The Wedding Date Read online

  Trick checked his watch again and considered dropping the Emma search, but the image of that letter shimmered in his mind. Finding Emma at least lent some intriguing purpose to the day.

  When his skin started to feel crispy, he trudged to the lifeguard station and borrowed some sunscreen. Then, picking his way down the beach, he spotted the quilt and realized a female body sat on its very edge.

  The sitter reminded him, eerily, of Carina. Straight platinum hair, endless tan limbs, a pouty yet hard-edged mouth. Beside her, a boom box drummed out a rap beat.

  I must be getting old, when I think those damn things should be outlawed.

  He approached the woman warily, more savvy this time. She didn’t look the type to have trouble finding a man.

  “Excuse me. Are you Emma?” he asked.

  She stared, then pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, causing her blond hair to fluff around her ears. With her thumb, she turned down the volume on the boom box.

  “Could be,” she said coolly. “Why do you want to know, Trick Webster?”

  “You know me?”

  She shrugged. “I read the surfing magazines.”

  His hand involuntarily gripped his thigh, right over the scars. “I haven’t been in one in a long time.”

  She shrugged again. “There’s a picture and a few lines of bio on the ad for Trickwear.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He loosened his hold on his leg. “You wouldn’t…uh…be looking for the perfect man, would you?” Heat surged up his neck, and not from the sun.

  “Isn’t every woman?” She didn’t seem fazed by the worst of all come-on lines, unplanned though it had been.

  “Right,” he answered. “Uh—did you ask Poseidon to send him to you?”

  “I ask everybody to send him to me.” She rose, tucked her boom box under one arm and linked her other arm through his. “I was just thinking about going up the beach to watch a volleyball game. Wanna come?”

  Trick hesitated. Though he knew who she was, he still didn’t know why she needed the perfect man. She began tugging him through the sand.

  He looked back at the pastel-hued quilt, receding in the swarm of oiled bodies, lounge chairs and blue-andwhite pebbly coolers. “Don’t you want to take your stuff?”

  She didn’t respond. Apparently the throbbing drum and scratchy-hiss beat sounding from the boom box had covered up his question. He spoke louder. “Don’t you want to take your stuff?”

  This time she stopped and tilted her head. “What stuff?”

  He jerked his thumb in the direction they’d come. “Your quilt and things.”

  She resumed walking, still pulling him along. “That’s not my stuff.”

  Trick blinked and shook his head to clear it. “What’s your name?”

  “Lori.”

  He braked. “Not Emma?”

  “What’s your problem?” She frowned. “I said my name is Lori.”

  With a sinking feeling, Trick whirled around, searching past people and beach paraphernalia for the quilt. Gone.

  He loosed himself from Lori’s grasp. “Hey, sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

  With a cool nod and another shrug, she kept moving. He ran a few steps back, dodging a toddler with a pail and a kid with a boogie board. The quilt was definitely gone.

  His gaze darted around the beach, up and down, back and forth, searching for someone carrying the quilt. There. He squinted for a better look. A woman, the quilt under one arm, just now topped the three cement steps that led to the street.

  He soaked in every detail. Gauzy white sundress. Small stature. A cap, no, make that a mop of bouncy brown curls.

  Trick felt a little like Goldilocks in the story of the three bears. One too hot, one too cold.

  And this one just right. Ah, Emma.

  2

  Emma Thorpe made her way to the beach for the fourth day in a row, infusing each stride with her new level of determination. Determination, she assured herself, not desperation. But she needed to find a mantall, blond and handsome—ASAP.

  At the bottom of the short flight of steps leading to the sand, she stopped to tuck a stray tendril of hair under her white baseball cap. Instantly, the only two males who’d paid her any attention in four days glided up beside her.

  Emma smiled. “Hi, J.R., T.J.”

  The two boys ducked their heads, then in synchronized smooth moves, they hopped to the ground, flipping their skateboards into their hands.

  “Flat as a pancake,” said J.R., scraping his flop of bangs to the side.

  T.J. nodded. “No groms at all.”

  Emma’s short acquaintance with the two boys aided her interpretation. “No waves so the surfers aren’t on the beach?”

  T.J. nodded again. “Sorry, Emma.”

  She sighed. “Your mom asked me to send you home if I ran into you, T.J.” The twelve-year-old’s family lived in the house next door to her aunt’s. “I believe she mentioned laundry folding and car washing.”

  The two boys shared pained grimaces, and Emma smiled sympathetically. “Have fun. And thanks, guys.” On Emma’s first day vacationing at her aunt’s funky beach cottage, T.J.’s mom had offered the boys as guides to the best of the nearby beaches. From then on, they’d appointed themselves her scouts.

  Goodness knew what they thought about her hankering to hang out near the surfers. She’d never explained she thought that group a likely cache of sunstreaked, single guys.

  The skateboards dropped to the ground, and with one foot on the wood and the other skipping across the asphalt, the boys rolled away. Emma gathered up her quilt, basket of paperbacks, sunscreen, sunglasses and bottle of soda, and marched up the steps, resigned to a surferless beach.

  So what? He doesn’t have to be a surfer. Just look like one.

  And when I find him, Emma promised herself, no more lying around hoping my sunscreen attracts him. Just go up and bag him.

  Sinking into the deep sand at the bottom of the steps, Emma took an orienting glance around the beach. A little later than her usual arrival time, space on the sand was more limited than the days before. Her gaze caught on one of the spindly legs of the lifeguard tower, and then she saw the profile of a man standing beside it as he talked to the perching female lifeguard.

  Perfect.

  Rugged features, rugged body. A tangle of damp blond hair touched heavy, bronzed shoulders. Lowslung baggy swim shorts hung at his narrow waist and revealed powerful calves.

  Perfect man. A little sigh escaped. She’d discovered that most summer surf types were more of the age for a prom date. Yet finally, here stood a male, early thirties, maybe, just what she desperately needed.

  Oh, Emma, if you can pull this off everyone at work will finally believe. They’d be convinced that her heart and pride were as whole as she kept insisting.

  Whoa. She was getting ahead of herself. Even though it looked like Poseidon had fulfilled her fanciful request, she’d have to find out if this guy was safe. Not a creepo, and not someone who’d expect anything more than a few good meals at another’s expense.

  Oh, yes, and available. And interested. Her shoulders slumped.

  She made herself take four deep breaths. The least she could do was eavesdrop and see how he sounded.

  She stashed her stuff to the side of the steps and strolled along the beach, keeping herself in a line behind the perfect guy. One blanket away from him, she kicked off her pinching rubber sandals and plopped down on a small open space in the sand. Looking out to sea, she cocked her ear toward the lifeguard tower.

  “Another day like yesterday, Marcy.” His voice had a deep, pleasing quality.

  “Another day in paradise.” The lifeguard’s neutral tone told Emma there was nothing romantic between them.

  “Yeah, paradise.” Emma’s guy sounded displeased with the admission.

  The lifeguard laughed. “Like I said yesterday, you need something to do.”

  From the corner of her eye, Emma could see the man take a look a
round the sand. She scooched back to duck behind the cooler on the towel beside her. “I’m working on it,” he said.

  “Got your résumé out?” The lifeguard laughed.

  “Something like that.”

  Emma felt a little thrill of hope. The guy sounded nice enough, and unemployed. Could she somehow make this into a business transaction, or was that too Pretty Woman in reverse? She bit her nail, trying to decide.

  “What about the woman—” The rest of the lifeguard’s question was lost in the thump of a body landing on the towel beside her. Emma frowned but kept her eyes straight ahead and listened intently.

  “…no one special.” Emma hoped her guy was still talking about the woman. Her heart skipped a little in excitement, and she drummed her palms against the sand.

  “Well, hel-lo there.” Another voice reached her ears.

  Emma started, then turned her head to look at the source of the voice. The body on the towel next to her belonged to a man who lay on his side, smiling at her.

  “I’m Jerry Orwell.” He stuck out a sandy hand.

  Emma merely lifted her palm and wiggled her fingers. Jerry reminded her, unpleasantly, of Michael. Dark hair and eyes, a thin-lipped smile. Could never be mistaken for a blonde.

  “I’m Jane Dolan.” She felt a little guilty for using her nom-de-I’m-not-interested, but Jerry had interrupted something important.

  “You a local?”

  Mentally, Emma sighed in exasperation. Jerry wanted to talk. She wanted to listen, but not to him. Over his head, she saw the blond guy casually salute the lifeguard and amble toward the water. She jumped to her feet. “Gotta go, Jerry.”

  Gaze on her blonde, she walked toward the water, resolutely pulling her cap down and adjusting the huge white T-shirt she wore over her swimsuit. She swallowed past the unfamiliar dryness in her mouth. Conversation should be easy. She’d strike up one about the waves or the kelp or something.

  A racing wave touched his feet, and he kept walking, the water reaching to his waist before he stopped, looking out at the breakers and the few waiting surfers.

  Flinching and clenching her teeth, Emma followed, trying to ignore the stinging cold of the water and focusing on the strong, wide back in front of her. A wave rolled in, and she tried jumping over it, but the white water splashed against her, soaking the bottom of her T-shirt so that it clung to her thighs.

  She plodded on, ignoring subsequent waves, until she was wet from below her breasts down. Just a few words, and then I’ll go in, she promised her goose-bumped skin.

  His skin looked golden, and diamond drops of water shimmered against it as he rotated his shoulders, then stretched his arms high. A few more steps and she’d be beside him. Then maybe she’d casually mention she worked out four times a week….

  “Jane! Jane!” The voice and the name halted her progress. She looked over her shoulder. In the water, Jerry slogged toward her in a kind of slow-motion run. She glanced at her target, who’d advanced farther into the surf.

  “Jane!”

  Jerry held high her forgotten rubber sandals. If she hurried to meet him halfway, maybe she could get them back before her blonde walked right into the ocean and out of her life. She turned toward the approaching Jerry. One bounding step, then another. Then—a wall of water crashed over her.

  She tumbled forward. Sand and rocks scratched her cheek. The salty tang of ocean rushed up her nose. The wave lifted her, then rocketed her to the beach. The water receded, leaving Emma with her chin in the sand, her T-shirt bunched under her arms, her swimsuit bottom twisted so that one-half of her rear end mooned whoever cared to look.

  Another wave washed up her baseball cap. She lifted her head and peered over her shoulder, saltwater blurring her vision as she surveyed the surf. Darn. No sign of the blonde. In frustration, she dropped her cheek to the sand.

  A pair of male feet walked into her line of sight. Oh, Lord—the perfect man? She didn’t want him to see her like this—but then, maybe it was fated. With a weak smile, she raised her head.

  “Jane! Are you okay?”

  For the second time that day Emma took the stairs to the beach. An hour ago, Jerry had helped her up, returned her sandals and taken her no to dinner that night with reasonably good grace.

  She’d hightailed it home and was especially glad she had once she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She’d felt a burst of kindness toward Jerry for extending the invitation. She looked like the creature from the Black Lagoon, her hair tweaking in every direction, seaweed hooked around one ear, sand caking her skin like friedchicken batter.

  She cleaned up in a hurry, eager to get back to the beach and the perfect man. Feeling certain she’d see him again, she now wore what she thought of as the big guns.

  The big guns were actually quite small, a top and a bottom of ocean green spandex that together became a scandalous bathing suit. Well, scandalous by her admittedly demure standards.

  She positioned the quilt in the sand, intentionally close to the lifeguard tower. Now that she’d found the man, she’d formed the plan. If he fell anywhere in the normal range on the personality meter, she’d tell him the situation and enlist his help.

  That idea made a lot more sense than relying on attracting him. If there was one thing she’d learned this past spring, it was she shouldn’t count herself as anyone’s perfect woman.

  Feeling optimistic, Emma pulled off her big T-shirt and stretched out, faceup on the quilt. The wadded shirt went beneath her head to give her a better view of the beach. Hooking her little finger inside her suit, she made minute adjustments of the high-cut edges. This trendy swimsuit gave her a boost of self-confidence almost worth having to shave her legs up to her chin.

  She crossed her fingers and closed her eyes. Okay, Poseidon, she thought, I’m ready. Send him in. Smiling at her fancy, she lifted her lashes and looked up the beach. Goose bumps chased down her skin. She gulped a breath.

  Goodness gracious, here he comes.

  Trick felt a surge of unreasonable annoyance as he stalked toward Emma. Twenty-four hours ago he’d embarrassed himself twice trying to find her, then strained his bad leg in his futile dash to catch her as she left the beach.

  Today, he’d waited half the morning for her to show. The fact was, learning why she needed the perfect man had become an obsession. He hoped she’d open up and satisfy his curiosity, quick.

  Despite his prior experiences, he didn’t question his absolute certainty that the slender young woman on the pastel quilt was Emma. With a friendly smile, he sat down on the sand beside her. “Hi. I’m Trick.”

  Her eyes widened. The same mermaid green as the swimsuit, they tilted slightly upward in her gamine face. She had a pixie’s body, too—short, with small curves accentuated by the push-up bra of her swimsuit.

  She continued staring at him and he shifted uncomfortably in the sand, stretching out his legs and pulling on the hem of his trunks. “Hi,” he tried again.

  “Hi,” she echoed, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  From a distance, he’d thought the chin-length loose curls might be a perm, but up close they twisted too softly to be chemically induced. “I’m Trick,” he said for the second time.

  She laughed, bringing his full attention to her mouth. Raspberry lips, small, even teeth, a beaming smile. Like a ray of sun, that smile revised his description of her-not a pixie, but a fairy.

  “Your name is Trick?” He could tell she held back another laugh. “The first time I thought you said, ‘I’m a trick.’“ Shaking her head, she laughed again. “I thought the gods were having a little joke at my expense.”

  He grinned. Poseidon, maybe? “It’s T. Richard, actually. By seventh grade I became Trick.” And though he knew, of course, he prompted, “And you’re?”

  “Emma.”

  “You a local?” Even with the two previous attempts he didn’t know a smooth way to work around to the “perfect man” business.

  Emma’s brow wrinkled. “Is that a s
tandard-issue beach question? You’re the second guy to ask me that today.”

  Second guy? Trick ignored his welling feeling of-no, he wouldn’t call it jealousy. Had she found the perfect man already? “I guess it’s standard-issue conversation starter.”

  She nodded. “I live about an hour away—in Orange County. My aunt has a vacation cottage a couple of blocks from here. I’m staying there until—for a while.” She sat up and rummaged through the beach basket at her feet. “What about you?”

  “I live close by,” he answered.

  She slipped on a pair of sunglasses she’d found in the basket. He missed being able to see her eyes, and his point of focus became her mouth. The top lip curved deeply to meet the full bottom one. Emma of the old-fashioned name possessed very seductive lips. “I live close by.”

  “You said that,” she pointed out.

  “Right.” He moved his gaze from her distracting mouth and concentrated on her hands. Her fingers drummed against the quilt nervously. “What do you do in Orange County?”

  “I work for an advertising and PR firm. I write ad copy, mostly for high-tech software products.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Stuff like—” her voice lowered authoritatively “‘—with a single point and click, this product allows you to convert bit-map images into the vector format.’“ She smiled. “I love words.”

  “You understand all that?” Trick’s company ran on computers, of course, and he used one at home, but if not for the key template and a patient Information Manager, he’d still be flunking the software tutorial’s first lesson.

  She nodded. “We’re given the product specs and free access to the engineers.”

  I bet those guys love giving Emma free access. He shook off another surge of that weird feeling.

  “What do you do?” she asked. “Are you between jobs?”

  Trick’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know?”

  She shrugged and looked away. “I guessed. At the beach on a Thursday….”

  He didn’t feel like telling her about Trickwear. It would sound like bragging, and anyway, he wanted to find out about her. “So, you’re on a vacation?”