The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,70
venture to guess you might even be a trifle…fond of him?”
“Sure.” Why not? “Fond is a good word.”
“Ah-hah!” her friend said, triumphant. “I knew it! We’re speaking in euphemisms again! Like Charlie, you’re in—”
“Emmaline,” Sara said, hushed but urgent. “Um, khaki pants, white shirt, and a newspaper just arrived on the patio.”
“You’re only trying to get out of admitting—”
“And he’s clearly looking for someone.”
“No fooling?” Emmaline’s body tensed, then she glanced over her shoulder. Her head whipped back, her eyes wide and almost panicked. “That can’t be him. Sara, that can’t be him.”
“Um, why not?”
“Because that would mean Lady Luck is having a big ol’ laugh at my expense. Is he going away?”
Sara shook her head. “What’s the problem?” The thirtyish man was strikingly handsome if somewhat rumpled, with blue eyes, dark hair, and a day’s worth of stubble.
Emmaline put her head in her hand. “He’s the guy I told you about. The great potential, but no follow through once I brought him home. We struck up a conversation while waiting for missing luggage at the airport the night I arrived in L.A.”
“He’s coming this way, Em.”
“God, oh God.” She squeezed shut her eyes for several seconds, then opened them again to glance downward. “Since there’s no hole in the floor at my feet, I guess I’ll just have to face him.”
“You can do it,” Sara encouraged.
Sucking in a breath, her friend squared her shoulders and stood, turning just as Great Potential arrived at their table.
He stared at the brunette—something ninety-nine percent of the population did because of her eye-catching beauty—but in his gaze was no recognition at all.
Emmaline shot Sara a swift look. Do you see what I’m seeing?
With a little nod, Sara stood too, her coffee cup in hand. “Maybe your luck with men is turning around,” she murmured and strolled away just as Emmaline shot out her hand in Mr. Curry’s direction.
Later, after Sara had spent some time working the soil in Carol Madigan’s garden space, she returned to Nueva Vida. Seeing no one around, she washed and dried two loads of her own personal laundry then stood at the counter beside the appliances to fold the garments, contemplating the two texts Emmaline had sent earlier.
He really doesn’t remember me. Insult or relief?
Um…he actually wants a wife. Like now.
Sara’s puzzlement over that last didn’t abate, but the sound of Martin’s and Joaquin’s voices distracted her from the mystery. She heard the refrigerator door open and close followed by the scrape of stool legs against the floor. Presumably they were sitting at the kitchen island.
“You really don’t mind Essie staying on?” Martin was saying. “I’d insist she go with us on this unexpected business trip, but we did promise her another few days at the beach.”
“It’s no problem. I’ll look out for her.”
“You’re sure?”
“Martin, it’s fine. And you have my promise that no harm will come to her on my watch.”
“Okay. Thank you.” The older man sounded truly grateful. “And thanks again for your hospitality. Nueva Vida is truly spectacular.”
“I agree.”
Sara imagined Joaquin looking over his shoulder to the stupendous view, framed by the green foliage and bright flowers she’d planted and nurtured. The interior showed well too, and she loved the oversized glass bowl shaped like a giant abalone shell she’d unearthed in the garage the day before. She’d washed away the dust of neglect and polished it until the interior mass of swirling green, turquoise, pink, and orange shone.
It made an arresting accent on the table between the couches in the great room. Had Joaquin noticed?
Then he spoke again. “I think it will do well on the market.”
Sara froze. Do well on the real estate market?
“You’re not keeping it?” Martin asked, sounding surprised. “You need a home base now that you’re back in Los Angeles.”
“Not this home base.”
Sudden, hot tears pricked Sara’s eyes. It hurt, physically felt like a blow to the chest, to think of Joaquin selling the estate. She’d no longer be able to tend the plants, and she’d never see the cutting garden she’d planted grow to full fruition. It wouldn’t be her hands that dusted the pieces of furniture that she’d personally arranged in every room.
“It’s too big,” Joaquin continued now, “for one reclusive bachelor. I’ll only be rattling around the place by myself once Essie returns to your house. I want peace and quiet, but I don’t need this much space.”
“You have your butler.”
Sara held her breath, loath to miss any nuance in Joaquin’s response. It was a long time coming.