Turning back to her desk, she woke her computer and checked her emails. At the top was a message from John, confirming everything they’d discussed.
General manager of a new Tradewinds resort. Damn. Fifty thousand dollars. Double damn. Quite an offer. Too bad she couldn’t accept. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, about to click reply, when her cell phone vibrated again. She glanced at the caller ID, saw “Babycakes,” and picked up.
“Happy New Year, Babycakes.” Her mood lifted as she pictured Laurie sitting in the kitchen at the bakery.
“Not exactly.” Laurie’s voice cracked on the last word.
Chelsea straightened in her chair. “Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
“We had a fire this morning, Chels. A bad one.”
Now she shot to her feet. “Are you hurt? Is anyone—?”
“Everyone’s fine, thank God. We were closed for the holiday. But Babycakes is…” Laurie paused and took a ragged breath. “The bakery is gone. I’m standing where my shop used to be, staring at a burned-out shell of a building.”
“I’m so sorry, Laurie.” She sank into her chair. “I wish I was there.”
“Be glad you’re not. It’s a pretty sad sight.”
“You’ll rebuild. You’ll use the insurance money and open Babycakes again, even better now because you’ll take into account the things you learned the first time around.”
“I—I don’t think so Chels. Not anytime soon.”
“Why not? I thought you loved working for yourself?”
“I went cheap on insurance, trying to be smart with my money.” Her laugh was all irony. “Even if I get the maximum under my policy and throw every penny of my savings into the pot, I’m still a good seventy grand short of what I’d need to rebuild.”
“Seventy thousand?” Chelsea looked at her computer screen. Her eyes honed in on the bonus.
“At least,” Laurie puffed, and Chelsea pictured her friend digging through rubble. “Might as well be seventy million, because I don’t have that kind of money, unless a scorched mixer brings a lot more at a fire sale than I’m estimating.” A low thud signified the pitching of said mixer into a bin or Dumpster.
“Hold off on the fire sale.”
“What?”
She scanned the email again, and then hit reply. “I might have a way to get you a decent chunk of what you need. The Templetons made me an offer today, to take on a new role. I was kind of on the fence about it”—she crossed her fingers at the white lie—“but now I’m not. I’m going to accept. If things go as planned, I can send you fifty thousand in about six weeks.”
“Chelsea, I can’t. You’re my best friend, but I can’t take your money.”
“You have to. For me.”
“Chelsea—”
“You’re always there for me. Let me at least try. I can’t guarantee the funds yet, but I guarantee I’ll do my best.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say a thing right now. You can thank me when I come through with the money.”
She typed I accept and hit send before her brain could reiterate all the reasons why she shouldn’t.
Chapter Eight
Rafe watched Chelsea emerge from the waves, tug her white bikini bottoms into place, and wring the water from her long, loose hair. The sunset turned the sky behind her pink and orange, but he had a hard time focusing on nature’s show because The Chelsea Show commanded his full attention.
She made her way up the beach, smiled at a pair of kids playing in the sand, and then strolled to the spot where she’d dropped her beach bag. When she bent and searched the bag for her towel, an almost painful bolt of lust shot through him. She hadn’t spotted him yet, so he let his eyes linger. Memories of her laid out for him, moving under him, coming around him, had predictable effects, and made it harder than it should have been to cross the sand to where she stood, still digging around in her bag.
Jesus, he needed to get her out from under his skin. Do what it took to scratch this incessant itch she stirred in him. The one only she could reach. Finding a mutually beneficial way to make it happen while accomplishing his primary goals was a stroke of genius, because he had to keep his sights on the deal.
Chelsea had cooperated, thank Christ, at least as far as the business goals went. She’d need some convincing to feel safe indulging in the rest, but he could offer her that security. This wasn’t going to blow up in their faces. She could trust him. A few days with her—a week, tops—and then they could both move on with their lives, satisfied and no worse for wear. He came around to face her at the same time she straightened, and her unsuspecting gaze collided with his.
All right, maybe a little worse for wear. It took every bit of discipline he owned not to let his eyes wander to where her tight nipples poked against her bikini top, practically daring him to look. Her eyes narrowed, as if she’d read his mind, and she draped her towel around her shoulders.
“Chelsea.”
“Mr. St. Sebastian.”
Freezing him out with formality while standing on a tropical beach, wearing a bikini. How could he not take that challenge? A verbal duel with Chelsea had the potential to become his favorite form of foreplay, and as much as she wanted to pretend otherwise, he knew after last night the battle of wits worked for her, too. “You know, a lot of people use my first name. Friends. Business associates.” He took a step closer. “Lovers. You fall into all three categories. Don’t you think it’s time you called me Rafe?”
“I fall into one out of three categories,” she shot back. Despite her stubborn insistence on using his formal name, she apparently lost her own battle with propriety. Her stare moved over him, and turned hot enough to singe through his white linen button-down and jeans, before slowly returning to his face.
He placed his hand over his heart. “We’re not friends?”
“No. And we’re also not lovers. One mistake doesn’t count.”
“Our kiss last night spoke volumes about what counts.”
Her cheeks turned as pink as the sunset. “There was no ‘our kiss.’ You kissed me. I simply refrained from making a scene.”
When he opened his mouth to point out she’d wound herself around him like ivy and kissed him back like there was no tomorrow, she shook her head and started drying off. “But that’s neither here nor there. Why are you here, now…and how did you find me? Best I recall, I didn’t tell my mom my plans for this evening.”
Jab, retreat, and jab again. She made it impossible to resist sparring with her. “I spoke with Lynette. She told me where to look.” He offered her an innocent smile, even though every swipe of her towel forced him to imagine running his tongue over her skin. “And here you are.”
“Here I am.” She continued drying off. “Did you need something?”
“The Templetons asked me to treat their new deal liaison to dinner tonight.” It happened to be true, although he’d have searched her out even if they hadn’t.
“That’s sweet, but totally unnecessary,” she insisted, running the towel across her stomach, and then down her long, slim legs. In his mind, his mouth followed.
“It’s company policy.”
She paused, mid-swipe, and looked at him. “Are you serious?”
“Of course not.”
The honesty got a laugh out of her, but she shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
He would change her mind—he hadn’t gotten this far abiding by good ideas—but he could find a business justification, if that’s what she needed. “St. Sebastian Enterprises just anteed up a significant sum of money to purchase Tradewinds, based on certain information and assumptions. I’m flying out early tomorrow, but when I return next week to get a more detailed view of the operation I want to hit the ground running. I’d appreciate if you’d join me for dinner, and give me some initial information about the resort, so we don’t have to waste precious time covering preliminaries next week.”