by Tracy Sumner
Adam rolled his eyes and poured a half measure.
Tanner frowned at the stingy allotment; Adam sighed and slid the bottle out of reach.
“Charlie’s having a Christmas tree decorating party.” Adam propped his chin on his fist and leaned forward. “If you don’t show, she will kill me. And I know for a fact Mrs. Peters is invited. Her daughter is sure to be there, too. Can you handle that without upsetting the guests? One lovely guest in particular.”
“No problem.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look, I knew her once. Okay?” Tanner slammed his glass to the table.
“How well?”
How well? Well enough for dreams to wake him. Dreams that had him desperately searching a cold bed for a warm body. Some days, when loneliness seemed a living, breathing entity inside him, he smelled her scent on his sheets.
“How well, Tanner? I guess I should understand in the event I need to stand between you again.”
“How well?” He tipped his glass high. Welcome warmth flowed through him. “Pretty well. About two years ago.”
Adam’s hand shot out, entreating. “And?”
“Suffice it to say, the lady isn’t as charmed with me as old Doris. At one time, maybe, but some well-intended lies, a series of articles in the Times, and a bit of belated, ham-fisted backtracking botched that rather well.”
“With both of you in Richmond, seems like—”
“Seems like nothing. Close proximity hasn’t helped. The woman literally dashes the other way when she sees me coming. Even if” —he shook his head— “even if I wanted to give the relationship another try, she has someone. Saw them twice. On the street. A few weeks later, at the opera. The second time, I asked my host who the man was.” The bastard clinging to her side, hand resting possessively on her arm. “A damned society boy. I certainly don’t reside in his circle, so I’m not acquainted with him. Too lofty an assortment for a lowly newspaperman.”
“Maybe—”
“Listen,” Tanner said, setting a scowl on his face he hoped would convey his exhaustion with the subject. “I’m past wanting Kat Peters to be a part of my life. She’s nothing now except a faded memory.”
“Faded memories make you act like you did by the stagecoach?”
Tanner grunted. “She made me a little angry, is all.” He closed his eyes, the meager amount of whiskey he’d consumed clouding his mind. Maybe food would help. When had he eaten last? Two days, three?
“Tanner?” Adam’s voice called to him from the end of a long tunnel. “Tanner, are you all right?”
Tanner blinked, Adam’s face swimming into view. “Just tired, hungry. The last few weeks have been rough...working on a story. Hiding out. The beard, the clothes, simply part of the ruse. A few days ago, I got caught in some trouble.” He paused and wiped his hand across his mouth. His fingers quivered against his lips. “I—I had to leave town.”
Adam rocked back in his chair. “Are the police looking for you?”
“No. God, no.” He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I didn’t do anything illegal. I picked the wrong place at the wrong time. Trust me, a very wrong time.”
“Your editor?”
“Suggested I lie low for a week or two. Take a rest, so here I am.”
Adam sighed. “Well, you’re safe here. This is as close to the end of the world as she gets.”
For the first time in nearly a week, the flare of panic in Tanner’s chest dimmed. He realized he could place some of his burden on his friend’s capable shoulders. “I want to sleep. Forget about writing for a few nights. Forget what a newspaper looks like.” Forget he’d ever known Kat Peters.
“How about we stop by the barber, then get you home? Tan, I think you need a few years sleep, never mind a few nights. We can work the rest out tomorrow.”
Tanner released a weak smile. “A trollop, a barber and a bed? This place might be too much for me.”
“Barber first. Bath a close second. No wonder Katherine Peters was in such a rage. Locked in a stagecoach with you smelling this...terrible.”
Kat. Just a few doors down. Long limbs tangled in silk sheets, her glorious hair flowing down her back. God, she was so close he could almost feel her, simmering deep in his bones.
I don’t care about her anymore, Tanner assured himself.
What the hell difference would one more lie make?
* * *
Kate closed the bedroom door and turned, slumping against it. Her legs didn’t want to support her, her feet didn’t want to move, but she forced them to, her knees finally cracking the wooden bedstead. Flopping to her stomach, she buried her face in the coverlet.
Dear God.
Tanner Barkley.
As lewd images raced into her mind, she sat up with a whispered oath.
Tanner Barkley.
She yanked her boot off and flung it against the wall. She had avoided him for a year and a half. Except for four inadvertent meetings. Outside Palmer’s Antiques: willowy redhead. On the lawn of Capital Square: petite brunette. Chisom Taylor’s ball: voluptuous blond. Spring races. Hmm...she squinted and wound a strand of hair about her finger. Ah. Another blond.
With a yank, Kate hurled the other boot against the wall.
All at once, Kate felt like crying. Or leaping from the upper porch she had glimpsed from the walkway below.
What was she going to do? What in the world was she going to do?
Buck up, Kate. You shared a stagecoach with him. For over three hours.
Yes, that was true. The longest three hours of her life. To avoid looking at him, she’d recorded the number of scuffmarks on her boots, identified every variety of shrub among the frost-covered tangle they passed, and calculated interest rates in her head.
Regrettably, as the coach bounced, so did her gaze.
Tanner looked dreadful. Emaciated. Pale blue eyes hollow in their sockets, normally bronze skin the color of chalk. Arm supported by a dirty sling. A nasty red scar snaking beneath the stubble on his chin. His good hand shaking as he lifted his cheroot—which he’d not asked permission to smoke—to his lips. The wind had snatched it from his fingers and thrust it, smoldering, atop her paisley shawl.
She wrapped her arms around her waist and hugged tight. What did it matter? She hated Tanner Barkley. She truly did. However, she didn’t delight in his looking so frail. Senseless when, not long ago, she’d wished to see him at his worst: strung from the highest limb in Richmond, dragged down Bank Street behind a galloping horse, tarred and feathered and forced to run through Town Market. Naked. She shivered and closed her eyes as an image of his muscular physique, as clear as any daguerreotype, popped, unwelcome, into her mind.
Scratch the tar and feather idea. Too easy to visualize the mob of women, plucking feathers and pinching Tanner’s tarred behind. She punched the pillow, clenched her fist tighter, and punched again.
And his face, still so handsome that when she’d gotten her first good look—light from the carriage window spilling over him, making him appear innocent and golden—a breath of air, thick as cotton, almost choked her.
Even the greenish cast to his skin could not alter such undiluted beauty.
Kate flung the pillow to the floor and drew her knees to her chest. Breathing in the scent of lemon verbena, she let her gaze rove the room. Faded doilies and somber furniture hemmed her in.
Oh, and the colorless prospect of marrying a man she did not love.
A debacle she’d fumbled once before, maladroitly, but with a sincere measure of naiveté. Why, why, did the same man seem to be once again standing in her way?
* * *
“Sweetheart, tell me you didn’t.” Charlotte Chase pressed her lips to her husband’s shoulder and snuggled against him. The teasing scent of leather drifted from his skin. He released an exasperated groan, but slid his hand from her knee to her waist, drawing her in. She smiled. Perhaps, this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. “You’ve been busy writing the feature on”—she
kissed his chin— “Harriet Beecher Stowe and” —the corner of his mouth— “with the amount of work here, I figured—”
“You figured you’d stick you nose in Miss Peters’ business,” Adam said, disgust lacing his words.
She sighed. “If you must state your case so bluntly, I suppose, yes.”
“Oh, Charlie.”
“Oh, Charlie, nothing. This will keep Kate occupied while she’s here. The project interested her. Besides, September was the last time you tabulated our subscription accounts. Heavens, she’s a bookkeeper in Richmond, perfectly qualified to review our records. A bookkeeper when she can find work.”
“I hear the edge. Another crusade for the independent woman?”
“No, but” —she tapped her fingernail against his chest— “you should have seen her mother’s face when I suggested it. Mrs. Peters is as likely to approve as she is to sprout wings and fly to the moon. Plus, I like Kate. She has spirit.” She shook my hand when she met me.
“Wait until Mrs. Peters realizes Tanner is in town. They’ll hear her shrieking on her flight to the moon.”
Charlie popped up on her elbow. “Kate and Tanner? What is this?”
“I came across them clawing at each other by the stagecoach. Pretty obvious something was going on. No woman would be that angry unless emotions were bubbling beneath the surface.”
“Did you get any information out of him?”
“Christ, Charlie.”
“Adam Jared Chase.” She jabbed him in the chest.
“All right, all right, get that bony nub away from me.” He captured her hand. “Tanner said they knew each other before, something about a newspaper article. He lied to her, tried to explain things, I guess. Hell, the man seemed ready to pitch to the floor. I didn’t ask anything else.”
“And, you waited this long to tell me?”
“Yes, I waited. I wanted to avoid some harebrained scheme. Like this one. Tanner just happens to stop by the office to write an editorial and who is there but Kate Peters. Doing the subscription accounts for the newspaper, my ass.”
Mercy, he understands me well, Charlie thought, and plopped to her side, the bed ropes squeaking in protest. “She has quite a mathematical mind. Even Mrs. Peters said so, and she wasn’t giving praise. Intelligent and beautiful. What more could the woman want in a daughter?”
“Yeah, well, what do you expect from that old crow? I guess Kate told you about Tanner?”
Charlie grinned. “Not exactly. I mentioned we had a guest for the holidays she might enjoy meeting. Both unmarried, attractive. I thought I would give it a go.” She ignored her husband’s amused snort. “Anyway, Kate said she had no wish to associate with Tanner Barkley, thank you very much. And, I never even mentioned his name to her!”
Adam sighed. “Please, Charlie, no more projects.”
“I don’t think Kate Peters needs my help. She seems to have a mind of her own.” And, lovely eyes filled with anguish.
Adam stiffened. “You didn’t invite her to your damned tree-decorating party did you? I already told Tanner about—”
“Of course, I invited her. I hate these things, even my own. Hellfire. Kate may throw a few sparks in and brighten this one a little.”
“Charlotte Chase, are you trying to kill me before I make it to thirty-four?”
“What’s wrong with helping two lonely people find love?”
“Didn’t seem like love to me, seemed like a bad case of hate.” He laughed and pressed a kiss to her brow. “True love? Tanner Barkley and Katherine Peters? Sweetheart, I think you’ve lost what’s left of your mind.”
* * * * * *
Interested in the Seaswept Seduction Series? Read an excerpt from Zach’s story, Tides of Passion!
Tides of Passion
One
North Carolina, 1898
Savannah knew she was in trouble a split second before he reached her.
Perhaps she should have saved herself the embarrassment of a tussle with the town constable, a man determined to believe the worst of her.
However, running from a challenge wasn’t her way.
She laughed, appalled to realize it wasn’t fear that had her contemplating slipping off the rickety crate and into the budding crowd gathered outside the oyster factory.
No, her distress was due to nothing more than Constable Garrett’s lack of proper clothing.
In a manner typical of the coastal community she had temporarily settled in, his shirt lay open nearly to his waist. She couldn’t help but watch the ragged shirttail flick his lean stomach as he advanced on her. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, his physique belied his composed expression. Yet Savannah detected a faint edge of anger pulsing beneath the calm façade, one she wanted to deny sent her heart racing.
Wanted...but could not.
Flinging her fist into the air, she stared him down as she shouted, “Fight for your rights, women of Pilot Isle!”
The roar of the crowd, men in discord, women in glorious agreement, eclipsed her next call to action. There, she thought, pleased to see Zachariah Garrett’s long-lashed gray eyes narrow, his golden skin pulling tight in a frown. Again she shook her fist, and the crowd bellowed.
One man ripped the sign Savannah had hung from the warehouse wall to pieces and fed it to the flames shooting from a nearby barrel. Another began channeling the group of protesting women away from the entrance. Many looked at her with proud smiles on their faces or raised a hand as they passed. They felt the pulse thrumming through the air, the energy.
There was no power like the power of a crowd.
Standing on a wobbly crate on a dock alongside the ocean, Savannah let the madness rush over her, sure, completely sure to the depths of her soul, that this was worth her often forlorn existence. Change was good. Change was necessary. And while she was here, she would make sure Pilot Isle saw its fair share.
“That’s it for the show, Miss Connor,” Zachariah Garrett said, wrapping his arm around her waist and yanking her from the crate as people swarmed past. “You’ve done nothing but cause trouble since you got here, and personally, I’ve about had it.”
“I’m sorry, Constable, but that’s the purpose of my profession!”
He set her on her feet none too gently and whispered in her ear, “Not in my town it isn’t.”
As she prepared to argue—Savannah was always prepared to argue—a violent shove forced her to her knees. Sucking in a painful gasp, she scrambled between the constable’s long legs and behind a water cask. Dropping to a sit, she brushed a bead of perspiration from her brow and wondered what the inside of Pilot Isle’s jail was going to look like.
Fatigue returned, along with the first flicker of doubt she had experienced in many a month. Resting her cheek on her knee, she let the sound of waves slapping the wharf calm her, the fierce breeze rolling off the sea cool her skin. Her family had lived on the coast for a summer when she was a child. It was one of the last times she remembered being truly happy.
Or loved.
Blessed God, how long ago that seemed now.
That was how Zach found her. Crouched behind a stinking fish barrel, dark hair a sodden mess hanging down her back, her dress—one that cost a pretty penny, he would bet—ripped and stained. She looked young at that moment, younger than he knew her to be. And harmless.
Which was as far from the truth as it got.
He shoved aside the sympathetic twinge, determined not to let his role as a father cloud every damned judgment he made. Due to this woman’s meddling, his town folk pulsed like an angry wound behind him, the ringing of the ferry bell not doing a blessed thing to quiet a soul. All he could do was stare at the instigator huddling on a section of grimy planks and question how one uppity woman could stir people up like she’d taken a stick to their rear ends.
No wonder she was a successful social reformer up north. She was as good at causing trouble as any person he’d ever seen.
“Get up,” Zach said, nudging her ankle wit
h his boot. A slim, delicate-looking ankle.
He didn’t like her, this sassy, liberating rabble-rouser, but he was a man, and he had to admit she was put together nicely.
She lifted her head, blinking, seeming to pull herself from a distant place. A halo of shiny curls brushed her jaw, and as she tilted her head up, he got his first close look at her. A fine-boned face, the expression on it soft, almost dreamy.
Boy, the softness didn’t last long.
Jamming her lips together, her cheeks plumped with a frown. Oh yeah, that was the look he’d been expecting.
“Good day, Constable,” she said. Just like that, as if he should be offering a cordial greeting with a small war going on behind them.
“Miss Connor, this way if you please.”
She rose with all the dignity of a queen, shook out her skirts, and brushed dirt from one sleeve. He counted to ten and back, unruffled, good at hiding his impatience. What being the lone parent of a rambunctious little boy would do for a man.
Just when he reached ten for the second time and opened his mouth to order her along, a misplaced swing caught him in the side and he stumbled forward, grasping Savannah’s shoulders to keep from crashing into her. Motion ceased when she thumped the wall of the warehouse, her head coming up fast, her eyes wide and alarmed.
And very, very green.
He felt the heat of her skin through the thin material of her dress; her muscles jumped beneath his palms. Her gaze dropped to his chest, and a soft glow lit her cheeks. Blushing... something he wouldn’t have expected from this woman.
Nevertheless, he stared, wondering why they both seemed frozen.
Zach was frozen because he’d forgotten what it felt like to touch a woman. How soft and round and warm they were. How they dabbed perfume in secret places and smiled teasing smiles and flicked those colorful little fans in your face, never really realizing what all that nonsense did to a man’s equilibrium.
It was the first time he’d laid his hands on a woman since his wife died, except for a rescue last year and the captain’s sister he’d pulled from the sea. She had thrown her arms around him, shivering and crying, and he’d felt for her, sure he had. Grateful and relieved and humble that God had once again shown him where the lost souls on the shoals were.