“She used to live here.”
Zoe leaned forward and flicked a finger at the paper he held. “Your info is wrong. Buzz off and don’t come back or you’ll be facing the sheriff himself. We’re sick of you all.”
“There’ve been other reporters?” A note of worry cracked his voice.
“A few. They’re gone, and so are you.”
She closed the door and instantly another white card slipped through the mailbox hole. Zoe ripped it into tiny pieces and shoved it right back out.
“That ought to keep the creeps at bay for a while,” she said, brushing her hands like she was good and finished and heading back to the living room, where Guy was shuffling the deck for the next game.
“What’s she look like?” he asked.
“Oh, it was a he. Bald and ugly.”
He grinned. “I meant your aunt.”
“Great-aunt. And, trust me, she is—great, I mean.” Zoe dropped onto the sofa across from Guy, giving him raised eyebrows. “So you do like older women?”
“I figure if she’s anything like you, yeah.”
“Aw, you sweet thing.” She started collecting her cards as he dealt slowly and with great precision. “She’s funkalicious for an octogenarian.”
He laughed. “I don’t know what that means, but I think I like it.”
“It means she spikes her gray hair, has too many earrings, and has a weakness for beer.”
“At eighty?”
She shrugged. “Youth is wasted on the young, you know.”
“I’d like to meet her.” He scooped up his cards and tapped the half-deck carefully. “What happens when you put down an ace, again?”
“The other person has four tries to beat it.”
His shoulders sagged a little, a gesture she recognized as one Pasha made when she was just a little overwhelmed at the moment. “Let’s take a break,” she suggested, setting down her cards. “I think I’d rather just talk for a little while. You want more of that delicious tea?”
“Nope, makes me have to pee.”
She laughed again. “I love that you say what you’re thinking. It’s always been a problem for me.”
“It bothers my son.”
His son. “Will?”
He nodded.
“Did it always bother him? You know, like when he was little?”
He considered that, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’d like to work on my needlepoint now.”
Either he couldn’t remember or didn’t want to say. Or didn’t want to lie. Because a thought kept niggling at her: Was it possible Guy really did remember the past?
“Sure,” she said, getting up to gather the cross-stitching he’d shown her earlier.
Maybe he did remember who Jocelyn was and maybe he did know Will wasn’t his son. Because what better way to wipe your personal slate clean—especially if it was messy—than to conveniently forget everything you ever did? It was that or just run away when people got suspicious; God knows she knew that trick well enough.
He didn’t strike her as that cunning, but who knew?
She handed him the frame with the thick “training mesh” that a kid would use to learn needlepoint, along with some pearl cotton thread and a needle. “How’d you learn this?” she asked, wondering just how hard it would be to trap him.
“Will taught me.”
“Really? How’d he learn?”
“Computer videos. That tube thing.”
“YouTube.” She watched his hand shake ever so slightly as he pulled the thread through to execute the most basic half cross-stitch. “Will’s good to you,” she said, carefully watching his reaction.
He looked up, his gray eyes suddenly clear. “I love that boy more’n life itself.”
More than his own daughter? “What was he like as a kid? A baseball player, I understand.”
Guy’s eyes clouded up again and he cast his gaze downward. “I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall or you didn’t really know him that well?”
He refused to look up. “You know, my mind.”
“No, actually, I don’t know your mind. Surely you have a picture of him? His trophies? Where are they?”
“In his house, next door.” He stabbed the needle. “I don’t go over there.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I just don’t.”
“Why not?”
The needle stuck in a hole and he tried to force it, pulling some of the thread and making an unsightly lump. “Let’s go back to talking about your beer-drinking old aunt.”
She leaned forward. “Why don’t you ever go to your son’s house?”
He looked up. “I did once.”
“And?”
“It made me cry.” His voice cracked and his eyes filled and Zoe felt like a heel.
“I’m sorry,” she said, taking the frame from his hands so she could try to undo the tangled stitch. “I shouldn’t have made you talk about it.”
He just shook his head, swallowing hard. “I can’t remember,” he said, wiping at his eyes under his glasses. “But…”
She got the thread through, saving him from that one little mistake on the needlepoint anyway. “But what?” she prompted, handing it back to him.
“But you wouldn’t be the first person to try to prove I’m lying.”
“I’m…” Her voice trailed off as he lifted his eyebrow. Then she just started to laugh. “Shit.”
He grinned. “Shit what?”
“Shit, you and my aunt would really hit it off.”
Smiling, he leaned back and worked on his flowers in silence.
“There’s a marina around the corner, remember?” Will asked as they stepped outside the deli. “Want to go down there? It’s too pretty to—” Go look at more old-age homes. “Do anything indoors.”
“Sure.” She slipped the sunglasses on again and tugged at the brim of her red cap. “And we can finish your life-coaching session. You want to?”
“I want…” He reached under the cap and pulled the shades down her nose. “You to take off these stupid things. I can’t see your eyes, Jossie.”
A smile threatened but she shook it off. “I have to.”
“No.” He slid the glasses off and slipped them into his pocket, reaching to put his arm over her shoulders. “I’ll protect you from the roving paparazzi.”
She laughed. “You like playing bodyguard.”
“Who’s playing?” He squinted into the parking lot, then pressed an imaginary earpiece. “The coast is clear. Let’s get Bloomerang to her yacht.”
She smiled up at him, the prettiest, widest, sweetest smile he’d seen from her yet. “You used to call me that.”
“Because you always came back to me,” he reminded her with a squeeze.
She held his gaze for the longest time, the magic that used to connect them so real at that moment he could feel the physical presence of it. “I liked it,” she admitted. “I liked being your Bloomerang.”
“I liked it, too.” His voice was gruff, even to his ears, and he covered the emotion by pulling her into him. She slid her arm around his waist, the most natural, and wonderful, move in the world. She felt small and compact next to him, and he could have sworn she actually relaxed a little.
He led her along the walkway of the strip mall, past a consignment store and a frame shop, his eye on the entrance to the marina at the other end.
“You always were good at protecting me,” she said softly.
The words slowed his step—imperceptibly, he hoped. “Not good enough,” he murmured.
She looked up at him. “Maybe ‘protect’ is the wrong word. You always gave me… security. Safety. Sanctuary.”
He tucked her tighter against his torso. God, he’d tried.
“Safety and sanctuary,” she said, “were what I said I’d be prepared to die for when I was first asked that question in my therapy.”
He wanted to respond to that, to mull it over, but another question popped out inste
ad. “You were in therapy?”
“It’s part of getting a psych degree. Oh, Will, look.” At the marina’s grand arched entrance, she stopped. “It’s like a different place.”
The quaint little neighborhood dock, with its handpainted sign, weathered bait-and-tackle stand, and rotten boathouse, was completely gone. In its place was an expanse of four individual mooring peninsulas, each chock full of million-dollar yachts, cabin cruisers, and high-tech fishing boats. Along one side, a bustling yacht club blocked the view with giant columns and bright orange Spanish tile. A sleek marble marker announced they’d reached Marco Harbor.
“Kind of sad to see the little neighborhood marina turned into this,” Jocelyn said as she slipped out of Will’s arm and walked along an asphalt drive that led to the boats.
They headed down the first maze of docks between boats so big they cast a shadow over them. As Will took Jocelyn’s hand, the squawk of a heron and the rhythmic splash of water against hulls were the only sounds. Some rigging hit a mast, the clang like a musical bell over the quiet harbor, and, in the distance, the steady thump of—
They both looked at each other as the sound of running feet registered at the same instant.
“There she is! Right there!”
They whipped around at the woman’s voice, seeing their waitress jogging toward them holding up a cell phone, a man next to her with a more professional camera.
“That’s Miles Thayer’s lover!”
Jocelyn froze in shock, but Will instantly nudged her forward. “Run.”
They did, taking off down the next hundred-yard mooring, ducking behind a massive trawler, then scooting around a corner to hide.
“Damn it,” she whispered, her breath already tight.
“They went this way!” the woman yelled.
Will turned one way, then the other. They could run out into the open toward the storage unit, jump in the water, or climb onto an empty boat.
He nudged her toward the back of the trawler. “Climb up!”
Without arguing, she grabbed the railing and scrambled up to the deck, and he followed, leading her around the cabin to the opposite side, away from the dock.
“Get down.” He pushed her to the fiberglass deck, flattening her and covering her so they could both fit in the narrow space of the portside walkway. Under him, she struggled for quiet breaths, every muscle taut.
“Oh, God, this is a nightmare,” she whispered.
“Shhh.” He kissed her hair and put a finger over her lips. “We’re completely out of sight. They’d have to get in every single boat to find us. Just stay still and quiet.”
They heard footsteps and voices on the next dock and Jocelyn turned to him, her face inches from his, their eyes locked on each other. They both held their breath, and he clutched her a little tighter, his legs wrapped around her, her backside tucked into his stomach.
The footsteps on their dock were like thunder, loud enough to feel right through the fiberglass.
“They found us,” she mouthed, her eyes wide.
He just shook his head a little and put his finger over her lips.
God, she was pretty. Her curves fit right into him, her hair tickling his face, her lips, curving in a secret smile, warm on his fingertip.
He wanted his mouth there, not his fingertip. Wanted their lips to touch so badly it made his mouth ache, and his muscles hurt from fighting the urge to close that one whisper of an inch that separated them from a kiss.
“They must be on one of the boats.” The woman’s voice carried over the water, as clear as if she were five feet away. They heard a splash as someone climbed onboard a boat nearby.
“Well, find them, damn it,” the man said. “Do you have any idea how much a picture of her is worth to the tabloids? Jesus, Helen, we could retire.”
“I’ll find them,” she said, determined. “I’ll climb in every boat in this marina and I will find you, you fucking homewrecker!”
Jocelyn cringed at the last three words, hollered into the wind.
“You could tell her,” he whispered. “You could tell her the truth.”
She shook her head and somehow inched even deeper under him, sparking every powerful, protective need. And, man, he had many needs where Jocelyn was concerned, but protecting her was always at the top of his list.
“Excuse me? Can I help you?” A new voice called out, one of male authority. “That’s not your boat, ma’am.”
“I’m looking for someone,” the woman said. “They’re…” Her voice trailed off and the other man spoke to her, too far away for Will to make out the words.
“You cannot get onboard a boat you don’t own. Sorry.” More footsteps. “You’re going to have to leave, ma’am.”
Under him, he felt Jocelyn relax ever so slightly.
“But there’s a woman hiding on one of these boats! She’s wanted by the… people.”
“Why don’t you two just come with me, please?”
Their footsteps retreated, the voices faded, and after a minute it was silent but for the lapping waves and the soft chime of sail rigging in the breeze.
“Should we try to get out of here?” Jocelyn asked.
He closed his eyes, picturing the layout of the harbor they’d just run through. If they could slip off this boat and travel over one row, they could get behind the storage unit. But more likely, marina management would be all over them and their pursuers would be ready to pounce outside the marina.
“Let’s just wait,” he said.
“Like this?”
He smiled. “You got a better idea?”
She shifted a little and squished up her face. “My hip bones are smashed.”
He lifted up an inch, hating the loss of warmth. “Scooch around. But don’t rock the boat. Literally.”
She carefully slipped out from under him, rolling to press her back against the side of the cabin. He turned on his side, making them body-to-body and face-to-face. And damn near mouth-to-mouth.
She slid her hand between their chests, reaching up to touch his face tenderly. “Thank you, Will. Thank you for cooperating. I know you don’t agree with or understand what I’m doing, but I really appreciate this.”
“ ’Sokay,” he assured her. “Are you comfortable?”
“I’m always comfortable with you, Will. You are comfort to me.”
The compliment touched him. “You say that now. Wait until your right arm, backside, and both feet fall asleep.” He leaned his face closer to hers, so close he lost focus. So close their noses touched. So close he could feel her warm breath on his lips. “Unless, of course, you keep the blood flowing.”
“I suppose you have an idea for how to do that.”
“Plenty of them.” He added just a hint of pressure, and instantly everything came rushing back, all those old achy needs.
He always, always wanted her.
“Guess what I’m about to do?” he asked.
“Rock the boat?”
“For once, I’m not going to… wait.” He closed the space and easily, softly, barely let their lips brush, the contact sparking tiny explosions of white lights behind his eyes.
How could she still do this to him? Fifteen years, three thousand miles, and their whole adulthood they’d been separated and just this much of a kiss and every feeling came thundering home.
But he held back. Their mouths weren’t completely opened, and their tongues stayed poised for that first encounter, hands still but already heavy with the desire to touch.
And way down low, he started to grow hard.
Her mouth was sweet and supple, and pliable as she finally relaxed and offered her tongue. He took it, curling it with his own, tasting mint tea and sweet memories and—her.
A tiny whimper made him need to touch her throat, just for the pure pleasure of feeling that tender skin pulse under his fingertip. He closed one hand around the narrow column of her neck and, with the other on her shoulder, inched her closer.
She didn’t stiff
en or fight him, but leaned into the kiss and pressed her palm on his chest. Right over his thumping heart.
They broke the kiss but stayed a hair apart, opening their eyes at the same time.
“What are we doing, Will?”
“Hiding from the cameras.” He kissed her again, and she added some pressure of her own, so he slid his hand down her throat, over the slightly damp, completely soft skin just under the dip of her collarbones.
Her hips rocked slightly, enough to fire more blood to his already overcharged erection, his breath tight as he worked his mouth over her jaw and back to her ear.
She moaned softly.
It was all he needed to hear to kiss her again, to delve his tongue deeper and slip his hand into her silky hair.
She smelled like the sun, tasted like magic, and felt like—
Like nothing he’d felt for fifteen years.
Dragging his hand through her hair, he took his palm lower, over her shoulder, over her breastbone, just to the rise of her body where he could count the heartbeats, as rapid as his. One more kiss, one more breath, and he slowly caressed her breast.
Her whole body shuddered instantly.
“Did I find your weak spot?” he murmured into her mouth.
She sighed. “It appears you are my weak spot.”
Something about the way she said it, the catch in her voice, slammed into his chest. “I’m lucky that way.”
Their lips brushed again, a soft groan of satisfaction rumbling in Will’s chest as he intensified the kiss, melting their mouths together and sliding his leg up enough to tuck her deeper into him.
“I can’t just kiss you,” he admitted, fondling her breast, already itching to touch her bare skin. “I want it all.”
She froze for a second, leaning back.
“Not here, obviously,” he added at the look of panic on her face.
“Then we better slow down,” she said, her voice husky.
“Is that what you want?”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t know what I want, Will.”
“Then let me give you options. We could just kiss…” He took her mouth again, finishing the suggestion with a long, wet, completely well-received kiss. “And I could touch you.” He thumbed over her nipple, loving the way it responded. “And we could, you know…” He rocked his erection into hers.
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