Sea of Love: A Bayberry Island Novel Read online

He said it. “Can I go now?”

  “Of course! Enjoy your stay on Bayberry Island. You’re eligible to ride on the island council’s parade float tomorrow, if you wish.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  Ash started to run. The rain was coming down so hard that he could barely see his feet hit the grass, the boardwalk, and eventually Main Street itself. He knew if he ran about a half mile down Shoreline Road, he’d find the gates that opened to the Safe Haven B and B. He was going to be soaked to the bone by the time he got there.

  It was strange, really, but as he ran, an image he’d seen only in photos or videos began to waft across his mind. He saw Rowan Flynn’s face. She really was a very pretty woman, and oddly enough, he looked forward to meeting her. He wondered what she’d be wearing. What she’d smell like. Whether her voice would be softer in person than how she’d sounded in the news footage from her boyfriend’s embezzlement trial.

  Ash was nearly out of breath by the time he ran through the falling-down gates. He looked up and stopped dead. There it was, shrouded in rain and set against the rough sea. The three-story wood shingle and stone Victorian mansion was something to behold, with dozens of windows of varying styles and sizes, an arcaded stone front porch, and a complex roof system with dormers on all sides. Ash knew the history of this place and was aware that all of it—including its famous architect—had been shipped in from the mainland. Yet the structure somehow managed to look like it belonged here, like it had grown from the sandy soil beneath it.

  He blinked the rain from his eyes. He admired how the mansion stood steady and dignified in the howling wind, hardly taking notice of what was just the latest in a hundred and thirty years of island storms.

  Ash marched toward the huge front porch, climbed the steps, and reached for the brass doorknob on a pair of beautifully carved double doors.

  It was almost a shame the place would have to be leveled. But this was just business.

  Chapter Three

  Rowan heard the front doors open, dropped her handful of silverware onto the tablecloth, and cocked her ear in the direction of the foyer. She wasn’t expecting guests until later that evening—if the ferry made it through—and all her checked-in guests were accounted for. The canoodling honeymooners were still on the side porch. Six older guests were enjoying tea in the sunroom, which was anything but sunny at the moment. The unbalanced girls from the Tea Rose Room were loudly enjoying their liquor store booty in the upstairs library. And everyone else was either riding out the storm in their rooms or in the parlor watching movies or reading.

  She heard the doors close. Footsteps. A heavy sigh, definitely male. Rowan thought maybe her dad had stopped by to see if she had everything under control.

  “Dad? Is that you? I’m in the dining room.”

  No answer. Rowan draped the old linen kitchen towel on the back of a chair and headed toward the foyer. Though it was only five o’clock, inside the house it was dark as midnight, and the antique banker’s lamp on the front desk didn’t provide much illumination.

  He was quite tall. Quite wet. He was looking down at his shoes and remained still as he dripped all over the front door rug.

  Suddenly, Rowan’s feet felt like concrete bricks. Her heart pounded hard and fast. For an instant, she had to concentrate on finding her breath. There was something mesmerizing about the set of his broad shoulders, the way his wet hair held its curl. Then the man raised his head, his eyes met hers, and for a long, long moment, they remained locked in this way, silent and unblinking.

  Hot damn! Rowan’s hand flew to her mouth, as if she were afraid the words might come tumbling out.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She shook her head rapidly, trying to regain her balance. When a white flash of lightning revealed the lines of his extremely handsome face, Rowan felt a sudden heat rush from her chest all the way to her belly. A clap of thunder shook the house. She took an awkward step back and squeezed her thighs together. Honestly, Rowan had no idea what all this mouth-covering and thigh-clenching was about, and it bothered the hell out of her that she’d react this way to some guy off the street.

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I hope so.” The man raked his hand through his hair and glanced at his feet in dismay. “I apologize for dripping on your rug.”

  Rowan laughed nervously, crossing her arms under her breasts. “Yeah, and that’s one of the newer rugs around here—only about a hundred years old.”

  A small smile tugged at his lips. Rowan couldn’t help but stare. The guy was gorgeous, with what looked like dark blond hair, maybe dark blue or green eyes, taller than Clancy, who was plenty tall at six one. True, she had no idea what he was doing standing in her foyer, but that seemed like a minor detail at the moment.

  “I . . . uh, I need a place to stay.”

  Rowan let her arms fall to her sides. She tipped her head and stared at him. The man might have been soaking wet, but she could tell that his clothes, though casual, were expensive and well made. He was obviously from New England money. Why he’d be wandering around lost in the storm made no sense. “You mean you need a room?”

  “You’re booked up, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes. Since last October, actually.”

  The man nodded, then took a moment to glance around the front hall, his eyes traveling up the formidable oak banister, to the mahogany paneled walls, the decorative tin ceiling, the stained-glass window at the landing. It almost seemed like he was sizing up the joint.

  He sighed again and smiled at her—this time showing off a set of ridiculously perfect teeth. “I figured as much. Well, thanks anyway. I appreciate your time.”

  Rowan stepped forward, as if he’d just tugged her closer to him. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you here for festival week?”

  He chuckled, deep and soft. “Not really. I’ve got nothing against mermaids, but I sure didn’t plan to be here. My sailboat broke down near the island and it’s at the marine yard. They don’t want me sleeping on board because they need cabin access to repair the engine. I don’t have anywhere to stay.”

  Rowan frowned, thinking back to her conversation with Clancy and figuring she must be face-to-face with the Boston douche bag who forgot to gas up his boat. “That’s rough,” she said.

  “It is.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Honestly, every room is booked. If I didn’t have part-time maids in all the old servants’ quarters on the third floor, I’d offer you one of those rooms.”

  “Well, it was a nice thought.”

  She smiled politely. They looked at each other again, their gazes lingering longer than appropriate for strangers. He wasn’t making a move toward the door. She wasn’t in a hurry to usher him out.

  “I suppose I could offer you a cup of tea.”

  “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for the week, and I prefer coffee.”

  Rowan felt her knees buckle. She put a hand on the front desk for support. “Say what?”

  “All I need is a bed and access to a shower. I’ll pay you ten thousand up front, and even if repairs to my boat are finished before the week is out, you can keep it all. I’ve got no other option.”

  She nearly choked. “You’re kidding me, right? Even our nicest suite would be worth a small fraction of that. We aren’t exactly a five-star resort.”

  He produced a genuine smile, big enough that she could see the indentation of dimples in the dim light. “If you could find a way to put me up, you would rate five stars in my book.”

  Rowan touched her fingers to her forehead and looked away, thinking, Ten thousand, ten thousand, ten thousand. That was insane! She’d be crazy not to take this man’s money! Rowan plopped down in the desk chair and looked up at him. “Perhaps we could work something out, Mr. . . . ?”

  The man reached into the sopping-wet front pocket of his khaki trousers and pulled out a wallet. As he approached the front desk, his shoes squished. He g
ently placed a black credit card on the polished wood and Rowan picked it up, turning it toward the light.

  “Ashton Louis Wallace the third?”

  “Yes, but it’s pronounced Loo-wee Wallace.”

  “Of course.” Rowan scanned his card, thinking that Ashton Loaded Wallace III would be more like it. Frederick had a black card like this once, and she knew it was nothing less than the mack daddy of credit cards. No limit. No questions. No way anybody wouldn’t give you whatever the hell you wanted. So Rowan promptly opened up the booking program on the computer and created a new account for her handsome and stupid-rich guest, overriding the standard room options and typing in the words carriage house.

  “Here you are, Mr. Louis Wallace.”

  “Please call me Ash.”

  “I will, thank you. My name is Rowan Flynn, and I’m the big cheese around here.” She stood, entertained by her own sarcasm. “All right, then. Let me take you back to the sunroom and we’ll get you set up with some coffee while I prepare your room.”

  “Wonderful.” He followed her down the center hallway to the back of the house.

  “How do you take it?”

  “Cream and sugar, please.”

  “Of course.” Rowan could feel him close at her heels, and she swore she felt his eyes on her butt. Clearly, this Ash guy wasn’t gay, but she hadn’t picked up on anything overtly sexual on his part either, so the idea that he’d be so bold as to ogle her ass within five minutes of meeting her was a bit surprising. She intentionally added a bit of a roll to her stroll.

  He cleared his throat. “This is a charming place. Unusual architecture. I bet there’s an interesting history to go along with it.”

  “You could say that. It’s been in my family since it was built in 1886, and my family is plenty interesting.”

  She heard him chuckle again. Rowan decided she liked the sound of it, mellow and sly. They had almost reached the sunroom, and six sets of senior-citizen eyes were now focused on Rowan and her wet friend.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Flynn, where will I be sleeping?”

  Rowan turned to face him, looked up, and smiled. “My bed,” she whispered. “It just so happens I’m running a special.”

  * * *

  Imelda continued dicing up onions, peppers, and mushrooms for the morning omelets, slowly shaking her head. “You’re getting as crazy as your mama,” she told Rowan. “Nobody’s cleaned that room since Prohibition.”

  “It’s just for a week. I’ll survive. I just need a place to crash while he’s in my apartment.”

  Imelda shrugged, obviously not approving of Rowan’s plan to stay in the tiny third-floor storage room under the eaves. “And you’re stubborn, too. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  Rowan popped a piece of bell pepper into her mouth. “Yeah, well, that’s not exactly news to you, is it, Mellie?” She leaned across the butcher block and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Hardly.” Imelda smiled. “I’ll tell Zophie to sweep, dust, and damp mop. She can push the cleaning supplies to the back wall so you have room to turn around. I’ll get you some clean bedding, although we’re running low on the decent linens. I don’t know why you don’t just stay with me in my apartment.”

  “Oh, you are such a sweetheart, but I don’t want to impose.” She began making coffee, thinking that as much as she adored Mellie, the tiny efficiency off the kitchen was too small for two women to share. Rowan decided she might as well fill the industrial-sized coffee machine with fresh water, since Mr. Wallace wouldn’t be the only guest looking for a cup. On stormy days like this one, guests could suck the stuff down faster than she could keep the dispenser filled. “What’s in the oven, Mellie?”

  “Just some cranberry and blueberry scones, plus some shortbread.”

  “God, you’re so awesome.” Rowan retrieved a cut-glass sugar and creamer set and began to fill both.

  “And what about your place? You need a hand getting it presentable?” She glanced up at Rowan with a sly smile on her lips. “I know you’re not exactly the tidiest person on earth.”

  “What?” Rowan turned from the coffeemaker and clutched at her chest with mock offense. “Are you implying I’m crazy, stubborn, and a hoarder?”

  Imelda laughed hard, which brought a rosy flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. She was the prettiest seventy-year-old woman Rowan had ever known, with her thick black hair, dark eyes, and delicate bone structure. Sometimes Rowan swore she hadn’t changed at all in twenty-five years, since the day she arrived on the island looking for work and a place to stay for herself and Lena, her young daughter. That was back when the fishery was still in operation and the Safe Haven was the Flynns’ private residence. Since they’d recently lost their help, Mona hired Imelda as the family’s housekeeper and cook on the spot, announcing that the single mother had “excellent energy.” From that day forward, Imelda and Adelena Silva were like part of the family, and it became clear that Imelda’s skills stretched far beyond cooking and cleaning. She was a master gardener. She was a wicked good seamstress. And she had a high, clear singing voice that echoed through the house, signaling all was right with the world.

  When Rowan’s father shut down Flynn Fisheries twenty years ago and converted the house to a B and B to make ends meet, Imelda had stayed on as the cook.

  These days, she was slowing down. Her daughter was making a ton of money as an artist and Imelda was well past retirement age, yet she refused to leave the job. “Safe Haven is my home,” is all she’d say when anyone broached the subject, and anyone who knew her well knew better than to question her again.

  “You’re not a hoarder, dear girl,” Imelda said once her laughter subsided. “Maybe just a little on the free-spirited side. And I’d be more than happy to help you after I’m done with the breakfast prep.”

  “Thanks, but I’m good.” Rowan pulled a large bag of roasted coffee beans from the pantry and kicked the door shut with her foot. “Our guest knows not to expect the Ritz. I’ll vacuum, run the dishwasher, change the sheets, and clean the bathroom, but he’ll have to put up with the clutter.”

  Imelda put the knife down and wiped her hands on her apron, frowning. “But what about your privacy? Aren’t you worried he’ll snoop around in your stuff?”

  It was Rowan’s turn to laugh. “Jeez, Mellie. What do you think I do up there? ’Cause I can tell you—I do nothing up there but sleep and read.” Rowan buried her nose in the freshly ground coffee beans and inhaled. “But yeah, I’ll bring my laptop here with me. There’s nothing else I’m worried about. The guy’s filthy rich, so I don’t think there’s anything of mine he’d want anyway.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Besides, he’s paying me so much that it’s worth whatever inconvenience I have to deal with.”

  Imelda tucked in her chin toward her chest and scowled. “How much?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Ten thousand dollars?” She smacked her palms onto the butcher block. “Oh meu Deus!”

  Rowan held her index finger to her lips. “Keep it down. He’s right there in the sunroom.”

  Imelda’s mouth hung open and she blinked several times. “But . . .” She shook her head as if to throw off the disbelief. “That’s enough to get the central air fixed! Or you could refinish some of the floors or even get new storm shutters!”

  “I know. What did I tell you? It’s totally worth a little inconvenience, right?”

  Rowan added the coffee and turned on the machine. Almost instantly, the big kitchen began filling with the heavenly scent of rich, dark coffee. She turned around to find Imelda back to her chopping, her head bent, eyes down. The silence pouring off of her small body was plenty loud, however.

  “Uh-oh.” Rowan returned to the butcher block and placed a hand on Imelda’s shoulder. “What?”

  She shook her head but didn’t say anything.

  “Mellie, what? Seriously. I can tell you’re upset.”

  Imelda’s knife
stilled and she gazed up at Rowan, her expression shadowed with worry. “I don’t know, honey. It just seems too good to be true that a man appears out of nowhere and gives you all that money. And he’s not even from Publisher’s Clearing House!”

  Rowan giggled, then gave Imelda another kiss on the cheek. “Maybe it’s karma. Aren’t we overdue for some good luck?”

  * * *

  Ash nodded courteously to his fellow sunroom occupants and took a seat in a retro rattan chair set apart from the others. It was beginning to look quite ugly outside, and the oak, pine, and beech trees that lined the edges of the lawn were taking a beating. It was no wonder the trees here grew short and squat—anything tall and slender would be reduced to splinters in this kind of wind.

  He appreciated that the other guests didn’t expect him to chitchat and angled his chair so that it faced directly toward the wall of windows. Truth be told, he needed a few minutes to settle his nerves. He felt off balance, and though he couldn’t put his finger on what his problem was, he knew it had to do with his bizarre reaction to Rowan Flynn.

  She’d surprised the hell out of him. She was much prettier in person than in the photos or videos he’d been studying for the last month. Her eyes seemed to be a mysterious green-gray in the dim light. Her hair was fashionably cut to shoulder length, straight, and a shiny, soft brown color, details he hadn’t noticed in his research. Her mouth was adorable, too, all pink and full and kissable.

  Plus she was sweeter than he’d anticipated. Ash hadn’t assumed Rowan Flynn would be a screaming harpy, but she’d sounded plenty bitter in interviews after the trial and at sentencing. For good reason, he supposed. Rowan had been screwed by Frederick Theissen. That put her in good company, since Theissen had screwed eighty-seven people out of millions of dollars. The difference was that he’d asked Rowan to marry him before he’d stolen from her and her family. The guy was a real prince. Yet only a year after his sentencing, here Rowan was—sweet, friendly, and trusting.

  She was a whole lot sexier than he’d expected, too. Sure, it hadn’t escaped Ash that she was easy on the eyes and looked great in a pencil skirt standing on the courtroom steps, but on Bayberry Island her demeanor was different. She seemed looser than in Manhattan, more suited to her surroundings. When she’d marched into the foyer, her perfectly lovely body looked at ease in a pair of worn jeans, a simple V-necked T-shirt, and Teva sandals.