Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Chapter One - Drawbridge

  Chapter Two - Landlord

  Chapter Three - Boyfriend

  Chapter Four - Mazy

  Chapter Five - Champ

  Chapter Six - Band

  Chapter Seven - Tosser

  Chapter Eight - Storm

  Chapter Nine - Drive

  Chapter Ten - Privacy

  Chapter Eleven - Sunburn

  Chapter Twelve - Studio

  Chapter Thirteen - Ostrich

  Chapter Fourteen - Hairbrush

  Chapter Fifteen - Hangover

  Chapter Sixteen - Nest

  Chapter Seventeen - Secrets

  Chapter Eighteen - Gone

  Chapter Nineteen - Cardiff

  Chapter Twenty - Departure

  Chapter Twenty-One - Return

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Interview

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Flowers

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Hatchling

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Tour

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Hammock

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Bus

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Collide

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Rip Tide Bikini

  Dear Reader

  Bio

  Acknowledgements

  ISBN-13: 978-1-940796-00-0

  LOW TIDE BIKINI

  Copyright 2013 by Lyla Dune

  Lyladune.com

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or n any information storage or retrieval system is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Composesum Publishing LLC.

  [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Lyla Dune

  All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Drawbridge

  No one should have to endure a beginner playing “Three Blind Mice” on a double bass at the ass-crack of dawn.

  That went triple for women who’d whooped it up the night before at a blues jam. Sam Carlisle vowed to never schedule an early morning private lesson again, no matter how much the student’s mother begged her.

  A boat glided down the channel, its white sails tinted brown through the dirty windshield of Sam’s rusty Chevy pickup. “No you don’t.” She mashed the gas pedal to the floorboard, but the truck barely increased speed. Ding-ding-ding the warning bell sounded and down came the traffic arm. That dang bridge caught her either coming or going every time she left the island.

  She shoved the gearshift into park and gulped the last of her lukewarm coffee, shuddering as the bitterness slid down her throat. The dark liquid dribbled onto her white tank top, leaving a brown stain on her breast.

  “Great. It looks like I’ve sprung a leak, and I produce chocolate milk,” she mumbled to herself.

  Gray clouds loomed over the quaint coastal community of Pleasure Island. But somehow, the brightly colored houses on stilt-legs, standing shoulder to shoulder along the water’s edge lifted her spirits.

  Those cheerful homes reminded her of top-heavy pageant contestants in vibrant bathing suits lined across a stage, their smiles masking fears. The houses had a lot in common with the colorful locals—bravely smiling during their own personal storms and sticking together through it all.

  With its gossiping huddle of cottages surrounding a farm that housed a dozen or so ostriches, the island was the epitome of quirky. A small amusement park brought in tourists during the summer, surfers claimed the area just south of the jetty, and the young and beautiful congregated by the pier. At the north end, a small stretch of beach called Bare Point was reserved for the Naughty Naked Seniors. She avoided that area but appreciated the playful freedom it represented.

  Sam didn’t quite fit in at the popular hang outs, but she still felt she belonged on the island. Her house was smack-dab in the middle of the sea turtle sanctuary, the perfect spot for a turtle-watcher such as herself.

  As she nibbled on the burnt toast she’d scraped and slathered with peanut butter, her cellphone chimed. Who was calling before noon? Her friends knew better. She sat the toast on the paper plate in her passenger seat and dug her phone out of the front pocket of her denim cutoffs. Her abs tightened when she read the display. Irene Marshall, her landlord. Uh oh, Irene only called when she was headed into town. Sam cringed at the thought of having to move out of the master suite and into the one-room efficiency on the ground floor.

  A strand of her long blonde hair caught the breeze and stuck to her lip gloss. Yuck. She spat the hair out of her mouth and braced herself for bad news.

  After a couple minutes of meaningless small talk with Irene, Sam said, “When are you guys coming down for a visit?”

  “Actually Sam, we won’t be, ever, which brings me to why I called. I really hate to tell you this, but…Josh and I just traded the beach house for an apartment close to our daughter, Tara, who recently gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. The new owner should be arriving in a couple of weeks.”

  Holy crap. Ostriches had the right idea. Some days it’s best to bury your head in the sand.

  “How long before I need to move out?”

  “Six weeks. That’s the best I could do for you.”

  Six weeks? Irene was out of her mind. “Dang. That’s not much time.”

  “Sorry for the short notice. I’m sure this ranks right up there with being dumped via Facebook.”

  Only a spawn of Satan would mention being dumped by her ex on Facebook. Besides, it had been a Twitter breakup. You’d think three years deserved more than a 140 character farewell. Thanks for the reminder, Irene. Talk about kicking someone when they’re down. Sam had worked hard to erase that fiasco from the blackboard of her mind.

  She crumpled the empty coffee cup in her fist.

  “It’s okay, Irene.” It wasn’t okay, but what choice did she have? “You’ve been very generous letting me house-sit for five years. All good things must come to an end.” Everything is temporary. Story of her life.

  “Sam, I can’t tell you what a relief it has been having you keep an eye on the property. If you need any references, let me know.”

  “Thanks.” She pounded the cup flat in the drink holder.

  “I’ll shoot you an email so we can have this all in writing. You’ll need to confirm when you get that email.”

  “No problem.” I should take a selfie on the ledge, or better yet—mid-fall, and attach it to the confirmation.

  “Gotta run. I’ll get that notification right off. I have to tell ya, I really dreaded making this call. Thanks for being so sweet about everything, Sam. You’re a doll. Bye for now.”

  “Have a nice day.” When Sam clicked out and dropped her cell onto the passenger seat, the phone landed in peanut butter. Crap. She wiped it off with a spare napkin from the glove box and gritted her teeth, picturing a yellow smiley face with a bullet hole right between its eyes.

  In addition to having an eviction bomb dropped on her head, her ex was now reeking havoc in the back of her mind and dredging up memories that were too painful to deal with.

  Forget that Twitface ex. She needed to focus on the now, the now that gave her six weeks to find a new place and move out of the best house she’d ever lived in. Oceanfront. Panoramic views. Rent free. Her
responsibilities entailed paying utilities and calling Ted, the local handyman, whenever anything needed repair. The Marshalls picked up the tab for the rest, no questions asked.

  Could she afford to move so soon? She’d cosigned numerous loans for a new car and a boatload of outrageously expensive recording equipment a few months before her ex ran off with another woman, the car, and all the new gear. Whining that she shouldn’t have to foot the bill for equipment she no longer had in her possession wouldn’t get her off the hook. She’d known the risks when she’d signed the loans, but love had made her a sucker.

  Thanks to living rent free, she’d been able to throw most of her pay at her debt and was almost out of the red and in the black. But she had nothing socked away in her savings account. Zip. No emergency fund. Finagling a way to accumulate enough dough for utilities, security deposits, first month’s rent, and all the other hogwash that went along with moving in six weeks wasn’t going to be easy, but she’d find a way. She always did.

  Lord help her, she might have to add a few morning students to her schedule. Patience in the morning? That’d require Prozac.

  She strangled the steering wheel in a death-grip and thunked her head against her hands.

  A car-horn blared. She jolted upright. The drawbridge had already lowered, and the traffic arm no longer blocked her path. She tilted the rearview mirror, dangling from her windshield by a piece of duct tape.

  A shiny, red convertible, driven by a panty-melting muscle man, hugged her bumper. The guy’s hands flailed in a what-gives gesture.

  Jerk. He’s sexy. Of course he’s a jerk. The two went together like fried fish and hushpuppies.

  She flipped him off and punched the gas.

  The engine hissed and rattled to a stop. She gave the ignition key a hard twist. The starter ground nee-nee-nee and died, which wasn’t uncommon for her pickup, a rusty 1957 Chevy. The old man who sold her the clunker said the military used the vehicle years ago. She thought it was better suited for a farmer from the looks of it. She bought it because it was cheap, had been upgraded with an automatic transmission, and had an extended cab.

  “You can’t die on me now, Ole Betsey. Not on the freaking bridge. Come on, girl.” She patted the dashboard. “Start for Mama,” she begged, attempting to revive Ole Betsey. No luck.

  In the reflection of her side mirror, the dark-haired hunk wearing Ray Bans stepped out of the red convertible.

  Craptastic. Just what she needed, a big oaf to inform her she was blocking the road. As if she didn’t know that already.

  His bowling ball sized biceps protruded from yardstick-broad shoulders, and his barrel thighs flexed beneath snug jeans. Good grief, all he lacked was a cape and a superhero theme song composed by John Williams.

  He stalked toward her and halted beside her driver’s door. What? No heel click?

  Dang, he was one fine piece of man-candy, which was another way of saying he was poisonous. She had a knack for being attracted to prince on the outside, toad on the inside.

  She mustered her best forgive-me smile.

  His mouth remained flat-lined, unreadable.

  Yep, she pegged him right. Jerk.

  Forcing her lips to curl into a puny grin, she said, “I think I flooded her.”

  Why was she still stomping the gas pedal? Nerves. Being in the presence of a hot man always made her do stupid stuff.

  The hottie lifted his stubbled chin and held up a hand.

  What the heck was that supposed to mean? Talk to the hand? Who did he think he was dealing with?

  At least that ticked her off enough, she took her foot off the gas pedal.

  With his eyes hidden behind ridiculous sunglasses, she couldn’t get a read on his facial expression. Why’d he need those darn shades anyway? It was overcast.

  Ray Ban Man opened his mouth but snapped it shut before speaking. He tilted his head back. Fat raindrops fell in loud plops against his face. Within seconds, the angry clouds above unleashed their wrath in the form of a torrential downpour.

  No! Her stomach lurched. She’d stowed her double bass in the back of the truck. If that instrument got wet, it’d be ruined. There was no way she’d let that happen. That had been her Dad’s prized possession. The only thing she had of his.

  She flung her door open, hitting the handsome lug in the gut and knocking him on his ass. Blathering a weak apology, she ran to the back of her truck, flipped down the gate, and crawled across the gritty bed to rescue her bass. She tugged and wrestled it like a greased hog ‘til she got it to the edge of her tailgate.

  When she jumped back out and reached for the handle, Ray Ban Man grabbed it, lifting the heavy instrument as easily as a loaf of bread.

  In a melodious baritone voice, he said, “Allow me.”

  His British accent fell on her ears like a slow-grind groove. Hello, jellyfish knees. Lord, please don’t let him say another word.

  Her prayers must have been heard. He was downright stoic, silently displaying proper manners as he toted her bass to the narrow backseat door.

  The bunching muscles along his sledgehammer-jaw conveyed his disdain for playing the ultimate gentleman. Poor guy. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t blame him.

  What was she saying? Hot men didn’t deserve sympathy.

  Once again, she forced a plastic grin, because no self-respecting southern woman would dare let on how she really felt. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome, love.” He lifted an eyebrow and leaned in. “Anything else I can do for you?” His eyes slid down her body and caused her to tingle in forgotten places.

  No fair. Tingling was an involuntary response, like when her hand fell asleep and started to wake up. A very sensitive area of her body was starting to wake up, and it needed to go back to sleep. Now.

  She clenched her thighs together. “I’m good.”

  “I’ve no doubt.” He winked.

  Acutely aware her white tank top with the unflattering stain was under the impression it was going for broke in a wet t-shirt contest, she split her hair into pigtails and pulled the ends over her breasts.

  He made a disapproving sound.

  She turned her back to him and released the latch under the driver’s seat to slide it forward. He put the bass in the backseat. The sarcophagus-sized case was too big to fit properly and a portion of the neck stuck out the passenger window.

  When Ray Ban Man went to secure the tailgate, she grabbed her beach bag and dumped the contents. Sunscreen, a paperback novel, a stinky beach towel, and a hairbrush added to her stash of empty water bottles and candy wrappers littering the floorboard.

  The front seat sported flesh-toned foam poking out of rips in black vinyl. She crawled across the scratchy surface and tugged the waterproof beach bag over the exposed end of the case.

  Through her milky, seagull-bombed back window, she watched Ray Ban Man amble toward her without seeming to give a fig that the rain pelted him.

  Was he a member of the Royal Guard? A man who’d perfected the art of poker-face to the extreme? Seriously, he strode toward her with such a nonchalant air it bordered slow-motion replay.

  Rain pinged off his taut muscles. A sodden black shirt clung to his buff torso. Wet jeans accentuated his masculine bulge, which deserved a moment of reverence unto itself.

  “Yoohoo.”

  Oh boy. This ought to be fun. That had to be Myrtle Pinkerton. Pleasure Island brimmed with randy seventy-somethings and Myrtle ruled as their priestess. In fact, the whole island had fallen under her charm spell.

  Behind the convertible, Myrtle sat perched up tall in her battleship Buick. The old woman required a booster and used special blocks to reach the gas and brake. Her pale-blue, cotton-candy hairdo was barely visible over the dashboard. She looked like a troll doll parading as a queen at the helm of her holy vehicle. All she needed was a crown to make it official. One of those air freshener crowns would probably fit her little head perfectly.

  Myrtle’s chirpy voice sliced through
the pitter-patter of the slacking rain. “Show Mama whatcha got!”

  Amen, Myrtle.

  The old woman wiggled her fingers. “Yoohoo…Sir, over here.”

  Ray Ban Man walked toward the Buick. Without a doubt in Sam’s mind, if he got close enough, Myrtle would grab herself a handful of his slick-jean glutes.

  He did a spin and gyrated his hips, flashing Myrtle a killer smile.

  Sam’s jaw dropped, and she crossed her fingers that he’d do that move again. She needed one more glimpse of his fine posterior.

  He turned around, pulled his shades to the tip of his nose, and winked at Sam.

  She closed her mouth to keep from drooling like a Pavlovian dog locked in a bell tower at noon.

  She’d been immune to testosterone for the past five years, but Ray Ban Man’s testosterone proved more potent than the variety she’d encountered on Pleasure Island. She needed to stay far away from him. Very far away.

  No such luck.

  He mosied on over and gave her door a pat. “Start your engine?”

  Yep. You sure did. Now, how do I turn it off?

  She pumped the gas and turned the key. “I’m sorry to hold you up.” The starter growled, but the engine didn’t even roll over. She shrugged. “Of course it’d die right on the bridge. Murphy’s law.”

  “Not to worry. I’m good for a push.”

  With a body like that, she had all ideas he could push it real good. Plagued by dirty thoughts, she bit her lower lip.

  “Put her in neutral for me.” He sauntered to the back of the truck and cued her with an upward nod.

  She maneuvered the gearshift.

  He pushed her uphill onto the drawbridge, not an easy feat, but he seemed to have no trouble. When her vehicle crested the highest point of the bridge, gravity seized control. The truck plummeted downhill, leaving Ray Ban Man behind, waving goodbye in a drizzle.