Hot Island Nights

by Sarah Mayberry

  “Yes?” he said, his tone even more brusque. Probably because he hadn’t expected to find someone so beautiful on his front step.

  She opened her mouth then closed it without saying anything as her startled gaze swept from his face to his chest, belly and south, then up to his bare chest again. There was a long, pregnant silence as she stared at his sternum. Then she pinned her gaze on a point just beyond his right shoulder and cleared her throat.

  “I’m terribly sorry. I’m looking for Sam Blackwell. I was told this is his place of residence.”

  Her voice was clipped and cultured, the kind of cut-glass accent he associated with the royal family and people who maintained a string of polo ponies.

  “You’ve got the right place, but Sam’s not around right now,” he said.

  “I see. Could you tell me when he’ll be back?” She darted a quick, nervous glance toward his chest before fixing her gaze over his shoulder again. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d never seen a bare chest before, the way she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. Six months ago he would have been amused and intrigued by her flustered reaction—she was a beautiful woman, after all.

  But that was six months ago.

  “Sam won’t be back until the new year,” he said. “Try him again after the fifth or sixth.”

  He started to swing the door closed between them.

  “The new year? But that’s nearly a month away.” Her eyes met his properly for the first time, wide with disbelief and maybe a little bit of dismay.

  His gut told him to close the door, send her on her way. He had enough on his plate without taking on someone else’s worries.

  “Not much I can do about that, sorry,” he said instead.

  She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead. The movement made her white linen shirt gape and he caught a glimpse of coffee-colored lace and silk.

  “Do you have a number I can contact him at?”

  “No offense, but I’m not about to hand Sam’s number out to just anybody.”

  She blinked. “But I’m not just anybody, I assure you.”

  “If you want to leave your number and a message with me, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  She frowned. “This isn’t the kind of thing you handle with a message.”

  Nate shrugged. He’d offered her a solution, but if she wasn’t interested…

  “Then maybe you need to wait till Sam’s back in town.”

  “I’ve travelled thousands of miles to see him, Mr….?” She paused, waiting for him to supply his name.

  “Nate. Nathan Jones.”

  “My name’s Elizabeth Mason.”

  She held out her hand. After a second’s hesitation he shook it. Her fingers were cool and slender, her skin very soft.

  “I really need to make contact with Sam Rockwell,” she said, offering what he guessed was her best social smile.

  “Like I said, leave your number with me, and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  Her finely arched eyebrows came together in a frown. “Perhaps you could tell me where he is, then, if you won’t give me his number?”

  “Look, Ms. Mason, whatever this is about, if Sam owes you money or something else, the best I can do for you is to pass your number on. That’s it, end of story.”

  “I’m not a debt collector.” She appeared shocked at the idea.

  “Whatever. That’s my best offer, take it or leave it.”

  When she simply stared at him, he shrugged. “Fine,” he said, and he started closing the door again.

  “He’s my father. Sam Blackwell is my father,” she blurted.

  That got his attention.

  Sam had never mentioned a daughter, or any other family for that matter. Not that the omission necessarily meant anything, given that Sam wasn’t exactly the talkative type.

  Nate frowned. Why would Sam invite his daughter to visit when he knew he was going to be interstate?

  “Sam didn’t know you were coming, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “In fact, I suspect he doesn’t even know I exist. Which makes me incredibly stupid to have jumped on a plane to come find him like this, but I didn’t even think about the fact that he might not even be here—”

  Nate took an instinctive step backward as her voice broke and tears filled her eyes.

  Should have shut the door when you had the chance, buddy.

  She tilted her head back and blinked rapidly. Nate considered and discarded a number of responses before reluctantly pushing the door wide.

  “You’d better come in,” he said.

  She gave him a grateful look as she walked past him and into the house. He led her to the kitchen.

  “You want some water?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He waved her toward one of the beat-up vinyl upholstered chairs around the kitchen table, then grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the tap.

  “Thank you,” she said as he handed her the glass. “I promise I’m not normally like this. It’s just that it’s been a long flight and things have been a little crazy lately. And I really should have thought this through some more—” She shook her head. The hand holding the glass was trembling with emotion. “Sorry. I’m babbling again. I’m not normally a babbler, either.”

  She offered him a tremulous smile. She looked so vulnerable sitting there, so lost and confused.

  Everything in Nate screamed retreat. He didn’t need this.

  “Look, I don’t want to get involved in some kind of family dispute or This Is Your Life situation,” he said.

  Her smile disappeared as a deep flush rose up her neck and into her cheeks.

  “I don’t believe I asked you to get involved, Mr. Jones. I was simply conveying the facts of my situation to you.”

  “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not know even that.”

  “By all means.” Chair legs scraped across the linoleum floor as she stood abruptly. “If you’d simply give me my father’s number, I won’t bother you a moment longer.”

  Nate reached for the pad and pen beside the phone and pushed them across the counter toward her.

  “Give me your number, I’ll make sure Sam gets it,” he repeated.

  She might be beautiful, she might even have what he suspected was a great ass under the expensive tailoring of her crumpled linen trousers, but he wasn’t about to sic her on his old friend without some kind of warning.

  She stared at him incredulously. “You’re still not going to give me his contact details? Even after everything I’ve just told you?”

  “Sam’s my friend.”

  Her chest rose and fell as though she was fighting to restrain herself from saying something. Then her mouth firmed and her chin came up.

  “Fine. Thank you for the water.”

  She turned toward the door.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said. He tapped the pen against the pad.

  Her nostrils flared. Then, holding herself very upright, she strode to the kitchen counter and snatched the pen from his hand, writing her phone number in the elegant, curling strokes of a bygone era. When she was finished she dropped the pen onto the counter and lifted her chin even higher.

  “I can see myself out, thank you,” she said with enormous dignity.

  “Where are you staying in town?”

  “I fail to see how that’s any of your business.”

  “In case your phone doesn’t work for some reason, so I can leave a message for you,” he explained patiently. Although he was fast running out of that particular commodity. He hadn’t asked for Ms. Mason and her troubles to walk in the door.

  “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  The look she gave him was so snooty, the tilt of her head so imperious he decided he’d done his good deed for the day.

  “Fair enough. Don’t blame me if I can’t contact you for some reason.”

  A small muscle worked in her jaw.
He had the distinct impression she was grinding her teeth.

  “I’m staying at the Isle of Wight,” she finally said.

  “Duly noted.”

  She hovered for a second as though she didn’t quite know what to do next, then she strode to the front door. She paused on the verge of exiting, looking back at him across the width of the living room.

  “And by the way, Mr. Jones, where I come from it’s good manners to put clothes on before receiving visitors,” she said.

  She was so hoity-toity, so on her dignity that Nate couldn’t help himself—he laughed, the sound bursting out of him and echoing loudly off the walls. By the time he’d pulled himself together enough to notice, she was gone.

  The smile slowly faded from his lips. It had been a long time since he’d laughed like that. A long time.

  For no reason that he was prepared to acknowledge, he walked into the living room and pushed the curtain to one side. Despite her touch-me-not, refined air she had a sexy sway to her walk and he watched her ass the whole way to her car.

  She opened the car and slid into the driver’s seat, but didn’t take off immediately. Instead, she simply sat there, her head lowered, her expression unreadable from this distance.

  Trying to work out what to do next, he figured.

  He told himself that she was none of his business, that he had more than enough shit to shovel in his own life, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he couldn’t stop thinking about the way her hand had trembled when she held the glass of water. And how lost and scared she’d sounded under all that well-educated, well-enunciated hauteur. “Bloody hell.”

  He grabbed a pair of board shorts from the laundry, tugged them on, then exited the house and walked down the hot concrete path toward her car. She didn’t notice him approaching and she started when he rapped on the passenger window. She hesitated a second, then pressed the button to lower the glass.

  “Look, Sam’s in Sydney until the start of the race and won’t get into Hobart until New Year’s Eve at the soonest,” he said. “But once he knows you’re here, I’m sure he’ll come straight back.”

  “Race? What race?”

  “The Sydney to Hobart yacht race.”

  She bit her lip. “I’ve heard of that. Isn’t it very dangerous?”

  “Sam’s an experienced sailor. One of the best.”

  “Is that what he does? Sail, I mean?”

  “He hires out as crew mostly, and sometimes he delivers yachts for owners.”

  He took a step backward to signal the question-and-answer session was over. It wasn’t his place to fill in the blanks for her. That was between father and daughter. Nothing to do with him.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve spoken to Sam,” he said.

  She hesitated, then nodded. The glass slid up between them and she started the car then pulled away from the curb.

  Nate watched until she’d turned the corner. Guilt ate at him. He should have helped her more. Reassured her. She’d come a long way looking for a man she knew nothing about. He could have called Sam on the spot, told him—

  Nate caught himself before he let the thought go any further. Since when had he made himself Elizabeth Mason’s knight in shining armor?

  He smiled grimly, the action more a show of teeth than anything else. Rescuing damsels in distress was hardly his forte, after all. Look what had happened to the last damsel who’d put her faith in him.

  Tension banded his shoulders and chest. Pressure pushed at the back of his eyes and nose. His heart started to race as sweat prickled beneath his arms.

  Olivia. Bloody, bloody hell.

  He stared at the dry lawn beneath his feet, battling with himself. Then he strode toward the house and took the steps to the porch in one long-legged leap. Usually he tried not to drink before four o’clock, but trial and error had taught him that there was only one way to hold the anxiety at bay. He went straight to the kitchen and grabbed a can of beer from the fridge. He downed it quickly, closing his eyes and waiting for the alcohol to warm his belly. Vodka would be faster, of course, as would any other hard spirit. He wasn’t sure why he clung to beer as his therapy of choice. The illusion that it still meant he had some self-control, perhaps?

  Whatever. The tight feeling banding his chest eased and he reached for his second beer with less urgency.

  After this, maybe he’d phone around, see who was heading out to Summerlands or one of the other surf beaches so he could catch a few waves. Kill a few hours before he could hit the pub at a more socially acceptable time and start drinking himself toward oblivion again.

  And then another day would be over. One less trial to be faced. Hip, hip, hooray.

  ELIZABETH STARED AT THE peeling paint on her hotel room ceiling. The sound of laughter and the hum of conversation drifted in the open window. She’d been trying to sleep for the past three hours, but the room she’d been assigned at the Isle of Wight Hotel boasted only an old oscillating fan to combat the heat. Even though she was lying in her underwear on top of the sheets it was like being in a sauna. A really noisy, loud sauna, thanks to the fact that her window looked out over the hotel’s beer garden.

  She was so tired she should have been able to sleep through a hurricane, but her mind was racing, going over and over the same ground. She didn’t know what to do. Stay and wait for her father to come home? Go to Sydney and try to track him down somehow? Or—God forbid—return to England with her tail between her legs.

  She hated the idea of having come all this way for nothing, but the idea of waiting and putting her trust in Nathan Jones was enough to fill her with despair.

  She made an impatient sound and flopped onto her back. Every time she thought about Nathan Jones she got annoyed all over again. The way he’d told her straight up that he didn’t trust her and that he didn’t want to get involved in whatever was going on between her and her father. The way he’d shrugged so negligently when she’d been practically throwing herself on his mercy.

  “Stupid beach-bum git,” she muttered.

  Because that was exactly what he was—a beach bum. He’d very obviously just rolled out of bed when he opened the door, even though it was nearly midday. His short, dark hair had been rumpled, his pale blue eyes bloodshot, and she’d caught a whiff of stale beer when she passed him on the way to the kitchen. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been up to last night.

  As for the way he’d stood around with nothing but a frayed towel hanging low on his hips and his ridiculously overdeveloped body on display…

  She stirred, uneasy about the way images of his big, hard body kept sliding into her mind. The deeply tanned firmness of his shoulders. The trail of gold-tinted hair that bisected his hard belly and disappeared beneath the towel. The way his biceps had bulged when he crossed his arms over his chest.

  The way he’d laughed at her when she’d reminded him that anyone with half-decent manners would have thrown some clothes on before inviting someone into his home.

  She sat up and swung her legs to the floor.

  Clearly, she wasn’t going to get any sleep.

  She crossed the threadbare carpet to where she’d left the shopping bags from her brief foray along Main Street earlier in the day. By the time she’d checked into her room her linen shirt had been damp beneath her armpits and perspiration had been running down the backs of her knees. She’d packed for an English summer, not an Australian one, and she’d quickly realized she would need to get a few items of lighter clothing if she was going to survive the next few days with her sanity intact. She’d bought herself a yellow-and-red sundress and a couple of pastel-colored tank tops. None of it was in her usual style—tailored, elegant—but it was light and breezy and much more suitable for the weather.

  Now she pulled on the sundress and checked herself in the tarnished mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The skirt was a little shorter than she’d like—just above her knee—and the halter neck meant she couldn’t wear a bra, but there was no
doubting that the cotton fabric was blessedly cool compared to her own clothes.

  She spent a few minutes coiling her hair into a neat chignon, then she checked her watch. Six o’clock. The whole evening stretched ahead of her, long and empty.

  Maybe she should explore Main Street more thoroughly while the light lasted. Or perhaps she could walk along the jetty, maybe even along the beach…?

  She crossed to the window to close it before she left the room and her gaze fell on the life and color and movement in the beer garden downstairs. There were dozens of holidaymakers clustered around tables, dressed in shorts and swimsuits and bright summer clothes, downing beer and wine and laughing with each other.

  Every time she’d ever holidayed someplace warm she’d always been traveling with her grandparents or Martin. The sort of restaurants and hotels they favored were discreet and refined—a far cry from the raucous chaos on display down below.

  A peal of laughter floated up through the window and Elizabeth found herself smiling instinctively in response.

  If Violet was here, she’d go down and join in the fun, a little voice whispered in her ear.

  Elizabeth frowned and pulled the window closed, flicking the lock into place.

  She wasn’t Violet. She couldn’t just go downstairs and buy herself a drink and become part of the noise and the laughter. That simply wasn’t the kind of person she was.

  Who says? I thought this was about finding out who you really are, what you really want? Wouldn’t going downstairs be part of that? the voice piped up again. Perhaps not very surprisingly, it sounded exactly like her best friend.

  “You’re a damned interfering nag, you know that?” she told her empty room.

  But she knew the voice was right. She’d run away from her old life because she was afraid of the person she’d nearly become. If she was going to find herself, she needed to go looking. She needed to push against her old notions of who she was.

  She grabbed her purse and her room key and made herself walk out the door before she could think herself out of it. Nerves fluttered in her belly as she descended the stairs and walked into the din of the crowded main bar. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, a little overwhelmed by the noise and the press of people and all the bare flesh on display. The smell of beer and fried food and suntan lotion hung heavily in the air, and the carpet underfoot was both sticky from years’ worth of spilled drinks and gritty with sand that had been tracked in from the beach.