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As they approached the harbor, Mike gave a sigh of satisfaction. “I’ve traveled lots of places, but I never get tired of that view. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“You’ve got to have second thoughts about that in the winter.”
“I spend a couple of weeks in Miami every year, but I’m always anxious to get back. Cross-country skiing, ice fishing, snowmobiles. In other parts of the country, people hibernate in the winter. Up here in Michigan, that’s when we come out to play.”
She laughed. “You could sell sand in the middle of the desert.”
“People know they can trust me.” He glanced over at her, and unlike Panda’s, his eyes stayed above her neck. “I’m the richest man on the island,” he said matter-of-factly. “I don’t take that for granted. Anybody who lives here knows if they’ve got trouble, I’ll do my best to help them out.”
“Don’t people take advantage of that?”
“Every once in a while somebody takes me for a sucker, but I’ll tell you what … I’d rather have that happen than not be there for a person who really needs help.”
Which said everything about Mike Moody. What she’d initially regarded as braggadocio was a true generosity of spirit. Unlike Patrick Shade, Big Mike wasn’t afraid to let people see who he was, warts and all.
PANDA HEARD HER FOOTSTEPS ON the deck. As usual, she was entering the house through her bedroom doors instead of coming in the front like a normal person. His relief at knowing she was safe barely overshadowed his resentment. Worrying about what she was up to had ruined his afternoon.
He fixed his attention on the paperback thriller he’d propped on his chest and pretended to read. He didn’t look up as the sliders opened, but he could see all he needed to out of the corner of his eyes.
She looked windblown and happy. The white terry cover-up she wore over her swimsuit had a food stain on the front. She’d tied it crookedly at the waist so that it gaped open over one breast. The way it nestled in her swimsuit top was as erotic as anything the skin magazines could conjure up.
She took him in as he lay on her bed but didn’t say anything. He crossed his ankles and tilted his head toward the chest of drawers. “I brought my pig along to spruce up the room.”
“I don’t want your pig.”
“You can’t mean that. It’s a great pig.”
“Each to his own.” She tugged at the leg of her suit. She smelled of sunblock and lake.
He set aside his book and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, casual as all hell. “You were gone a long time.”
“I told Temple where I was going.” She yawned and tossed her tote in the corner. “I need a shower.”
He followed her into the bathroom, propped his shoulder against the doorjamb. “She said you were going fishing with Mike Moody. He’s an ass.”
That pissed her off way too much. “No, he’s not. He only seems that way because he comes on so strong. He’s a great guy.”
Exactly what he didn’t want to hear. “Yeah, just ask him.”
She jerked at the tie on her cover-up. “You don’t know anything. Mike is a good man with a huge heart. And unlike you, he’s not afraid to have a real conversation.”
He snorted. Men didn’t have real conversations with women unless they wanted to get in their pants.
Lucy puckered her lips, all prim and proper. “Please leave so I can take a shower.”
They took showers together. She knew that. But he damned well wasn’t going to argue with her about it. “You got it.”
He shut the door behind him, grabbed the book he had no intention of reading, and left the room.
He worked at his computer until one in the morning, catching up on paperwork, but he still had trouble falling asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that damned list of hers plastered against the back of his lids with the words “Sleep around” pulsing away.
Chapter Nineteen
THE KITCHEN TABLE MOCKED HER as it squatted in its customary spot on the cracked vinyl floor. It looked like a fat green warthog with a broken leg. Lucy slapped at the counter with a dishrag. “Just once, do you think you could make coffee without getting the grounds everywhere?”
Panda turned from the kitchen window where he’d been scanning the backyard for armed robbers, escaped murderers, or even a rabid skunk, anything that would satisfy his cr
aving for action. “Just once, do you think you could make the coffee instead of me?” he retorted.
