No Tan Lines (6 page)

He felt no shame in having secured the storefront for Nicole. He hardly needed to ask Shaye’s permission after she’d sabotaged him.

He’d left the diner and headed back to his office, phoning Nicole on the way. She’d been in the vicinity shopping and had rushed to Saunders Square.

His ex-lover had flash. She nearly blinded him with her jewelry. Her appreciation at gaining the boardwalk shop she’d wanted had been expressed in a deep French kiss and an unspoken offer of sex.

Trace had passed on the sex. He’d assist in getting her business off the ground and planned to be a regular customer, in order to keep her solvent. After twelve months, Nicole should be able to support herself fully. Or so he hoped.

He liked Nicole; he just didn’t love her. He always made an attempt to remain friends with the women of his past. Some stayed close, seeking his business advice. Others sent the occasional Christmas card. Only one had flipped him off, Crystal Smith from high school.

She’d wanted an engagement ring for graduation. The ring had meant more to her than he did. She’d liked his status as a Saunders, yet during their time together, Crystal had talked nonstop about Kai Cates. Trace had gotten tired of her increasingly intense attempts to make Kai jealous.

Twenty-four hours after Crystal tossed her tasseled cap into the air, she took off for Milan. Fashion was her passion, and she apprenticed at the Instituto di Torrisi. According to his twenty-four-year-old sister, Sophie, Crystal was doing exceptionally well for herself. She’d established Crystalline, her own line of luxury undergarments, and had a selective international clientele.

Shy, studious, somewhat klutzy Sophie loved the glossy fashion magazines. Sophie swore that Crystal’s sheer chiffon teddy was as intimate as skin. Her handmade corsets were works of art. No man could ignore cleavage so prettily revealed by the bejeweled neckline of her signature camisole.

Trace shrugged off Crystal’s memory. He had more than lingerie to deal with today. He scanned a stack of paperwork in need of his attention, then looked at the two women. Their cleanup was completed. Nicole now held the aluminum tin. Shaye’s skirt was damp but free of pie.

They were opposites, he noted. And their differences went well beyond hair color.

Nicole was just starting a business, whereas Shaye had run Barefoot William Enterprises for six years. Her grandfather had appointed her president when her father retired. The old man trusted her. Her entire family backed her. There was no dissension among the Cateses. Ever.

Many of the Cates women were powerhouses. Most were known to be active, innovative, and smart. To those traits Shaye added sneaky.

She’d worked every shop and carnival ride on the boardwalk. She knew the businesses inside and out. Trace knew because over the years he’d occasionally discarded his suit to check out the competition.

He used a disguise to do so. He crossed Center Street wearing a baseball cap, mirrored Oakley’s, a Miami Dolphins jersey, ripped jeans, and athletic shoes. No one stopped or questioned him. He’d trod the boardwalk, end to end.

Sitting on a bench, and always from a distance, he’d watched Shaye work her ass off. Day after day, she breathed life into her family’s enterprises. She walked the pier and handed out two-for-one coupons for the arcade games. She scooped ice cream cones and deep-fried Oreos. She tossed toy seagull boomerangs out over the water and caught their return. She wore tank tops advertising Three Shirts to the Wind and modeled henna surfer tattoos from Waves. She rode a unicycle when she got tired of walking. The lady had incredible balance.

A month earlier, he’d caught her on hands and knees repairing a broken-down bumper car. Later that same day, his heart had nearly stopped when she and an employee scaled the roller coaster ramp to check the track.

Shaye was independent, daring, and worked at least a sixty-hour week. But she was a Cates, so his compliments only went so far.

Before him now, Nicole stood poised and sophisticated. Her skin was flawless and pale. She avoided the sun.

Shaye lived for sunshine. She wore T-shirts and shorts and so often went barefoot, her toes were always sandy.

Nicole had a standing appointment at the Zsuzsy Salon. She never had a hair out of place.

Shaye’s curls were untamed. Her hair band barely contained her bangs.

Nicole dabbed expensive cologne at every pulse point.

Shaye’s scent was Dove soap.

Nicole was rational and, most times, cooperative. She had, however, blindsided him that very morning during sex with her business proposal. All the same, Nicole wasn’t nearly as cagey as Shaye.

Shaye had sneaky down to a science. He was glad her plan had backfired and he’d benefited from her takedown.

Across his desk, both women watched him watch them.

One smiled warmly.

The other scowled deeply.

Nicole was first to speak. “Can we see the shop today? I want to sign the rental agreement as soon as possible.” She unknowingly rubbed salt into Shaye’s wound.

Why not?
Trace wanted to enjoy Shaye’s discomfort a while longer. His paperwork could wait. He wouldn’t be gone long. He rose and joined the women near the door.

He cornered Shaye. “We have time now.”

Nicole deferred to her landlord. “Does this work for you, too?” she asked.

“Of course it does.” Trace spoke for Shaye. “She’s happy to accommodate a new renter. You may want to expand the shelving and counter space. Renovations come with the agreement.”

“You’re mistaken,” Shaye was quick to say. “Overhauls are paid by the renter.”

“Not in this case,” said Trace. “Construction costs fall to the Cateses.”

“To be continued,” she said.

“Finalized,” Trace shot back.

“This day couldn’t get any better,” Nicole gushed.

Shaye Cates disagreed. This was the worst day of her life. She bit her tongue. She had no bargaining strength. The volleyball tournament came first. Then she would revise the rental agreement. In her favor.

Shaye had two storefronts available. All the shops had adjoining walls and multicolored doors. The one with the hot-pink entry was wide and deep, situated at the corner of two busy streets. The store with the soft lime and avocado door was tiny and in the middle of the block.

Shaye’s eighteen-year-old niece had graduated from high school that spring. College wasn’t in her future. Eden wanted to bring Old Tyme Portraits to the boardwalk. Customers could stand behind life-size cardboard cutouts, their faces showing above vintage swimwear.

Eden had already purchased several cutouts and an expensive Nikon. She’d begged for the store with the hot-pink door. Shaye hated to disappoint family.

Kai was in the process of rewiring the electrical fixtures and updating the plumbing in the smaller second shop. The store was old and no longer up to code. He’d be working there now.

Shaye wished she had time to forewarn Kai of their arrival. Fortunately she and her cousin were close. He always read between the lines.

“I have a shop in the middle of the block,” she told Nicole as they left Trace’s office and headed toward the elevator. The designer’s jewelry jingled to the smack of Shaye’s flip-flops on the hardwood floors.

Trace followed them closely. Shaye could feel him breathing down her neck. The man had hot breath.

The elevator doors soon opened, and the three rode down. It was the longest ride of her life. Trace stood to her left, his height intimidating. His overwhelming presence seemed to take up enough space for two men. Shaye felt his gaze on her, evaluating and direct. He bumped her once, then twice, as he shifted his stance. She swore he did it on purpose.

They reached the lobby with its wide entry and crossed to the revolving door. Nicole slipped into the first rotating wing, and Trace slid in behind Shaye with the next opening. The toes of his leather loafers bumped her bare heels. The man was tailgating her. Again. And she didn’t like it.

Outside, heavy gray clouds had gathered. It was rainy season. An afternoon thunderstorm was forecast.

“Can we make it to the shop before the downpour?” Nicole asked, hopeful.

“Depends how fast you can walk,” Shaye said.

Nicole looked at her wedge sandals. “Not that fast, I’m afraid. My shoes are built for show, not speed. I’d sprain an ankle hurrying.”

Shaye had a solution. “Once we reach Barefoot William, I can hail a pedicab. You can ride to the shop.”

The covered, three-wheeled rickshaws shielded passengers from both sun and rain. The friendly drivers pointed out landmarks and entertained passengers with local lore. People waited in long lines to take a bike taxi along the boardwalk and pier. It was all part of the Barefoot William experience.

Trace made his own offer. “We could head to the parking lot and get my car. I’m fine with driving the short distance.”

“It’s only a few blocks,” Nicole braved. “I can manage the walk.”

They’d gone one block when it started to sprinkle. Trace took Nicole by the elbow, and they picked up their pace. Shaye couldn’t help admiring Nicole. She was a team player. She didn’t complain, even after the drizzle turned to big, fat drops.

They darted across Center Street, and Shaye hailed a pedicab. One person was already on board. The elderly woman moved over, offering Nicole half the seat.

“Crabby Abby’s General Store,” Shaye told the driver. “It’s next to the rental shop,” she added for Nicole’s benefit. “Wait for us there. We’ll meet you shortly.” The bike taxi took off.

Trace set his jaw. “We’re walking?” Raindrops glistened on his dark hair, which he slicked back with his fingers. His lashes were spiky. His gaze was liquid dark.

“
I’m
walking,” she said. “Feel free to duck into a store and wait out the storm.” She expected him to do so.

She removed her flip-flops and pressed on. What few customers there were had cleared the boardwalk. Shaye felt safe. There was no lightning or thunder. The steady pelting was warm, like a shower. She loved storms. She enjoyed every footstep.

Four blocks farther, the sun pushed through the clouds and struggled to shine. The rain fizzled to a sun shower. Each drop sizzled off the hot cement. Steam rose like a sauna. The humidity shot high. The sun winked and disappeared a second time. It was again overcast.

Shaye slowed, scanning the beach. Frothy waves crested the rain-soaked sand. One surfer braved the breakers. She ran one hand down her face. Her hair was damp, and her cheeks were moist. Her stretchy lace blouse and denim skirt were soaked. She didn’t care, not until Trace cast his shadow over her.

She’d hoped to shake him, but there he stood. He, too, was wet. His dress shirt clung to his wide shoulders and flattened against his abdomen. The cotton dented at his navel. The front of his slacks defined what made him a man. A very big man. No shrinkage there.

Shaye scrunched her nose. “You’re as crazy as me” slipped out before she could stop herself.

“Not nearly as crazy,” he said. “I thought you’d melt in the rain.”

Like the Wicked Witch of the East. She didn’t take kindly to his reference but let it slide. She spread her arms wide. “Sorry to disappoint you. Nothing dissolved.”

He took in her breasts, which were still an A-cup. If there’d been melting, she would have been as flat as a boy.

His gaze lowered, and her stomach quivered. He showed great interest in her skirt. A skirt that seemed to have shrunk in the rain. The denim wedged between her thighs and creased into her crotch. An arrow to her sex.

Heat chased through her body. Shaye tugged at the hem, yet the denim stuck to her like a second skin. She needed to change her clothes. Immediately.

Three Shirts to the Wind allowed her to do so. She entered through a tangerine door. Trace tailgated once again. She glared over her shoulder, expressing her displeasure.

He ignored her, moving even closer. She’d need an air bag if he bumped her again. The store was packed with customers who preferred retail therapy over walking in the rain. The shop specialized in shirts: plain white cotton to brightly colored polos. Some tees had caricatures, while others had decorative designs. A few naughty logos raised eyebrows. Most sayings were funny and silly. All sold well.

Shaye hugged her third cousin and shop owner Jenna Cates. Jenna was petite with short dark blond hair. She looked smart in her round Ralph Lauren glasses.

Jenna homed in on Trace from behind the counter as he moved off to the side, avoiding the crush of the crowd. Her voice was low, flat, firm. “No welcome mat for that man.”

“No need,” Shaye whispered back. “He won’t be around long. After the volleyball tournament, you can put a sign in your window that reads: No Shirt. No Shoes. No Saunders.”

Jenna grinned. “I like that.”

So did Shaye.

Jenna turned and snagged two purple beach towels from a shelf behind her. “No dripping either—the tile floors will get slippery. Dry your wet selves off.”

A puddle had already formed at Shaye’s feet. She requested a third towel for them to stand on, which she dropped onto the floor. Trace sidestepped onto one end of the terry cloth. His leather loafers squished water.

Shaye patted her face and arms.

Trace dried his hair and the back of his neck.

Jenna fanned her face. It was getting warm in the shop, Shaye noted. Those browsing stood four deep around the circular T-shirt racks. With each opening of the door, humidity snuck in. Shaye grew sticky, too.

Jenna undid the third button on her yellow polo.
Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt
was scripted in navy over her breast pocket. “How about a change of clothes?” she offered.

“Would be appreciated,” said Shaye.

Jenna slipped her two decorative plastic bags with the store logo on them. “For your wet clothes,” she said. “There’s plenty of T-shirts, but I’m running low on shorts and swim trunks. My weekly shipment has yet to arrive. There’s still a few pair on the sale rack by the dressing rooms. You wear a small,” she said to Shaye. She glanced at Trace. “A large?”

“Extra large,” Shaye said without thinking.