The Red Bikini (11 page)

In the three Men’s World Tour events following her death—one in Portugal, one on the southwest coast of France, and one in Hawaii—Fin only placed twentieth or twenty-first out of twenty-five, causing the surfing community to “assume he’d given up,” the wiki speculated. It also said Mahina would probably not renew his next contract, despite their history together with him and his father, but no source was given. The article also linked to several photos of Fin supposedly on “guilt benders” and to tabloid-type articles with photos of him at parties with various women.

Giselle clicked through each of the tabloid stories, and zoomed in on each of the photos, but she was beginning to understand why Fin didn’t like his picture taken—all the captions seemed as if they were trying to show him in as terrible a light as possible: “Fin Hensen Now Seeing Catalina Caesar?” (a photo of him sitting next to a pretty young woman on a couch); “Fin Hensen Stoned in Teahupoo?” (a photo of him mid-blink); “Why Didn’t Fin Hensen Show Up on Time at the Hurley Pro?” (a photo of him leaving what appeared to be his own hotel room).

Giselle clicked through articles for about twenty minutes, but what caught her eye for the rest of the morning were the professional photos of him in the surf. Although the tabloid reports now took up his whole first page on Google, the second page was filled with the material he probably wanted next to his name: dozens of articles and photos dating from the last nine years, of Fin on his board, glistening in the water, stooped low to keep his balance, coming through waves. . . . There was an article about a foundation he was part of to save the oceans, and another of an environmental study he was helping with. . . . There was a cover story in
Surfer
magazine from two Julys ago, with a photo spread of him in artful and athletic positions. . . . The photos took her breath away. He was strong and sleek and powerful, staring off camera with that grin she was coming to love. Only the photos since August had that sad, lost expression.

Giselle picked up her cell and dialed again.

“Lia,” she said, exasperated, into her sister’s voice mail. “
Please
call me.” She stared at a photo of Fin surfing through a riot of whitewater. “It’s about Fin,” she added at the last second, then hung up. There. That ought to get Lia to call back. She quickly closed the Web pages down before she began drooling all over the keyboard, then logged on to her e-mail. Much to her surprise, there was an e-mail from Lia from earlier that morning.

“Hope everything’s good with the apartment. I meant to tell you that you can park in space 119 in the underground garage. And that the ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ faucets are backward in the tub. You probably figured that out. And, if you’re reading this on your laptop, you probably found the router in the corner of my bedroom. Lost my phone in Bryant Park. I’ll probably come home early, July 5. E-mail if you need anything. Kisses to Coco. XOXO”

Giselle hit reply and stared at her blinking cursor, wondering how much to say, how much to ask, how much to admit about Fin. But she really wanted to have those conversations with Lia in person. And it looked like now she would, on July 5.

“Things are great,”
she finally wrote back.
“We can’t wait to see you.”

She hit send, then rummaged through the dresser for her bathing suit, bumping her fingertips against Lia’s red bikini. She almost laughed before shoving it aside to find her conservative one-piece.

She slipped on a cover-up, then tossed a towel, sunblock, and bottled water into her tote bag and headed to the beach.

She’d be fine. Even without Lia’s input. This was her own new life now, and she could forge ahead.

And she might have some ideas about tonight with Fin. She may not ever fit in with his world—with his sexy Veronicas and one-night stands—but she could certainly play for a bit. It was like being afraid of the ocean, but knowing how to dip your toe in—to enjoy the cold shock of the sea, know how vast it was, know it could swallow you whole—but enjoy your shivers from shore.

G
iselle perched on the edge of a dining chair before Fin arrived so she wouldn’t wrinkle her new dress, astounded that she didn’t have anything to do. Without Coco, without Roy, without her home in Indiana, without her chores or her basil on the windowsill, she didn’t have anything to rush around for. She smoothed her skirt and took twenty cleansing breaths.

A knock sounded at the door, and she lunged to yank it open.

Fin lounged against the doorframe, meeting her gaze with an embarrassed grin.

Yesterday he’d been all sharp angles in his business suit, but this afternoon he exuded a masculine elegance: double-breasted tuxedo, bow tie nestled beneath his Adam’s apple, hair slicked back. The six-o’clock light cast him in shades of gold. He had a small white-strip bandage across the bridge of his nose and a dark purple line that curved away from his eye. But Giselle still thought he looked gorgeous.

As he took in her full appearance, though, he pushed up from the doorway. His smile faded.

“Too much?” She touched her new “strawberry blond” hair.

But he wasn’t paying attention to her hair. His gaze was caught at her breasts, which showcased her other new purchase today: a halter-style red dress. The salesgirl on Sandy Cove’s Main Street—a friend of Lia’s named Vivi who worked in a vintage clothing shop—had helped her with some “tape” to keep the strips of chiffon in place, but they were creating a sharp
V
down her front that showcased her pillowy new cleavage, courtesy of her new Bali push-up bra.

“Giselle,” he breathed out.

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” She let go of the door handle and began to twist, but his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

She was afraid to meet his eyes. She knew she’d gone too far. After Rabbit’s discussion this morning, she thought maybe she’d try to be the sultry kind of woman Fin longed for, the kind like Veronica, with the remarkable breasts and beautiful bare shoulders. And then, seeing him in all the Internet photos, she came up with some sort of crazy bravado, probably fueled by groupie-ism.

But now—seeing him in real life, looking like a cover model under this deep, golden sun—all of her insecurities were back. She’d gone too far with this dress and this hair color. They weren’t her. She probably looked like a hooker.

She pulled away, and he used the momentum to step inside. The door clicked behind him.

“You look beautiful,” he said huskily. But he sounded like he was trying to convince someone.

Pressing back tears of bad judgment, she pretended to fuss for something inside her purse. She heard him take a deep breath. He was probably trying to think of how he was going to break it to her—
Honey, you absolutely can’t go to my wine-tasting event looking like that. I’ll get arrested for pimping.

Finally, she got up the nerve to face him.

He ran his hand over his face. “I did say not to dress too sexy.”

“I’m thinking I look more ridiculous than sexy.”

“You look
sexy
,” he said quietly.

“And you don’t want sexy?”

He let out a sound that seemed meant to be a laugh. “Well, that would make me a fool.” His eyes slipped again. “But these people . . .”

“They don’t like that,” she filled in for him.

“Something like that.”

“Who are these people?”

“Idiots.”

She laughed. “But you want to impress them?”

“I
need
to impress them.” He paused, still seeming to struggle with where to rest his gaze. Eventually, he frowned at her head. “New hair?”

Her hand flew to the red curls that flew around her shoulders—not exactly Ronald McDonald, but definitely more than she’d bargained for. Another wave of shame swept over her. This was the stupidest idea she’d ever had.

“I just wanted . . .”

He waited, frowning, for her to finish the sentence, but she didn’t know how. What had she wanted? To impress him? To look younger? To be someone else for an evening?

“You wanted what?” he prompted.

“To be someone different.” She spun away this time, because admitting that definitely made her want to cry. She’d worked so hard, for so many years, to cultivate the image she thought was expected of her: good daughter, good wife, good mother. Proper. Reserved. Quiet. Put your own needs aside and serve others.

But now she was wanting her own things—passion, excitement, adventure,
this man
—and she didn’t know how to get them by being herself. She began shuffling through her purse again, but her mind was on Lia’s closet, wondering what she could change into.

“Why do you want to be someone different, Giselle?”

The gentleness she heard in his voice shook her, but she couldn’t answer or she’d really start crying.

Criminy. He’d been here all of two minutes and was already being subjected to more of the drama he’d put up with all day yesterday. He was probably
so
over her.

She shook her head and begged her emotions to quiet.

“Well, mission accomplished. You don’t look much like the Giselle I met the other day.”

When she mustered the bravado to turn and face him, she saw his mouth quirk up on one side. He rubbed the back of his neck. “But
that
Giselle—the one from the other day—she’s the one I need to bring to this party.”

“And this one?”

“This one . . .” Fin let his eyes roam openly this time. “This one, I’d have some other ideas for.”

Giselle’s breath caught, and her hand flew to cover her new snowy friends. “I can wear something of Lia’s.” She bolted for the bedroom, practically taking her shoulder out on the corner.

Mother-of-pearl, what was she thinking? She didn’t know what to do with a guy like this. He was used to Veronicas. Women with no stretch marks. Women with no ex-husbands. Women who knew how to be sexy and fling their hair around. Her life was about sippy cups and playdates—not sex and real dates. What would she do if Fin came on to her? She wouldn’t know the first thing about making an energetic twenty-eight-year-old happy.

Fin’s voice drifted from the living room: “Lia wore this black dress once to an event I dragged her to. It was sort of plain, straight. Do you see it? It went all the way to her neck.”

Giselle was flinging hangers back in Lia’s closet, trying to get her breathing back under control. Black, plain, straight? She found a black shift, a boatneck, cut just below the knee—vaguely Jackie O. It might be the one he was talking about.

“I think I see it,” she yelled back.

She checked the size. It was a size small for her, but the stress of the divorce and not eating much was making some of her clothes hang in a gangly way. This might actually fit.

She slipped out of the siren-red concoction and flung it across the bed, chastising herself again for trying to be something she clearly was not and for wanting something she couldn’t even define. She wriggled the plain black dress up over her hips with a desperate sort of hope, poking her arms through the sleeveless armholes and tugging at the zipper in back. She noted, with relief, that it zipped all the way.

She went to the mirror.

Huh. Not bad.

And it made the red hair appear slightly more natural. Regardless, she decided to pin her hair up. This wild look wasn’t her either. She scooped it into a chignon—not her best, but it would do—and slipped on a pair of sensible black heels. She felt a lot better.

Fin was standing by a bookcase, checking out Lia’s CDs, when she reemerged. He turned to say something, but halted. She couldn’t read his expression.

“Better?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and put a Ray Charles disk back. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked over and held out his arm, much as he had for Coco the other day.

“My chariot awaits?” Her voice shook. She noted that he skipped the compliment.

He nodded curtly, and she took his arm, smiling politely but wanting, inside, to die.

She was back in the role of Jackie O. Or Donna Reed. Or whoever he expected her to be. Which was not what she wanted, but what he needed.

Fin had played his part for her yesterday, doing exactly what she needed when she needed it, so the least she could do was respond in kind.

“Let’s go,” she said, trying for cheerful, but hitting a note that she hoped he didn’t recognize.

Because if he heard it right, it would have sounded like her terrible, shattering disappointment.

 • • • 

Fin put the car into gear, pulled out into the quiet sandy streets, and tried not to look at Giselle any longer than he had to.

He was already sweating from the heat, and he wasn’t going to appear any more presentable at this wine-tasting event if he were dripping with perspiration from the way she looked in that dress.

The disturbing thing, of course, was that the dress itself was nothing to make note of—not like the first number she’d had on. He’d hardly recognized her when she opened the door in that red thing—her oyster-white skin, the incredible cleavage she had going—and he’d pretty much lost his ability to speak. “Wanting to be someone else” in a dress like that might mean tapping into a new, post-divorce sexuality—but damn, that couldn’t be on his watch. He was supposed to become a better person, not seduce his closest friend’s sister.

But now, even though she’d changed into this new number, with no plunging neckline, no racy color, it made him sweat all the same. Her breasts still rose deliciously with every breath; the clingy fabric still coiled around her waist and emphasized the sway of her hips. And she’d pulled her hair up, so now he could see her neck again, which he had an absurd obsession about kissing. Just once. He had the sense that she’d make a very sexy, breathless sound if he kissed her, right there, on that little curve of her neck. And he had to focus on his rearview mirror so he didn’t think about that anymore.

“Do you have enough air?” He adjusted the dials on the dash.

“I’m fine.”

He needed to stay focused on his goal—which was to impress Mahina’s board of directors. They needed to think of him as stable. Mahina had had a string of bad luck with their riders lately—Jennifer, their favorite, had died; an East Coast surfer named Caleb had gotten arrested and spent most of last year in jail; and Fin had begun losing all his heats and dropping in the rankings. He just couldn’t pull it together after Jennifer’s death. Every time he went out there, into the rolling surf of Portugal or the barrels of Hawaii, he couldn’t get his head in the game—relying on the luck of the waves, doing the tricks the judges wanted to see, hoping his competitors wouldn’t get the same waves—it all just seemed so fucked-up after Jennifer died. There didn’t seem to be a point to any of it.

So he resorted to drinking through most of the competitions, isolating himself. And when he did show up at parties he didn’t want to be at, all he seemed to do was get incriminating photos plastered all over the press. He was embarrassing Mahina.

“Nice night,” she said.

“Mmmm,” was all he could give. He made the mistake of glancing toward her and caught sight of her body again. He moved the A/C vent so it was blowing right onto his face. “It’s only about twenty minutes from here,” he said, more to himself than to her.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

He could tell her face was turned toward him, maybe trying to read him, maybe hoping he’d be a damned better date. Lia and Rabbit would be horrified if they knew where his thoughts were going right now—
soft dress, rustling off, soft skin, lace panties, his fingers exploring . . .

He rubbed his forehead.

Eyes on the road. Hands to himself. That was tonight’s new mantra.

“Your eye doesn’t look too bad,” she said.

He grimaced. It did. Fox was going to kill him. “Thanks for trying to fix it up last night,” he said anyway.

“Did you use the Boo Boo Buddy?”

“I did. I couldn’t make it feel as good as you did, though.”
Damn
. Did he just say that? “I forgot it. I’ll have to give it back to you another time.”

“That’s fine. So what do I need to know about your event?”

He cleared his throat. Yes, sticking to business would be better here. He was on the verge of admitting he’d dreamed about their damned kiss, which was something he couldn’t remember doing—dreaming about a
kiss
—since he was about fourteen.

“There’ll be a couple of key players,” he said. “I’ll point them out to you when we get there. It’ll be the company vice president, named Fox, who’s my boss and very cool; and the owner, Mr. Makua, who’s powerful and holds my career in his hands. The company is Mahina. My contract with them needs to be renewed.”

“Oh, I read that. . . .”

He took his eyes off the road to glance at her. “Where did you read that?”

“Online.”

As her words sunk in, he glanced between her and the road. “You
Googled
me, Giselle?”

“A little.”

The blush that stole across her cheeks was incredibly cute, but Fin’s back stiffened thinking about what she probably found.

It had been refreshing yesterday being with someone who had never heard of him—it felt like a fresh slate, where he could make his own impression and not be at the mercy of rumors or wikis. And he thought he’d done pretty well, considering. But now . . . Now the media would have its influence on this woman, too. This woman, who seemed all things good and innocent, and would now see him at his bottom-dwelling worst. It made him feel hopeless.

“If there’s anything you want to know, Giselle, you can ask me directly. You know that, right?”

She nodded.

He wondered what she’d thought of all the photos of him—the photos of all the booze, the groupies who hung around the hotels, the general downward spiral since Jennifer died. He
had
been drinking way too much, especially as they’d tried to finish the tour in Portugal. The tour had moved on to the Quiksilver Pro in the southwest coast of France, but Fin and a few others flew back to California with Jennifer’s body, where they’d done a small tribute. About a hundred surfers did a traditional “paddle out” in Sandy Cove—they’d formed a ring with their boards in the deep water, out behind the wave breaks, and had thrown leis into the center, as was custom. But it wasn’t enough for him. It wasn’t enough for Jennifer. The guilt of not saving her was eating him alive.