The Tycoon Meets His Match

He had to get rid of her. For Lucie’s sake, if not his own.

Trae sat on the other side of the skiff, also thinking about Lucie and how she was going to help her. That Rhys would do his best to stop her efforts, she didn’t doubt for a second. Look at how he’d tried to sail off without her.

Not that she hadn’t anticipated it. Figuring she had maybe five minutes while he moored the yacht, she’d grabbed the first clothes she could find. An unfortunate choice, it turned out, since she could scarcely breathe in Lucie’s short shorts and T-shirt. There had been no time to change into something else, though, not if she hoped to get to the skiff first. Yet despite her rush, Rhys had still managed to get there before her.

Eyeing his house as they approached the shoreline, she felt her first misgivings. Rising up from the beach, the vast white colonial sprawled along the grassy knoll like a sleeping giant. A collection of structures in assorted pastels—each topped with a red–tiled roof—formed a maze around the main dwelling. So much for the simple vacation cottage she’d pictured. “Wow,” she thought aloud. “It sure is…big.”

“Some structures house the staff, but most are sheds and outbuildings.”

Awed by the vastness of the place, Trae saw how it gave him a distinct advantage. It being his house and all, he’d know exactly where to find Lucie.

While Trae hadn’t the slightest clue.

Hazarding a guess, she decided to try the main building. To reach the wraparound porch ahead of him, though, she’d have to take off running the instant they reached the dock. With any luck she should have a step or two while Rhys had to stop and tie off the skiff.

Poised and ready to leap onto the dock, she was caught completely off guard when Rhys sped past the dock to run the boat up onto the beach. Yanking up the motor in a swift fluid motion, he leaped into the water and took off running.

“You just wrecked your five-hundred-dollar shoes,” she called out as she scrambled after him.

Not that he seemed to care. With all his money, he probably had another hundred pairs waiting upstairs in a closet.

Watching Rhys reach the porch steps, she said goodbye to her last hope of outracing him to her friend. All she could do now was stand outside and yell. “Lucie,” she shouted at the house, hoping her friend would hear her. “Lucie, come outside. We need to talk.”

As if in answer, the door burst open, but it wasn’t Lucie who collided with Rhys. A short, dark, middle-aged woman pulled up short, her alert gaze flashing between them. His housekeeper, Trae assumed, because of the black dress and white apron.

“I heard shouting,” the woman said, looking from one to the other of them. “Is something the matter, Mr. Paxton?”

“No.” His curt, clipped denial clearly surprised him as much as his housekeeper. “Everything’s fine, Rosa. I’m just looking for Miss Beckwith. Is she upstairs?”

“She’s not here, Mr. Paxton,” Rosa said, a frown creasing her weathered features. “Didn’t she call you? She left late last night.”

Rhys turned back to glare at Trae, as if somehow this, too, was her fault. Reining in his temper, he addressed his housekeeper again. “Did she say where she was going?”

Rosa shook her head. “All I know is she told my boy Raymond to take her to Miami in that old fishing boat of his.”

“That’s it? She said nothing else?”

Rosa shook her graying head. “Only that she was sorry. And that she left her wedding dress upstairs. She hoped you’d send it back to her mother.”

Watching his shoulders sag, Trae might have felt sympathy had she not been struggling with her own disappointment. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on finding Lucie here, safe and sound.

Inhaling deeply, she approached the porch. “This changes things considerably,” she told Rhys. “We can’t waste time here. We need to hurry back to Miami and see if we can find her at the docks.”

“You’re right, of course,” he said, running a harried hand through his hair. “Only, just so we’re clear, there’s no ‘we’ about this. I’m returning to Miami alone.” Straightening, he started off for the skiff.

She grabbed his arm. “Whoa, wait a minute. You can’t just leave me here.”

“And why not? I’m under no obligation to transport a stowaway. Besides, you don’t have a passport. You can’t expect me to take the chance that I’ll be stopped by the harbor patrol.”

“That’s low, Paxton. Even for you.”

Shrugging, he removed her hand from his arm. “I’ve no doubt you’ll manage to scheme your way off the island before too long. In the meantime, Rosa will make sure you have food and a place to sleep.”

Watching him walk off, Trae felt the heat rise up in her body. “What happened to working together? I thought we had a truce.”

“Actually,” he said over his shoulder, “if you’ll remember, I never agreed to anything.”

Thinking back, she realized he’d changed the subject by asking her to help drop the anchor. “Why, you…”

“Goodbye, Trae.” He kept going, his long, steady strides getting him into the skiff well before she could reach the shore. Watching him motor off, she wanted to scream. She wanted to stomp and shake her fist in the air, but none of these things would help her one iota. “I thought you were a gentleman,” she called out, anyway. “You didn’t even leave me a change of clothing.”

“Here.” In answer, he tossed Lucie’s suitcase in the water. “Only this time, try to find something that fits.”

She could have told him that she was well aware of how ridiculous her outfit was. She could also flip him the gesture her brothers seemed so fond of, but knew she had better retrieve the suitcase before it sank.

“That man is the devil incarnate,” she muttered under her breath as she dragged the bags to the porch.

“Oh, no, ma’am.” Coming up behind her to take the suitcase, Rosa gently shook her head. “Here on the island, we consider Mr. Paxton a saint.”

Inviting Trae inside while she made coffee, Rosa continued extolling the man’s virtues. Her family would be homeless, she claimed, had Mr. Paxton not helped them after last year’s hurricane. Not only had he provided them with cash, he’d come down there and helped rebuild their homes with his own bare hands.

Trae let her go on for a while because Rosa seemed sweet and it was only natural she’d feel compelled to defend her employer. Besides, Trae needed that second cup of coffee.

However, after fifteen minutes of listening to the woman drone on, not even the lure of caffeine could keep Trae in her chair. Actions spoke louder than words, after all, and that so-called saint had just stranded her on this island. Asking to use the phone, Trae decided it was high time she made her own plans to go after Lucie.

Upstairs, gazing at the huge four-poster bed, Trae realized she should have had the third cup of coffee, after all. Refusing to give in to the temptation to lie down, she made her calls.

Her first was to Quinn, who proved sympathetic after hearing about the night’s events. Technically, a passport was required to get off the island, she said, but fishing boats made the trip from the Bahamas to the States every day. Her advice was to try to charter one and, if worse came to worst, to call her immediately. She had a connection in customs who owed her a favor.

Hanging up, wishing for the hundredth time that she still had her cell phone, Trae decided to check to see if Lucie had tried to call her.

She had four messages. The first had come in late last night—Quinn, demanding to know what was happening. Next was Alana, wishing her luck. Then her mother, reminding her not to miss next Sunday’s family dinner. Rolling her eyes, she wondered how she could ever forget when the woman called twice each week with the same reminder.

On the fourth, she heard Lucie’s soft, breathy voice. Clutching the phone as she tried to decipher the garbled message, Trae felt the first, faint stirring of hope. Surely it was a good thing that Lucie wasn’t heading back to Rhys with her tail between her legs. That she was setting off on her own, determined to find a man she could madly, deliriously, head-over-heels love. The fact that said man wasn’t Rhys, that Lucie was still running away from him, reinforced Trae’s decision to help her.

When she replayed the message, though, her euphoria faded. What did Lucie mean, going back to where she had taken her first wrong turn? When had her life seemed less complicated?

And then with a sudden, sinking feeling, Trae knew Lucie was referring to her college days. And more specifically, to Bobby Boudreaux.

The ultimate bad boy, with his blond, surfer looks and slow, sexy drawl, Bobby was a far cry from the staid and proper Rhys Paxton. To a parent, Bobby might represent the ultimate nightmare, but for a young, sheltered coed like Lucie Beckwith, he’d been walking, talking excitement. For all Trae knew, Lucie might have stayed with him forever, if not for their brief stint in the Mexican jail.

Rhys had meant to leave Bobby there, Trae later learned. It wasn’t until Lucie had promised never to see him again that Rhys secured his release. Lucie had kept their agreement, insisting Rhys knew what was best for her, but she’d never stopped regretting it. She’d been asking herself what if? ever since.

Faced with the prospect of Lucie’s hooking up with Bobby Boudreaux again, Trae raced down the stairs two at a time. She had to get off this island immediately. Alone, vulnerable and naturally impetuous, her poor friend could land herself in a real fix this time.

Trae had to find Lucie before it was too late.

Chapter Three