trip’s head would have been in the game. He’d have spotted the suspicious group of men before they stepped into the street and fired a rocket propelled grenade at their Humvee.

No one would have died. Sam wouldn’t have saved Trip’s life and been injured in the process. He would still be in the Army instead of back in the damned sand with a stiff drink in one hand and a semi-stiff cock under his loose shorts. Hell, the water in the Gulf of Mexico wasn’t even cold enough to deflate a hard-on.

Sand. He tamped down the flood of irritation. Why couldn’t Trip’s mother thank him by sending him to a resort in the Poconos or the Adirondacks? Mountains, crisp air, cold water and no damn sand. And just as quickly as the question entered his thoughts, he shoved it aside. Jean Hartman would pinch her older son by the ear and give him a verbal lashing for being so ungrateful. She and Adelaide Granger were fortunate; their sons had returned from battle, scarred but alive. The mothers of the other soldiers in that Humvee had buried their sons.

If he had been more alert. If only he had moved faster. If he’d had something else to use as a tourniquet. If, if, if. Second thoughts about the aftermath of the attack as well as guilt over surviving either kept him awake at night or woke him with nightmares. He should have been exhausted enough to nap every afternoon, but his brain never shut down. Always checking. Always scanning his surroundings. Always—.

“Mr. Hartman?”

He looked up and saw the woman with the dark braid standing beside his chair. Hot damn, indeed.

The dark-haired woman’s question pulled him from his thoughts. If he had to be disturbed, she was a fine specimen to do it. And maybe a fine candidate for some suntan oil and his bed.

“I’m Sam Hartman.” He’d almost added ‘sir’ since his military training died hard. But he wasn’t in the Army any longer. He rubbed his shoulder, the low pinch of pain a constant reminder. The RPG had seen to that, and he was still angry over his “retirement.” Old men retired. Not young men who still wanted to do their jobs.

“I’m Jillian Logan, the massage therapist assigned to you during your stay here at Casa Blanca. I wanted to introduce myself and see about getting a little information from you before our sessions begin tomorrow.”

Sam slid his Ray Bans down his nose a bit and peered over the top of the frames. If he had to be stuck here, at least he had a gorgeous massage therapist instead of an ugly Amazon or some seven-foot brute with arms like logs and hands the size of dinner plates. He’d had a few of both during physical therapy.

He let his gaze slowly wander from her gold-flecked eyes down to her pink-tipped bare toes curling into the sand. Pink lips. Pink toenails. What other parts of her might be pink too? Sam felt his cock twitch and knew that line of questioning needed to stop before he embarrassed himself in front of all these high society people.

“I’ll be working with you from nine until twelve and from two until four daily. We’ll start tomorrow morning, with Sunday off in case you want to go to church.” She paused as if waiting for some reaction from him. Sam slid the Ray Bans back into place with his index finger and leaned back in the beach chair.

“I have a little bit of information that Mrs. Granger provided,” she continued. “If you don’t mind answering a few questions now, I can work on a treatment plan and be ready to start in the morning.”

Sam lifted his glass to his mouth and let an ice cube glide onto his tongue. He crunched it between his back molars and let the cold shards soothe his parched throat.

“As a matter of fact, I do mind. Today is my free day, and I just want to relax, sip these wonderful drinks and get drunk,” he said, raising the glass for emphasis. “And if I’m real lucky, darlin’, maybe I’ll get laid too. I don’t suppose you’d like to volunteer for that, would you?”

Jillian’s eyes widened. The color drained from her face and she took a step backward. She tightened her grasp on the folder she clutched against her ample bosom, and a muscle twitched in her jaw. Sam castigated himself silently. If she was single and available, he may have just blown any chances with his too-direct approach.

“Well,” she drawled, “that’s not a service we offer here at Casa Blanca. The last part, that is.” She lifted her chin and smiled sweetly. “But I can respect your wish to relax today because for the next ten days—”

“With Sunday off,” he interrupted.

“For the next ten days, minus Sunday, I’m going to be your new best friend. In the strictest professional sense, to be precise. I have ten days to work on your injuries so that you leave Casa Blanca feeling better than when you arrived. Someone is paying for you to be here and I intend to see she gets her money’s worth.”

Jillian Logan had spunk. Sam had to give her that.

“Fair enough,” he replied.

“I can tell from here you need body work. Your shoulders are up around your earlobes, and if you keep crunching ice like that, you’ll probably end up with TMJ if you don’t already have it.”

He swirled the liquid in his glass. “This will help me relax just fine. But if you want to talk about body work, my earlier offer still stands.” He raked his gaze over her body once more and ran his tongue across his bottom lip.

Jillian white-knuckled the folder and sucked in an audible breath.

Sam chuckled. “Now look who’s not relaxed.”

“I don’t….”
Know what sort of hell you went through that makes you behave this way,
she thought
.

Mrs. Granger’s comments had mentioned PTSD since her son had also been diagnosed with it. Jillian had worked with a few veterans with PTSD during her employment in Sedona, and she had even attended several workshops on the subject since so many soldiers were returning home with the disorder. While Sam Hartman’s physical injuries weren’t openly apparent, she recognized signs that could indicate PTSD. She wasn’t a psychologist by any means, but some indicators were obvious to her. He appeared hyper-alert, constantly looking up and down the beach as if to keep an eye out for danger. When she had called his name, he had startled ever so slightly. She had made a special effort not to sneak up on him, and she knew he had seen her talking to Kyle Grant, the lifeguard.

His body radiated tension, and she was eager to show him and Jocelyn Palmer what she could accomplish not only with massage, but with other complementary therapies. He had to be cooperative, though, so she would give him as much leeway as possible.

“I don’t think it will be a problem to wait until tomorrow morning to get the rest of your intake information,” she continued. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Hartman. I’ll see you at the spa at nine o’clock.”

She turned abruptly and, head held high, shuffled her way back through the sand to the paved path. After brushing the sand from her feet, she shoved them back into her clogs. A quick glance at her wristwatch showed she still had forty-five minutes before Mrs. Leighton’s Swedish massage.

Her head needed clearing. She couldn’t go to the beach cabana and help Mrs. Leighton relax in the state of mind Sam Hartman had created.

Turning from the main resort area, she made her way along the path, past the last villa to the far end of the beach where she could meditate and clear the negativity and tension from her body and mind. Jillian had discovered that resort guests rarely ventured this far. They preferred to remain closer to civilization and the resort amenities. Having grown up on Mimosa Key in a neighborhood not far from the public beach and its crowds, Jillian had learned to love solitude during her years in Sedona. Though Sedona had grown during her time there, lots of nothingness remained in the surrounding areas. Mimosa Key, however, had lots of something-ness. And when Lacey Walker built Casa Blanca, the resort added to the hustle and bustle of the tiny island even though it was a huge boost to the island’s economy. A new baseball team was coming in as well, and when it arrived, the once-secluded island would become even more of a tourist magnet.

The bright side to all this had been the upswing in business at Mimosa Memories. Jillian had been pleasantly surprised to learn how well the business thrived. Daphne had already begun negotiations with the Barefoot Bay Bucks to see about carrying their licensed merchandise.

But who would run the store once Aunt Daffy retired and moved away? They had agreed to let Jillian settle into her new job and re-acclimate to island life before tackling the store issues.

Reaching a spot far enough from the resort that she could only hear the sound of the wind and waves, she removed her shoes again and sat cross-legged on the warm sand. She lifted her face to the afternoon sun, inhaled the salt-infused air deep into her lungs and then blew the air out with a loud sigh. With each breath, the tension drained from her body and mind. She stretched her neck from side to side. Raised her arms high overhead. Rolled her shoulders a dozen times.

She hated to admit it, but she had missed the beach. It held wonderful memories – picnics with her mother, Aunt Daffy and Becca, her first kiss, losing her virginity to Shane Bradley after their senior prom. The resulting pregnancy scare and Shane’s uncaring attitude had been just the first of her encounters with the men she could only categorize as world-class assholes. How did someone who meditated, read self-help books by the dozens and worked in a personal-improvement career attract such losers? Maybe opposites
did
attract.

And based on her interaction with Sam Hartman, she may have attracted another one. Well, maybe not a loser, but definitely not the kind of man she would want to date. The Logan women had abysmal track records with men. Her own father had walked out when Becca was six years old because he couldn’t deal with having a disabled child. Through the years, her mother had been involved with several men, and each relationship had ended badly, driving her mother into a pit of depression from which Jillian would have to extract her.

When Jillian left Mimosa Key at age twenty-one and moved to Arizona, Althea had accused her of running away from responsibility, too.

“You’re just like your father.” She had flung the words at Jillian like a sharp dagger.

Jillian hadn’t argued. Arguing was pointless. She had learned that lesson the hard way over the years. She might look like Daryl Logan, but she took responsibility seriously. She had completed an associate degree in business administration at the local community college before spending a year becoming a licensed massage therapist. A spa in Naples had hired her right away, and she worked there for a year before accepting a position in Sedona. But Jillian dreamed of more. She would like to own her own spa one day. That’s why she had the business degree.

“But why can’t you get a real college degree like Donna Bell’s daughter?” Her mother had flung another dagger-sharp accusation disguised as a question.

Melody Bell’s
real
degree was in accounting, and she worked in her parents’ tax and accounting business. Though she would never say it, what Althea wanted was for Jillian to stay on the island and help her run Mimosa Memories. She had never fully understood massage therapy, and had never tried to understand.

When Jillian branched out into Reiki energy work, aromatherapy and reflexology, her mother had practically labeled her a witch doctor. Aunt Daffy read palms and tea leaves, which Jillian didn’t understand but accepted. Her mother accepted it too, which both puzzled and angered her. How could she not be more supportive of her own daughter? The daughter who had helped in the family business when needed. The daughter who made her pots of tea and brought her movies from the library when Althea would take to her bed from depression. The daughter who felt guilty because she had been born healthy.

Jillian wasn’t going to build a career around her mother’s wishes, and through the years they had developed a peaceful co-existence due in part to Daphne’s attempts to mediate the situation.

Now, maybe Althea’s wish would come true after all. Unless Jillian could come up with a solution to keep Mimosa Memories open without Aunt Daffy at the helm, she would either have to try to keep it open with whatever help she could find locally, including herself, or convince her sister to sell that part of their inheritance.

While neither the storefront nor the three-bedroom bungalow had mortgages, the house was sorely dated and in need of repair. The major damage from Hurricane Damien had been fixed, but little things had been left undone or patched haphazardly. The store’s business was steady from what she could see, and it promised to improve if the deal with the Barefoot Bay Bucks came through.

Jillian took one last deep inhalation, held it for a count of seven and exhaled. So much for clearing her mind. She had shoved Sam Hartman from her thoughts only to replace him with the multitude of others that faced her.

She stood and swiped her hands across the seat of her uniform’s pants to remove any loose sand, then stepped back into the clogs. She had plenty of time to walk back to Eucalyptus and prepare for her next client. Sylvia Leighton was a regular, and Jillian had worked on her once before. Her neck and shoulders were riddled with knotted muscles, but she refused to allow any therapist to work on them.

Brenna had warned Jillian not to even mention deep tissue massage to Sylvia. “She just wants someone to give her body a good moisturizing, so do exactly that because she tips very well. And be sure to use something that is vanilla scented. She says it reminds her of apple pie baking in her grandmother’s kitchen.”

Jillian would do whatever Sylvia Leighton wanted. She always made sure a client received the service they desired. Tonight she would work out a preliminary plan for Sam Hartman based on the limited information she had. Then tomorrow…. Well, she would deal with her new client and hope tomorrow went far better than today.