Chapter 57
It was barely ten o’clock, but already the beach parking lot was rapidly filling and the raked-smooth sand was dotted with dozens of the Saint’s pink-and-white-striped umbrellas and bright pink beach loungers.
“What happens if someone dares to bring an umbrella that’s, say, yellow, or red, or God forbid, blue?” Whelan asked, surveying the scene from his seat beside her on the golf cart.
“Security would be alerted and the offenders would be dragged off in chains,” Traci said. “But, as a practical matter, if you’re a guest here, we provide you with an umbrella and lounge chairs, so why would you spoil the ambience by going rogue and bringing something else?”
The golf cart bumped along on a narrow, paved path that skirted the main beach, until the path ended abruptly in front of a large sign warning NO TRESPASSERS. DANGEROUS CURRENTS. NO LIFEGUARDS.
Traci steered around the sign and drove onto the hard-packed sand.
“Mind telling me where we’re going?” Whelan asked.
“We call it Secret Beach,” Traci said, skirting a bleached-out driftwood tree trunk. “Sometimes there’s a wicked riptide. Which is why there’s never anyone here.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Should I be alarmed?”
“Not at all. Remember, I’m a certified lifeguard, or at least I was twenty years ago.”
She slowed the cart again and skirted a long rock jetty that reached a couple hundred yards out into the surf. Two hundred yards from that, she stopped the cart and parked.
In a short time, Whelan had set up yet another pink-and-white umbrella and a pair of lounge chairs, while Traci unloaded the cooler and her beach bag.
Whelan produced the canvas tote bag he’d brought along. “Seems like a rosé kind of day,” he said, handing her a chilled bottle.
“Perfect.” She stashed it in the cooler, and after a moment of feeling weirdly shy and self-conscious, she pulled off her gauzy white cover-up to reveal a modest black tankini. She adjusted her sunglasses and pulled her hair off her shoulders into a plastic clip, then spritzed herself with sunscreen and handed the bottle to Whelan, who’d already peeled off his T-shirt.
He sniffed the bottle with exaggerated disdain, before applying it to himself. “So girly. Coconut and papaya.”
“Sorry,” Traci told him. “They were all out of the manly beer and butt-sweat scent.”
He stretched out on the lounger with his arms over his head and Traci tried not to stare while appreciating his deeply tanned, slightly dad bod. His black sunglasses hid his eyes, and she hoped her own obscured hers.
“You haven’t told me yet why you called,” he said.
“Um, I called because it’s a beautiful Sunday with low humidity and I was looking for some company, but Lola hates the beach.”
He turned toward her and raised his sunglasses. “Try again.”
She reached into the cooler and pulled out a couple of water bottles, handing him one and uncapping her own.
“You’re stalling.”
“How do you know me so well when we’ve only just met?” She gulped the cold water.
“I’m a professional investigator. I made a living by being observant.”
Traci shrugged. “I told you that Ric was trying to screw me over somehow, right? Well, this morning he called to tell me exactly how he intends to do that.”
“Something to do with your father-in-law’s will?”
She gave Whelan a condensed version of her conversation with Ric Eddings.
“Of course, as soon as I got off the phone with Ric, I called Andy Plankenhorn. He was an old friend of Fred’s, and the family lawyer until Ric replaced him with his frat brother. I forwarded Andy a copy of the new will that Ric emailed me.”
“And? Is there anything your lawyer can do to stave off the big bad wolf at your door?”
“Maybe. He said he had to go into his office and ‘check some things’ and he promised to get back to me this afternoon with the details. In the meantime, to keep from going crazy with worry, he suggested I should go to the beach. To keep my mind off… things.”
Whelan sat up in his chair, took off his sunglasses, and considered her for a moment. Then he leaned over and gently kissed her on the lips.
“So, that’s all I am to you? A distraction?” He kissed her again before she could answer.
Traci found herself slowly leaning into Whelan, and the kiss. She wound her arms around his neck, savoring the unexpected tenderness of his embrace.
After a moment, she reluctantly pulled away.
“Is this a good idea?” Her voice was shaky. Hell, her whole body was shaking, vibrating with a combination of lust and apprehension.
“Depends on your point of view,” he said. “It felt like a good idea to me, and I sorta got the general impression you were kinda into it too.”
“I kinda was,” she admitted, with a guilty smile.
She looked around. Their patch of beach was deserted, with the exception of a trio of seagulls who were pecking at something at the water’s edge.
“Nobody is watching us,” Whelan said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “Nobody cares. We’re just two adults, stealing kisses on the beach. What could be better?”
“It’s complicated.”
“No. You’re making it complicated. Here’s the deal. I like you, and you don’t seem to find me too repulsive…”
“Not repulsive. But you’re an employee. And this is against company policy. It’s right there in the employee handbook. Page four, paragraph seven.”
“‘The Saint discourages romantic relationships between employees and expressly forbids any expression of such relationships on company property,’” Whelan intoned.
“You looked it up?” Traci was impressed.
“And memorized it word for word.”
“But did you see the next paragraph? The one that says—”
He cut her off. “Supervisors are expressly forbidden from pursuing relationships with subordinates. Infraction of this policy will be grounds for immediate severance.”
Whelan flashed a wicked grin. “See, that’s not a problem. My supervisor is a grizzled sixty-year-old with a beer belly and a mullet, named Manny. And I am in no way interested in pursuing a relationship with him, nor he with me. In fact, he’s married.”
“But, I mean, we’re on company property,” she said feebly.
He got up and jogged over to the NO TRESPASSING sign. A minute later, he was back. “According to that sign, this is Bonaventure County property.”
“Technically, I guess that’s true,” she admitted.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, let’s cut the nonsense and go for a swim—at the non-Saint-owned beach. If you’re nice, I might let you demonstrate your lifesaving techniques on me.”
Traci let herself be dragged toward the water, her hand still clutched in his as they ran into the surf and leapt into the waves.
The shock of the cool water was delicious on her sun-warmed skin.
Whelan released her hand and she dove under, did a scissor-kick, and emerged from the water a few yards away from him.
He swam toward her, doing a lazy crawl.
“You look happy,” he said, when he reached her side.
She flung her arms around his shoulders and kissed him hard on the lips. “I am happy,” she said, surprising herself. “It’s crazy. My professional life is cratering, I might lose my hotel, but right now, in this moment, I feel happy. I’ve just kissed a hot guy, and I’m at the beach, in the ocean. I haven’t swum in the ocean in years. It feels amazing, and right now, that’s all I want to think about.”
Whelan pointed at his chest. “Hot guy, huh?”
“Totally hot,” she said, and kissed him again to prove her point.
While Whelan uncorked and poured the wine, Traci sorted out the contents of the picnic lunch that had been packed at the restaurant.
She opened a waxed paper packet and examined the sandwich, which was on a brioche bun. “Looks like turkey, Havarti, and fig jam. Also arugula.” She looked over at Whelan. “Do you have strong feelings about arugula?”
“Nope. I’m arugula neutral.” He took the sandwich and bit into it, nodding approval.
She doled out bags of chips and a container of crudités with hummus, then unwrapped another sandwich. “This one’s chicken, Swiss, and avocado.”
“All for you, my sweet,” he said, handing her a plastic cup of wine.
She ate her sandwich and at one point he leaned over and dabbed a bit of mayonnaise from her lower lip, letting his fingertip trail down her neck until she shivered with pleasure.
“This is the classiest picnic I’ve ever been on,” Whelan commented. “We should do this more often.” He clicked his plastic wine cup against hers.
“And last, but not least, we have brownies,” she said, lifting a box from the bottom of the cooler. “Felice makes the most decadent desserts ever.”
He took a brownie, broke off half, and gave it to her. “I am a huge proponent of decadence. Desserts, and otherwise.”
Traci was about to bite into her half of the brownie when she heard her cell phone ringing from within her beach bag.
“Oh God.” She rummaged through the towels, cover-up, water bottles, lip balm, and sunscreen before unearthing it from the depths of the bag. “This should be my lawyer.”
“Traci? I think I have some good news for you,” Plankenhorn said.
“How? What?”
“It’s too complicated to discuss on the phone. I’m actually headed your way.”
“Right now? I’m at the beach, but I can be home and showered in about half an hour.”
“No rush. I’m bringing someone with me, and I need to go pick them up first,” Andy said.
Whelan was already standing, folding up his lounge chair. “I take it we’re leaving?”
“Sorry. That was Andy Plankenhorn. He says he’s got good news and he’s on the way to my place, and he’s bringing someone with him.”
“We can have another picnic soon, to celebrate your good news,” Whelan said. He leaned over and kissed her again, then began repacking the cooler.