Roxanne Claire - Barefoot by the Sea

He frowned as he climbed off the bike. “Something wrong?”

“I have to ask you a question.” She reached him, and he could see that she was a few years past forty, the lines of a lot of drinks and a plenty of cigarettes etched on what was a passably attractive face. “My morning desk clerk said you…” She dropped her gaze, lingering on his chest, her brows lifting appreciatively. “And damn, she wasn’t kidding.”

“About what?” As if he didn’t know.

Another lingering glance on his body, then she met his gaze. “You paid in cash.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“It’s unusual.” But her ravenous eyes said she didn’t mind at all. Problem was, he wasn’t hungry anymore, and even if he was, this one wasn’t on his personal menu.

“I paid through the weekend,” he said, taking a step away so she got the message. “If I bolt, the money’s yours.”

She didn’t get the message, coming closer. “You a bodybuilder?”

“Not exactly.”

“What brings you to our remote little island?” She flipped some blonde strands over her shoulder, an invitation he’d seen a hundred times from a hundred blondes. Too bad he had brunettes on the brain.

“None of your business.”

She raised both brows, unfazed by his gruffness. “Everything that happens in this motel is my business. I own it.”

“So you said.”

She beamed at him. “I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot, Mr. Brown.” She reached her hand out. “Can we start over? Can I call you John?”

He didn’t move a muscle. “No.”

“Not very friendly, are you?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “If you don’t have any more questions, ma’am, I’m—”

“Ma’am?” Her laugh was a little too loud. “I might be a year or two older than you, but no need to ma’am-slam me, big guy.”

“Gracie!” The office door popped open again, and this time a monster of a man walked out, damn near as wide as he was tall. “Where are you?”

She glanced over her shoulder, then rolled her eyes at Ian. “And that right there,” she muttered under her breath, “is my ball and chain.” She cleared her throat. “Talkin’ to a paying customer, Ron.”

The man ambled over, the light casting a sheen on his dome, his dark eyes drilling right through Ian. “You the guy in 301?” he asked.

Ian nodded, a sixth sense for jealous dickhead husbands rising up and forcing him to brace for the trouble he’d been looking to avoid.

The man looked from Ian to his wife, distrust and disgust on plain display. “What’s going on out here?”

“I was telling him about the new diner that opened up, since we don’t have room service,” she said quickly.

Ian shot her a look. Why was she lying? Turning, Ian extended his hand to the man. “John Brown.” Maybe the gesture would allay the man’s misplaced jealousy.

“This is my husband, Ron Hartgrave,” the woman said, shamed into the introduction.

Ron nodded, offering a meaty and damp hand that probably carried a considerable punch. Not that Ian couldn’t crush him; he didn’t want to. Trouble was the last thing he wanted, especially after Singapore, where trouble had landed him in jail—and right on the radar of the man who wanted him dead.

The Protected Persons board wouldn’t be so understanding this time. Ian’s plea to at least be on the same continent as his kids would be ignored and Henry Brooker would ship his ass off to Corvo or Tasmania or some other remote section of hell. There were no third chances with Ian’s government liaison.

And no second chances with the gang members and bounty hunters scouring any lead for the identity and location of Ian Browning.

“Your mother’s looking for you, Gracie,” Ron said to his wife. “She wants you to close the store tonight.”

She blew out a breath, fluttering her bangs. “Of course she does, because my freaking cousin is still on her honeymoon.” She gave him a wide smile. “Duty calls from the Super Min,” she said, pointing to the convenience store across the street. “You let us know if you need anything, Mr. Brown.” She turned so her husband couldn’t see her face and winked at Ian. “Anything at all.”

Ian didn’t respond except for a nod to the big man behind her, then he headed toward his room, relieved to hear the sound of her heels heading in the opposite direction.

As he reached the door of his room, he glanced to see Ron Hartgrave still standing in the same place, staring at him.

Great. Like he needed this headache.

He turned the key, went inside, and fell onto the bed, not bothering to undress or turn on a light. Staring up into darkness, he tried to let his mind go blank, a trick he’d learned in the early days when the booze didn’t do the job and dark memories threatened to swamp him.

But his trick didn’t work tonight.

Instead of a blissful blanket of nothing, a pretty face teased his consciousness, eyes so big and brown that he wanted to fall into them, and a kiss that promised—no. They promised problems, that was all.

With a soft grunt, he rubbed his eyes, grit and exhaustion burning behind his lids. That face and those eyes slowly morphed into another…one much more familiar.

Don’t go there.

Rolling over, he smashed his face into the pillow, despising the punch of pain in his gut and the squeeze in his throat. No, no. Not tonight.

Think about the pretty girl and her sexy mouth and perky tits. Oh, hell, think about the jealous husband and desperate motel owner. Think about any fucking thing but—

Kate’s body on the dining room floor, a pool of blood spilling over the hardwood, the sound of two helpless infants screaming in their cribs.

Don’t go there, Ian. Don’t go…

Too late. He was there. Smelling the blood, hearing the cries, breathing in the anguish of a perfectly wonderful life snuffed out by the hand of a coked-up, crazed-out, black-hearted killer named Luther Vane.

“Oh, God.” His cry was muffled by the pillow and the fist he slammed into the mattress over and over and over until his shoulder throbbed like his poor, miserable heart.

His wife was dead and nothing would ever bring her back again. Not sex with a stranger, not a bottle of booze, not wind in his face. Nothing. Kate was dead.

Why couldn’t he just shove a pistol into his mouth and join her?

Because of Shiloh and Sam. As long as there was a ghost of a chance he’d see them again, he’d do anything… anything …to make that happen. Except the chance got slimmer every day.

And Ian fell farther and farther into the depths of his personal hell.

Tessa marched to the compost bin with purpose and anticipation for the next chore.

There was a reason she loved to compost, and it wasn’t simply the money they saved creating natural humus to fertilize the farmette grounds that provided so much food for the resort. Ever since she’d walked onto her first collective, fresh out of college with the totally useless degree in sociology, and the farm manager had stuck a pitchfork in her hand and told her to “turn the trash,” she’d enjoyed composting.

Of course, there had been a collective member by the name of Billy Fontaine hanging around that compost bin, and maybe he had something to do with her love of creating “black gold” from the unlikely mix of table scraps and dried leaves.

Approaching the side of the bin, Tessa took a deep breath, letting the earthy, natural scent calm her. Wiping the first stings of perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve, she opened the wire door and eyed the breakdown of this batch. The smell told her they were making progress, but it was time to turn and water.

Taking her pitchfork, she stabbed hard, instantly gratified by the strain of her muscles.