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“Sure I can. There’s another statute on the books that gives squatters the rights to any public land that is occupied by three or more people.”
“No.”
I lift a brow. “No?”
“No, no, no. I call bullshit. Those laws would be ridiculous—”
“They are,” I agree as I unlock my phone and hold it out to her. “And antiquated. But you can google them. One is Civil Code Thirty-seven A, provisions six through nine, and the second is—”
“You can’t be serious!” she answers, even as she snatches my phone out of my hand. About a minute later, she looks back up at me with narrowed eyes. “You are serious.”
“I am.”
“Squatter’s rights?” she says again, as if it’s the most bizarre term she’s ever heard. “So what keeps people from claiming all the public parkland here in Wildemar? Especially the beaches? They have to be worth a fortune.”
“It’s a fairly obscure statute. Not many people know about it.”
“And you just happen to be one of the lucky few who do?”
“What can I say? I’m a good researcher.”
“More like a good con man,” she says with a snort. “But far be it from me to trespass on private land.”
She starts to turn around and go back the way she came, which is wholly and completely unacceptable. Especially considering sparring with her keeps my mind off the rest of my shitty life. But since I’d have to leapfrog over her shoulders to get in front of her, something my still tender ribs are not okay with, I nod to Bryce to block her path. Which he does, so quickly and silently she doesn’t notice until he’s already there.
“Are you serious right now?” she squawks as she turns to glare at me. “Two bodyguards? Don’t you think that’s a little overkill?”
Her tone suggests that it’s a lot overkill and I don’t bother to correct her. How can I when her tone asks who the hell I think I am? Which is such a novel experience I find myself not wanting it to end.
Even before the kidnapping, it was rare to find someone who didn’t recognize me on sight. Now that my face has been plastered on every newspaper and magazine cover in the free world, it’s pretty much impossible. But as she stands there, eyebrows raised and hands on her curvy little hips, I can’t help enjoying the fact that she doesn’t know. And the fact that for a few minutes I can carry on a conversation with someone who isn’t thinking about the kidnapping. Or the photos of my injuries that leaked after I was rescued. Or the fact that my father has basically labeled me unfit for duty.
No, all she’s thinking is that I’m an asshole on a power trip, and that…that is something I can work with. Especially when the prize is an afternoon in bed with the sexiest woman I’ve seen in pretty much forever…
Chapter 2
I don’t answer her about my security detail—I have a pretty strict no-lying policy, and making up a story about them would violate every statute of it—and she doesn’t wait around to hear anything else that comes out of my mouth. Instead, she starts to push past me much like she did Samuel, eyes blazing and one hand on my chest. But unlike Samuel, I don’t move aside nearly as easily.
Instead, I bring a hand up to cover hers, holding it against my chest. Her sunglasses are back in place, but I can practically see those gorgeous eyes of hers narrowing behind the lenses.
“Get out of my way,” she demands, yanking her hand away from mine.
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll kick you in the balls, bodyguards or no bodyguards.”
Behind me, Samuel chokes again. But this time I’m pretty sure it’s from laughter, even if I can feel him shifting a little closer to me. Just in case she means it.
Part of me wants to stay right where I am, just to test her out. To see if she’s really tough enough to put her money where her mouth is. But since I’m pretty sure she is and I don’t relish my detail having to rush to my rescue—any more than I relish a kick in the balls—eventually I step aside. After waiting just long enough to have her eyebrows arching and her hands clenching into fists.
She brushes past me, the soft skin of her shoulder skimming against my chest as she marches straight up to my rock. Once there, she crinkles her nose up a little at the wetness of it, but doesn’t say anything as she spreads her towel out over the area.
Then she’s dropping her sunglasses and her drawstring backpack on the ground, kicking off her flip-flops, and running straight for the lake. Once she hits the edge, she does a beautiful arched dive, one that has her landing fast and clean in the clear turquoise water.
I follow her—of course I do—diving into a spot just a few feet from where she’s now treading water. I surface with every intention of striking up a conversation, but by the time I rub a hand over my eyes, she’s already gone. For long seconds, I watch as she swims across the lake with long, powerful strokes.
I take off after her, like the idiot I’ve become. She’s a strong swimmer—really strong—but I trained with the Wildemarian Olympic swimming team during my teen years, back before my father made it clear that, no matter how much I loved the sport, there were more important ways for me to honor our country than as a member of its 2004 Olympic team.
I catch up to her just as she reaches the far edge of the lake. And then it’s on. Instead of acknowledging me, she spins around and sprints back across the lake to where we started. I stay with her, keeping pace but making sure not to pull ahead by more than an occasional stroke here or there.
