Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3)

Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3) Page 19

“Sounds great.” It sounded idiotic. Dresner was a dying city. There was more call for a soup kitchen than luxury condos overlooking a river polluted by forty years of industrial waste. Cheese shop? Come on.

“So I’m looking for a little capital to get started.” He paused. “I’d pay you back with interest and all.”

James took a slow breath. “I’d love to help you out, Tom—”

“No one’s asking for help. This is an investment opportunity. Thought you liked that shit.” There was already an edge in Tom’s voice.

“I wish I could help you,” James said. “I really don’t have the money.”

Tom pushed off his truck, his face growing even redder. “Yes, you do, you little prick. You’ve been working for that rich ass**le for years now—”

“In case you didn’t hear, my boss is in jail.”

“—and don’t tell me you didn’t get a king’s ransom for burrowing up that guy’s butt.”

Nice. “I did. But it’s all tied up, and you know it, Tom.”

His older brother glared. “Fuck you.”

“Tom, look, even if it was a great idea—”

“Oh, now it’s a crap idea?”

“—I honestly don’t have the money. It all went to Beckham.”

“And we wouldn’t have needed Beckham if it wasn’t for you! You f**ked everyone over, didn’t you? When your own family needs something, forget it. But here you are, playing house with your boss’s daughter, aren’t you? Having fun living off her money?”

“Tom, look at this place. Does it seem like she’s got money?”

“Thanks for nothing. I should’ve known. And don’t show your face in Dresner. Mom’s enough of a mess without you. Asshole.”

Ten seconds later, Tom screeched out of the driveway. He gave James the bird as he gunned the motor. Then he was gone.

Forget the roof. There was a crowbar; there was the long side of the house. James grabbed the heavy metal tool, jammed its wedged end under some shingles and began ripping them off with a vengeance. Sweat poured off his body, soaked his hair, stung his eyes. The wood screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. Just ripped the shingles off the side, no matter that they’d been petrifying there for two generations, just shoved the pry bar underneath and jerked up and ripped them off like scabs.

He didn’t even notice Parker come up from the beach until she walked right past him, her dog as always tight against her calves.

“Hello, sweaty day laborer,” she said with a grin.

“Hey,” he grunted.

“Was someone here? Thought I heard voices.”

“Nope.”

“You hungry?”

“Nope.”

She gave him a look, but he kept ripping shingles. “Okay, Thing One. I’m going for a swim.”

“Fine.”

She went blithely into the house. James continued jamming the crowbar under the shingles, relishing the screech as they tore off.

Then her words sank in.

She couldn’t swim in Maine water. It was practically ice-cold. Fifty-two, fifty-five degrees? Maybe? It was high tide, too, so it’d be even colder. He tossed down the pry bar and stomped inside, folded his arms across his sweaty T-shirt and stood outside her door, ready to lecture her.

Then the door opened, and he forgot what he was there for.

She was wearing a bikini.

“You want to come?” she asked.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Skin. There was a lot of skin. And…curves. Breasts. Shoulders. Legs. His mouth went dry. She gave him an odd look, then scooped up her hair and secured it with an elastic, and his eyes slid down to her rack, because my God, that was a fantastic—

“I know. Cellulite. I’ve gained eleven pounds this past year.” She stared down at her torso, then sighed. “Oh, well. Maybe I can swim some off. Come on, Beauty.” She grabbed a towel and headed through the kitchen.

Her ass was…well, he was unable to summon actual words at the moment, as there was no blood flowing upward. And that scrap of fabric—red fabric—thank you, Jesus. Hard to believe she’d kissed him once, and speaking of hard, she was so beautiful and perfect and luscious, bad enough that he’d had to listen to her shower every morning, and—

But wait, wait, wait.

She couldn’t swim in that water.

“Parker,” he croaked, but she was already halfway down the stairs, the long grass billowing in the breeze, the dog’s feathery tail in the air.

“Parker!” he called, banging out the back door. “That water’s really cold.”

“And I am really hot,” she said. Tell me about it. “I’ve been working like a dog. Right, Beauty?”

“It’s too cold for swimming,” he said, running down the stairs. “Hypothermia cold, Parker. Don’t go in.”

“Oh, come on. People swim in it all the time.”

“Not up here they don’t.” He reached the dock, which was bobbing vigorously, as the tide was coming in hard, slapping against the buoys that held the thing afloat. If he didn’t watch it, he’d fall right in.

“Well, I’m going swimming.” She draped her towel over one of the old wooden porch chairs she’d dragged down here. “Beauty, want to come? Come on, girl!” With that, Parker executed a perfect swimmer’s dive from the dock, the dog sailing in right behind her.

She didn’t surface. He could see her white skin under the water…but no, that was just sunlight. Where was she? Where the hell was she? “Parker!” James stripped off his shirt. “Parker!”

Then her blond head popped up, way too far away from the dock. She pushed her hair out of her face. “Oh, bugger!” she called. “You were right! It’s freezing!” She grinned at him, then saw her dog. “Beauty! Good girl! Good puppy!”

“Parker, get in here. You’ll freeze.”

“I do feel like I’m dying. But eleven pounds, Thing One!” With that, she began swimming in long, hard strokes away from the dock.

James bit his thumbnail. Yes, granted, she’d swum on the Harvard team. There’d been two pools at Grayhurst, one inside and one out. But there were no tides in swimming pools, and they weren’t fifty-two degrees, and they weren’t strewn with buoy lines. What if she got tangled on one? “Parker, don’t be an idiot,” he called, jamming his hands into his pockets.

She didn’t hear him. Kept swimming. Another yard. Another. She was an entire football field away now. No signs of slowing. Damn it all to hell. If he jumped in after her, could he catch her? Probably not. But once she went under, he’d be a lot closer—

Finally she stopped, and the dog swam right up to her. It had a stick, which Parker threw back toward the dock, and the dog zipped right around to find it.

“Time to come in, Parker,” James yelled, sounding like a parent. Then again, she was acting like an idiot child. Like—

“It’s really not bad once you get used to it,” she called.

“That’s what they all say, right before they freeze to death.”

She laughed. He was chewing his thumbnail again.

Finally, she turned in the right direction, diving under the surface of the water in a dolphinlike move, then popping up for breath a few yards closer. Swam efficiently, closer, closer. James didn’t take his eyes off her the entire time.

Then, as she was climbing back onto the dock, she slipped and fell back with a splash, and before he was quite aware of having moved, he had her by the arm and was hauling her up, slopping frigid water against himself, her skin as cold as if she were dead.

“Easy there, Mr. Lifeguard,” she said, stepping back and smoothing the hair off her face. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t make this a habit. It’s too cold. It’s stupid, Parker.”

“I think I will make it a habit, Thing One,” she said, squeezing the saltwater out of her hair. “I love to swim, I own a house on the water, and you’re not the boss of me.” Goose bumps covered her skin, and her ni**les— Shit. Women were not fair, because a perfectly good case of righteous anger was turning into lust.

Without another word, he turned and stalked off the dock.

Time to rip some more shingles.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a baby shark named Swimmy. He asked his mommy, “Does God still love me, even though I eat the other fishies?” and his mommy said, “Who cares?” and ate him, and Swimmy was delicious.

Okay. So the writing wasn’t going that well. Parker put aside the red notebook, which now contained eleven ridiculous and aborted story attempts, considered tossing it off the dock and sighed. Well, maybe her new series would get the green light. Two days ago, against her better judgment, she’d sent her agent and editor a series proposal. The Ark Angels. How did all those animals get along on Noah’s Ark? Why, it was all thanks to a clever lion cub, a singing fox and a crafty kangaroo. Glee meets the Bible meets Animal Farm. We thought it was super awesome, Parker! the HRs chorused. Parker figured it was close enough to the Holy Rollers in its preachy, simpering style, so she had high hopes that the powers-that-be would love it.

But she hadn’t been feeling the mojo. Not that she’d loved the Holy Rollers, but the books had come easily to her. You’re welcome, said Spike, who now looked to be a thuggish sixteen. About time we got some recognition around here. He tucked a cigarette behind his ear.

“No smoking,” she said. He stubbed the ciggie out against his palm, Lavinia-style, and lifted an eyebrow. Teenagers.

She got up and headed inside. Thing One was still ripping and tearing stuff, apparently having his period. She may as well start dinner.

Once all the crap had been cleared from the kitchen, Parker had scoured it. The linoleum was torn in a few places, but otherwise, the room had a sort of cheap charm. Shabby chic, maybe? There was a kitschy little table, one of those chrome-and-vinyl models from the sixties, white with bits of gold, and a couple of usable chairs. Parker had excavated a strange plastic tomato statue; it wore a top hat, had long eyelashes and sported a cane, which, upon further inspection, turned out to be a smiling green worm. She put it on the table and smiled. Looked kind of cute.

Grayhurst’s kitchen had consisted of granite and marble and steel with rare-wood cabinets and knobs designed just for the house. The knives were German, the china French. The table had been an original Frank Lloyd Wright.

Well. Those days were over. Sparkly vinyl and plastic tomatoes were more her speed now. And the linoleum, while still cracked and yellowing, was clean, at least. Things were moving in the right direction.

The swim had been great, though James had a point. That water was freaking cold. But swimming had always made her feel calmer and happier. Nicky, too, she’d noticed. He’d love the water here, her little eel. She’d been on Skype with him earlier during a quick run to the library; they were at a gorgeous lodge in Muir Woods. Nicky had looked bigger to her. Then again, that might be her imagination. They’d only been apart for five days.

Hard to believe. It felt like five months.

The sound of screeching wood came from the opposite side of the house. James, still hard at work. The noise was like a knife in her eye. Maybe the lad was hungry. She’d see if he had any preference for dinner. Seemed like the least she could do.

Going outside, she saw that James was still shirtless.

Oh, that was…that was good. That was nice. The guy browned up fast, that was for sure. His hair was wet with sweat, and half of the shingles on the side of the house were gone. His muscles bunched and corded as he worked. Beautiful arms, lean stomach, the muscles over his ribs shifting hypnotically with his movements. A bead of sweat ran down his neck into the little hollow at the base of his throat.