Duncan used his body to keep the women apart while he radioed for backup. This whole attempting to serve and protect without any authority or firepower was a new experience for him. When the dispatcher asked for his location, he wasn’t sure how to pinpoint it, so he craned his neck to find out where the crowd had assembled.
And there she was.
“Looks like I’m at Adelena Silva’s vendor tent,” he told the dispatcher, shouting over the women’s continued arguing. “And it’s a zoo.”
Lena sat behind a large table draped in fabric that featured her trademark iridescent swirls of light and color. Directly behind her, a huge screen displayed a video loop of her work. Each image appeared for a few seconds, then dissolved into the next. He watched a view of the hypnotic scenes float by until, suddenly, he sucked in air. The painting from his room! There it was for the whole world to see, his very own personal dream vixen. The image faded, to be replaced by another, and Duncan snapped himself out of it.
What was he doing, again?
“Ladies, please.” He spread his arms and held them apart while he returned his attention to Lena. She was attempting to autograph posters and coffee table books while the mob pressed in on her. From what Duncan could see, the line of her fans snaked past the row of food vendors and ended half a block away at the chili cook-off stage.
“Back off, bouncer!” One of the women stood on her tiptoes and got up in Duncan’s face. “I don’t see a badge or a gun, so what you gonna do about it?”
The other woman tried to kick her opponent while she was distracted, but instead kicked Duncan in the calf. Oh, hell no. After everything he’d been through, he did not plan on getting reinjured breaking up a girl fight.
“Do you want an autograph from Miss Silva, or do you want to spend the night in jail?” he asked.
The head-to-toe mermaid laughed and looked him up and down. “What are you, some kind of rent-a-cop?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s exactly what I am.”
“You’re superhot,” the T-shirt woman said. “But this is none of your damn business.”
Just then Chip jogged up to the tent and cut through the line to reach Duncan.
“Here you go,” Duncan said. “I hereby turn these two lovely art aficionados over to your care. I’m going to lend Miss Silva a hand.”
As he made his way toward the front of the line, Duncan continued to observe Lena. She was dressed in a filmy, soft green top that floated around her arms when she moved and fell loosely from one shoulder. The color and shape seemed to accentuate how pale and creamy her skin was, as well as the darkness of her eyes and eyelashes. She wore large, sea-green earrings that brushed against the side of that exquisite neck. And her hair . . . He’d never seen anything like it on another woman. It fascinated him, falling straight and glossy down the center of her back.
Lena took time with each person who came to the table and seemed genuinely interested in every visitor. When Duncan realized she was inquiring about names and hometowns and thanking each individual for enjoying her artwork, he knew he had to do something. At this pace, one of two things would happen—either Lena would still be sitting there during the Mermaid Festival closing ceremonies, or there would be a riot.
He cut to the side opening of the tent and pushed his way inside. Lena turned suddenly, her marker poised in mid-autograph. “You can’t—” She stopped speaking. Her lips parted as her eyes opened wide. “What—”
“Why in the world would you try to do this by yourself?” Duncan asked as he entered the tent.
“I usually don’t, but my manager is in Paris putting together a gallery show for me. I was told Island Day organizers would provide a volunteer.”
“Well, here I am,” was all he said. Then he got to work.
For the first twenty minutes or so, Lena felt awkward having Duncan in the tent with her. Not only did he take up a lot of room, but he seemed to be everywhere at once as he performed the duties of assistant, bodyguard, and event coordinator.
“Next five people step forward, please!”
No, her public appearances weren’t usually organized like a SEAL team operation, but she had to admit that this particular Island Day appearance was shaping up to be one of the most enjoyable she’d ever had—and not just because it was well organized.
Lena felt electrically charged being this close to Duncan, like her nerve endings were going haywire. And though he was the perfect gentleman—for the second day in a row—she was uneasy. Would he ever kiss her again? Would he even dare to? Or had she enjoyed the first and only adult kiss she would ever receive from Duncan Flynn?
Occasionally, while restocking the poster supply or bringing her a fresh bottle of water, he would brush his fingers across her arm or bump her shoulder. She enjoyed it even though it was accidental. Or at least she assumed it was.
The first item on Duncan’s agenda had been setting up two folding chairs about ten feet back from the table and instructing people to remain behind the chairs until they were called. She had to admit it was far less claustrophobic, and it allowed the two of them to develop a rhythm. Duncan politely but firmly moved the crowd along, giving each person about fifteen seconds to chat and get their autograph. For those who wanted photos, Duncan let them through to stand next to Lena for a single shot, then immediately ushered them out.
Clearly, he was not used to the quirkiness of Lena’s fans and seemed surprised when a woman asked Lena to autograph her wedding album. She and her husband had been married in an Adelena Silva–themed ceremony, she explained, and she had dressed as a mermaid bride.
“Absolutely beautiful,” Lena said, quickly looking at the photos. “I wish you many years of happiness.”
“Next five people step up, please!”
She saw how Duncan bristled when a man stood in front of Lena, yanked up his shirt, and revealed an entire torso tattooed with one of her most famous paintings. When the man asked her to autograph his flesh below his belly button, Duncan stiff-armed him. “Keep your pants on,” he told him, and then he leaned down to whisper in Lena’s ear, “Are you kidding me?”
She giggled and whispered back, “I don’t mind. I’ve had weirder requests.”
“I don’t think I want to know.” When he pulled away, he was smiling. At her.
Lena was unable to move. That smile. How was it possible that a man could be so over-the-top macho and yet so beautiful at the same time? His eyes were the focal point of his face, bright with intensity, the color of the night sky under a full moon. His smile was straight and symmetrical, white teeth framed in pink lips, the upper being slightly thinner than the lower. But all that prettiness was set against a rugged backdrop. The smiling eyes were surrounded by crow’s-feet and edged with thick, dark brows. His nose was of the no-nonsense variety, straight and strong. But somewhere beneath the dark stubble sprinkled on his chin, upper lip, and cheeks was the same boyish face she’d loved.
“What?” he asked.
Just like that, the charcoal drawing appeared in her mind, though it had morphed into a fully realized portrait in oils. There, in perfect composition, was the sloping musculature of his shoulders, the dusky purple of his eyes.
“You’re right,” she said. “You don’t want to know.”
By four p.m., Duncan had cleared the queue and informed latecomers that Lena would see them next year. He closed the tent flaps and began to dismantle her laptop, take down the video screen, and pack up what was left of coffee table books and posters.
She stretched, stiff from sitting for hours on end in the same position and in awe of how wonderful Duncan had been.
“I can’t thank you enough. You were a lifesaver.”
He glanced up at her from where he crouched over a box and smiled. “My pleasure,” he said.
Duncan loaded up her SUV. What would have taken Lena hours of solo effort was accomplished in fifteen minutes. He held the door open for her as she climbed in and then waited for her to start the engine and buckl
e up.
Duncan leaned his forearms on the open window of her car. Lena smiled at him while trying not to stare at how the white polo shirt strained at his muscles. She pressed her knees together and summoned enough levelheadedness to get through this last exchange.
The man made her dizzy.
“Who’s helping you unload at your place?”
She did her best to sound nonchalant. “I’ve got it from here. Really. I’m fine.”
A wrinkle appeared between his eyes. “I would be happy to do that for you.”
Lena felt her heart start to bang inside her ribs. Was she ready for this? Was she ready for him to step into her world, her life? But this was what she’d always wanted, right? This was the imagined tale she had shared with Sanders a hundred times—that one day she would meet Duncan again, and it would be magical.
Her mouth had gone so dry she could barely speak. “Um, yes. That would be nice—but only if Clancy can spare you.”
Duncan smiled, then straightened up and tapped his hands on the driver’s side window ledge. “I was given direct orders by the chief of police to do whatever was necessary to assist our Island Day vendors.”
“Oh.” Lena blinked.
“In fact, his exact words were ‘do what you can to keep them happy.’” Duncan gestured to the empty passenger seat. “May I?”
“Of course. Yes. Sure.” Lena thought she would pass out.
She drove the five or so miles to the island’s North Shore, U.S. Navy Lieutenant Duncan Flynn riding shotgun. They talked about everything and nothing, and despite the traffic as the day’s events wound down, the time flew by. But all the while Lena kept thinking, I’m taking him home with me . . . I’m taking him home with me.
* * *
Duncan had seen Lena’s compound only at night, from down on the beach. So when the remote-controlled gates opened and he got a good broad-daylight look at it, the scope and style of the place shocked him.
The two-story structure sat on one of the highest points on the island and was a clean combination of cedar shingle, stone, glass, and more glass. He was no architect, but he noticed how it combined ultramodern lines with the traditional New England coastal style. Two giant stone chimneys bookended the house, and all the windows were trimmed with blue-green and white, which stood in bright contrast to the white cedar shakes. He could see a large greenhouse topped with at least six weather vanes of varying height, color, and design. The yard wasn’t a yard at all—it was wild island land. It took a couple minutes to get all the way down the crushed-shell drive.
“Not too shabby, Silva,” he said.
She laughed, and when he glanced over at her, he had to laugh along with her. Since Duncan wasn’t an artsy kind of guy, he couldn’t find the words to describe why he felt this way, but immediately he knew Lena belonged here. This was her place, and it suited her perfectly.
Beautiful. Unusual. Interesting.
She pulled into the attached garage and showed him a storage room off the back where she kept items for art shows.
As he unloaded the trunk, he asked her, “How many of these things do you do a year?”
“A year?” Lena paused, throwing a bag over her shoulder. Only then did Duncan have the time to appreciate the full effect of what she wore—figure-hugging black leggings and a pair of complicated-looking black sandals with a heel. Her floaty blouse was cinched in by a black leather belt that hung low on her hips, and her wrists were stacked with black and green bangles.
Holy shit, that girl is sexy.
“I travel about a week out of every month for media appearances and gallery events. I’m asked to do more, but I need to leave three unbroken weeks of each month to paint. Otherwise, what would I have to show?”
“Makes sense,” Duncan said. “Do you like being out there, having people swarm around you like they did today?”
She laughed, almost as if she were embarrassed. “I do. I love meeting people who like my work, but just between you and me, a little bit goes a long way.” She looked around. “I’m always so happy to come back home.”
Duncan nodded. He found it interesting that her favorite thing was coming home, which was the one thing he had always avoided. He stacked the last box. “So when is that show in Paris you mentioned?”
“October.”
Duncan closed the door to the storage area, feeling her eyes trained on his every move. “I guess you’ll be in Europe when I’m . . . who knows where. Europe? Central Asia? But neither of us will be here.”
Lena smiled stiffly, breaking eye contact for a second. “Do you know when you ship out?”
“I don’t.”
“Oh.” Lena shifted her weight from one fantastic leg to the other. “So, um, should I drive you back? Would you like something cool to drink first?”
Duncan smiled politely. “Since I’m here, I’d like to see some of your incredible home, if that’s not too pushy of me. And I’d kill for a cold beer.”
“Ah, sorry.” Lena shrugged. “No beer, but I’d love to show you around. I could whip up a margarita if you’re interested. I need one after today.”
“You got yourself a deal.”
Lena went upstairs to change and told Duncan to make himself at home, which gave him a chance to look around without Lena seeing his jaw hit the floor. As funky as the place looked from the drive, the oceanfront side of the house was where the party really got started. The home was perfectly situated for maximum light, and since it was nearly wall-to-wall glass, the view of the Atlantic was spectacular. From where he stood in the huge and open kitchen, he could see most of the first floor. A great room spread out on the west side, dominated by a giant stone fireplace and a killer media setup. On the east side Duncan saw a dining room and sitting room, with a wide hallway leading off to what were probably bedrooms. He didn’t think it would be polite to wander around by himself, so he took a seat at one of the counter stools pulled up to a vast kitchen island. He spread his hands out on the cool, ice-smooth quartz surface and wondered what the hell one petite woman needed with all this space.
Lena returned, now wearing a pair of Hawaiian floral surf shorts and a camisole top. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail and her bare feet slapped against the wood floor when she walked. The earrings and bracelets were gone, but Duncan saw that her toenails were painted a bright pink. This girl was too cute.
“Can we get right to the margaritas? I’m in a tequila state of mind,” Lena said with a smile.
Right then Duncan decided that Adelena Silva had her own version of a sense of humor. Sure, she was subdued and a little eccentric, but occasionally she’d come up with something sharp and funny, like the tequila comment, and it intrigued him. In all honesty, Duncan’s only memory of her was as a mousy, shy girl who’d hung out with him because she didn’t have anything better to do. She had been sweet to him even when he wasn’t sweet in return.
But he certainly didn’t remember her as being funny, or sharp, or gorgeous.
Duncan couldn’t just sit there while she waited on him, so he squeezed the lime and tossed an extra handful of ice into the blender. Lena let the countertop Ninja do its magic. She pointed to where he could find the margarita glasses, and Duncan chuckled as he carried them over.
“Just an FYI—these are bigger than my head.”
Lena laughed. “I’ve never heard anyone say the words, ‘This margarita is too big.’ Have you?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Duncan sprinkled sea salt onto a plate and gave the glass rims a good coating. He offered to pour. When Lena handed him the heavy glass pitcher, his hand skimmed across hers. A jolt of alarm surged through him. He managed not to visibly react, but he was astonished by how intense his response was. And strange. Lena was perfectly lovely and her touch was lovely, yet the contact made him want to bolt out of there and never look back.
Lena suggested they look around the downstairs first, and she showed him what she called the “guest wing,” which had three bedrooms and thre
e baths, a sitting room, and the main dining room. The great room had enough seating for twenty people and a huge flat-screen TV that doubled as a mirror when the power was off.
Duncan couldn’t help himself—he’d never seen a place more suited to a Super Bowl party in his life. Or for watching Bruins games. Or the Celtics and Red Sox seasons. She almost had to drag him out of there. What one artistic chick needed with a tricked-out man cave he had no idea.
They went outside next, and she walked him out onto a deck that seemed to go on forever. Then she showed him a greenhouse filled with plants, beautiful pottery, and odd-looking metal sculptures. She told him everything was the work of friends from art school.
He pointed up through the greenhouse roof. “Did the sculptor do the weather vanes, too?”
Lena looked surprised that he’d noticed. “No, that’s another friend.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of artist friends.”
She smiled. “I bet you have a lot of soldier friends.”
Duncan chuckled. “Most are Marines and SEALs, but yes—I do. You and I live in very different worlds, don’t we?”
Lena nodded. “Indeed.”
Next she took him around to the opposite side of the house, to a side porch. Duncan was surprised to find it was far more traditional than what he’d seen in the rest of the house. The outdoor living space was at least forty feet long and half as wide, screened in, covered by a knotty pine roof, and filled with plants, wicker furniture, and comfortable-looking pillows. There was a long rustic dining table and chairs and a huge overhead fan that looked like it could move some serious air when put to use. But his eyes were drawn to a two-person rope hammock strung diagonally from beam to beam, facing directly toward the beach.
“Whoa,” he said. “One day, before the end of the summer, I’d like to rent out that hammock for a couple hours.” He glanced down and smiled at Lena. “The next time I’m stuck in the desert, I can picture myself here.”
“Of course,” she said. “But in appreciation for your service, I’ll waive the hourly rate.”
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