Barefoot in the Sand Read Free Page A

and a tiny gold hoop in one ear. Then he stopped her in her tracks by stretching out his hand.
    “I’m Clay Walker.”
    What
?
    “Are you Lacey Armstrong?”
    “No. I mean, yes. But…” She froze, completely thrown, her brain short-circuiting at his words.
    Colonel Sanders he was not.
    He looked nothing like his picture. No white hair, no bow tie—no shirt! He absolutely couldn’t be Clayton Walker because, well, he was gorgeous.
    “What are you doing here?” she demanded, not caring that she was a sweaty mess of venom-spewing, short-short-wearing, almost-thirty-seven-year-old mom staringat his washboard abs. Or that she still held the phone that she was just about to use to call him. Well, not him. Colonel Sanders.
    “I told you I’d check out the property.”
    “Oh, I expected someone…”
Older. Dressed. Not gorgeous
. “… after I called.”
    “I didn’t want to wait,” he said. He kept his hand out and she had no choice but to take it, her hand instantly lost in big, calloused, masculine fingers. “I was too intrigued by the idea of building here.”
    “So am I.” Intrigued, that was. Intrigued and wary.
    “I hope you don’t mind.” He gave a cursory glance to his naked torso. “It’s hot as hell here.”
    “It’s no problem,” she lied, extracting her hand and forcing her eyes off his body and onto his face. Like that was any less stupefying. “But there’s been a mistake.”
    Dark brows shot up, revealing eyes just about the color of the water behind him. “A mistake?” he asked.
    “You’re not Clayton Walker.”
    “I go by Clay.” He smiled, kind of a half-grin that crinkled his eyes and revealed straight white teeth. “Got ID in my truck if you want me to get it.”
    The hint of a drawl fit him as well as the shorts that hung off narrow hips. “That’s not necessary because I’ve been to the Web site and I’ve seen Clayton Walker, and he’s not…”
Sexy
. “You.”
    “Don’t tell me.” The smile turned wry. “You were expecting Clayton Walker
Senior
?”
    Senior? Like his
father
? “I was expecting the owner of the firm.” The man who designed some of the most stunning hotels in the world, who probably didn’t have hair to his shoulders or an earring or a tattoo of a flame-encircledstar on a sizable bicep. “
The
Clayton Walker. That’s who I e-mailed.”
    “Actually, you e-mailed me,” he said simply.
    “I got the contact off the Web site.”
    He shrugged a brawny shoulder. “I guess my name’s still there. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s made the mistake.”
    “Do you work for him?”
    “No, I don’t have anything to do with my father’s business anymore.”
    “Oh. That’s a shame.” Disappointment dribbled in her stomach and mixed with some other unfamiliar tightness down there.
    “But I am a contractor,” he said, an edge taking some of the smoothness out of his voice. “And a builder.”
    “But you aren’t
the
Clayton Walker.”
    He laughed softly, a rumbly, gritty, sensual sound that reverberated through Lacey’s chest down to her toes. “Look, I’ve been checking out this property for a couple of days and, based on that e-mail you sent, I’m totally capable of doing this job for you.”
    Except he wasn’t capable because he was too young and too inexperienced and too… shirtless. “Are you an architect?”
    “Technically, it depends on how you define architect. I am, but not completely licensed, so not officially.” He fried her with another smile, taking a step closer, giving her a better look at his really remarkable blue eyes. Not that she was looking for remarkable eyes on her architect. Which, by the way, he wasn’t. Not
officially
.
    “Why don’t we take a look at the site and go over some ideas I have?” he suggested.
    “How could you have ideas when I haven’t even told you exactly what I want?” She didn’t mean to sound snippy, but she couldn’t possibly trust this young man with her dream. She’d