Barefoot Bay: When You Touch Me (Kindle Worlds Novella)

  Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Roxanne St. Claire. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Barefoot Bay remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Roxanne St. Claire, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  When You Touch Me

  Marilyn Baxter

  A Message from Roxanne St. Claire

  Welcome to Barefoot Bay Kindle World, a place for authors to write their own stories set in the tropical paradise that I created! For these books, I have only provided the setting of Mimosa Key and a cast of characters from my popular Barefoot Bay series. That’s it! I haven’t contributed to the plotting, writing, or editing of When You Touch Me. This book is entirely the work of Marilyn Baxter, a talented author I handpicked to help launch this new program.

  Before Marilyn was a writer, she was a reader. I know this for a fact because she was one of my first real “fans” who actually boasts a “Roxanne St. Claire” bookshelf in her home. Since we first met well over a decade ago, Marilyn has successfully pursued her passion to become a published author and has her own fans now…and I’m pretty sure you’ll be one after reading When You Touch Me. Like all her books, readers are treated to spectacular writing, layered characters, and a guaranteed pluck at all your heartstrings. So, kick off your shoes and fall in love…with a military hero you won’t forget!

  Roxanne St. Claire

  P.S. If you’re interested in the rest of the Barefoot Bay Kindle World novels, or would like to explore the possibility of writing your own book set in my world, visit http://www.roxannestclaire.com for details!

  Chapter One

  The good fortune gods had cracked open the skies and poured sunshine and rainbows all around Jillian Logan. Rather than deal with a different client every hour or two for eight hours each day, she would have a single male client – a soldier with war injuries – for five hours a day for the next ten days.

  Jillian wasn’t sure if she should be thrilled with the assignment because it would most likely include a rather large gratuity or be scared right out of her new leather clogs. Failure to help this veteran could negatively impact her job as the newest massage therapist on staff at Casa Blanca Resort’s exclusive Eucalyptus Spa.

  “Jillian?” Spa manager Jocelyn Palmer sent her a quizzical look.

  Jillian snapped her thoughts back to the case at hand and smiled at her new boss to indicate she had her full attention.

  “Mrs. Granger has given you carte blanche with this client. She’s told me everything she knows about his injuries and you can fill in the blanks on the intake form.” Jocelyn looked up from the leather-bound notepad on her desk. “Any questions?”

  Jillian shook her head. Ten days. No limits. And a big tip. The financial gods had shone favor on her, too. Her nearly depleted savings account could use the boost. Moving from Sedona back home to Mimosa Key hadn’t been cheap, especially since she’d had to break her apartment lease. That alone cost her two months’ rent, and rent in Sedona, Arizona, was quite high.

  At least she lived for free – or as close to free as possible – on the island. She had inherited half of her childhood home when her mother died three years before. Jillian’s younger sister, Becca, and their mother’s best friend, Daphne Simmons, lived in the house as well. Aunt Daffy, as she’d been called ever since a young Becca had mangled her name, lived up to the nickname.

  Scatterbrained, still living in the seventies and mildly obsessed with the psychic world, Daphne had been a life saver when Althea Logan had died after a brief but courageous battle with cancer. She left behind a business in the Pleasure Pointe Beach area and a dependent daughter with cerebral palsy. Jillian had offered to move home and tend to both.

  But Daffy understood how much Jillian enjoyed her job and the environment of Sedona. She had moved into the house to care for Becca and run the store. She had been Althea’s right hand at Mimosa Memories for years, so she was well-qualified to sell t-shirts, sea shells and the array of other tchotchkes filling the store’s shelves. Customers enjoyed interacting with the grown-up hippie who often paired a free aura reading with a t-shirt sale or made someone a cup of tea so she could read the leaves.

  The shortened work day with this new client would be a blessing, too. Jillian would have extra time to figure out what to do about the store, the house and her sister because Daphne was going to retire and move to a retirement community close to her sister in Orlando.

  Jillian had only been able to get away from Sedona for three days when her mother had died. Aunt Daffy had handled all the funeral and burial arrangements. The sight of Becca, crying inconsolably, had broken Jillian’s heart. If only Althea Logan hadn’t babied her younger daughter so much, Becca might be more self-sufficient and….

  Worrying about what her mother should have done served no purpose now. But it had been part of what had driven a wedge between mother and daughter and left Becca caught in the middle.

  Twenty-one-year-old Becca had left for a special adult camp several days before Jillian had moved back into the small beach cottage in Pleasure Pointe. Jillian hated she had missed seeing her sister, but her absence was rather a blessing. Jillian had a chance to catch her breath and re-adapt to island life without having to worry about her sister’s care.

  The pending retirement had been the inciting factor for everything. And while Jillian was happy for her mother’s friend, she also held a bit of resentment because her well-ordered life was now in complete chaos.

  “It’s very generous of Mrs. Granger to do this.” Jillian said.

  “She considers it a small price to pay since Sam Hartman saved her son’s life in Afghanistan. And she was so impressed with you and your work when she was here last week she specifically requested Mr. Hartman be in your hands only.”

  Jillian knew Adelaide Granger was a Casa Blanca regular. Married to a newspaper mogul, and a real estate heiress in her own right, she could well afford the tab for ten days at one of Florida’s most luxurious resorts. Jillian had given Mrs. Granger a hot sea stone massage with aromatherapy and a sugar foot scrub in one of the beach cabanas followed by Reiki therapy on a lingering case of tennis elbow. The tip she’d left on the massage table had stunned Jillian. And in exchange for just doing her job, she was being rewarded handsomely. This reinforced her belief that doing a good job paid off and karma did exist.

  “Mr. Hartman arrived late yesterday and is staying in Artemisia. We scheduled a day for him to rest from his travels. You might want to introduce yourself to him before his treatments start.” Jocelyn slid a sheaf of papers across the desk. “You might even do the initial intake evaluation at the same time if he’s agreeable.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Palmer. I’ll do that.”

  Jocelyn laughed softly. “Mrs. Palmer is my mother-in-law. We’re like a family here at Casa Blanca, so please call me Jocelyn.”

  “Yes ma’am. Um, Jocelyn.”

  The spa in Sedona where she had worked for the last eight years had been even more informal. The crisp, white scrubs with the Eucalyptus logo over the left breast pocket were a far cry from the loose yoga pants and flowing tops Jillian had worn at Mandala. She wiggled her toes in the stiff white leather clogs and wished she could slip them off and work in her bare feet as she was used to doing.

  Ten days. No limits. And a big tip. She would give massages wearing a burlap sack and combat boots if that’
s what they wanted.

  Right now, Jillian could only worry about the present, and the present meant she needed to track down Sam Hartman, introduce herself to him and prepare for the next ten days of working with the injuries he had sustained in Afghanistan.

  “If you run into any problems, please don’t hesitate to ask for help. My door is always open,” Jocelyn said. “Or ask Brenna or Hailey. They’ve both been with us for a while.”

  Jillian knew massage therapy well. She had been a licensed massage therapist for nearly a decade. It was the resort and spa procedures that might give her problems. Nice to know, though, that the resort staff had her back. If only someone had her back on the home front.

  Exiting the spa, Jillian took the winding red brick pathway, which led to each of the resort’s villas. Artemisia, a two-bedroom villa facing the Gulf of Mexico, had been selected for Mr. Hartman because the tall fence around the pool would afford privacy for aquatic massage sessions. She could do the aquatic work in the resort pool, but a quiet, private setting enhanced the therapeutic benefits.

  She glanced at his paperwork again. It listed limited range of motion from a rehabbed rotator cuff tear, burn scarring on the upper back and probable PTSD. Jillian wished she had access to his medical records and not simply what Mrs. Granger had passed on to Jocelyn. She would most likely have to worm the information from him. Men were notoriously reluctant to admit anything was wrong with them, especially soldiers. The mental toughness that made them good soldiers often made them behave like stubborn mules and refuse help even for the most serious issues. Proper information would help her determine which modalities would work best for him and that would mean better therapy and better results. And Jillian prided herself on giving a client the absolute best treatment possible.

  She reached Artemisia and paused a moment to inhale the fragrance of gardenias and wisteria before climbing the terra cotta steps to the front door. The floral scents always put her in a good mood. She knocked, and after waiting a minute without getting an answer, she raised her hand to knock again. Jillian staggered back in surprise when a young blonde woman in a Casa Blanca housekeeping uniform opened the door.

  “He isn’t here,” said the housekeeper. “You might check over at the beach. Most folks don’t hang around inside when that beautiful beach is right outside their door,” she added, nodding in the direction of the water.

  “I haven’t met him yet. I don’t know who to look for.”

  The housekeeper sighed like a love-struck teenager. “Oh, that’s a real easy one. Just look for Mr. Tall, Dark and Utterly Handsome. You can’t miss the biceps and the smile.” She sighed again, and Jillian fought the urge to roll her eyes. Apparently Sam Hartman was a looker and had already infected at least one employee with his charm.

  “I’ll do that,” Jillian replied and turned toward the path leading to the beach. Once she reached the edge of the landscaped property, she removed her clogs and tucked them under a shrub, then shuffled her way through the loose sand. She scanned the rows of beach chairs for someone matching the housekeeper’s sigh-filled description.

  She spied a likely candidate in a lounge chair set off by itself. Dressed in navy board shorts and a loose yellow t-shirt, a pair of Ray Bans shaded his eyes and he grasped a tall glass in his left hand. Jillian guessed he was about six feet tall, and he didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on his well-tanned body. His hair, while dark like the housekeeper had described, was sun-streaked. A resort server approached him, and Jillian watched as he slid the Ray Bans to the top of his head and openly flirted with the petite redhead. He was singe-your-eyeballs gorgeous, and she could understand why the housekeeper had been impressed. Too bad he was a resort guest because if he showed interest in her, she wouldn’t turn him away. The server shook her head and turned to walk off. The man reached out, grasped her wrist and spoke to her again.

  The woman’s expression clouded and she pulled away just as one of the lifeguards approached. Jillian hadn’t been able to hear any of the conversation up to that point because of the sounds of the wind and ocean, but the lifeguard raised his voice enough that his comments were crystal clear. He called the man by name and firmly but politely informed Sam Hartman that the woman was not only a resort employee but also his fiancée, and because of both, she was off limits.

  The couple walked away, and the man shrugged as his gaze followed them. Or more accurately, his gaze followed the woman as a disappointed smile shaped his mouth.

  Great, thought Jillian, her nose wrinkled in disgust. He’s one of those. A man who considered himself God’s gift to the female population. If he tried anything with her, she would give him another reminder about the resort’s rules and explain that they had a strictly working relationship. She’d had male clients put moves on her before. She had even had marriage proposals.

  Massage by its very nature was somewhat intimate. Human touch was essential to individual well-being, and some clients responded a little too personally. Most of them backed off when she gently reprimanded them. A few changed therapists of their own volition. One elderly gentleman in particular hadn’t taken her seriously, and she’d had to refuse to work with him any longer even though she felt sorry for the lonely widower. After explaining the situation to the Mandala owner, he had been referred to another spa.

  Jillian really hoped Sam Hartman didn’t do anything that would require sending him elsewhere. She had already mentally calculated how she would use the money his ten days of therapy would generate.

  Sand. Damned fucking sand.

  Why the hell did she send him to another sandbox? He didn’t care if this place was a mecca for fancy-ass weddings and honeymoons. Sam was here for neither. And from what he had observed thus far, he was one of only a few single guests and one of the youngest. Nobody he knew could afford this kind of luxury. If he hoped to put his villa’s big bed to good use, he might have to check out the locals in town or take a trip to the public beach on the opposite end of the island. He could tolerate a little sand to find a willing woman.

  He had spent too damn much of the last couple years in Afghanistan where he not only had to fight the enemy, but fight the sand, too. Nothing was safe from it. And when the climate conditions were just right, the wind sped up, kicking up clouds of sand that rolled in without warning and blocked out the sun.

  Like an attacking army, the sand invaded everything and abraded anything it touched. If a soldier was unfortunate enough to be caught in a sandstorm, he emerged feeling like he’d been towed naked down an asphalt highway behind a Humvee. Sam had experienced it firsthand. If only that sandstorm had been his worst experience in the desert.

  He had slept in sandy sheets, eaten gritty food and even had to walk around with a damned Trojan over the end of his rifle to prevent the mechanism from jamming. However idiotic the condom appeared, it was an effective solution, and it shot off easily when the weapon was fired. But right now, he would much rather use a condom on his personal rifle and do a little midnight shooting in the big four-poster bed at the villa where he was bunked. He’d had high hopes for the pretty redhead who had kept him supplied with drinks all afternoon but….

  Don’t Give Up Until You’ve Truly Tried.

  Tattooed across his upper back, the phrase was his personal motto. He’d just have to find another woman to cozy up with. He would truly try.

  He spied a willowy brunette talking to the lifeguard who had all but threatened him minutes ago. Hot damn. Here was another prospect. A long dark braid cascaded over one shoulder, and dark eyes dominated her face. Her full lips were pale shade of pink, and even with the white resort uniform she wore Sam could tell she had a body meant to be caressed by a man’s hands. That was the only massage that interested him. He wanted to rub suntan oil onto a woman’s body before he slid her body under his and slid his cock inside of her.

  So what if the resort had a rule against employees fraternizing with guests? Sam Hartman had never met a rule he didn’t feel challenged to bre
ak. He would ask around, find out which part of the resort she worked in and if she was unattached. That was one rule he didn’t break. If the lifeguard’s fiancée had been wearing an engagement ring, he would never have hit on her. And if Trip Granger’s fiancée had kept her panties on instead of screwing Trip’s best friend, maybe Trip’s head would have been in the game. He’d have spotted the suspicious group of men before they stepped into the street and fired a rocket propelled grenade at their Humvee.

  No one would have died. Sam wouldn’t have saved Trip’s life and been injured in the process. He would still be in the Army instead of back in the damned sand with a stiff drink in one hand and a semi-stiff cock under his loose shorts. Hell, the water in the Gulf of Mexico wasn’t even cold enough to deflate a hard-on.

  Sand. He tamped down the flood of irritation. Why couldn’t Trip’s mother thank him by sending him to a resort in the Poconos or the Adirondacks? Mountains, crisp air, cold water and no damn sand. And just as quickly as the question entered his thoughts, he shoved it aside. Jean Hartman would pinch her older son by the ear and give him a verbal lashing for being so ungrateful. She and Adelaide Granger were fortunate; their sons had returned from battle, scarred but alive. The mothers of the other soldiers in that Humvee had buried their sons.

  If he had been more alert. If only he had moved faster. If he’d had something else to use as a tourniquet. If, if, if. Second thoughts about the aftermath of the attack as well as guilt over surviving either kept him awake at night or woke him with nightmares. He should have been exhausted enough to nap every afternoon, but his brain never shut down. Always checking. Always scanning his surroundings. Always—.

  “Mr. Hartman?”

  He looked up and saw the woman with the dark braid standing beside his chair. Hot damn, indeed.