Emilie Rose - The Lottery Winner

CHAPTER THREE

THE HEAT OF the overhead sun penetrated Jessie’s floppy straw hat. Rivulets of sweat trickled down her bare back. It might be December, but the Keys were experiencing a heat wave.

A boat motor droned in the distance, but she was too caught up in putting the last strokes on her cormorant to look up. She’d lost count of how many boats had passed since she’d raced out here early this morning trying to get ahead of her unwanted squatters. Nightmares starring the birds had kept her awake, and she hoped getting this painting out of her head would give her peace.

She added one last daub of raw sienna to the beak, then sat back to study her work with as much objectivity as she could muster. Not bad. The bird itself was finished and lifelike enough to be creepy. She checked her watch. Noon. If she stopped now, she could take a swim before showering for work.

She washed out her brush then removed her hat and crossed to the edge of the dock. Arching left then right, she stretched the kinks from her spine. She curled her toes over the edge, anticipating a dip in the cool, clear water, but then she spotted the nurse shark lurking by the crab pot and backtracked. Locals claimed nurse sharks didn’t bite, but she wasn’t testing that theory. She’d settle for cooling off in the pool.

She gathered her painting supplies. Only then did she notice a boat engine’s noise—it was closer than any previous boat had come. Curious, she turned to see a center-console boat with one man on board heading straight for her dock. Her brother’s daily warnings echoed in her mind, and alarm skittered through her. Was some guy going to try to kidnap her and demand her lottery winnings for ransom?

Nervously, she mentally measured the distance to the house. The pier was more than a hundred feet long and it was fifty more across the beach to the bottom of the steps. Could she reach the house and lock her doors before the stranger caught her? No. Worse, she’d left her pepper spray inside, and her nails were clipped too short to do much damage. But she refused to become a statistic. She’d have to stand and fight and hope he didn’t have a gun. She had nothing except her easel to use as a weapon. Her best bet would be to introduce him to the nurse shark then run.

Praying she was just being paranoid but determined to be the best witness she could be if she wasn’t, she studied the vessel’s shirtless occupant. He was tallish with short, dark hair, and muscled enough that he’d be hard to fight off. Mirrored lenses covered his eyes, but his attention appeared to be fixed on her.

“Jessie?” he called out.

Logan Nash. Shock made her stomach drop. She should have recognized that square chin.

A different kind of panic set in. She wasn’t wearing her colored contacts or much of anything else. Ducking her head, she scrambled for her hat and sunglasses, shoved them on and cursed the fact that she hadn’t brought out her cover-up or even a towel. She’d bought the skimpy bikini top and low-slung boy short bottoms soon after arriving. She’d been pretending to be someone else, and she’d decided she wanted to dress like someone else, too—someone who didn’t always wear a modest one-piece. Of course, this swimsuit didn’t cover enough skin for anyone else to see her in it.

The craft thumped against the dock’s rubber edge, jarring her deep inside. He killed the engine then shoved his glasses into his thick hair, revealing blue eyes that skimmed over her then the house. “Your place?”

How had he found her? And why? “For now. What are you doing here, Logan?”

He dropped his glasses back over his eyes. “I was riding by and thought I recognized you.”

He tossed a rope toward her. It landed a yard away. She left it there. Without invitation he stepped onto the platform, rocking the surface beneath her feet, then he looped the rope through one of the metal cleats stationed around the deck and straightened.

She couldn’t see his eyes and felt exposed on so many levels as she stared at her reflection in his mirrored lenses. Dropping her gaze, she found herself entranced by the smooth curves of his pectoral muscles, the light dusting of dark curls. She’d only seen him in polo shirts and khaki pants before now, and she wished she could have kept it that way. He had the body of an athlete, from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist and long legs. Lordy, he’d be a joy to paint.

No, Jessie! She gulped, trying to dislodge the knot in her throat, and wrapped her arms around her middle.

He abruptly stepped around her to the easel holding her picture. “Did you paint this?”

“Um. Yes,” she forced out, feigning calm she didn’t feel.

She didn’t like him knowing where she lived. How would she get rid of him? “It’s a beautiful day to be on the water, but it’s supposed to storm later. Better get your trip in before it hits.”

He glanced her way, a crooked smile on his face. Her stomach swooped. “I can spare a few minutes.”

He was close—too close. And too naked. She could feel the heat emanating from him and smell his suntan lotion. The air turned thick and humid, making it hard to breathe. She shuffled backward, putting space between them, then wished she hadn’t when the distance widened her view, making it impossible to miss that he had those little dents disappearing beneath the front waistband of his trunks. Seeing those hollows up close and in person on someone you knew was a lot different than sketching them from a distance in a nude art class. The inclination to trace them came out of nowhere and was totally foreign. Her stubby nails bit into her palms.

Aaron had been a dedicated gym rat, but despite the hours he’d put in, her ex-fiancé hadn’t had a body like Logan’s.

Logan shoved up his glasses once more. “You’re an artist?”

“Oh. No. I’m an art—” Teacher. She bit her tongue on the word. “Dabbler.”

“This is really good, Jessie. You must make a lot of money selling your dabbles.”

She blinked in surprise. “Oh, I don’t sell them. Painting’s...just a hobby.”

A line creased his forehead, and his narrowed gaze focused on her. He jerked a thumb, indicating the canvas. “Do you have more of these?”

“Yes. Why?”

“May I see them?”

She pressed her bare toes against the warm dock. She didn’t share her art with anyone except her family, and these days she rarely showed them her efforts.

“Maybe some other time. I need to get dressed for work.”

“The restaurant doesn’t open until four today. You can spare five minutes. I’ll even help you carry your stuff inside so you can do it in one trip and save time.”

She didn’t want him in her house. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t think—”

“If the rest of your work is as good as this I might have a profitable proposition.”

Intrigued despite her aversion to him, she wrestled with her conscience. In the end, she caved because she didn’t know how to politely refuse. “A quick look.”

Carefully grabbing the still-wet cormorant and her paint palette, she turned and made her way to the house. He grabbed the easel and followed. Inside, she propped the canvas against the sunroom wall beside the other pieces, set the palette on the newspaper she’d left on the table and automatically reached to remove her sunglasses. Then she remembered her lack of contacts and left her shades in place. She paused to let her eyes adjust, but even then the lenses were too dark to wear inside. As much as she hated leaving Logan unsupervised in her house, she had to get her contact lenses or risk tripping over something. She ran a mental checklist. There shouldn’t be anything left in plain sight that he couldn’t see.

“Set that over there and have a seat. I’ll be right back.”