Resisting Samantha (Hope Parish Novels Book 10) (10 page)

“Well, that’s
pretty evident,” I bit out. “Freakin’ bull in a
china shop,” I said under my breath. “What it sounded
like to me is you’re trying to force him to handle something
that’s been brewing for years. Something that’s personal,
and affected him at his core, and you just heaped a pile of guilt and
shame right on his head. Oh, I could just…just kick you.”

“So it’s
true. You’re sweet on him.”

I stiffened. I had
just spent most of my morning trying to duck for cover while the
Sutton women tried to get me to admit that very thing. I wasn’t
going to say anything. “Chase is a decent man, hardworking and
decent.”

“You already
said that.”

“Oh, dammit,
mind your own business.”

As I turned and
walked out, I heard Boone say, “Yup, she’s got it bad for
ol’ Chase.”

Ethan said, “Ha,
mind our own business? She does realize this is a small town.”

I let the door slam
on my way out. They were as bad as gossiping old biddies!

It was the first
time I cursed Suttontowne for being small.

***

My car steered its
way over to the bayou, and before I knew it, I was searching for
Sutton Bait and Tackle. The road was better maintained than I
expected, but Chase did have a brisk business, and I suspected road
maintenance was something he did for convenience.

The bayou was so
lush and teeming with life out here, and I realized how isolated I
had been in town. I caught glimpses of the channel that opened up and
flowed past Imogene’s. Passing an open area that looked like it
had once been a small village, I noticed damaged structures, some of
the boards sticking up out of the ground like broken bones, covered
in moss and vines. A shiver traveled down my spine, even in the moist
heat. I couldn’t help wondering if this had been the fishing
village Imogene allegedly destroyed.

Farther down the
road, I saw the sign, beautifully carved and stuck into the ground.
Sutton
Bait and Tackle.
I turned off and followed the dirt and gravel road up to a makeshift
crushed-shell parking lot.

I got out of my car
and looked around. There was no one here, but Chase did say he was
closed on Mondays. I looked out to the swamp, the channel as straight
as an arrow. The bottle brown water beyond his beautiful shop barely
rippled until I saw movement, then something splashed into the water,
dark, slender and reptilian.

Gator.

An apex predator.

It was the hunter,
and rarely the hunted.

I turned toward the
structure I’d first glimpsed when I drove up, giving it a more
comprehensive look. It was larger than I thought, and definitely
nicer. Not that I expected a ramshackle shack or anything, just not
so polished. But this structure was constructed of neat, tidy logs
and glass. A wide porch led up to the shop area. Beside and not far
from the house was a dock with several boats tied up, and at the very
end a seaplane. I had no idea Chase was a pilot.

As I approached the
stairs, I heard a
crack
,
like an ax going into wood. I changed directions and followed the
sound behind the house. Chase was there, stripped to the waist, his
dark skin gleaming and his shoulder muscles bunching as he brought an
axe head down onto a wedge of wood.

I inhaled a deep
breath of the aromas of fish, wood, and sweaty man. He was lost in
his misery, his face impassive, his mouth taut. My body reacted to
the power he exuded, all those muscles in stark relief, the trim
waist and broad shoulders, the sexy way he braced himself with his
heavy thighs. I had to take a deep breath. My husband had been quite
fit—he had to be to perform the duties and the requirements of
his physically demanding job—but Jeff pumped iron and trained
to achieve his goals.

It was clear Chase’s
rippling muscles had been honed to male perfection by manual labor.
Honest, backbreaking labor.

It was blazingly
hot and sunny, the sky now a vibrant bowl of pure blue above the
dense growth of trees on the far bank, an abundance of oak and
willow, with palmettos, their wispy fronds fanning like long-fingered
hands.

The axe came down
again, driving the wedge deeper, a cracking sound rending the air.
His biceps bulging, his skin burnished and glistening, he turned the
handle in his hand, then, with a fierce, chopping swing, he split the
trunk in half.

He leaned on the
handle, his chest heaving, sweat running in rivulets down his back,
soaking into the waistband of his pants. I shoved my hands into the
pockets of my shorts, my own emptiness compounding as I watched him,
far too aware of the tight lines of pain around his mouth. I must
have made a sound, or he saw me out of the corner of his eye. He
straightened and turned.

I met his tormented
gaze, my chest teeming with a host of feelings. I watched him across
the short expanse between us, loneliness rising up in me with a
desolating force. I didn’t even know I had been feeling it
until I looked at him. I could so easily get into a host of trouble
with this man. So easily. Wrenched by that thought, I clenched my
out-of-sight hands, my throat so tight I could barely speak.

He bent his head and
stared down at the trunk, his profile rigid, the muscles along his
jaw tense. I crossed the space. “It looks like you got yourself
one heck of a sunburn there. You need some ointment on that right
away, and a shirt. I swear, I thought bayou men had more sense than
God gave a goat.” My voice wobbled, but I kept my eyes on him.

He was well aware I
chose to give him time to assimilate what had happened between him
and his daddy and Brax.

There was a long.
strained pause. Then he said, “You want to take off?” He
chuckled softly, his face smoothing out.

Blinking rapidly to
will away the burning in my eyes, I waited for the moment to pass.
There was a solemn intensity in his expression, something that made
my heart accelerate. “Where?”

He stared at me, his
gaze darkening, and the muscles along his jaw tensed. “Just fly
with me, sugar,” he commanded, his voice quiet.

Letting my breath go
in a rush, I closed my eyes, a thousand feelings speeding through me.
And every one of them was tied to Chase Sutton. I’d never done
anything spontaneous in my life. Didn’t skinny dip, didn’t
backpack across Europe, didn’t close my eyes and pick a nail
color. Waiting for the awful fullness in my chest to ease, I
swallowed and said, “Okay.”

He dropped his gaze,
then, after a brief pause, he looked back at me. The corner of his
mouth lifted in a faint smile, but his voice was uneven when he
spoke. “Lock your car and get in the plane. The door is open.
I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t
forget a shirt.” A hint of amusement glinted in his eyes, and
his expression relaxed a little.

“And sunburn
ointment?”

“You sassing
me, Chase Sutton?”

“No, ma’am.”

Feeling as if I’d
had a close brush with something sweet and dangerous, I held his gaze
for a moment, then managed a small smile as I headed for the car.
“See that you don’t.”

After locking my
doors and walking down the dock, thoroughly impressed with how
sturdy, neat, and tidy he kept his boats and moor lines, I slipped
into the passenger side of the plane. My stomach jangled, and I
couldn’t be sure if it was because of the heady sight of Chase
walking down the dock with a cooler, or the fact that I was going to
fly in a small plane into parts unknown.

But I trusted him.
There was some banging toward the back of the plane, then he removed
the mooring ropes. Pulling open the door, he hopped in and settled
inside. After going through his pre-flight checks, he taxied away
from the dock and out into the channel. Moments later, we were in the
air, and I reached out and clasped his forearm.

His skin was smooth
and moist. “That was fast.”

“Easy out and
easy in. This plane handles like a dream.”

“How long have
you been a pilot?”

“Eight years.
I wanted to be able to offer my customers fresh fish from the Gulf.
This plane paid for itself in a year.”

I looked out to see
the land lifting away while we skimmed past chunks of verdant foliage
below us. The canopy looked lusher and wilder from the air. The bayou
branched off, and then branched again, each arm reaching into another
pocket of wilderness. Some of the channels were as wide as rivers,
others narrow trickles of streams, all of them part of a vast
labyrinth of no-man’s land. The Atchafalaya was primal, and
more gorgeous than I could have imagined…and I had already
expanded my horizons.

“You had a
good haul today?”

“Yes, I went
for red snapper. I rent a boat and go out and bait and catch, bait
and catch. Then bring ‘em back and fillet them. It’s
always a relatively quick job for me. Made all my deliveries.”

He tensed, no doubt
regretting that he had opened the door for me to ask about his
argument with Brax, but I let it pass, and he relaxed again. I didn’t
need to grill him or pry anything out of him. Chase would either tell
me or he wouldn’t. To confide in someone was a big step. It
left a person vulnerable and exposed. It was up to him to decide
when, or if, he would do that.

“I was
wondering. After the game on Saturday, would you be interested in
helping me install my master bathroom and powder room? I have all the
fixtures, and the plumbing is already in, but tile, flooring, and the
vanity would go faster with two hands.”

“Yeah, I think
I can handle that. I’ll find someone to manage the shop for me.
I get a lot of charters on the weekends.”

“You sure that
will be all right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

As the sky darkened,
and I saw glimpses of the ocean in the distance, I got excited. “The
coast.”

“Yeah. You’ve
never been to the Gulf?”

“No. I haven’t
taken advantage of the beautiful area where I live. I think I’ll
have to change that.”

“I think you
should.”

He swung the plane
around and lined up with the coast. I saw a lot of houses on stilts
pass by beneath us.

“So, can you
tell me where you’re taking me now?”

He looked at me and
grinned. “The Riviera.”

I laughed. “What?
Can you fly at the speed of sound or something?”

“Nope. It’s
the
La Rivière Acadienne
.
The Cajun Riviera. This is Holly Beach. It’s been leveled by a
few hurricanes, but the locals always return and rebuild.”

“Resilient.”

“Yeah. It’s
known for its crabbing and seclusion.”

“I don’t
have a bathing suit.”

“I’ve
got you covered,” he said with a cryptic smile. Hmm, maybe I
would get a chance to skinny dip. The thought of being in close
proximity to Chase naked made me shiver.

He landed deftly,
beaching the plane on the hard-packed sand, and I got out. He opened
the cargo bay and removed a basket, a blanket, and a nylon duffel
bag.

He spread out the
blanket, set down the basket, and went back for a few Tiki torches,
which he stuck in the sand and lit. The soft orange glow spread
across the blanket.

“Come on,
let’s go for a walk and gather some driftwood.”

He winced a few
times as he bent for the wood, and I suspected his sunburn was
bothering him. “I think that’s enough,” I said, and
we went back to camp. I opened the duffel and found a bikini, swim
trunks, towels, sunscreen, and finally the ointment.

I held up the scraps
of multi-colored cloth. “You travel with a bikini. Is there
something I should know?”

He shook his head
and laughed. “Nope. I grabbed it off the rack.”

“Oh, you stock
bathing suits.”

“Yes, suits,
T-shirts, souvenirs. All of it sells extremely well.”

I nodded. “Well,
let’s get your T-shirt off.”

His face changed,
but he didn’t say anything. He reached back and dragged the
shirt over his head, mussing his hair and only making him look more
appealing.

“Turn around,”
I said softly. He complied, presenting me with his broad, well-formed
back. The sunburn was mostly across the top of his shoulders.

I squeezed out some
ointment and smoothed it across his skin. He made a soft, gasping
sound of pain.

“Sorry,”
I murmured.

His closeness
overwhelmed my senses, and I had to concentrate in order to keep my
touch light to minimize the pressure and the pain. Trying to struggle
against the longing that surged through me, making my heart race even
faster, I let out a soft breath. I wondered what it would be like to
lie with him, to feel the full, hard length of his body against mine.
God, I got the shivers just remembering what it was like to kiss him,
and that had ended much too soon.

He jerked when I
touched the skin at the base of his neck. I was so aware of him as a
man, and so aware of the heaviness low in my body, I almost couldn’t
focus, but somehow I managed.

Apparently we didn’t
have to talk for me to feel shaky and emotionally exposed. I reached
across him to pick up the ointment cap, and screwed it back on the
tube, so sensitized to him that I was conscious of every movement,
every breath.

I tucked the tube
back in the duffel.

“Are you
hungry?” he asked, sidling closer to me, reaching for the
basket. I turned, and there we were, face to face.

His face went too
serious. “You’re making it really difficult to take this
slow,” he said. “Damned hard.”

“I said we
could slow down, not stop completely,” I whispered.

“Thank God.”
The words came out as a puff of nothing.

He covered my mouth,
and I sighed in pure pleasure, opening to the light teasing of his
full lips. The taste of him tempted me beyond belief, and I splayed
my fingers wide against the back of his head, silently urging him to
increase the gentle pressure. He did, and I was saturated in
sensation as he so softly, so leisurely, so thoroughly, took what he
needed and gave it back to me tenfold.