Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) Page 9

  She didn’t answer right away, but looked like she was searching for words. Words that wouldn’t sting. Shit.

  “It has so much potential. You have so much potential.”

  He stared at her. Screw potential. That’s not what he wanted to hear.

  “You know what you have to do, right?”

  Curse? Punch a wall? Quit? “Start over?”

  “No, you have to tell the truth.”

  “It’s fiction, Willow.”

  “Okay, then tell your truth.”

  He closed his eyes, the shot a direct hit.

  Chapter Ten

  “I could have lied,” Willow said. And maybe she should have, because Nick’s gutted expression made her remember how she felt when something she said, did, wanted, or wore didn’t stand up to her mother’s rigorous expectations. “But that book’s too good to lie.”

  “You just said it sucked.”

  “No, no.” She shook her head vehemently. “I did not. I said it could be even better. Would I be out here cooling myself off if that make-out scene didn’t…affect me?” And by affect, she meant turn her entire lower half into a pool of liquid lust. His language was evocative and tantalizing, the imagery completely sexy without being corny.

  “It affected you?” A spark of hope lit his eyes, but she didn’t get to enjoy it, because he snagged the bottom of his T-shirt and ripped it over his head. Speaking of evocative and tantalizing…

  His abs were so defined, there were shadows in between the muscle cuts. His chest, damp with sweat, heaved with a deep breath, drawing her gaze to the blue ink near his left shoulder, the semicircle that represented the earth and single star high above it. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen a fan with the Zenith album graphic tattooed on him, but it was definitely the first time she’d had the urge to…lick it.

  He toed off his sneakers and tipped his head toward the water. “I’m hot.”

  No kidding.

  “I’m going in.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Actually…” He pulled at the waistband of his sweats. “Unsuit myself is more appropriate.”

  Her jaw unhinged. “You’re going in naked?”

  “You’ve seen it before.”

  “Doesn’t mean I want to see it again.” Liar, liar. But, still, after reading that kiss, she wasn’t sure her libido could stand the pressure.

  “I hate clothes.”

  Just her luck. She leaned back on her palms, squinting up at him. “Sadly, our society requires them.”

  He thumbed his sweats lower, revealing more skin and muscle. “If it offends you, look away. I’ll be in the pool in a second.”

  “I don’t think the word is ‘offend.’”

  She waited for his grin or quip, but his expression was still dark. He inched the sweats down, following that sweet strip of dark hair, sliding over those narrow hips, across the ripped muscles that led right to…

  She really ought to close her eyes. Or turn her head. Or peel off her dress and join him.

  “You’re killing me, Nick,” she admitted.

  “Punishment for hating my book.”

  “Oh, yeah, looking at you bare-ass naked is absolute torture.”

  Finally, he smiled. “As bad as the book?”

  “Would you stop? I didn’t hate it. I think it’s amazing and could be even more amazing.”

  He didn’t answer, but in one smooth move, he dove into the deep end in a way that gave her a perfect view of his ass. Which, even upside-down, made her mouth go bone dry.

  She watched him swim, his perfect form distorted enough by the water that it wasn’t completely obscene, just…wonderful. He moved like he’d been born in the water, shooting from one side of the pool to the other in long, powerful, silent strokes.

  As he neared her end, she leaned forward to really get a good look and, whoosh, he turned with the grace of a trained swimmer and pushed himself back to the other side.

  She expected him to pop up, but he came back again, then returned, then back again.

  How long could he hold his breath? He had to have been under there forty-five seconds already.

  But he gave an easy kick and shot across the bottom again, back and forth until she lost count. Finally, he surfaced about six inches away from her, not a bit winded.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “I didn’t even make two minutes.” He smacked the water.

  “How long did you want to stay under?”

  He shook his hands in the air. “Unbound and in seventy-five-degree water? Two minutes sucks. Shit.” He snorted some water. “I suck today.”

  “Okay, pity party’s over.” She splashed some water with her feet. “Can we talk about the book now? Because I loved so much of it.”

  He swiped his hair off his face and stood in five feet of water in front of her, his shoulders and head glistening in the sun, the dark nest of hair and man below the water line, everything visible enough to torment the hell out of her.

  He took a step closer, and she fought not to look down. Didn’t most men shy away from water for fear of shrinkage? Of course, if that thing shrank, it would be nearing normal. His eyes were mesmerizing enough to hold her gaze, water droplets on the lashes almost like tears.

  “Tell me what you loved.”

  She flipped her feet and made waves around his chest, enjoying the hint of vulnerability on a man who looked anything but right now. “I got a little misty-eyed when he left his sister.”

  “You cried?”

  “It felt, you know, real.”

  He grunted softly and dropped underwater. What the hell?

  But before she could figure out what had just happened, he surfaced, shaking water off his head before saying, “It was real.”

  “So the book is autobiographical?”

  His head went under. Damn it! She kicked water so hard her toe touched his forehead, and she instantly snatched it back, but not before his hand clamped around her ankle. She shrieked as he tugged.

  He emerged slowly, gripping her ankle firmly, his large hand easily spanning the diameter. “You wanna play water games with a SEAL?” He grinned. “’Cause you’ll lose.”

  Tugging a little more, he inched her closer to the edge. She’d be in and soaking wet in seconds. The thought of being in the water with him sent something unholy right down to the toes that practically curled in his hand. He’d peel off her dress, strip her down to nothing, and—

  “No,” he said, the word ripping her from Fantasy Land.

  “What?”

  “No, it’s not autobiographical.”

  She eyed him. “Lieutenant Spencer Gannon is a SEAL from Northern California who played every sport ever invented, went to UCLA, and was deployed in Iraq. You’re telling me he’s not based on Lieutenant Nicholas Spencer Hershey with the same bio?”

  He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “How do you know my middle name?”

  Because she’d licked up crumbs of information about Nick Hershey like a starving puppy cleaning the kitchen floor. “I’m smart like that. Am I right? That Gannon character is you, through and through.”

  He didn’t answer right away, probably because denial would have been a lie. “They say write what you know,” he finally said.

  As he spoke, he reached for her other ankle, and she didn’t bother to fight that. The pleasure of it was instant and real, like taking a thumbnail-size piece of a chocolate-chip cookie. So easy to rationalize the quick flash of deliciousness, so small it didn’t count.

  But then she should have inched away, wrested free, or demanded he let go.

  She didn’t. That was the second bite. She waited for the twist of guilt, but the only thing she felt was much lower and sharper and more primal. After all, a gorgeous man was stark naked and holding on to her ankles, and she was in a dress with enough flowy material in the skirt that he could easily…spread her legs.

  So she didn’t fight or move or, really, breathe. She simply reveled in the sensation of his hand
s on her skin.

  “Tell me the truth: Am I wasting my time?” he asked quietly. “Is this a pipe dream?”

  “Trying to get me in the water with you? Yes.”

  He gave her a look. “You know what I mean. The book. Is it a complete clusterfuck that should be deleted?”

  “Nick, I’m not a professional who knows anything about books. You could ask a literary agent or a publisher or someone who reads military memoirs.”

  “I will, but it’s not a memoir.” He squeezed a little harder. “It’s fiction. It’s an action thriller set in the theater of war.”

  Not to her. “I think it’s more of a romance.”

  His lip curled in pure disdain. “Like hell it is.”

  “Well, Gannon likes that reporter, Charlotte.”

  His eyes flashed in shock. “That’s not her name. It’s Christina.”

  “Yeah, I noticed you switched back and forth. It was Christina in the beginning, but the stuff you wrote toward the end, you called her Charlotte. I made a note of that for you.”

  He grimaced. “I was power writing at that point. Fast.”

  “So, maybe that tells you something about this character.”

  A whisper of fear flickered over his face, as fleeting as a moving shadow. “Like what?”

  “Like I said, I’m no expert, but maybe the fact that you don’t have her name straight is a sign she’s not completely clear in your head.”

  “No, she’s clear.” Suddenly, he let go of her ankles and disappeared again, launching into another lengthy underwater session.

  Willow let the water lap against her legs, though it did little to cool her off while she watched his naked form glide from end to end. She inhaled a whiff of summer-scented air, suddenly getting another clear insight into Nick. He was like an ostrich—only his hiding place was water, not sand.

  And Charlotte/Christina was real. She knew that like she knew her own name.

  He finally popped up.

  “I now understand why you became a SEAL.”

  “The classic response to that is so I can blow shit up, as you’ve probably heard.”

  “Not you,” she said, fluttering her feet in the water. “You go underwater when you want to avoid something.”

  He considered that, blinking water out of his eyes. “And you run. We all have our avoidance techniques.”

  “You don’t want to avoid my comments, do you?”

  “If you tell me I’m writing a romance novel, I do. Because it’s a military—”

  “Action thriller. Got it. Do they all have so much kissing, touching and, whoa, tender scenes by the river?”

  “Tender?” He sounded wounded. “I was going for ‘rip your guts out’ with that gunfire in the background.”

  “Reminded me of his heartbeat.”

  He shook his head. “And how he washed out her injury? Dude’s capable.”

  “And romantic.”

  “Shit.” He slapped the water, eyeing it like the escape called to him. She sneaked a good long look at what was below the water line, not quite clear enough to make out the details, but sufficiently visible to make her whole body sweat and tingle and knot with need.

  “It’s not a freaking romance novel,” he murmured, ducking back to wet his hair and swipe it straight off his face. Even with the Dracula look, he was handsome.

  “Does she live or die?” Willow asked.

  He stared at her, silent. Maybe speechless.

  “Because that will dictate what kind of book you’re writing,” she explained. “I don’t know about the business of writing a book, but I read a lot. And my guess is that if she dies, you have a better shot at the military-action-thriller reader, but if she lives, you’re going to get the happy-ending people. I’ve never read a romance that didn’t have a happy ending, and someone dies in every military thriller.”

  “Lots of books have happy endings.” Frustration and emotion made his voice gruff. “I don’t understand why that matters where the hell they stick it in a bookstore.”

  “All I know is that if she dies, you’re safe. It’s not a romance.”

  A storm brewed in his eyes. “Well, she’s going to live,” he said softly. “She has to live.” That last sentence was spoken even more softly, but still she could hear one thing in his voice. This mattered to him.

  “Will that feel real?”

  “Real? I don’t care if it feels real. It’s better than real.” Down he went under the water again.

  Had he loved this Charlotte/Christina? Or just lost her? Whatever, Willow had no doubt the woman was real, and he wanted her to live…at least in fiction, and probably in his memory.

  When he shot up, he shook his head like a wet dog, and she waited for him to look at her again.

  “Don’t.” Willow pointed at him.

  He froze, his expression dark. “Don’t what? Don’t let her live? I have to. That’s the whole point of the book. If she dies, then…then. No, I won’t even listen to that. It’s not up for consideration.”

  Definitely still alive in his memory. “I was going to say, ‘Don’t go underwater again.’”

  “Oh.” He stepped closer, humor gone from his eyes as they narrowed and locked on her.

  She sighed, giving a little kick. “Hey, listen to me. That book doesn’t suck. You should really, really write your heart out and…” Heal whatever’s hurting you. “Get this off your chest.”

  “I don’t have anything on my chest,” he said.

  Only a tattoo of her dad’s biggest-selling album and some pretty well-developed muscles. Not to mention some memories that were apparently weighing him down.

  “Why don’t you just tell me the book is great and I should have at it?”

  Good question. Because, deep inside—hell, right on the surface—she cared about him and wanted to help him. Well, get out the Stupid file and stick that thought in there. “Because the book is so good I didn’t want to stop reading. That’s not something just anyone can do, you know. As soon as I finished one scene, I wanted to gobble up another.”

  He took a few steps closer. “Thanks, Willow.”

  “Thanks for letting me read it.”

  He toyed with her ankles again. “You care if that dress stays dry or not?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I care if it stays dry.”

  “Really? ’Cause I was thinking about…more water games.”

  “More subject avoidance, I’d say.”

  He quirked a brow and fought a smile. “Semantics. Come on in.” He tugged at her legs.

  “No.”

  “If your dress gets soaked, you’ll have to take it off. Remember the regs. Full frontal gets full frontal.”

  She kicked some water at him. “I think it’s more like ‘honest critique gets dunked.’”

  Without answering, he clutched her ankles firmly, very slowly moving them side to side over the top of the water.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she warned.

  “Too late for that. I’m thinking. Hard.”

  The emphasis on the last word hit her like a little bullet way down low in the part of her that was burning enough to need to be in that water. This was desire. She might not know a lot about…this, but she knew desire when it lit up her ladybits with sparks.

  She was definitely playing with fire, in spite of all the water around.

  “I have a conference call scheduled in a few minutes, and I’m not sure what my partners would say if I arrived in a soaking-wet dress,” she finally said. In other words, I gotta run.

  “Misty left some clothes in the closet that she didn’t feel like packing.” He tugged her legs a little harder, moving her rear end over the warm stones by the pool. Temptation nearly drowned her as if she were already under.

  “As if that pencil’s clothes would fit me.”

  He winced, a look she knew all too well. Shame or discomfort or flat-out not knowing if it’s proper to mention a woman’s weight—even her former, dieted-off weight—or not.
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  “Then take off your dress and keep it dry.”

  She gave in to a smile. “I’m not going swimming with you.”

  “But you’re thinking about it.”

  “Am not.”

  “Of course you are. I can tell by”—very slowly, he spread her legs, her swing skirt easily accommodating the move—“your eyes.” He stepped right between her legs, his waist at the side of the pool. She had to look down at him. She had to put her hands on his wet, strong shoulders because…she had to.

  “What about my eyes?” she asked, spreading her palms over the warm, hard skin.

  “They go full-on slate gray.” He closed the space and then slowly lifted his face toward hers. “When you’re thinking about sexy things.”

  Then they must be positively silver around him. “There is a naked man standing between my legs, his face two inches from my boobs. Yes, it is possible I’m thinking sexy things.”

  That made him grin. He leaned a little closer, enough so that she could feel his breath on her cleavage, exposed in a scoop-necked top. “Then come in the water, Willow.”

  She pushed his shoulders back. “On one condition.”

  He looked to the sky. “I hate conditions.”

  “One.”

  His gaze dropped to her breasts, his expression hungry enough to make the very nipples he was so close to pop like little buds. “All right,” he conceded. “What’s the one condition?”

  “Tell that story how it really happened.”

  Even in the blazing sunshine, he paled. “No.”

  She shrugged, and in one fast, sharp, lightning move, she escaped his touch and stood up. Or maybe he let go. She couldn’t tell. “Then your book won’t be as wonderful as it could be. I have to go.”

  “Willow, come on. Don’t leave.”

  “I have work to do. And so do you.” She stepped away from the side of the pool and blew him a kiss. “Or you could hide underwater.”

  He waited exactly three heartbeats before he did precisely that. Willow left before he emerged and tempted her to stay.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Hey, you’re here.” Gussie pushed Willow’s kitchen door open, wearing a baseball cap and beach cover-up, her skin glowing from an afternoon in the sun. A few strands of her rarely seen natural golden brown hair slipped out from under one side, and her unmade-up eyes looked almost eerily clear after seeing them under pounds of makeup all week. “You never came back to the office, so we figured you were still with Nick.”