Set Up (27 page)

“At me gaping like a tourist.”

“No. I told you, Cancun was built for tourists.” He walked toward the ocean. “Want to get in?”

They waded into the waves for a few moments. Then, beneath a towering dune, they flopped down in the sand where Callaway dug a hole that quickly filled with water.

Soaking up the enchanting late day sun, she rested her arm on her forehead and watched him. “What are you doing?”

“Getting set to make sand castles. Another of my small talents, besides omelets. Claire's boys love making them. Sand castles, that is, not omelets.”

“Looks like fun.” She sat up. “Show me how.”

His eyes widened. “You've never built a sand castle?”

“I've only been to the beach a couple of times in my entire life. The last time, Tommy and I…” She hadn't meant to talk about Tommy. She licked salty lips. “We went on spring break to Florida. His sister and her husband had a condo in Destin.”

“Bet you didn't build sand castles.”

“No.” Talking about Tommy to Callaway didn't hurt as much now. “We didn't build sand castles.”

“Poor lady. What you've missed.”

He showed her how to dig a hole that filled with water, how to scoop up a handful of sand the right consistency.

She soon got the knack of letting the mixture dribble into a pile, the water draining out to leave patterned sand stacked higher and higher until a delicate tower soared. Absorbed, they built castle after castle, joining smaller peaks into battlements until a fort, one yard square, boasted a main center rising almost two feet high behind the expanding hole.

She was glad Callaway was enjoying their play. He'd needed to forget his problems, too.

* * * *

Callaway watched her over the grains trickling from his fingers.

She deserved this. She needed a break.

Despite her hair in its inevitable knot and her sleek feminine figure, she was as absorbed as a child. It was his weak, lusting body that insisted she was all woman.

Someone needs to teach you how to play again. Someone needs to make you laugh, show you life's more than regrets and hard work, make you wean Noelle from clinging to you like a leech.

Not him. Nosirree, not him. He couldn't even sort out his own life, much less hers.

Waves neared their edifice.

“Surf's coming,” he warned.

The sun had fallen behind the dunes, casting a shadow that crept toward the water. People were starting toward hotels.

Amanda sat back, kicking out long legs and flinging up a handful of sand that promptly rained down on her head and shoulders. “I don't care.” Then pulling at her knot, she sent brown tresses flying in an attempt to rid them of sand. “The making of it is what's so much fun, isn't it? I can't believe we made anything so gorgeous.”

Something deep inside him stirred. Something hinting at the vague discontent he'd felt before. But Amanda caused his restlessness this time. Amanda with her set goals, her fortitude, her refusal to be diverted.

So different from him, with his meaningless hobbies to fill the days and his haphazard attempts at love.

Amanda had measured out her life, building it as carefully as she had built the sand castles while he had built nothing.

Resentment grew. He wanted to lash out at someone, anyone, and Amanda was at hand.

This whole situation, the loss of his studs and his mother's journal... It was all her fault.

And she had rejected him, emphatically. Last night as well as that first time she'd led him on and run away. She had nothing but contempt for Callaway McIntyre.

He wanted to seize her, hold her, and prove he wasn't as bad as she thought. He wanted her to like him.

Jumping to his feet, he yanked her up so hard her hair slapped at his face. “You were going to swim in the ocean. All we've done is paddle around the edge.”

When she drew back protesting, he swept on with her, anyway.

Snug in his arms, she was solid but not heavy. He pretended she was his, that he could use her certainty to overcome his failures.

“You're going to get baptized in Cancun's waters, Amanda Jane. Here and now.”

She gurgled, and made a halfhearted attempt to escape. “The last time I got dunked, I was sixteen years old.”

He walked into the surf feeling sixteen all over again himself, when he had thrown in the cutest girls and laughed at their squeals, and then made up with them later.

Amanda wasn't angry or squealing. She was an ebullient bundle against his chest, laughing so hard that he began to laugh, too. The breeze lifted her hair to screen his eyes and catch on his lips. The water covered his knees and thighs, drenched his suit and cooled his groin. “You've needed a good soaking since I met you, Ms. Jane. Give me a kiss and I'll put you down.”

She turned her head away and laughed harder. “I'm not afraid.”

I am
. The thought came without warning, and he wasn't sure what he was afraid of. His laughter fled.

“Kiss me,” he said.

She shook her head. “Toss away, Mr. Macho. I can swim.”

“You'll get your hair wet.”

“It'll dry.”

She was alive and vibrant, and he couldn’t plunge her into the indifferent sea. Abruptly, he set her down on her feet. A wave slapped his chest, knocking her away.

She was surprised, but weathered the surf and hurried back to the beach. Her movements emphasized the outline of her butt, the flare of her hips from the small waist.

“I thought you were going to throw me in,” she taunted. “Not as strong as you thought you were, huh?”

“No. The ocean might have carried you off and I'd have hated that.” He grinned so she wouldn't realize he wasn’t teasing.

He wanted her, damn, how he wanted her. He was almost sick with desire. He'd like to throw her down on the sand and let the waves break over them as he took her over the edge and turned her back into the woman she was meant to be.

She saw something in his face. Her smile faded, the glow in her eyes died, and she picked up her towel a shade too quickly. “I'm starved. It's getting late.”

“Near seven,” he agreed, relieved at her change of subject.

If he wasn't careful, he would lose himself in her. He could envision a mind-whirling trap springing closed.

And his head, where Amanda Jane was concerned, was already reeling.

* * * *

Callaway kept confusing Amanda. One moment he seemed jaded, the next an innocent. His changing moods kept her mind in turmoil.

After cleaning off the sand, they caught the bus into Cancun and got off at the restaurant where they were to meet Noelle—where Callaway
thought
they were to meet Noelle—the following day.

Amanda hated deceiving him, but she couldn’t chance driving her sister away. She would force Noelle to talk to Cal.

Over dinner, Callaway's charm hit full blast. He advised her on the menu, joked with the waiter and entertained her with tales of Cancun's denizens. In the face of such goodwill, Amanda’s conscience kicked in big-time. But she had to stick to Noelle’s plan. If she didn't, Callaway would never recover his things.

Once Noelle saw she had no choice, she would cooperate. There was no reason for her not to, now that Sonny was dead.

But Noelle couldn't cooperate if she ran away.

I’m doing the right thing,
Amanda told herself as she and Callaway strolled around the mall behind the restaurant.

As she tarried in the shops, he trailed along without complaint. A weaver working in the upstairs aisle displayed tablecloths and napkins that she fell in love with. She debated on buying some and flipped through the different designs until a pattern in bright colors made her exclaim.

“Go ahead,” Callaway said. “Get a set.”

She put down the samples. “I've spent too much money already.” The moment she said it, she regretted it. Her finances were none of Callaway McIntyre's business. “Let's get something to drink.”

Leaving her sipping her soda, he wandered off. On his return, he carried a large bag. From it he pulled a leather purse. “To go with your dress I got Claire for her birthday. Only six hundred fifty pesos,” he boasted. “See, the hardware's real silver.”

Envious of Claire for having a sibling who remembered birthdays, Amanda tactfully refrained from saying the purse was far too sporty for the orange gauze dress. She also left unvoiced doubts as to its worth.

On the bus, Callaway, pleased with his purchase, swung his shopping bag and chatted with the other passengers. Most of them were tourists, some staying at the Firth of Clyde. These he skillfully led into voicing opinions on the rooms, the staff, the shops, and the service. All without disclosing his own interest in the hotel.

As he listened to what the Firth's guests were saying, Amanda could almost see him making mental notes. He might pretend he wasn’t interested in his family’s company, but his actions said otherwise.

When they got back to their rooms, he opened the bag and pulled out a smaller sack that he handed to Amanda with a flourish. “This is for you.”

Mystified, she looked inside to see the tablecloth and napkins she had admired.

When she found her voice, she said, “You shouldn't have done that.” She folded the top of the bag down and handed it back. “It's very sweet of you, but it was my choice not to get them.”

“You didn't let me buy your clothes in Las Vegas or a swimsuit here.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “These cost hardly anything.”

She recognized the beginnings of a sulk. “Thank you, but I can't take them.”

“Look, I'm trying to make up for dragging you all over the country and then some. Let me give them to you.”

“No. Sorry.”

He shrugged, his jaw tensed.

She’d hurt his feelings. He took her refusal of his gift as another rejection. “It doesn't mean that much to you, I know.” She touched his arm, trying to make him understand. “But it puts me in your debt, don't you see?”

“And you don't want to be in my debt?”

She thought of his stolen diamonds and book. “I’m already way over my head in debt to you. I can't afford to owe you any more.”

“Okay.” He threw the bag on the sofa like a thwarted little boy. “Don't take them. Be that way.”

Amanda could barely restrain a big grin.

I could handle him,
she thought for not the first time.
I know I could. If I only had the chance.

“Hey,” she said. “It's nine o'clock. Almost bedtime.”

He scoffed. “I can't go to bed this early. I'd wake up at three in the morning. How about going downstairs to the club? They've got a band there, we can dance.” A faint scowl returned. “Don't worry. There's no cover charge for us.”

Yes, she wanted to go with him. Anywhere. It would be heaven to dance with him, feel his arms around her, and put her arms around him. To gaze into his eyes and watch them light up with the laughter that lurked beneath the surface. Her kisses would tease away the frowns and charm the dimple out of its hiding place.

She wanted that. She wanted him.

No more evading the truth: it was too late for her and had been all along. Callaway McIntyre had come into her life like a cyclone and no matter how hard she fought being blown away, it didn't change a thing.

“All right. Let's go out.” No more nerves, not tonight.
It’s for me to choose.
She could dance with him and laugh with him and come back to her lonely room, her solitary bed.

Or not.

She could take him into her body, let a few hours assuage the need he evoked. Or she could sleep alone and wrestle with her demons in her own way.

Her choice. Seize the moment and have a few hours of happiness, or let it go by and regret it.

Maybe he’d be gone afterward, but she could have this one night.

It was her decision to make.

Chapter Seventeen

The club, a large area of the hotel's lower level open to the beach, was filled by colored lanterns and people gyrating to music played by a loud Mexican rock quintet. Callaway, in shorts and Hawaiian shirt, pushed his way to the bar, got their drinks, and elbowed his way back to her.

“Dance?” He had to shout above the din so Amanda could hear.

She raised her brows in imitation of the incredulous looks he so often used on her.

Recognition of her mimicry evoked his quick grin. “How about a walk down the beach instead?” he yelled.

She led the way outside. Her dress was loose-fitting and long, one of her few casual dresses. On impulse she’d thrown it in at the last minute because it didn’t wrinkle and its vivid orange shade brought up images of exotic places. It looked good on her, too, even if its classic cut might not be to Callaway McIntyre’s taste.

The moonlight fell like a satin sheet, turning the beach silver and leaving dark shadows in its hollows. As they sat on a concrete wall and sipped their drinks, the background music diminished, its hush overwhelmed by the roar of frothy surf hitting luminescent sands. When they joined hand-in-hand couples strolling on the beach, Callaway offered a steadying arm while she took off her flat sandals.