Tara (Beach Brides Book 2) Page 3

  Even if the two of them weren’t meant for each other, it was important for Irish Lass to know that she wasn’t alone. That there were others out there who appreciated her sense of adventure. That at least one man in Savannah considered himself smart enough to handle a measured dare. Whether or not Irish Lass would consider him sexy, Heath had no idea. He supposed he could leave that up to her to decide.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Tara logged onto her computer at the Happy Hearts Bookshop and was greeted by the usual slew of messages. There were vendor and distributor e-mails, digests from the newsletter lists she subscribed to, and updates from her Facebook groups, including the Romantic Hearts Book Club. Tara didn’t have the wherewithal to sort through them, and especially dreaded seeing what her friends at Romantic Hearts were up to. She was still digesting Jeannie’s good news, and wasn’t certain she could stomach anyone else’s.

  Apart from a serious boyfriend in college and few short-term relationships afterwards, Tara had spent most of her thirty-two years alone. Maybe Jeannie was right, and it was because Tara was being too picky. But, seriously? Was it really asking too much that a man have all his teeth? Tara thought back to the grizzled lobsterman her landlady, Ruth, had tried to set her up with, and numerous other poor matches that had come her way over the years.

  Tara didn’t need a guy who was drop-dead gorgeous. She’d settle for reasonably well groomed. An education wouldn’t hurt either. Not to mention a solid career. She also wanted someone she could actually converse with. Maybe even somebody with a sense of humor, and a spark of adventure, too. A man willing to take risks—but calculated ones. Oh! And also have fun! An old fuddy-duddy certainly wasn’t for her. Tara sighed heavily, thinking that maybe Jeannie had nailed it. Perhaps she was being too picky.

  Boyfriends weren’t like something you could order from a catalogue. You couldn’t simply select the model and the color of their eyes…and hair. Or even their height for that matter. Though Tara would prefer someone just around six feet tall. Oh, what’s the use? She repeatedly clicked her mouse, deleting the typical morning barrage of spam mail. Then she got to a message from H.Wellington@... and her heart stilled. Its subject line read: Your Message in a Bottle.

  Tara clicked open the e-mail, her pulse pounding. To her disappointment, there wasn’t much there. Just a very direct query.

  Were you rescued?

  There wasn’t anything else, not even a signature line. Tara’s breath quickened. Perhaps the person who’d discovered her bottle was feeling her out, by trying to see if she was still available. But honestly, why would she tell him? She didn’t even know who H.Wellington was! The fact that he hadn’t identified himself more fully set her weirdly on edge. Perhaps there was something untoward about him? Maybe he had homicidal tendencies and was running from the law?

  No, that didn’t make sense. A true murderer wouldn’t care if she’d already found someone. He’d try to begin a correspondence anyway, and attempt to lure her in. And, he probably wouldn’t use his real name. H.Wellington sounded pretty legitimate. Plus, a little high-end, to tell the truth… H could be a staid older gentleman in his sixties, the sort who golfed more than worked anymore. Tara was starting to question her own motives in sending that message in a bottle. She’d meant every word at the time. But she’d never really expected to receive a response.

  Tara thumped her fingers against the store countertop that housed her computer then fired off her rapidly typed reply. If she never heard back from him, at least she’d learned that her bottle had landed somewhere. And, if she did, that might mark H.Wellington as a serious contender.

  Assuming he was under retirement age, and still had all his choppers.

  ****

  Heath exited the board meeting in the large conference room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Though he’d done so previously at the table, he thanked each of his directors once again for presenting their ideas, supplying cordial parting handshakes to them all. Heath had a great team in place and appreciated their help in keeping this giant ship running.

  He passed his administrative assistant on his way back to his office and the young woman in her early twenties looked up with a smile. The slight brunette with tortoiseshell glasses wore her hair in a tight bun and was always impeccably dressed. She was also newly engaged, making her smile sparkle just as a much as the gleaming gemstone on her hand. “Can I get you a coffee, boss?”

  “Coffee would be great, Kristin. Thanks.”

  She must have anticipated Heath’s response, because Kristin had his java ready in record time. She carried it toward his desk and set it down carefully in the paper cup from the private coffee shop on the corner. “I know you didn’t work magic by making this coffee suddenly appear,” Heath said with a grateful chuckle.

  “Magic, no.” Kristin shared a wry smile. “But I did dash down to get it the moment the boardroom doors opened.”

  “Good call.” Heath took a grateful sip of the double-shot latte. His favorite. “Thank you.”

  “Will there be anything else?”

  “If you could bring me this morning’s financial reports, that would be great. The Chancellor file, too, if you don’t mind,” Heath added, referring to the folder containing information on the various entities Wellington International planned to acquire by the end of the year.

  “Of course.” Kristin departed at a smart clip, accentuating her efficiency. Kristin didn’t waste anything, most especially his time, and Heath valued her efforts. He intended to make that clear by giving her a very generous Christmas bonus.

  Once his assistant had gone, Heath took a seat at his desk and turned his attention on his computer screen. Several e-mails waited in his in-box. He opened the second-to-last one first. It was the one he’d been secretly hoping for all day.

  But, instead of answering his inquiry, that sassy Irish Lass had turned things right back around.

  Who wants to know?

  Heath’s brow shot skyward as he set his fingers on the keyboard. By the virtue of her reply, she’d basically answered his question. Irish Lass likely wouldn’t have answered if she was already involved with someone, certainly not if she considered the relationship serious.

  He was tempted to answer right away, but decided to wait and finish his coffee. After he did, he carefully crafted his response.

  I’m a banker in Savannah.

  Heath scratched that.

  My name is—

  No good, either. Heath pondered the blank screen, feeling as if anything he could say would sound inadequate. Or worse, staged… He wasn’t even sure why he was writing back, beyond the fact that he felt compelled to. Irish Lass had now issued Heath not one challenge—but two. And, he’d always had difficulty backing down on a dare.

  On one hand, he couldn’t help but find her new question somewhat ballsy. After all, she was the one who’d tossed out the bottle. Didn’t Heath have the right to know more about her? At the same time, he couldn’t exactly blame a woman for being cautious. There were a lot of weirdos out there, and Irish Lass had no way to discern whether or not Heath was among them.

  He reasoned it probably wouldn’t hurt to tell her a little more about himself. Besides, she was all the way across the Atlantic Ocean in Ireland. It wasn’t exactly like she lived in a neighboring state and could easily track him down. He tried again.

  Hello, Irish Lass. Here’s a little more about me—

  A little more? How would he pick and choose? What precisely should he say? Then, a brilliant thought occurred. Heath didn’t have to say anything at all! He could solve his problem with just one click.

  Chapter Five

  Tara stared at the e-mail agog. “I can’t believe this,” she said in a breathy whisper. “The guy just sent his resume!”

  Jeannie stood by the book display near the front window where she was taking inventory. “Which guy?”

  “I, uh…er…” Tara’s face steamed as she addressed her friend. “…heard from the
man who found my bottle.”

  Jeannie’s expression brightened. “And?”

  Tara quickly scanned through the lengthy attachment. “He runs some sort of bank in Savannah.”

  “Georgia? That’s fun!” Jeannie’s gaze darted to the window where light flecks of snow fell outside. “And a heck of a lot warmer than here.”

  Tara was still musing over the odd attachment. “What did he think he was doing? Applying for a job?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Jeannie shrugged and shuffled a pile of books to one side after counting them. “I think it’s pretty exciting, actually.” She gave an impish giggle. “That you heard from someone.” She paused to study Tara. “How old is he?”

  “Can’t tell for sure, but from his college graduation date, I’d guess four years older than me.” Tara held up one hand and kept reading. “But he’s got a business degree, too, from Wharton. He went to the University of Virginia undergrad.”

  “Brainy, huh?” Jeannie was clearly impressed.

  “He appears to have done well for himself,” Tara said. “Worked in wealth management before assuming the the family business, it seems.”

  “Wealth management,” Jeannie said dreamily. “I like the sound of that!” She met Tara’s eyes. “Do you suppose he’s rich?”

  “I doubt very seriously that he’s struggling to make rent,” Tara answered, recalling that she needed to pay her landlady. Due to slow sales in September, her rent was two weeks past due, but her landlady had a big heart, so she tended to cut Tara slack. She also had a soft spot for entrepreneurs. Ruth Evans had started her own business, the Beaumont Bakery, thirty-three years ago. She’d only sold it recently to a younger couple about Tara’s age in order to retire. Tara rented an upstairs apartment that sat over Mrs. Evans’s old barn, at the back of her fifty-acre property and abutting the water.

  Tara’s apartment was small but cozy, with its own woodstove and a spectacular view of Beaumont Bay and its amazingly dramatic tides. When the tide came in, the cove beyond Mrs. Evans’s backyard gleamed with glistening blue waters. But—when the tide went out—there was nothing to be seen for miles and miles but expansive mudflats stretching beneath the craggy boulders lining the shore.

  “You’re probably right about that,” Jeannie answered. “I’ll bet the guy doesn’t even pay rent. From what you say, I’m sure he owns his home.”

  “Yeah,” Tara said wistfully, before glancing back through the resume. There was contact information provided, as well as a list of references. This was apparently a professional curriculum vitae that Heath used in his business dealings. From the information given, Tara surmised his bank was involved in a lot of mergers and acquisitions.

  “Well, banking’s good, right?” Jeannie commented. “You like bankers!”

  “My dad is a teller, Jeannie,” Tara stoically reminded her friend.

  “Yeah? So? Maybe he and Mr. Resume would have something in common.”

  Tara wasn’t so sure about that. While her dad had worked hard his entire life, he only had a high school education and didn’t think much of big businessmen. Mostly, he was skeptical of them, arguing that too many of them wanted to take over the world.

  That’s the kind of talk her dad picked up at the docks while hanging around his fisherman friends, many of whom had seen their livelihoods compromised by enormous discount warehouses that sold flash-frozen fish products in bulk, and at rock-bottom prices.

  “What’s his name, anyway?” Jeannie prodded. She finished scribbling some notes on her clipboard then walked over to the stool where Tara sat facing her computer. Tara swiveled around to face her.

  “Heath…Wellington.”

  “You going to look him up? Do an Internet search? I’ll bet you’re dying to know what he looks like!”

  Tara was already one step ahead of her. She searched his name and location, and…bingo! There he was, a dreamy corporate guy with wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes. He apparently attended a lot of society events, and in nearly every photo he had a beautiful blonde on his arm. The same blonde.

  Jeannie hovered over her shoulder. “Wow, hubba-hubba! Nice-looking guy! What about the woman? Girlfriend?”

  “Maybe a former one?” Tara asked hopefully. She’d hate to think of Heath as the cheating kind. Particularly as she was just starting to form her opinion of him.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. I mean, why else would he write to you?”

  “Don’t worry. I intend to ask him.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. But I’m going to do something else first.”

  “What’s that?”

  Tara adjusted the collar of the silk blouse she wore beneath her charcoal gray pullover. When she peered back at Jeannie, she grinned. “Send him my resume.”

  ****

  “Touché!” Heath opened Irish Lass’s e-mail and smiled. She hadn’t written one word. She had merely sent an attachment, just as he’d done. Heath scanned through Tara’s credentials with interest. She’d gone to Tulane on an academic scholarship, and had worked at an independent bookstore part-time while in school. After holding a few local management jobs in the interim, she’d returned to her hometown in Maine to open a bookshop of her own. Tara had double-majored in English and economics, an unusual combination that appeared to have served her well.

  Heath couldn’t help but be impressed by what she’d accomplished while still in her twenties. He was also oddly relieved to learn she didn’t live in Ireland after all. With a name like Tara McAdams, she was clearly of Irish extraction. Though, from everything on her resume, it appeared that she’d grown up in Maine. So the “Irish Lass” moniker must have referred to her heritage rather than her nationality.

  He took a moment to find a map of Beaumont, Maine online, deciding Tara might as well be across the Atlantic. The driving distance between Savannah and Beaumont was nearly twenty hours. Heath could hop a plane from Atlanta to Dublin in half the time!

  The funny thing was, Dublin didn’t intrigue him at the moment. Yet, something about Beaumont was beginning to seem awfully interesting. Tomorrow, he’d write to Tara again and share something a little more personal about himself.

  If past was prologue, she might even follow suit.

  Chapter Six

  “So,” Byron asked, when they met for their regular Wednesday afternoon golf date. “How did things go with Caroline while I was on my honeymoon?”

  Heath picked out his driver and teed off, swinging hard. The ball crowned in a perfect arc then landed on the green, bouncing twice before rolling toward the first hole.

  “Nice shot!”

  “They didn’t,” Heath said, answering Byron’s earlier question.

  Byron started to tee off next, then halted mid-swing.

  “Wait a minute…” He planted his driver on the ground, leaning into it. “What do you mean, they didn’t?”

  “I mean they didn’t.” Heath motioned for Byron to take his shot, and Byron did, his ball landing a foot behind Heath’s.

  “You didn’t ask her, you mean?” Byron asked, as Heath selected a putter.

  “Nope.”

  “No way, buddy.” Byron shoved his hands in his pockets and held his ground. “You’re not getting off the hook that easily.”

  Heath met Byron’s confounded gaze. Byron had light brown eyes and shortly cropped golden brown hair. “Let’s just say the timing wasn’t right,” he answered, attempting to move past him.

  Byron’s brow rose quizzically. “Then, what gives? I thought you had a proposal on the table?”

  “Had is the operative word.” Heath soundly patted Byron’s arm. “Thank goodness I never followed through with it.”

  “Because?”

  Heath lined up his next shot with laser-like focus.

  “Caroline was running around on me.”

  Byron’s retort rang with disbelief. “Noooo. She didn’t?”

  “Oh yeah, she did. And with Will Barrymore, no less. She was apparently string
ing us both along to see who would propose first.” Heath tapped his ball and easily sank it.

  “That skank!”

  “Yeah, well.” Heath shrugged mildly, retrieving his ball. “Let bygones be bygones. That’s what I say.”

  “You’re taking this awfully well. If I didn’t know better…” Byron viewed him suspiciously, as he withdrew his own putter from his bag. “I’d say you already had someone else, too.”

  “Let’s just say I found a genie in a bottle.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Byron asked, stepping past him.

  “I found an empty Chianti bottle floating out on Tybee Beach.”

  Byron glanced over his shoulder. “And?”

  “A note was in it.”

  “From a damsel in distress?” Byron asked, teasing.

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  Byron’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “A very capable damsel, though.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “She’s smart. Talented. Has gumption. Started her own business in her twenties.”

  “You found all that on a note in a bottle?”

  Heath laughed good-naturedly. “Nope. Not there.”

  “Wait a minute… But how did you—?” Byron’s eyes lit in understanding. “You contacted her, didn’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  Byron shot him an exasperated look. He clearly felt like he was pulling teeth, trying to extract some information about this mystery woman. “And?”