Pamela Browning - Life Is A Beach - Life Is A Beach / A Real-Thing Fling

“The manager’s son is a certified scuba diver, and he’ll go down to look for it tomorrow morning. No problem. You’ll get it back. Come and sit down, you might as well relax. Care for a beer?”

“No, thanks. I want to videotape while we’ve still got good light.”

“There’s the camera. I set it up on the tripod.”

The camera stood on one corner of the deck. Karma went over to inspect it, surreptitiously looking Slade Braddock over as she pretended to note all the buttons and knobs on the camera. He wore only jeans and a white T-shirt, and instead of the boots, he wore deck shoes.

Under that T-shirt, his chest muscles rippled as he stood up to stretch. He was tall, even without his boots. Taller than she was, which was really saying something.

“Need any help in figuring it out?”

“This is different from mine,” she managed to say although her mouth had gone dry.

“I’ve used this camera a few times before, so let me show you how it works.” He closed the gap between them in a few steps, a maneuver that somehow mysteriously caused her heart to speed up. This attraction to a client, she knew, was wildly inappropriate. She shouldn’t be breathing hard and heavy merely because he was standing close to her. It was unprofessional, it was unlike her—and it was a great way to be feeling after a long time without a special man in her life.

“This is the way you adjust it,” Slade said, stepping behind the camera to demonstrate, “and this is the button you press to make it start.”

While he was concentrating on the camera, her gaze lingered for a moment on the cleft in his chin, drifted slightly higher and came to rest on his lips. She did not want to concentrate on his lips. Or any of the rest of him. Which was why she didn’t think she could go through with this.

“Do you still want to do this videotaping, or would you rather stop by my office and do it another time?” she said on a note of desperation. Using her work to advance her own personal agenda with this man had been a mistake. She needed to go home and calm herself with some deep breathing exercises, maybe on the beach so the salt air could become a type of inhalation therapy. She needed a soothing cup of herbal tea. Maybe she even needed to have her chakras read.

“The camera is ready to roll,” Slade pointed out with a twinkle. “You gonna deprive me of my first, last and only chance to be a star of my own video?”

“Um…no.” Because she didn’t know what else to do, she edged around the back of the camera and fiddled with the lens.

“Hey, didn’t I explain it right?” Slade asked. “I’ve already focused it on that chair over there. What do you say I sit down and we get on with it?”

She punched a button by mistake, and the camera made a frenzied whirring sound. “What’s that?” she said in alarm.

“Easy there,” Slade said. He slid around behind her. The heat of his body sizzled right through the denim shirt she wore.

“I—I—” she stammered, forgetting what she had been about to say.

“Let me check to make sure it’s still in focus,” he said, and he bent and fit his eye to the camera. Karma was treated to a view of how his hair curved along his nape.

“Now,” Slade said as he straightened. “Wait till I’m seated, and then push the red button.” His body brushed against hers as he edged past her and out of the tight corner. As he passed, she was assailed by pure, clean masculine odor. Not fragrance, as in aftershave or cologne, but a natural male scent of musk and a couple of other unidentifiables. This disconcerted her almost as much as his touch. She’d expected him to smell good. But not great.

He smiled in that engaging way of his, one eyebrow cocked, one corner of his mouth higher than the other. She had noticed his smile before; why did it seem so appealing now?

She made herself concentrate. Peer through the lens, focus, and next all she had to do was push the little red button. It was when she looked up that she realized with astonishment that Slade had gone all remote. His face was immobile, his eyes glazed over. He looked like a clone of Mount Rushmore.

It had happened before: Freeze-up. Some people might be affable and congenial as all get-out before you switched on the camera, but as soon as they realized they were being taped, they were afflicted with the inability to move their tongues and lips in any semblance of casual conversation. They became so self-conscious in front of that lens that nothing, but nothing, could make them snap out of it.

This was all she needed. At the moment she wanted to get this taping over with and scurry home to the Blue Moon, which seemed like a safe haven after this debacle.

“Slade,” she said, because she’d learned in some psychology course eons ago that using a person’s name gave you an edge, made him really pay attention to you, “we’re just going to chat normally.”

He nodded, but stiffly.

“So,” she said as she pulled a chair over to one side of the deck out of camera range. “How about stating your full name first?” This was usually easy for clients who were wary of the camera. People always were able to say their own names with a minimum of stage fright.

“I thought we already did that.” His tone was flat, his voice expressionless.

“Excuse me?”

“On the form you filled out today. I gave you my name.”

“This is for the tape.”

“Uh.”

“So go ahead and tell me your name.” She smiled her encouragement.

“My name’s Slade Braddock. Do I need to spell it?”

This was proving to be even more difficult than she had anticipated. “No, that won’t be necessary.” She could edit out the comments that didn’t need to stay in. She’d had to edit like crazy for Jennifer and Mandi, especially Jennifer, who had given a very realistic imitation of an orgasm on tape. Or maybe it wasn’t an imitation—who knew?

“Now, Slade, we’d like to know what you do for a living.”

He stared at her for a moment. Not that she minded. She liked it when he looked at her. But they weren’t getting anywhere with this video.

“Slade?”

He licked his lips. “I guess you know I don’t like this much.”

“That’s okay. Just answer the questions the best you can.”

“You wanted to know what I do for a living?”

“Yes.”

“I run a herd of cattle up Okeechobee way.”

It was like pulling teeth to get the man to talk. If she hadn’t known he was perfectly capable of conversation, she’d be willing to quit. Some part of her was exultant at this development, though. The worse he looked on the video, the less appealing he’d be to the likes of Jennifer and Mandi. Still, it was her duty as the matchmaker to display him at his best.

Maybe if he talked about his work in more detail, he’d forget his self-consciousness.

“And what kind of cattle are they?”

“Why, they’re Braford cattle, most of ’em.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that breed of cattle.”

“That means they’re part Brahma, part Hereford. Braford.”

He’d warmed up a little, but not much. “And how big is the herd?”

“Oh, it’s plenty big.”

“Perhaps you could describe the ranch,” Karma said encouragingly.

He smiled genuinely for the first time since the interview had started. “Well, there’s a big old house. Not real old, mind you. My daddy built it in fifty-eight, so it’s got what they call mod cons. It overlooks a pond where you can see ibises and great blue herons and sometimes a little ‘gator that we call Abner. Cute little guy. ‘Course, Abner could be a girl. Hard to tell. There’s a barn beyond the live oak trees, and you can just barely see it through the Spanish moss. That’s where the horses stay, and once we had some goats. They sure were fun to raise. And—”