Life Is A Beach: Life Is A Beach / A Real-Thing Fling. Pamela Browning
The bouquet on the built-in dresser was composed of fresh flowers and hothouse variety at that.
She walked across the cushy seafoam-green carpet to the closet and flung the door open. Inside was a whole wardrobe of clothes arrayed on matching padded hangers. She pulled out a dress and a pair of slacks; they looked as if they’d been made for a midget. Slade’s cousin’s wife was apparently a nutritionally challenged size two.
All right, so she couldn’t wear these clothes. She threw open the next closet and found more promising duds; the trouble was, these were Slade’s.
She yanked a worn denim shirt out of the few hanging there and held it up for inspection. It was the typical Western-style shirt with two pockets in front and a yoke in back. It snapped instead of buttoned. The best part about it was that it would fit her.
Well, almost, anyway. After a longing look at the shower in the adjoining bathroom and mindful that Slade hadn’t said she could make use of it, she shrugged out of the wet robe and into the denim shirt. It came down to the middle of her thighs.
A glance into the full length mirror on the inside of the closet door reassured her that the shirt covered all the important points. She bent over experimentally and realized that she’d have to find something to wear underneath it. She kept looking and settled on a pair of stretchy black exercise tights that tumbled off the closet shelf. They probably belonged to the petite Renee, but they stretched to cover Karma’s long legs.
She decided that there was nothing to be done about shoes, since her own sandals were swimming with the fishes at the bottom of the bay and none of the ones here fit. But she could do something about her bedraggled hair, and that was to dry it with the use of a hair dryer that was conveniently mounted next to the sink in the bathroom, which she supposed, since it was on a boat, would properly be called the head.
The only head she was prepared to worry about at the moment was her own. She wore her hair shoulder length, and when wet it tended to frizz. The dryer had one speed—hot. That frizzed her hair even more, and when she was finished, she looked as if she’d just unplugged herself from an electrical socket.
Never mind, she told herself. You’ve already blown any chance you might have had with Slade Braddock. She cast one last resigned look into the mirror and went outside to wrap this up.
When she emerged from the salon onto the deck, Slade looked up appreciatively from the magazine he was reading.
“This belongs to you,” she said apologetically, lifting the edge of the shirt.
“I never filled that shirt out so well,” he said.
“What did you find out about my bike?” She was worried now about how she would get home. She didn’t have cab fare, and it was a long walk back to the Blue Moon.
“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