Barefoot Bay: When You Touch Me (Kindle Worlds Novella) (6 page)

She groaned. “No. Like sitting on the beach while you watch the sun drop below the horizon and think lovely thoughts.”

“Lovely thoughts, huh? Then will I be able to fly like Peter Pan?” he asked, barely able to contain his laughter at this point.

She moved to the door and swung it open. “Only if I sprinkle you with pixie dust,” she replied. “And I’m sorry to say, but I’m fresh out of pixie dust this week.” She left the room and pulled the door shut behind her.

Drew would laugh his ass off if he knew what his big brother was doing. He would only laugh about the voodoo part, though. He’d high-five Sam for getting it on with the pretty massage therapist.

Only Sam hadn’t gotten it on with anyone. Yet.

Sam unlocked the door to Artemisia and stepped inside the villa. The cool, humidity-controlled air was a much welcomed relief. He rubbed his lower back again and grimaced at the pain radiating from the area.

“Damn it all to hell,” he swore. Jillian had lulled him into a false sense of security with those first easy massages. Today she had practically body-slammed him with thumbs of steel. And now she wanted him to go outside at dark, sit in the damn sand and meditate? “Of all the crap ass ideas,” he muttered.

The only thing he wanted to meditate on right now was a long, hot bath with the tub jets aimed right at ground zero, the spot where she had practically carved holes into his back. He grasped the hem of his t-shirt and tugged it up as he limped toward the bedroom. For the few moments his vision was obscured by the shirt, he stretched out his hand for guidance and found his hand full of…someone?

“Jesus H. Christ!” he yelled as he ripped off the shirt and stumbled backwards. “What the hell? Who are you?”

The woman wore a bright pink Casa Blanca uniform, so she was most likely a member of the housekeeping staff. But the staff only came to the villa when he was gone. They were an invisible army of workers who kept the rooms spotless, the pool sparkling and the kitchen well stocked. So why was she here now? He had nothing to steal except his phone and his nearly maxed-out credit card.

“Miz Jillian asked me to put an oil diffuser and instruction sheet in your bedroom to help you sleep at night,” the woman explained in a voice with a distinctive Caribbean lilt. “I didn’t realize you would be back to the villa so soon.”

“That’s for damn sure. You scared the living shit out of me, lady. I thought I was interrupting a burglary in progress.”

She planted her hands on her full hips and leaned toward him, her dark eyes narrowed. Sam backed up another step.

“I am not a thief. And it is obvious to me you didn’t expect anyone to be here by the way you tossed around those swear words. It’s also obvious nobody told you about Poppy’s Jamaican Children’s Fund to which you’ve just contributed twenty-five dollars.” She held out her hand, palm upward, and her white teeth gleamed as a broad smile crossed her face.

“Who the fuck is Poppy and—”

“Now you owe me thirty dollars, though I really shouldn’t interrupt so you’ll keep on talking and adding to the fund.”

Who was this crazy woman, and what the hell was she talking about? Children’s Fund? Contributions?

“I am Poppy,” she explained. “And anyone who swears in my presence pays into the fund to help orphans in Jamaica. So pay up, Mr. Hartman. Cash only. I don’t take no plastic.” She wiggled her plump fingers.

“Well, Poppy,” he began, emphasizing her name, “no one explained your fund to me ahead of time.” The whole thing sounded more like an extortion scheme than anything else, but she would probably increase the fine if he voiced that thought.

“It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t swear. And you most definitely are not supposed to take the good Lord’s name in vain.”

“I guess you have some method for calculating the amount I supposedly owe you?”

She explained how much each curse word cost plus the added penalty for sacrilege.

“Why don’t we wipe the slate clean and I’ll pay next time since I didn’t—”

“I make no exceptions.” Her foot tapped impatiently against the tile floor. “That will be thirty dollars. And I have change if you need it.”

Sam threw up his hands in surrender. The resort didn’t need security guards with this woman on the grounds. Her take-no-prisoners attitude and her penalties for cussing would keep anyone in line.

“Okay, okay. Let me get the money.”

He retrieved his wallet from the nightstand drawer and pulled out a crisp twenty and a two wrinkled fives. He thought of all the beer he could buy with thirty dollars as he slapped the bills into Poppy’s hand.

“You know, you really should put up a price list by the registration desk. And maybe one down by the credit union ATM. Sort of warn people ahead of time,” he suggested sarcastically.

Poppy pocketed the bills as she waddled across the room. “Oh goodness, no, Mr. Hartman. That’d take half the fun out of it.”

Sam could still hear her cackling after the villa door closed. “Sonofa— ” He bit off the curse. She probably had hidden microphones in every villa, and he had already paid enough.

* * *

Where was he? An irritated frown creased Jillian’s forehead.

She let her head drop forward until her chin nearly rested on her chest. She had provided Sam with detailed directions to her favorite spot on Mimosa Key and specified the time for him to meet her. The north end of the island had undergone significant development during the years she had been in Arizona. She wondered how long before her special escape spot was discovered and turned into a home site.

Long before she had been introduced to the practice of meditation, Jillian had come to this place. Secluded and quiet, this was a spot where she could think. To cry over cheating boyfriends and fathers who left their families behind. To rail against the universe about the bullies who poked fun at Becca’s leg braces and crutches. To celebrate completion of her schooling and the job offer in Sedona. She had shared it with only a few people, though she would be kidding herself to think no one else knew about it, too. She had come here regularly since her return home, and she hoped Sam benefitted from it.

She inhaled the fresh salt air, let the breeze whisper across her skin and lifted her head to gaze over the gulf. This little island might hold some bad memories for her, but she needed to let them go and appreciate what a truly tropical paradise it was.

The scores of people who flocked to Casa Blanca were a testament to the island’s allure. And those who couldn’t afford the exclusive resort either stayed at the Hartgrave’s Fourway Motel, pitched tents at a rustic campground near Pleasure Pointe Beach or stayed across the causeway in Naples.

Her mother’s shop – hers and Becca’s shop now – sat in a strip of brightly colored stucco storefronts within walking distance of Pleasure Pointe Beach. Jillian needed to make a decision soon about the shop’s future, but she had to include Becca, who was due home in five days.

Now, though, she had to rid her mind of those concerns and think about…nothing. Nothing at all. Except that man who was perpetually late and questioned everything.

“Could you have picked a spot any farther from civilization?”

Jillian yelped and her hand flew to her throat. She had been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard his car pull into the clearing a fifty yards away. His annoyance was evident in the tone of his voice. Sam always seemed annoyed about something. That was yet another sign he most likely suffered from some degree of PTSD. But she would not respond to his question.

Keep your cool, Jillian.

“When you’re new to meditation, it is usually more effective if you’re away from distractions. Have a seat.” She patted a spot on the multi-colored blanket she had brought along. Jillian normally sat directly on the sand and buried her toes in its warmth. The blanket was a concession to Sam in order to make the experience as pleasant and sand-free as possible.

His hair was still damp and neatly combed, and he wore tan cargo shorts and a black t-shirt that stretched snugly across his muscular chest. He shrugged off a backpack and plopped it beside her.

“I brought supplies,” he said, unzipping the pack and pulling out containers she recognized from Junonia, the resort’s award-winning restaurant. He also pulled out a bottle of wine, plates, forks, napkins and two red Solo cups. “I was going to get tacos from that little stand in town, but after I got all the plates and stuff from the convenience store, I decided to go all out and get some really nice food. I wasn’t sure if you liked white or red, so the wine dude suggested this pink stuff.” He uncorked the bottle and poured some into both cups.

Jillian took a sip of the pink-tinted wine. “The wine dude suggested well,” she replied, recognizing a vin gris from the resort’s well-stocked wine cellar. “But this wasn’t supposed to be a picnic, Sam.”

Or a booty call.

“We’re supposed to meditate. It’s a relaxing technique that will help you sleep.”

He took a sip and moaned softly. “Damn, this shit
is
good. Oh crap. That Poppy person doesn’t have all the staff reporting back to her, does she?”

Jillian bit back a laugh. “So you’ve had a run-in with Casa Blanca’s own philanthropist?”

“Philanthropist my ass. Extortionist is a better description. But don’t tell her I said so. She probably has an enormous fine for calling her that even if it is the truth.”

“Her fund is a good cause. She used it to bring her three nephews to the States and now she sends money regularly to help the other children still at the orphanage. I’ve heard of some employees who deliberately curse around her so they can contribute. But no, we don’t snitch.”

“Well, eat up,” he said, smearing pâté on a small piece of crusty bread. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t think on an empty stomach.”

Jillian swallowed the crab puff she hadn’t been able to resist. “That’s just it. The point of meditation is not to think. It’s to let your mind go blank, relax your body and become mindful of your breath. The beach at sunset is the perfect setting. As the light fades, your cares and worries can fade along with it. You simply enjoy the quiet.”

“Well it won’t be quiet if my stomach is growling.” He put the red cup to his mouth and drained it, then poured himself a refill. “More?” he asked, holding the bottle toward her.

Jillian shook her head. “You know,” she began carefully, “spirits really aren’t good for your body. They’re empty calories and—”

“But you’re into spirits,” he interrupted. “With all that raking stuff and…and…this.” He waved his hand toward the shore where the sun was moving closer to the horizon and painting the sky in vivid shades of pink, purple and gold.

The man was irritated and perpetually obtuse as well. Was this his normal behavior or had he been deliberately trying to annoy her all this time?

“It’s Reiki,” she said, pronouncing the word carefully one more time. “And it has nothing to do with spirits. I’ve explained that it’s energy. You felt it that day. Don’t deny it.”

“I don’t deny I felt heat on my shoulder, but it’s hard for me to believe what I can’t see. Most times stuff like that is what my grandpa referred to as crap and snake oil. Something to dupe people and get their money with nothing in return.”

Jillian’s mother had thought her career was crap and snake oil, too. How ironic was it that her mother’s best friend read palms and tarot cards and tea leaves. Jillian practiced proven alternative therapies. What Aunt Daffy did was…was it real? Just because Jillian didn’t believe in Daffy’s practices didn’t mean they weren’t legitimate. Lots of people didn’t believe in Reiki, but she had seen it work. She sensed the energy flow through her hands every time she gave Reiki to someone, and it had definitely been flowing with Sam.

Althea had eventually accepted Jillian’s career, though she persisted in calling her daughter a masseuse. She did always emphasize to her friends that Jillian didn’t work in one of those shady back alley places where security cameras monitored the front entrance and the clientele was exclusively male.

Their disagreements over the difference between Jillian’s profession and Aunt Daffy’s whatever-it-was had driven a wedge between them – a wedge that had eventually been mostly erased. Jillian had mourned the years that were lost because of hard feelings. She could only guess her mother had mellowed with age and become more accepting.

“Energy, huh?” he repeated. “Like some sort of force or power?”

“Yes.” Her voice was low but confident. Jillian believed in what she did.

“Like the force I feel drawing me to you?”

Jillian sat motionless, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, because damn it she felt it too. Tomorrow, she’d put money in Poppy’s jar for the mental swearing.

Sam inched closer to her, draped his arm over her shoulder and she felt his scrutiny on her profile. She had changed into loose capris and a tank top, which was her favorite meditation wear. As soon as Sam’s skin made contact with hers, a shiver snaked its way through her body. She reached for the pashmina she always brought with her.

“You won’t need that,” he said softly. “I’ll warm you up.”

He cupped her chin in his large hand and turned her face toward his. Jillian’s eyelids fluttered shut even as her brain screamed for her to move away. Sam’s lips brushed against her mouth ever so softly at first, then pressed more firmly as his hand slid to the back of her head. He eased her backwards onto the blanket, never letting his lips move from hers. She grasped his arms to steady herself and kneaded the firm cords of muscle.

Sam broke contact with her mouth and planted soft kisses along her jawline. “Is this some new kind of therapy? Kissage? Because if it is,” he whispered when his mouth reached her ear, “I want to sign up for more. Lots and lots more.”

Her head dropped back, giving Sam access to the vein pulsing at her throat and to the expanse of flesh from there to the edge of her tank top. He shoved one hand under her shirt, cupped her breast in his palm and used his thumb to tease the nipple to a stiff peak.