Bungalow Nights(41)

Instead of expressing any of that, though, he cleared his throat. “What does she say?”

“She’s been pretty quiet. I’m a little worried.”

His gut tightened. Disturbed by that visit from Fitz, Vance had kept clear of her for a couple days. That wasn’t exactly courteous behavior from a lover, no matter how temporary, how casual the hookup. But she hadn’t complained.

Instead, she’d just gone ahead with her usual routine without ever taking him to task for keeping to himself even more than usual.

No, until now he’d thought it was only him that was all messed up, still smelling her on his sheets, even though he’d changed them. Still remembering her pebbled nipple on his tongue, the rhythmic clasp of her body on his cock. The silk of her hair wound around his fingers. When she was in the same room with him he couldn’t think of anything but the taste of her.

That’s why he’d struck upon today’s plan. He was going to spin time backward, returning things to the way they were those first days at Beach House No. 9. They’d been two strangers then. On the forefront of his mind had been her father and fulfilling his promise to the man.

“The loss of my brother is eating at her,” Phil said, almost as if he’d read Vance’s mind. “Sometimes she goes still, and the sadness on her face...”

Damn, Vance thought, his gut tightening again. He didn’t want to be wondering or worrying about the state of her heart. It wasn’t his job to heal her in that way—in any way. His glance landed on one of the books in Phil’s stack. It was a Lonely Planet guidebook to Nepal, the cover showing Everest and a string of prayer flags, and it reminded him of the older man’s spiritual interests.

“You should talk to her,” he told her uncle. “Don’t you have some Buddha voodoo spell that will make it all better?”

Phil glanced down, picking at a frayed end of the macramé-and-wooden-bead bracelet he wore on his left wrist, then his gaze returned to Vance’s face. “Something tells me I’m not the one who has the magic right now.”

“Don’t look at me,” Vance said, pressing back in his chair. “What do I know about overcoming grief?”

“Buddhism teaches that you can’t overcome it,” Phil said.

“Thank you, Obi-Wan.”

The other man continued as if Vance hadn’t spoken. “And that there are two places grief can take you. Toward the negative—where you waste time desiring to undo the past or create an impossible future. Or toward the positive—where your grief gains you a new understanding of the transience of life. That gives you a greater appreciation for the world and a greater well of kindness for your fellow human beings.”

“Like I said,” Vance grumbled, “Buddha voodoo.”

Phil smiled. “I—”

But the truck’s door opened, interrupting him. Layla stepped out. Vance got to his feet. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve come to get you.”

In an instant, her expression turned guarded. “Why?”

Shit. Was Phil right? Her wary tone suggested there was something beneath the surface of her postsex laid-back demeanor. Damn woman was just too good at hiding her true emotions.

He scowled because now he felt like an ass for not looking beneath the convenient facade. “We need to work on the list today.”

“Oh,” she said, then hesitated, as if she was considering refusing him.

“Please,” Vance said.

Another hesitation. Then she sighed. “All right,” she finally answered. “Do I look okay?”

He didn’t bother checking. “You always look okay. Better than okay. You know that.”

“I mean for what we’re going to do.” There was a hint of annoyance in her voice. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”

This time he let his gaze linger on her. She must have a closetful of little summer dresses, he decided. Each and every one designed to make a man unable to forget the tempting slope of her shoulders, the golden smoothness of her long legs. This one was bright blue, sleeveless, with a decorative zipper down the middle that ran from the scooped neckline to the full skirt.

“I’m complimenting you, anyway,” Vance said gruffly, trying not to think of how easy it would be to peel it off of her. “You look great. Perfect for what I have scheduled.”

“Which is?”

“A surprise.”

She obligingly kept her mouth shut during the half-hour drive northward, though her gaze surveyed the snazzy beach town they entered with interest. That gaze became even more curious as he pulled into the parking lot of an elegant day spa just off the main boulevard.

“Beauty Day,” he said, slanting her a look.

Her brows came together. “What?”

“I’m not making this up. It’s an item on the Helmet List. Actually, I’m knocking off two. One is Beauty Day, and after that we’re going to have tea at a shop around the corner.”

Her confusion cleared. “Oh. Beauty Day.” She swallowed, hard.

Shit. Vance thought she might be fighting tears. Apparently what he’d considered an odd entry for the gruff colonel to put on the list meant something pretty profound to her. “Let’s go,” he said, reaching for the door. “You shouldn’t be late for your appointment.”

But she poked along after him, so he was forced to twine his fingers with hers. It was the first time he’d touched her since that morning after they’d had sex, and the usual sexual zing fired through his blood, heating the back of his neck and stirring his cock. Trying his best to ignore the reaction, he pulled her into the spa’s anteroom. It was quiet there, the only sound coming from a fountain in the corner, where water burbled over polished river rocks. The receptionist spoke in hushed tones and Vance followed suit, confirming Layla’s appointments for a facial and mani-pedi.

His companion didn’t say anything, but he sensed her amused surprise. “Mani-pedi,” he repeated, turning his head to narrow his eyes at her. “Yeah, I said it. I even know what it is, because I have a brain in my head and because Addy set this whole thing up for me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man say mani-pedi before,” she mused, and then sucked on her cheeks as if she was trying not to smile.

“Twice,” he reminded her. Then he pointed his finger toward the door that led to the treatment rooms. “Now go. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

With a last amused glance at him, she followed instructions. Vance settled on a comfortable chair in the seating area and picked up a magazine. Her mood seemed more upbeat now, he decided, then frowned. No. Her mood was none of his concern.

He was supposed to be doing the job. Ticking off the items on the Helmet List. Being that same mere stranger to her he’d been on the day they’d met.

Ninety minutes or so passed and he’d leafed through almost all the magazines. They were the classy kind, not a how-to-drive-your-man-mad-in-the-sack article in the bunch. He read about meditation gardens, the ten best uses for truffle oil and the most popular book club picks. Clients had disappeared in the same direction as Layla. Others had come out, all checking text messages as they headed toward the exit.

He was skimming a story about antiaging herbs when a woman strolled from the treatment area, swaddled in a long, thick robe and wearing terry slippers on her feet. She headed for the magazines, then drew up short when she noticed Vance. He wondered if he’d missed a spot while shaving or was walking around with food on his face.

“Uh...” he said, shifting in his chair. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She started forward again, offering a smile. Her butter-yellow hair was pulled back from a cute face, with round cheeks and a dimpled chin. “I’m sorry. I was just surprised to see a man in the waiting area. I come here every two weeks and have never seen one before.”

Vance smiled back. “I had to learn the secret pass code.”

“Oh?” She laughed. The receptionist looked over, sending an admonishing look and the robe-wrapped woman lowered her voice. “And what is the secret pass code?”

He made a big show of glancing around as if he couldn’t let it fall into the wrong hands, then leaned forward. “Mani-pedi,” he stage-whispered.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle another laugh. “I’ve never—”

“I know. Heard a man say that phrase.” He relaxed into his chair again, grinning. The cutie grinned back, loosening him up a little more. After days of being overfocused on one woman, this felt good. Easy. Maybe he should ask for her number. Living at Beach House No. 9 with Layla didn’t mean he couldn’t go out for a drink with someone else.

The colonel’s daughter wasn’t his woman, after all.

Clutching the sides of the robe together at her throat and at her knees, the blonde perched on a nearby chair. “Are you here with your wife?”