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He knew it was an intimate request since she lived in the upstairs apartment, but it would be his, of course, if he purchased the bar. He had every right to see it.
He wanted to see where she lived.
She appeared to hesitate, then she said, “Sure.”
He thought he saw a hint of blush tinge her cheeks again. She led the way up the narrow, cramped back stairs.
“This is it,” she said, opening the door and standing out of the way.
He walked past her into the room. Against one wall, a counter, sink and stove made up the kitchen. A Murphy bed took up another wall, but she hadn’t put it up, and the twisted sheets and piled pillows made his chest tighten. The entire apartment was characteristically Leah-messy. He noticed she had walked to the large window. She stood there, framed by light sheers that left the ocean view uncluttered, except for a strange concoction of branches, suede lacing, beads and feathers that hung down in the center.
The rest of the room was taken up by a small dinette with two chairs and a plump tan love seat with a round coffee table. She grew a pot of overflowing ivy and miniature sunflowers in the center of it. Spare sketch pads and pencils, a couple of books and magazines and a box of shells and thread for her jewelry loaded up every spare inch of space around the plants.
“You’re an artist?” he inquired casually.
She turned to face him. “I design a few things—clothes, jewelry,” she said.
Her designs had been sold in expensive boutiques in Manhattan. She had been just as self-effacing about her work then.
Leah had never taken herself seriously. She could have made a fortune, but she’d never operated that way. The demand for her work had always been much higher than her production. She wasn’t lazy—on the contrary, she worked very hard. But she hadn’t been willing to let it consume her.
It had been just one of the ways they’d approached life differently.
“You’re a very creative person,” he commented. He was all-business, conservative. Maybe we were never meant to be, she’d told him once when they were fighting. We’re too different.
“You haven’t even seen my work.”
“I’d like to see your work,” he said, covering quickly. “Is it showcased here on the island somewhere?”
Of course, he’d already seen her recent work displayed on the boardwalk. The day he’d been there, a reggae band was performing for free in the courtyard. Beyond, the public beach offered dive shops and snorkeling gear rentals. A sign in front of the marina advertised a bucket of fish for a dollar to tourists who wanted to feed the pelicans and huge tarpons swarming below the dock.
He’d fed the fish and watched Leah from the distance as she entered a boutique.
“There’s a small shopping center on Rum Beach,” she said. “It’s called Smugglers Village. You can see my work there in the Artisans Cove boutique.”
“Maybe you could show it to me,” he suggested, managing to sound blithe. “I haven’t had a chance to see much of Thunder Key, and if I’m going to be making a property investment here, I’d like to find out more about the island first. It wouldn’t be a date,” he added to defuse any argument before she made it.
Again he caught her faint blush.
“I’m sorry I made such a big deal about that,” she said. “I know that sounded stupid. I’m not ready to date, that’s all.”
“Why is that?” he asked, carefully.
She was very still, then she answered in a quiet voice, “I’m not sure. Really, I don’t know why I’m even telling you this.”
The confusion in her soft eyes hurt him.
“I know how you feel,” he said gently. “I was married, but—” he began, then waited. For a reaction, anything—
“But what?” she prompted, her eyes wide.
One heartbeat, two. “I lost her, in an accident.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry,” she said, sympathy gleaming in her eyes. He even saw moisture there. She was ready to cry—for him.
Leah had always been one to respond to others’ pain. Not long after they’d married, one of her friends from the studio had suffered an inoperable back injury in a car accident. Like Leah, Nikki Bates had no family, and it had been Leah who had sat by her hospital bed, visited her with food and helped her when she was finally sent home. And no one had been more crushed than Leah when Nikki overdosed on pain medication only weeks before Leah disappeared.
The suicide of someone so close to her had torn Leah apart—and it was for exactly that reason that when one of the crash investigators had tried broaching the possibility that Leah might have driven her car over that bridge on purpose, Roman had flatly dismissed it. There was just no way. Leah had been too hurt by Nikki’s death to ever leave anyone else with the cruel guilt of losing someone that way.
Roman changed the subject, not ready to talk more about the past yet. Not ready to risk that she would remember him before he’d had a chance to convince her that he was a different man.
“What is this?” he said, reaching out to touch the artistic creation of beads, feathers, branches and suede in the window. There wasn’t much in the apartment, so he was curious about what she would choose to display. He had to focus on getting to know this new Leah.
“It’s a dreamcatcher.”
“What’s that?” he asked. He’d never seen anything like it.
“It’s from an old Native American legend,” she explained. She touched the beaded suede laces that made up a web. “The web catches the good dreams, and the hole in the center—” She put her fingers in the opening. “The bad dreams go out through here.”
“Do you have bad dreams?” He stepped closer to her, wanting so much to hold her. He had to clench his fists at his sides to prevent himself from following through on the urge.
She nodded. “Yes. Sometimes.”
He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “About what?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she said softly, looking away. “I never remember much of them.”
Was he the bad dream she couldn’t remember?
Now it was her turn to change the subject. She took a deep breath, exhaled and looked straight at him again. “Why don’t we go downstairs to Morrie’s office and you can talk to him on the phone, then I’ll—” She gave a light shrug, smiled her crooked, heart-destroying smile. “Maybe we can go down to the boardwalk. Joey will be in, and a couple of the waitresses. I don’t have to be here till later. If you still want me to, I can show you around.”
“That sounds perfect,” Roman said. He forced a smile, feeling like a lying bastard in spite of all his good intentions. But he was fully prepared to keep on lying, as long as he had to.
He needed time. He needed to seduce her all over again—and this time he needed to do it right.
He’d lost Leah once, and he’d be damned if he was going to lose her again.
Chapter 3
What drugs had she been on when she’d decided this was a good idea?
Okay, she didn’t do drugs. Had never done drugs. That she knew of. But Leah was pretty sure she’d been high on something when the words, If you still want me to, I can show you around, had popped out of her mouth.
Morrie had asked her to get to know his potential buyer. He wanted to sell the bar, but not to just anyone. He wanted to know the bar wouldn’t be torn down or all the staff fired. But she hadn’t had to offer to take Roman around town. It had been an impulsive, stupid idea. It wasn’t even like her to be impulsive. At least, if it ever had been like her, it wasn’t like her now. She was careful, cautious, wary.
But she knew what’d had her high.
Roman Bradshaw’s dimple that—when he smiled—made her think he wasn’t scary at all. But it was an illusion. He was scary. Her strong reaction to him was proof.
And now she was stuck with him for the whole morning. Thank God they weren’t alone.
Smugglers Village teemed with activity. The boardwalk included a bookstore, a sandal shop, a sportsman’s paradise, the standard touristy T-shirt booth and a cozy little restaurant offering a menu of Keysy food. The Artisans Cove was full of New Age samplings like incense, candles, oils, yoga guides, along with jewelry and clothing. A number of artists showcased their work on consignment, taking turns to work in the shop. Leah manned the counter one morning a week.
“So these are yours.” Roman touched a display of beaded bracelets. He’d dressed in jeans today, with a white T-shirt that clung to his shoulders and pecs. He was an eye-catching man, and she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.
The artist working the cash register had lifted her brows when they’d come in, but Marian had been helping another customer, thankfully. Leah felt uncomfortable coming into the shop with Roman. She’d made it clear to everyone she knew that she wasn’t interested in dating, and she didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea now.
“Yes, those are mine,” she said, then realized he’d pointed them out before she’d told him. “How did you know?”
“Just guessed,” he answered easily. “They remind me of the work I saw in your apartment.”
“These are mine, too.” Leah pointed at another rack holding crystal and ethnic stone necklaces. “And the designs in that window.” She indicated a clothing nook near the door. “I use all hand-printed fabrics from a studio in Key West.”
“They’re beautiful,” Roman said. “I’m impressed.”
His fingers were long, strong-looking, and she found herself staring at them. Wanting to touch them.
“Don’t be,” she said. “It’s nothing. It’s just something I do for fun.” She forced herself to look away from his hands, unnerved by how everything about him fascinated her, drew her and repulsed her all at once.
He turned from the jewelry counter, an intense look suddenly crossing his face. “You always do that.”
“Always do what?” A dizzy sensation crawled up her spine. Do I know you? And he’d told her no. Had he lied? How would she ever know?
“You put yourself down. You never—”
“You don’t even know me. How can you say that?”
Now he was the one who looked off-kilter, and his gaze on her was odd.
“You’re right.” He looked away. “I don’t know why I said that. These are great, that’s all. I gave you a compliment. Just say thank you.” There was something suddenly sad in his face.
“Thank you,” she said, and had a strange urge to add… What? She didn’t even know.
The bell on the door clanged. The customer had left the shop. Marian hurried over. Her gaze on Roman was clearly appreciative.
Leah felt a weird twist in her chest.
“Hi, Leah.” She was still looking at Roman.
“Marian, this is Roman Bradshaw. From New York. He’s thinking of buying the Shark and Fin. I’m showing him around the Key a bit. Marian’s another artist,” she explained to Roman. “She’s a potter.”
“I see. Well, welcome to Thunder Key, Roman Bradshaw.” Marian stuck her hand out and smiled flirtatiously.
Roman took her hand briefly. Marian was tall, blond, self-assured. Everything Leah was not. Dammit, was she jealous? She had never felt this way before, and she didn’t like it. Marian was a sweetie, and truly, she’d been a good friend. She was the one who’d invited Leah to join the Artisans Cove group. She was single and manhunting—as Marian herself put it—and Leah had made a huge point of the fact that she wasn’t.
But she hated how Marian was looking at Roman. It made her feel possessive and childish and ridiculous.
“Thank you,” Roman said to Marian. Marian smiled.
Leah pointed out some of Marian’s work, and Roman made some appreciative comments.
After a few minutes Roman said to Leah, “I noticed they sell buckets of fish at the marina. How about taking a walk out there? I’d like to discuss a few things Morrie brought up with me on the phone.”
A mix of feelings tangled inside her. She was stupidly flattered that he was showing no interest in Marian whatsoever. Instead, his heavy, cloaked gaze arrowed intensely on Leah. Which was exactly why, at the same time, she felt so horribly uneasy.
“All right.” What else could she say, do? As long as they were discussing business, everything would be fine.
But it didn’t feel like business when he opened the door of the shop, placed a gentle hand beneath her elbow as they walked out onto the boardwalk. Leah walked faster, moving away from his touch.
“Bye,” Marian called. The bell above the shop door clanged as it shut behind them.
“She liked you,” Leah forced herself to slow down enough to comment. “She’s a really sweet person. If you…you know, if you’re interested in having some fun, seeing the nightlife, Marian is really the person to show you around. She’s a lot of fun and—”
She realized he’d stopped. She turned, looked back at him.
“Are you trying to set me up?” He seemed amused.
The reggae band was warming up. The sun beat down on the boardwalk, alive with tourists in the still-cool morning air. The underlying heat brushed her skin. Soon it would be another blazing-hot Keys day.
“No, I—” She didn’t know what to say. She felt like an idiot every time she opened her mouth around this man. “You’re here on vacation. I guess it’s kind of a working vacation, but still… I’m sure you want to have some fun, and Marian—”
“Look, I’m not interested in Marian. And I’m not trying to come on to you, either. But if I buy the bar, we’re going to be working together. You’re not interested in me. You’re a lesbian. I got it. You don’t have to keep telling me. Maybe you should date Marian.”
Stupider and stupider. That’s how she felt. But she couldn’t help laughing. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re really starting to damage my self-esteem,” he said, a teasing note entering his deep voice. “I’m going to need therapy if you keep telling me how much you don’t want to date me.”
He stuck his hand out.
“Friends?” he said.
She met his now-serious gaze. “Friends.” She put her hand in his. There went the twist in her chest again, but what choice did she have? Morrie had been thrilled someone was interested in the bar, even if somewhat wary yet. Things were going well in New Mexico, and selling the Shark and Fin would mean he could make his move out there permanent. She owed Morrie so much.
And if I buy the bar, we’re going to be working together.
How had that thought not even entered her head till now? Somehow she had just assumed—
“Wouldn’t you be going back to New York? I thought this was just an investment for you?”
They left Smugglers Village, taking the boardwalk path that led to the marina. The sound of the reggae music filtered through the air.
“I plan to move here,” he said.
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed. Wow, I am going to need therapy.”
He smiled, and she was struck by the even whiteness of his teeth, and the way his dark eyes lit with mischief. There was something so contradictory about him. His entire bearing was so businesslike, reserved, and yet when he looked at her, there was a hint of vulnerability to his dark, shielded depths, and then there were those moments of lightness, not to mention those flashing dimples. She just couldn’t figure him out, and she shouldn’t even want to.
