Meet Me in Barefoot Bay - Roxanne St. Claire Page 0,4
distract her, and put her finger on the phone.
Wait.
Should she call him Mr. Walker? His e-mail seemed so casual, at least for an architectural genius. So maybe he wouldn’t want—
A voice floated up from the beach. A male voice.
Lacey glanced over her shoulder, inhaling a quick breath at the sight of a man five feet away from Ashley. A half-naked man, wearing nothing but low-hanging board shorts and sockless sneakers. Shaggy hair, big muscles, and, dear God, was that a tattoo on his arm?
Was he a tourist? A surfer? More likely one of the many debris scavengers who’d popped up all over the island since they’d reopened the causeway, ready to make a buck off the misfortune of others.
Ashley laughed at something he said, and he turned just enough for Lacey to get an eyeful of sweat-glistening chest and abs and—wow.
Ashley flipped her hair and the man took a step closer.
Okay, stop right there, buddy. Lacey launched forward, driven by primal instinct, forgetting the call and ignoring the fiery sand singeing her bare feet.
“Excuse me.”
They both turned at her words, Ashley’s body language screaming disgust as she rolled her eyes. But Lacey barely saw her. Her gaze was locked on the predator, preparing her counterattack in full mother-lioness mode, quickly assessing his danger level.
His danger level was… hot.
Ridiculously so.
He stunned her with a blinding smile. He disarmed her with a shake of his honey-colored locks, revealing a handsome, tanned face and a tiny gold hoop in one ear. Then he stopped her in her tracks by stretching out his hand.
“I’m Clay Walker.”
What?
“Are you Lacey Armstrong?”
“No. I mean, yes. But…” She froze, completely thrown, her brain short-circuiting at his words.
Colonel Sanders he was not.
He looked nothing like his picture. No white hair, no bow tie—no shirt! He absolutely couldn’t be Clayton Walker because, well, he was gorgeous.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, not caring that she was a sweaty mess of venom-spewing, short-short-wearing, almost-thirty-seven-year-old mom staring at his washboard abs. Or that she still held the phone that she was just about to use to call him. Well, not him. Colonel Sanders.
“I told you I’d check out the property.”
“Oh, I expected someone…” Older. Dressed. Not gorgeous. “… after I called.”
“I didn’t want to wait,” he said. He kept his hand out and she had no choice but to take it, her hand instantly lost in big, calloused, masculine fingers. “I was too intrigued by the idea of building here.”
“So am I.” Intrigued, that was. Intrigued and wary.
“I hope you don’t mind.” He gave a cursory glance to his naked torso. “It’s hot as hell here.”
“It’s no problem,” she lied, extracting her hand and forcing her eyes off his body and onto his face. Like that was any less stupefying. “But there’s been a mistake.”
Dark brows shot up, revealing eyes just about the color of the water behind him. “A mistake?” he asked.
“You’re not Clayton Walker.”
“I go by Clay.” He smiled, kind of a half-grin that crinkled his eyes and revealed straight white teeth. “Got ID in my truck if you want me to get it.”
The hint of a drawl fit him as well as the shorts that hung off narrow hips. “That’s not necessary because I’ve been to the Web site and I’ve seen Clayton Walker, and he’s not…” Sexy. “You.”
“Don’t tell me.” The smile turned wry. “You were expecting Clayton Walker Senior?”
Senior? Like his father? “I was expecting the owner of the firm.” The man who designed some of the most stunning hotels in the world, who probably didn’t have hair to his shoulders or an earring or a tattoo of a flame-encircled star on a sizable bicep. “The Clayton Walker. That’s who I e-mailed.”
“Actually, you e-mailed me,” he said simply.
“I got the contact off the Web site.”
He shrugged a brawny shoulder. “I guess my name’s still there. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s made the mistake.”
“Do you work for him?”
“No, I don’t have anything to do with my father’s business anymore.”
“Oh. That’s a shame.” Disappointment dribbled in her stomach and mixed with some other unfamiliar tightness down there.
“But I am a contractor,” he said, an edge taking some of the smoothness out of his voice. “And a builder.”
“But you aren’t the Clayton Walker.”
He laughed softly, a rumbly, gritty, sensual sound that reverberated through Lacey’s chest down to her toes. “Look, I’ve been checking out this property for a couple of days and, based on that e-mail you sent, I’m totally capable of doing this job for you.”