A Woman To Blame Read online

  "True. If we don't get moving on this fund-raiser, we'll be scrambling around with lemonade stands and dog-bathing services to pay for that ambulance," he said as he watched her get into the Jeep. He walked around the vehicle, pausing to look at the car the couple had come in.

  As she waited for him to get in, Bryn had to admit that he was right. They had committed themselves to a community project, and she finally had a specific idea to talk over with him. Still, she couldn't pretend she wasn't disappointed when he didn't take her hint to talk about themselves. Or, more to the point, about himself.

  "So, have you come up with that pizzazzy idea you threatened me with, or should we shoot for the fishing tournament?"

  "I do have an idea. You know, I run in the morning and—" She broke off to squint at him. "Why are you smiling?"

  "I know you run in the morning. I see you over there by that jacaranda tree doing your warm-up."

  "You've been watching me?"

  "Bryn Madison, does it surprise you to know that I haven't been able to keep my eyes off you? I've developed an acute affinity for your red running shorts," he said, starting the Jeep and shifting into reverse. "I like them almost as much as the black satin pair."

  "They're not satin," she said, trying to remove the smile from her face. With his head still tilted in her direction and his grin still teasing her, she looked straight ahead. "I was thinking about a five-day sports festival topped off with a 10K fun run. There'd be an activity for everyone. One day for handicapped, another for children, one for the over-sixty group. Different events for every day."

  He lifted his foot off the clutch and eased out of his parking space. "Go on, I'm listening."

  "Liza has a list of potential sponsors. They'll probably like the idea of a week-long event because they'll be advertising their name to a different crowd each day."

  "True," he said, nodding, deep in thought. "I know the manager of a radio station in Key West, and he'll publicize anything for a good cause. You know, I think you've got something here." Driving out of the parking lot, he headed for the highway. "Keep talking."

  Pulling her knee up, she shifted in her seat, and for the next forty-five minutes they worked out more details.

  * * *

  "What's your business here today?" he asked as he pulled into a tree-shaded parking spot just off Duval Street in Key West.

  Shoving her hair back from her face, she climbed out of the Jeep and into his arms. "I have to tell a man named Louis Trudeaux that I won't be needing him as a chef for Chez Madison. He doesn't have a phone, but he assured me I can usually find him at Sloppy Joe's."

  "You're doing okay with this idea of changing the restaurant back to Pappy's Crab Shack?"

  "Yes, I am, Rick. I want what's best for my grandfather."

  "You really care about that old guy."

  Closing her eyes, she dropped her forehead against Rick's chest. All morning long she'd worried about getting Rick to reveal his past, but when the tables were turned, she didn't find it easy herself. "Shouldn't every girl love her grandfather and want to show it now and then?"

  "Sure," he said, lifting her chin on one finger and giving her a peculiar look. "Come on, let's do this town."

  Strolling along Duval Street, she was content to weave in and out of the pedestrian traffic with Rick by her side. When they came across a Rastafarian street rapper making up songs about the people walking by him, they stopped to listen to his pleasantly naughty lyrics. A small crowd gathered, and between songs a little boy squirmed between them, calling for his daddy.

  Bryn managed to stoop down in the crowd. "Are you lost?"

  "No," he said, moving away from Bryn's hand, then tugging on the hem of Rick's shorts. "I want Daddy to pick me up."

  Bryn raised her head to look at Rick. His face went blank and he looked mildly shocked. Bryn swallowed as she looked from his face to the chubby fingers clenched near his knees. The towheaded child had his cheek pressed against Rick's leg.

  "I want to see the music, Daddy."

  Bryn slowly stood up, not daring to meet Rick's growing expression of astonishment. He had a child. A beautiful child he'd never mentioned to her. A beautiful child he wasn't touching or talking to or acknowledging in any way. How could she have been so stupid not to have listened to Liza or her grandfather when they offered to tell her about his past? The moment suddenly ended when another man wormed his way through the knot of people and picked up the boy.

  "Sorry," he said, "but they get away from you fast in a crowd like this. Brandon must have thought you were me," he said to Rick as he chucked his son under the chin. "Right, son?"

  The child pointed an accusing finger at Rick. "He's not my daddy."

  "Must have been the khaki shorts," the man said, referring to the nearly identical pairs Rick and he wore. When Rick didn't reply, the man turned his attention to Bryn. "Must have been the khaki shorts," he said again, before disappearing into the crowd with his son.

  Pressing her fingers under her breasts, she laughed nervously. "Rick, for a crazy moment I thought that he was yours."

  "No kids. Let's go," he said, as he regained his color. Guiding her to an emptier part of the sidewalk, his words rushed out. "About the Crab Shack. I liked your idea about a piano. Tweed MacNeil plays piano, and Pappy already has him over with his guitar."

  "Wait a minute," she insisted, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Several people walked around them as Rick waited for what Bryn would say or do next. She struggled in painful silence for all of two seconds.

  "Do you realize how little I know about you? I mean other than the consensus that you're Malabar Key's resident hero."

  "There's nothing much to know. What you see is what you get." He reached for her hand, but she folded her arms across her middle. "Come on, Bryn, I think I know where there's a used piano for sale."

  "You're avoiding talking about yourself. Why? What have you done? Lost a fortune at the dog track? Killed your wife? Spent time in prison?" With each question, she moved closer to him. With each question, he seemed further away.

  "Hey, we're holding up traffic," he said, fixing a furtive gaze toward a person moving around them.

  She let him take her hand and guide her around the corner. Standing beside her, he dropped his shoulder against a high white wall embedded with conch shells and gave her a tight-lipped smile.

  Was she pushing? Was there that much more to know? Looking around at the pastel houses and the easygoing atmosphere, she wondered if she was approaching this all wrong. As curious as she was, she wasn't going to learn anything worth knowing by prying. Then again, if this relationship was worth anything to him, he had to talk to her. And he had to do it now, or she knew the last twenty hours had all been a mistake. She held her breath until little stars scattered over her field of vision.

  Raising his finger, he stroked her nose. "I was married. I'm not anymore. I don't have kids. I do have a master's degree in marine biology. I'm staying in the Keys until a hurricane takes me. And as far as being anyone's local hero, it's news to me. If that's all you need to know, then can we get on with this day?"

  She knew she ought to be grateful that he'd told her that much, but something compelled her to try one more time. "Rick, that reads like a laundry list. When I asked you about your past—"

  "Operative word there, Bryn, is past. I have to tell you that my past now extends back to last night when you seduced me. I think we burned out a few brain cells."

  "I seduced you?" She laughed, pressing both hands to her chest.

  "And compromised my good name. Yes, ma'am, you did," he said, leaning his back against the wall as he pulled her to stand between his legs. His hair-roughened legs tickled against the satiny smoothness of hers. "Look, why don't you go on down to Sloppy Joe's and break the news to your chef. Meanwhile, I'm heading up those stairs across the street to Wigglin' Willie's office."

  "Who?"

  "Wigglin' Willie, the deejay. He does the radio commercials for
my fishing charters. I'm going to discuss the Malabar Key Sports Festival with him."

  "But we don't have anything firmed up yet."

  Cuddling her closer, he rested his chin on her head and whispered, "Firmed up, is that what you said? Girl, you've got to stop talking sexy like that."

  "Or what?" she asked, bracing herself with one hand against his flat, hard stomach. Warm sensations were already curling their way through her belly. Breathing in the fresh scents of his cotton shirt, the sea breeze, and his maleness, she bunched the material in her fist and closed her eyes.

  Nipping at her earlobe with the edges of his teeth, he stopped long enough to whisper, "Or I swear I'll take you against this wall."

  He'd caught her off guard, and for one extraordinary instant the rest of the world fell away, leaving her holding her breath again as her mind filled with the erotic images he'd suggested. When he stopped doing that incredible thing to her ear, she opened her eyes to his. Before she could lower her lashes, the purring had started low in her belly.

  "You've never...?" he began asking.

  Fighting back a startled smile, she shook her head. With her fingers pressed against his chest, she could feel his strengthening heartbeat. "I haven't done a lot of things."

  His response left her weak-kneed and wanting.

  "You will."

  Her reply shocked her. "When?"

  Dropping his head back against the wall, he let loose with a stream of curses, letting them roll under his breath until he could form a coherent sentence.

  "Whenever you want."

  Want? It wasn't a matter of want anymore. She craved him, craved his touch and the way he moved on her and in her. Craved the desperate sounds he made when nothing existed except the heat of their embrace. Craved the tenderness he lavished on her. When was it going to stop? She ran her fingers down his arms, circling his wrist to bring his hand to her lips. "Rick, I can't believe how you make me feel," she whispered. "No one has ever done this to me before. You look at me and all I want to do is get closer." The desperate excitement of her own words alarmed her, and she wondered what Rick was hearing between the lines. Making a funny face at him, she bantered her way out of the drama. "Captain Parrish, what are you doing to me?"

  What are you doing to me? Rick thought to himself. Resting his forehead against hers, he waited for a man walking a cat on a leash to pass them. Bryn was talking about something far more compelling than their wild rides through heaven and hell. He could deal with this; all he had to do was remember she wasn't going to be around forever. That Pappy's Crab Shack was coming back. And that he'd lived without a commitment or a plan for the last five years. Meanwhile, they had time and he wasn't going to waste a second of it.

  "Bryn, let's not go back tonight. I know a guest house over on White Street. We'll get a room there and go back tomorrow." When she hesitated, he slipped his hands around her waist, molded her against him and whispered hotly against her ear. "We'll come back to this spot about three o'clock in the morning and I'll make good on my promise," he said, taking one of her hands and pressing it flat against the wall by his hip. "What do you say?" he asked, daring her as much with his question as with his devilish expression.

  "Are you serious?"

  "No, but I had you—ouch!" He dodged her playful blow before catching her hands and twisting her around into his embrace. "I'm serious about staying over. We could take in the sunset at Mallory Square, and I'll let you read the menu to me at this French restaurant I know. How does that sound?"

  "Wonderful. I'll call grandfather. He has my cell number but I'll let him know where I'll be anyway. We would make it back early tomorrow, wouldn't we? I want to see him use his walker."

  "You bet," he said, kissing her soundly. "I'll make a reservation at that guest house," he said, tapping his cell in his pocket. "I'll give them a call from Willie's."

  "Did you mean it about having him start making announcements about the fund-raiser? Shouldn't we clear this idea with someone first?"

  "No. There's one thing about Liza you ought to know. When she delegates authority, she expects you to act on it. We're the cochair-whatevers, and we've agreed it's a good idea. So let's go for it. Wigglin' Willie can start talking it up without every detail in place, which will put us ahead that much more. I'll meet you at Sloppy Joe's in about an hour."

  * * *

  Rick found her at Sloppy Joe's sitting on a bar stool surrounded by three Ernest Hemingway look-alikes. Watching her clinking glasses with the three charmers made him smile. She was so easy to talk to.

  Moving into a shadowy corner, he reminded himself that he had to be careful around her. If he didn't watch it, he'd tell her about Angie, and that would trigger all the old pain he kept buried. He had no doubt she could do it too. She'd opened him up last night and brought out feelings and passions he thought were dead. Experiencing her on that level of intimacy had turned out to be phenomenal, but he had to stop there. And whatever she had to tell him about herself, well... he wasn't so sure he wanted to hear it. All he wanted, he reminded himself firmly, was a few weeks to bask in her womanly warmth. After that his world could spin on without her. This feeling of being dazzled by her, consumed with wanting her, would pass. It had to pass. He'd make it pass, dammit.

  Making his way to a table near her bar stool, he told himself he could wait patiently for her to notice him. He ordered a rum and Coke while someone fiddled with a radio between music sets. While Rick watched her out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy Buffet's "Why Don't We Get Drunk And Screw?" started playing. After a spontaneous sing-along, one of the men pulled a paperback from his back pocket and began reading to her. She appeared to be listening attentively, but Rick saw her glance over the man's shoulder once or twice. Christ, was the guy going to bore her to death by reading another entire page from Islands in the Stream? Rick drummed his fingers on the table. She probably needed rescuing, and he might as well be the one. Scooting back his chair, he walked into her line of vision. The smile that exploded on her face hit him in the stomach with the force of a hurricane.

  One man poked the reader in the side, and as his voice trailed off, the sea of Hemingways parted for Rick.

  "Hi."

  "Hi."

  A chorus of soft chuckles enveloped the two of them before the bearded men drifted away.

  He was not going to make a romantic fool of himself. Standing a conservative ten inches away from her, he handed her a paper with a phone number written on it, saying, "We have a room at Lord Eddie's. It overlooks a walled garden and a pool filled with monster goldfish. Breakfast will be croissants, French roast coffee, papaya, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Think you can survive on that?"

  Reaching out to him, she smoothed back his hair, then rested her hand on his shoulder. "I'm not sure. I need to know one more thing," she said.

  "What?"

  "How big is the bed?"

  Closing his eyes, he took a step forward and slumped into her arms with a groan. "Big enough," he managed to tell her between fits of laughter. "And if it's not, there's always that wall off Duval Street."

  She left him laughing, saying, "I've got to call my grandfather. He should be awake from his nap."

  Taking her seat at the bar, Rick watched her walk away as he sipped his drink. Once she returned, he would ask her how her meeting with the chef had gone. Then he'd take her to Olivia Street to check out the piano for sale. Resting his elbows on the bar, he thought about Pappy's Crab Shack and how great it would be having it back again. True, it wouldn't be exactly like old times, but he could learn to live with it, he supposed. That god-awful banana yellow had to go though, and somehow he'd locate an artist to re-create the mermaid. This evening over dinner he'd discuss it all with Bryn.

  Just as he turned toward the bartender to order another drink, Bryn's hands closed around his wrist. He looked up from her icy grip to see her eyes filled with tears.

  "Rick, we have to leave. Now," she said in a choked voice.

 
"What's happened?"

  "My grandfather was trying out his walker on his own and fell and hit his head. They haven't been able to bring him around. Rick, I'm scared."

  His arms were around her before he could speak. "It's going to be okay," he said. "I'll be with you."

  * * *

  "Bryn, you've got to calm down. They said he was only out for fifteen minutes."

  Her hands came down from her face to gesture wildly. "Well, how long does it take to X-ray someone's head? And why can't I go downstairs to wait for him?"

  He knew by now she wasn't expecting answers from him. She'd become more frantic with each passing mile on their way back from Key West. All he could do was reassure her, and that wasn't calming her at all. He had to try. Shrugging his shoulders, he reached for her again.

  "No," she said, shaking her head as she pushed off the wall in the little blue alcove. Holding up her hands, she motioned for him to move away. "I don't deserve a hug at the moment."

  "What? What are you talking about?" he asked, watching her closely. Seeing her first tears fall, his heart felt as if it were crimping around the edges. "Bryn, please," he begged, "what is it?"

  "It's me," she whispered hoarsely. "I needed to tell him something." Rubbing her eyes, she stood tall, continuing to keep her distance from Rick. "Maybe it's too late."

  "He's going to be fine. Come on, Bryn. What are we talking about here? Pappy knows you love him, and he loves you. Do you know what he once told me about you? 'She's a pistol.'" When that didn't raise a smile, he took her by the elbows and made her look at him. "So what is it? You never got around to explaining why you took ten cents off his dresser when you were seven years old? You washed the car with his good white shirt?" He gave her a tiny shake. "You don't have to apologize. That old man thinks the world of you. So whatever absolution you think you need to ask for, isn't important."

  "It's none of those things, Rick."

  "Go on. Don't stop now," he said, loosening his grip.

  "I have to tell him that I forgive him. I should have told him the moment I found out the truth." Looking away, she slowly shook her head. "But I didn't, I didn't."