Chapter Fourteen
The sound of the drapes being pulled back followed by blinding sunlight shocked Becca out of her stupor.
“Come on, sleepyhead. Time to get up.”
Groaning, Becca grabbed the nearest pillow and covered her head. But Grace would not be deterred. She flipped her covers off and tugged at the pillow.
“What’s wrong with you? Your eyes are all bloodshot. Are you hung over?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t true, but the lie was better than the truth, that Becca had spent the better part of the night weeping. Seriously. How pathetic was that? She’d known Calum Price for what? Four days? Oh sure, they’d spent three fabulous, memorable, sex-filled nights together. And then she’d bared her soul—God, she was such a fool—only to be rejected.
What had she expected?
The bed dipped where Grace sat. “Well, you need to get up. It’s eleven o’clock already. You’ve missed breakfast, and the oyster contest starts at noon.”
“You don’t need me for that,” Becca mumbled, her mouth dry, almost like she really was dehydrated from over imbibing.
“I know. But I like having you there. For moral support.”
“Grace,” Becca said. “I didn’t sleep well.” There was the understatement of the century. She’d barely slept at all. “You go ahead, and I’ll catch up with you later.”
Sighing dramatically, which meant that Becca really must look like shit, otherwise Grace wouldn’t have given up so easily, she conceded, pulling the drapes back over the window so that the room was dim again.
“Wish me luck?”
“You don’t need luck,” Becca said, curling into the fetal position. “You’re going to win.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
Grace fumbled through the tangled sheets to find Becca’s limp hand and gave her a squeeze. “Thanks, Bec. I’ll set out some water and aspirin beside your bed. Hope your hangover’s not too terrible.”
As soon as Grace was gone, Becca pulled the sheet back over her head. Maybe she’d be able to drift off into the blissfulness of sleep, but her brain was alert and wouldn’t let her. Instead of sweet oblivion, it replayed snippets from the last four days, wonderful snippets of Cal, his smoking-hot kisses. His hard body. His talented hands…and tongue. His dominant seduction and sweet snuggles afterward.
Followed by terrible snippets.
I’m having feelings for your sister.
Becca whipped the blanket off her head. “Fuck you,” she shouted at the ceiling. “Fuck you and all your stupid muscles. And your tongue and everything about you.”
And then, to her dismay, the tears started anew, and Becca found a spare pillow and buried her face against it.
No. No more.
Sniffling, she got up and padded to the bathroom. She had to stop moping. This was stupid. She was crying over a stupid holiday fling that would have ended in a couple of days anyway. All she needed was a nice, hot shower, and she’d feel better.
Okay. Maybe a walk on the beach was all she needed, because now that Becca was showered and dressed, she still felt like shit. Grabbing her beach bag, hat, and sunglasses—the last item of dire import because her eyes were unattractively puffy and bloodshot—Becca was just about to leave the room when she noticed an envelope that had been slipped under the door. Grace’s name was written in script across the front.
From Calum?
She shouldn’t open it. She really shouldn’t.
But she did.
Dear Grace,
I know you are busy with the competition, but I would love to get to know you better. Do you think we could meet for coffee or drinks sometime while you’re here?
Sincerely,
Jeffrey Reid.
Seriously? Another admirer? So, having the attention of the most eligible bachelor in the universe wasn’t enough?
She stuffed the note back into the envelope and left it on the table before heading out, on a mission to get away from these awful feelings.
Unfortunately, a walk on the beach didn’t help, either. Not when the place reminded her of the first day, when she’d run into Cal and he’d saved her from a rogue wave.
“He didn’t save me,” Becca muttered. “I would have been fine.”
Except she wasn’t fine. Far from it, in fact. She had to admit it, at least to herself. In four short days, she’d fallen for Calum Price.
She veered off the beach and followed a sidewalk until she saw a small foot trail disappear through some trees. Pushing her way through the overgrowth, Becca wondered if she should turn back, except the five minutes she’d been following the trail were the first five minutes of the day that she hadn’t thought of Calum.
Keep going.
So, she followed the path until eventually, she came upon a clearing where steam rose from natural pools.
“Cool,” Becca said softly, moving to the edge of the pools and sitting down on the well-worn lip which spoke of past use. But by the condition of the path, these pools weren’t being used anymore.
This would be a great place to bring Cal…
Shit. And there he was, invading her thoughts again. At least five minutes of peace had been better than nothing. While sitting in the shade of the jungle with the steam rising like spirits out of the earth to guide her, Becca realized that avoiding the issue was not the answer. The only way to truly make herself feel better was to address the situation with the person who’d hurt her.
With head held high and sunglasses firmly in place, Becca made her way to the plaza where the contest had been held. Seeing the production staff coiling cords, disassembling light and camera stands, and moving barricades, she realized it had already ended. Becca paused beside a beautiful fish fountain, scanning the crowd, looking for him amongst the production people, clusters of tourists, and the odd grouping of former contestants.
A tingling at the nape of her neck made her turn. Calum was standing in the entrance of the event tent, wearing a white cotton shirt open at the neck and khaki pants. And he was staring at her. In her mind, she reviewed what she was going to say to him, something along the lines of, “You hurt me, and if you think I’m going to give you my blessing to do the same thing to my sister, think again, buddy.”
But she couldn’t move because her body went all mushy at the sight of him and refused to cooperate in any sort of forward motion. Stupid body.
C’mon, Bec. He’s a jerk. Confront him.
It was too late. A group of production people surrounded him. One of them, a guy who she’d seen before because he seemed to be directing the whole thing, glanced in her direction before moving in front of Calum to speak to him, blocking her from his view.
Now what?
Her shoulders still pushed back—like she’d seen Grace do when she practiced her posture—she turned and strode right across the courtyard. It would have made a dramatic exit if not for the slapping of her flip-flops against her bare feet.
Becca considered stopping at the nearest bar to pick up a couple of cool bevvies to both soothe the heat and her heart, but decided against it. A hangover was not the answer. No. There was another, better one.
Just like she’d retaliated by creating a computer virus the last time she’d been used by a man, she was going to make sure that Calum Price learned to treat women with a little more respect. She would teach him one of the first basic laws of physics—that for every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction.
And the thought of enacting a “reaction” made Becca smile.
Her good feelings didn’t last, however. The second she opened her door, she was greeted by a horrible commotion coming from the bathroom. Groaning. Water being turned on. Water being turned off. More groaning. Retching, flushing, and more retching.
“Grace?” Becca pounded on the bathroom door. “Grace, what’s going on?”
The toilet flushed again, and after a few moments of moans and groans, the door opened. Grace was on her hands and knees, her hair plastered to her forehead, her makeup smeared and running down her face.
“I ate too many.”
“Too many what?”
“Don’t.” Her head hung as she held up one finger to stop Becca from speaking. “Don’t say the word.”
But it was too late, the word “oyster” was already out of Becca’s mouth. Grace gagged and slithered back to the toilet to empty what was left in her stomach.
Jumping to action, Becca wet a towel with cold water and placed it on the back of Grace’s neck. She rubbed her back as her sister heaved. Oh, how could she have been upset with Grace earlier? This was her sister. The one she’d vowed to take care of. Becca was even more adamant to do so now. She refused to let a man come between them.
When Grace finally had the dry heaves under control, Becca helped her to bed, placing a trash can within easy distance. Just in case.
Grace covered her face, and her shoulders shook as tears came.
“Grace, honey?” Becca patted her hand. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
“No, I’m not,” she whimpered between her fingers. “There’s no way I can compete in the contest tonight.”
“Maybe it’s for the best.” Becca hoped she sounded more consoling than she felt.
“For the best?” Grace dropped her hands. Her face was splotchy and swollen. Her eyes puffy—even worse than Becca’s had been this morning. “I won the oyster-sucking competition. I’m in first place now. Dropping out now would be a travesty.”
“You mean tragedy.”
“Whatever.” Grace clutched stickily at Becca’s hands. “You have to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re me for the talent show.”
Becca stood. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”
“You have to. This is my most desperate hour. Help me, Becca. You’re my only hope.”
“Did you just quote Princess Leia to me?”
“Maybe.” Grace put the back of her hand to her forehead, striking a pathetic pose. Even with puffy eyes and splotchy skin, her sister was still beautiful.
Damn Grace.
And then an idea struck. Maybe she could help her sister. Maybe that was the ticket to making a fool of Cal. “Okay, Grace. I’ll do it.”
“Yay,” Grace said with none of her normal enthusiasm.
“But…what am I supposed to do?”
“I’ve got a costume and a wig for the dance of the seven veils. You’ll wear a veil over your face, and no one will know it’s you. It’s perfect. But this time, you’ll have to follow my instructions, for a change.”
…
Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
It didn’t help that he’d seen Becca by the fountain this afternoon. He’d sensed her presence, his gaze drawn to her like some fucking magnet. She was angry or hurt or both. He could tell by how erect she’d stood. His instinct had been to go to her and console her, but then Eddie had maneuvered himself so that he’d blocked Cal’s view, and Cal had remembered why he was doing what he was doing.
To save her from being exposed a million times worse than her sister had been.
Jesus, Cal wished someone would save him right now from reality-TV hell. He was seated in a corner of the stage where the sexy talent contest was in full swing. Thus far, Gabby Albright had pole danced, Tiffany Funk had performed a burlesque routine, and Cindy Lowrie had tied twenty maraschino cherry stems into knots with only her tongue. The most entertaining gig was Margo’s magic show, but the only thing sexy about it was her barely there outfit.
Then it was Grace’s turn.
“Performing the Dance of the Seven Veils to Strauss’s composition of the same name, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the current first-place contestant, Grace Evans!” Kevyn was wearing a tux tonight as the tiki torches lit the perimeter of the makeshift stage.
Grace appeared, wearing a long black wig, her face veiled, leaving only her heavily made-up eyes visible. Silky scarves covered her from top to bottom, and she had wooden finger clackers—what were they called? Castanets, his brain supplied automatically—between her thumb and middle finger on her right hand as she moved barefoot about the stage, twirling her silky skirts as she moved.
She was nowhere near a professional dancer, which surprised him. Someone like Grace seemed like she’d have taken dance lessons all her life. Still, there was something about her that was compelling to watch as she dropped the veil from her shoulders and then one of the veils that made up her skirts.
Cal tilted his head. There was something about the way she moved…
But before he could put his finger on what drew his attention, she approached, her hips swinging—sort of in time to the music, sort of not—and slowly unwrapped silk from around her torso. Beneath she wore a tiny sequined bikini top. Draping the scarf around his neck, she drew it back and forth in a way he supposed was meant to be sexy. Then she leaned right up close and whispered, “There’s a note sewn into the seam. Read it.”
Cal automatically fingered the edge of the silk, finding a hardened spot that felt like folded paper. He tilted his head in question, but she was already dancing off, twirling like a dervish, faster and faster, the remaining scarves that made up her skirts flying higher and higher until she lost her balance and collapsed.
Cal stood. What was going on?
Suddenly the music stopped, and the sound of a scratched record pierced the air before a new song came on. “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred.
What had been a sort of classical striptease turned into an adult version of Little Miss Sunshine, complete with butt rubbing, obscene gestures, and scarves being tossed randomly at the spectators. It was so bad, it was good.
Cal loved it.
And he only loved it because he suddenly realized what had been bothering him. He’d recognized those hands, the sweep of her hips as she moved, the set of her shoulders, her belly, the shape of her eyes. That wasn’t Grace out there. It was Becca.