“Don’t you know, Nick?” She touched his cheek, felt the love in her heart overflow, wondered how she’d ever lived without his man. “We are home.”
WITH A TWIST
Maureen Child
To Amy J. Fetzer, for all your help with details on Savannah—and just for being you.
Chapter 1
“How to feel out of place in one easy lesson,” Michael “Mad Dog” Connelly muttered into his beer glass.
“Chill, brudda.” Danny “Hula” Akiona, a proud, full-blooded Hawaiian, deliberately threw Island slang into nearly every conversation—just to remind people of his heritage. At home wherever he happened to find himself, Danny lifted his beer in a half-assed salute and grinned at his friend.
Mike shook his head. “Man, we should have stuck to the bars down near the harbor.”
“Nothing wrong with letting a little class into your life.”
“Eight bucks for a beer is more ‘class’ than I’m interested in.” Mike hadn’t counted on spending his first night of leave in the ultrahip new jazz club, Steam. But after hearing how Mike’s sister, Colleen, had raved about it, Hula had been determined to give it a shot. Since Mike hadn’t had any plans that were more interesting, here they were.
“Hell, man,” Hula said, taking a gulp of his beer, “we’re just back—in one piece—live a little.”
Mike thought about it, then nodded. His friend had a point. He and the rest of their SEAL team were just back home after a dangerous hostage rescue mission in the Middle East. Hell, they’d been lucky to get the whole team—and the hostage—out alive. Eight bucks for a beer seemed like nothing when it was put into perspective. He smiled. “You’re right, man. Let’s have a few, and toast the boss.”
Hula grinned. “The boss is celebrating fine right now, he don’t need our good wishes.”
True. The boss, or their team leader, Zack Sheridan, had gotten married a few months back and was no doubt cuddled up to his new wife, Kim Danforth, while Mike and Hula looked for company. But, Mike consoled himself, at least they had a good place to look.
Steam was everything the gossips had made it out to be. The restaurant/bar/jazz club was packed. A dark, mahogany bar took up one whole wall. Behind the bar, more dark, gleaming wood, interspersed with mirrors and glass shelves were lined with liquor. Wrought-iron light fixtures provided the dim glow that settled over the quiet crowd like a blessing. Several high tables were clustered around the floor, with shadowy booths lining another wall. The seats and backs of the chairs were upholstered in red velvet and looked as if they belonged in a high class bordello. Dark red roses filled small vases that sat atop each table, and the scent of something wonderful drifted from the kitchen. The whole place felt…intimate—which was, most likely, just what the owners had been shooting for.
Strange being back in-country after six months of active duty. It was always a culture shock to come back to a world where he wasn’t walking around armed to the teeth at all times. He loved his job, but being a SEAL made being a civilian a little more difficult. It always took a few days to acclimate himself to “normal” life. And then by the time he was used to it, his leave was over and he was back on active duty.
He took a drink of his beer and enjoyed the icy froth sliding down his throat. Just a week ago he’d been chugging warm, sandy water and had been grateful for it. Now, thanks to his sister’s insistence, he was in the bar of a trendy club, feeling out of place. Still, at least no one was shooting at him.
Mike and Hula hadn’t been able to get a table for dinner. The place was booked weeks in advance, or so the cute hostess had told them. So they were making do with bar food and a few drinks. The snacks were delicious, the drinks overpriced, and the two of them stood out like a couple of hounds at a poodle contest.
Hell, he could practically hear money reproducing in the leather wallets of the people surrounding him. A couple of Navy SEALS couldn’t compete in that category. No military man was going to have a bank balance that would impress anyone. But then, he thought with a smile, none of the guys in expensive suits would’ve made it in his world, either. A fat wallet wouldn’t have bought their way out of a desert.
Still, Mike would have been more comfortable down at one of the taverns they usually went to when in town on leave. Colleen, though, had said he owed it to himself to splurge a little. And he had to admit she’d been right. The bar food was excellent, the place was loaded with atmosphere, and at nine there’d be some good jazz—which was one of the reasons he was willing to hang around. Well, that and the view.
Like everything else at Steam, the cocktail waitresses were things of beauty. One of them, a blonde, had already caught his eye, her black dress skimming a figure that could make a grown man weep. And while he was waiting for her to come back from wherever she’d disappeared to, there was the redheaded waitress in the corner to appreciate.
Hula talked and Mike nodded occasionally, but he wasn’t listening. Instead, he was focused on the redhead, just ten feet away. Unusual, since he normally avoided redheads—and at that thought, he winced a little. Memories of one specific redhead, six years before, filled his mind. Back then he’d been too young and too stupid to know what he’d had when he’d had it.
But that was then and this was now. And this redhead had his complete attention. With her back to him, he could only tell that she was tall and curvy with legs that went on forever. She wore black stockings and red high-heeled shoes and red ribbons were entwined in the mass of short, auburn curls that dusted across her shoulders. The black skirt of her uniform just barely covered the curve of what looked to be an excellent behind, and he couldn’t wait for her to straighten up and turn around so he could get a look at her face.
“Yo, man,” Hula said, with a short, sharp laugh that caught his attention. “She’s way outta your league.”
Mike shot his friend a quick, confident grin. Hell, he’d never been able to resist a challenge. “Ten bucks says I get a date.”
“With her?” Hula laughed, dug in his pocket and came up with a handful of bills. Pulling a ten out, he slapped it onto the tabletop and said, “You’re on.”
“Watch and learn,” Mike said, dropping his own ten on top of his friend’s. Taking Hula’s cash would only make meeting that redhead all the sweeter. Then speaking louder, he said, “Excuse me. Miss?”
The redhead turned with a smile on her face that quickly dissolved into a mask of stone.
“Oh, hell,” Mike muttered.
Balancing a tray that held four drinks ready to be delivered, the redhead stomped across the floor and didn’t stop until she’d reached Mike’s side. Ignoring Hula, she glared at Mike for a full, heart-stopping minute before saying tightly, “You son of a bitch.”
Then she dumped her tray of drinks in his lap and stalked off, head high.
People gasped, Hula laughed and grabbed up the bet money, and Mike Connelly sat there dripping, watching the woman he’d once loved walk away.
Back in the kitchen, Kelly O’Shea trembled with the collision of fury and passion warring inside her. But then, it had always been that way between them.
Fire and gasoline.
Dynamite and matches.
Mike and Kelly.
She lifted one hand and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. For God’s sake, she’d be lucky if Clay didn’t fire her for this. Clay Crawford owned Steam and he probably wouldn’t appreciate one of his waitresses dumping drinks in a customer’s lap. On the other hand, he was a man who understood women—which was more than she could say for Mike.
“Why is he here? And why’d he have to come into my place?” Oh God, she sounded like an old movie…Of all the gin joints in the world… She leaned back against the wall and tuned out the subdued roar of noise created by the chefs, their assistants and the waiters coming and going through the swinging doors.
Mike Connelly, Navy SEAL and the love of her life. Well, he used to be the love of her life.
Kelly stared at
the ceiling, but all she could see was Mike’s face. Damn it. She closed her eyes, but that didn’t shut off the image of him. It was ingrained in her mind. Just as it had been from the moment she’d first met him.
Funny, but you’d think that six years would be a long enough time for her to have gotten him out of her system. But like a slow-moving virus, Mike Connelly just slipped from one spot to another in her mind and body. Never really leaving, only hiding until he could attack her at her most vulnerable moments.
Dark hair, deep blue eyes and a mouth that used to do some amazing things to her more than willing body. Oh, my. She trembled and she was pretty sure she actually sighed.
Quickly, she opened her eyes, straightened up and gave a guilty look around—as though everyone in the kitchen were mind readers. Thank God for small favors, no one would know what she was thinking.
Well, except for everyone in the bar who’d witnessed her little outburst. She groaned and slapped one hand to her forehead. And here she’d been so sure that she’d conquered her whole flash-fire temper thing. Apparently not when it came to Mike.
“Kelly?” Donna Tucker, a small blond working the bar with her, stepped into the kitchen, still clutching her empty serving tray. “You okay?”
“Terrific.”
“Who was that guy?”
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?”
Donna grinned. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“So why the alcoholic tsunami?”
“Long story.”
Donna nodded. “Okay, but are you gonna come back out there soon? I can’t work the whole room alone—I might run screaming into the night.”
Kelly gave her a tired smile. “Sure. I’ll be out in a few minutes, okay?”
Donna laid one hand on her arm and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll hold the fort.”
Alone again, Kelly thought, if six years hadn’t been enough, standing in the kitchen for another fifteen minutes wasn’t going to help. God. He was here. Back in Savannah. Back in her life. No, not her life. Just her world. Big difference.
Back to work, she told herself. Straightening up, she silently gave herself a little pep talk. She would not let Mike blunder back into her life. She would not give in to the urge to walk into the bar and smack him. She would not lose her job along with her temper.
Beside her, the swinging door flew open, nearly slapping her with an enthusiastic punch. Before she could complain however, Mike Connelly stepped through, his narrow-eyed gaze sweeping the busy kitchen. In his soaking wet jeans and button-down red shirt, he looked huge and mad and, damn it, gorgeous.
Why couldn’t he have gotten ugly?
Briefly she thought about cringing back and keeping out of sight, but that instant of cowardice disappeared almost as quickly as it had blossomed. Why should she hide?
Instinctively she went on the offensive. Why wait to be attacked? Go out and meet it head-on. She wouldn’t let him see that she was still shaken. “What are you doing?” she demanded, pushing away from the wall.
His head whipped around and she felt pinned by his gaze as if she were under a hot light being interrogated.
“You’re asking me that?”
“Fine.” Her gaze dropped briefly to his soaking-wet blue jeans and maybe she felt an ounce of guilt. But she squashed it flat under gallons of self-righteousness. After six years of both mourning and cursing a man, a woman was allowed a little leeway, wasn’t she? “You’re not allowed back here.”
“Ask me if I care.”
“Of course you don’t,” she snapped, still feeling the sizzle of temper dancing through her veins.
“Man, you haven’t changed a bit,” Mike muttered, ignoring everyone around them and concentrating solely on her.
Damn. That had been one of his best traits, Kelly remembered. How he could make her feel as if no one in the world existed except her. Of course, in this instance that wasn’t exactly a good thing.
“Kelly!” the head chef shouted from across the room, “Get that guy out of my kitchen or I’ll start sharpening the knives.”
“Relax Rick,” she said, automatically defusing the cranky but incredibly talented chef. “He was just leaving.”
“Like hell I am,” Mike interrupted.
“You don’t belong here,” Kelly said.
“He’s not leaving!” Rick shouted, then asked of no one in particular, “How can I be expected to create in an atmosphere of chaos?”
“Keep your shorts on,” Mike told him, unimpressed with the short, round man quickly turning purple beneath his chef’s hat.
“My—” Rick blustered, slammed the business end of his carving knife into the butcher block counter top and demanded, “Kelly…”
“He’s already gone,” she said, and sailed past Mike, headed back to the bar, knowing that he’d follow her and prevent Rick’s imminent heart attack.
Once through the kitchen door, Mike grabbed hold of her arm and Kelly told herself to forget all about the quicksilver punch of electricity that jolted her system and sparkled behind her eyes.
To help in the whole ignoring process, she pulled her arm free and spun around to face the man—and her memories. She looked up. Way up. Why hadn’t she remembered exactly how tall he was, she wondered. Could it be because she usually pictured him lying down beside her, or on top of her or under her or…
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
It was dark in the bar area, but still Mike’s eyes seemed to glitter at her. He was mad. Well, who wouldn’t be after having a Mai Tai, a scotch and soda and two beers dumped in his lap?
And if she expected to keep her job, she’d better start by soothing the irate customer.
“I’m sorry about the drinks, okay?”
His mouth twisted. “No, you’re not sorry and it’s not okay.”
“Fine.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I’m not sorry. Sue me.”
“Kelly, damn it…”
“Don’t you start on me, Mike Connelly,” she said, keeping her voice low enough that only the customers closest to them could overhear. She couldn’t believe this was happening. For years she’d imagined running into Mike again. After all, his only family, Colleen, still lived in Savannah, so he was bound to be here sooner or later. But always, always, her daydreams involved her looking fabulous and spurning a dejected, preferably homeless Mike who was groveling at her feet, begging for forgiveness.
This meeting was not going according to plan.
He glanced around, intimidating a few of the more curious people into turning their gazes away, then he looked back at Kelly. “We need to talk.”
“No, we needed to talk six years ago,” she countered, surprised at the sting of unexpected tears in her eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that he could still get to her. Well, except for the whole dumping-drinks-in-his-lap thing. “Now, I need to get back to work, and you need to leave me alone.”
He flinched. She could see it in his eyes. Maybe that was a low blow, she thought, but didn’t he deserve it? After all, she wasn’t the one who’d walked out just a month before their wedding.
“Kelly.” He reached for her, then changed his mind and let his hand drop to his side. “I don’t want to just walk away again.”
The tone of his voice, the shadows in his eyes, even the way he held his mouth all got to her. Why he could still turn her insides into syrup, she didn’t know. What she was sure of though, was that she couldn’t afford to get pulled into Mike Connelly’s orbit again.
Six years ago the pain had crippled her.
She couldn’t go through that again.
Nodding encouragement to herself, Kelly sucked in air like a drowning woman, held it for a long moment, then slowly let it slide from her lungs. “You don’t have to. This time I’ll do the walking.”
Chapter 2
Sitting in a bar all night should have been more fun.
But watching Kelly ignore him wasn’t Mike’s idea of a good t
ime.
He should leave.
But he couldn’t.
Hula had finally packed it in a couple of hours ago, but Mike stayed where he was as though his butt was glued to the chair. He watched Kelly work the room, balancing heavy trays of drinks, chatting, laughing, smiling at her customers. And he wished to hell she’d smile at him.
But she wouldn’t even look at him.
Didn’t seem to matter, though. He could still see the expression on her face just before she’d dumped the drinks on his lap. Fury, yes. But there’d also been pain in her eyes, and for that he could have cheerfully kicked his own butt if he could have figured out just how to accomplish it.
Six years was a long time.
Not long enough to erase the memories of how he’d left it with Kelly, though. He’d handled it badly; he knew that. And if he had it to do over again, he’d sure as hell do it differently. But life didn’t give you do-overs. You made your mistakes and then you paid.
And sometimes, he thought, the payments just kept coming.
From the lounge on the other side of the building came the low, soft wail of a saxophone, sounding like liquid tears. A piano kept time and the soft brush of drums and a bass fiddle added enough to the mix that the four-piece band sounded like a well-tuned symphony. Around Mike, people tapped their fingers against the tabletops. The cocktail waitresses dipped and swayed in unconscious rhythm with the beat, and once more Mike’s gaze fixed on Kelly.
He reached for his cup of coffee—he’d stopped drinking beer as soon as he realized he would be staying till closing time—and took a long swallow in a futile attempt to ease the fire burning inside. It wouldn’t help, of course, but what choice did he have? For six years the memory of her had stayed with him, taunting him. There’d been other women over the years—hell, he was no saint. But not one of them had ever meant what Kelly had. Not one of them had ever touched him as Kelly had.
The Dare Affair: Summer In Savannah Anth. (Dynasties: The Danforths Book 6.5 Page 8