by Betina Krahn
“Isn’t that the War of Northern Aggression?” he asked, and she assumed his tongue was planted firmly in his cheek.
Of course she wanted it somewhere else entirely…
“Considering where we’re standing geographically, I suppose it is,” she conceded. “Regardless, and obviously, this house is a survivor, since between all those messy battles there were also various hurricanes and years of disrepair. The house has been restored to its old glory by a former Atlanta businessman, who’s taken a hands-on approach to restoration. You should see the stair railing he found—”
“Can I see you in the kitchen for a minute?” Sloan asked suddenly from behind her.
Andrea turned to face her friend. “Ah…sure.” But she’d just been getting into the rhythm of her story. And how was she supposed to keep Tyler’s interest while she was in the kitchen? “I guess you know Tyler,” she added, stalling.
“We went to high school together,” Tyler said, then his expression turned speculative. His gaze slid back and forth between the two women. “Friends with Sloan, huh? Did we go to high school together?”
Panic bubbled in Andrea’s stomach. “I, uh…”
“I bet you’re one of Sloan’s cheerleader friends,” he continued. “There were quite a few blondes.”
“She’s—” Sloan began.
But Tyler rolled on with, “Lana Miller.” He snapped his fingers. “Or Amber Dessler. You could be—”
“I’m taking her now,” Sloan said, her frustration clear. “I promise to return her eventually.” She grasped Andrea’s elbow and steered her down the hall. In the kitchen, she dodged various members of the catering staff, then tugged Andrea into a corner. “He doesn’t need a history lesson.”
“How do you know I was giving him one?”
Sloan simply raised her eyebrows.
Andrea sighed. “Okay, fine. But at least it’s something I know. I get history. I don’t get seduction.”
“You could start by looking at him with at least as much awe and longing as you do the chandelier.”
“Ha, ha. And that’s my problem, by the way. I’m too in awe of him. I can’t relax.”
“Which is exactly why I saved you and brought you in here.”
“I’m supposed to seduce him from in here?”
“You’re supposed to regroup in here.”
Andrea leaned back against the wall. “It hardly matters. You heard him. Cheerleader. Yeah, right. He doesn’t remember me at all.”
Sloan examined her manicure. “My event planner’s a little busy at the moment, but I bet you could book him later.”
“Book him for what?”
“Your pity party.”
“He thinks I’m Lana or Amber. That calls for a pity party if ever a situation does.”
“I’ll admit it’s not encouraging. The dumb blonde cheerleader cliché was invented by those two, after all. But, hey, they were hot.”
Andrea simply narrowed her eyes.
“And clearly hotness clouds the male mind, since Tyler didn’t remember that nobody was less likely to know anything about island history than Lana and Amber.”
“Clearly.”
Any minute now she was going to say the wrong thing, and he’d know who she was, or somebody was going to recognize her—she’d been back to the island for nearly six months, after all. Or, even worse, she was going to launch into an explanation of South Carolina’s role in every conflict since the War of Independence.
With a sigh, she pulled off her mask.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Sloan snatched the mask, then slid it back over Andrea’s head. “We just need to adjust our plan. You need action, not talk.”
TYLER STOOD IN THE PARLOR alone.
He was surrounded by partygoers, his fellow islanders, many of them friends. But the one person he wanted to see was nowhere around.
He’d just met her. Talked to her for less than ten minutes. Indulged in the alluring scent of citrus and sea clinging to her skin for mere seconds. And yet he couldn’t help his gaze from continually darting around the room, desperate for the sight of her.
When he saw Sloan, he strode toward her. “Hey, have you seen…” He trailed off. How idiotic was he to have not gotten his mystery woman’s name?
“Your lady in blue?” Sloan asked.
Something in his stomach leaped. “Yeah.”
“She was feeling a bit hot. She stepped outside to get some air.”
As Sloan turned away, he snagged her arm. “You know her, huh?”
She smiled. “I do.”
Then she turned and began chatting with a couple a few feet away.
Women. They were a damnable confusing species.
But still beautiful, stimulating, intriguing, soft, inviting and impossible to live without. At least for him.
What the hell was he doing, thinking about all this while a superhot blonde was outside, presumably alone, getting air?
As quickly and discreetly as possible, he weaved his way around his—hopefully—future constituents, darted into the kitchen and exited the back door.
He breathed in the scent of salty sea air while he scanned the backyard for his mystery lady.
Beyond an ancient oak, a group of palms surrounded a white wooden gazebo lit by three spotlights staked in the grass. A shadowed figure stood inside the structure.
As atmospheres went, it was pretty damn near perfect.
After straightening his tie, he headed across the lawn. She stood with her back to him but turned as he approached. The lacy, black-and-blue mask still covered the upper half of her face, so her pale green eyes stood out in stark contrast as they watched him intently.
“It’s very Old South, meeting this way, don’t you think?”
“Whatever are you suggesting, sir?” she asked in an exaggerated drawl as she fluttered her lashes.
He stepped so close he could swear he felt her heart beating against her chest. “Anything you want.”
“But I might ask for more than you’re willing to give.”
“I don’t see how.”
Their gazes held for a long moment, then she grasped his hand and led him to the beach seat on one side of the gazebo.
He glanced down at their joined hands and for once felt incapable of saying something charming and clever. “The party’s nice, huh?”
“Sloan’s a pro at socializing.”
“That she is. Have you known her long?”
She smiled as if she knew he was trying to get more information about her. “Awhile.”
“And Aidan seems like a great guy. He’d have to be pretty steely to get past the scrutiny of Sheriff Caldwell.”
“He is. You must be rather sturdy yourself to risk following in his legendary shoes. Or, in his case, boots.”
He shrugged. He’d never lacked confidence in his ability to lead before; he wished he didn’t now. “We’ll see, I guess.” He slid his thumb across the back of her hand. “Do you have to wear the mask?”
“Yes,” she said, seemingly unfazed by his quick conversation change.
“Why?”
“I’m shy.” Though she leaned closer, belying her words. Her gaze dropped, quite deliberately, to his lips. “Did you really come out here to talk?”
He had actually, but only because he’d sensed she was a woman who could carry on a conversation easily and not the type for groping strangers. Still, he was a man, so his heartbeat picked up speed, anticipation flowed through his veins and…
And why the hell had he, again, lapsed into musing when faced with—
Before he could finish the thought, her lips were on his.
Cupping her cheek in his hand, he angled his head and deepened the kiss. Her mouth was soft, responsive, eager and seductive. Her pulse pounded beneath his fingers. Her scent, sweet and intoxicating, drew him under her spell, forcing the rest of the world away.
His desire to have her only intensified with this first, intimate touch. Tasting her, he knew he wanted mor
e. He wanted all.
3
ANDREA CLENCHED HER hand around Tyler’s thigh.
Dazzling, almost magical sensations bounced along her pulse points like a pinball machine after a tilt.
How was it possible that the reality was even better than over a decade of fantasies? That she could change the mistakes and regrets of the past with one touch?
And as suddenly as those realizations crashed over her, she also knew something was wrong. There should be feelings, not just urges. She should want him for more than just to prove he shouldn’t have rejected her before. They should talk or date or—
His tongue tangled with hers, and her desire soared up in yet another thrilling spike.
Okay, maybe not completely wrong.
He trailed his lips down her neck. “This is crazy.”
“Yeah.” She gasped as his tongue flicked against her ear. “Do that again.”
He did. He also wrapped his arm around her waist and molded her against him. Her heart thundered along with his. How different this was from the first, and only, kiss they’d shared. When she’d felt awkward, and he’d been uncomfortable.
They fit together now like puzzle pieces always meant to link.
His hand moved up her body to cup her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple, which pushed tautly against the dress’s thick silken fabric.
Her stomach clenched. Heat flooded her body. “We can’t do this here,” she gasped.
“You’re right. I—” He kissed her again, firmly, then pulled back. “We have to stop.”
“Stop?” She wrapped her hand around his neck and urged him toward her. “Who said anything about stopping? We just have to go somewhere else.”
Her breathing was coming in pants; she didn’t want to move away from him, give either of them a chance to question the maddening need that had overtaken them.
But neither did she want an audience.
“Come with me,” she whispered against his lips.
She slid her hand down his arm, feeling the ripple of muscles beneath his formal wear. Hang on, girl. Try to think. While reciting the periodic table in her head, she linked their hands and led him out of the gazebo and into the house. They darted up the back staircase from the kitchen to her room on the second floor.
After finding condoms in the bedside table—thank you, Sloan—they shed their clothes with fevered haste. His body seemed to consist of endless miles of lean, masculine muscle just begging for her to explore, and the way his lustful gaze raced over her body, she was grateful she’d taken up morning beach runs as exercise.
She left the mask on; he didn’t seem to mind. It wasn’t until they fell naked and kissing onto the bed that Andrea’s overstimulated mind acknowledged her fantasy was really coming true.
Tyler Landry was looking at her as if she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. He was touching her, kissing her. He wanted her.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered against her throat as if he knew her thoughts. “There are fifty people having a party downstairs.”
She closed her eyes and arched her back, absorbing the delicious sensation of his lips on her flushed skin. “I don’t like crowds.”
His hand cupped her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple. “At this moment, neither do I.”
Her hips jerked as need raced down her spine. She gripped his shoulders, her fingernails digging into the muscles. She wanted to say things, to tell him how amazing she felt, but she feared giving too much of herself away. Instead, she absorbed the pleasure in silence, her heart’s frantic hammering the only betrayal of how special the moment really was.
When he slid his hand between her legs, she gasped. Her body clenched around his exploring fingers. She had a vague thought about stroking him, feeling the evidence of his desire, but she couldn’t seem to put the idea into action.
He stopped the incredible, deliberately stimulating movements only long enough to put on protection, then his body was between her legs, his erection poised at the entrance to her body. “Hey,” he said quietly, his hand gliding across her cheek, “open your eyes.”
When she did, she found his lovely blue eyes focused intimately and tenderly on hers, and for some ridiculous reason, tears gathered in her throat.
Something like recognition jumped into his eyes briefly, but it was gone before she was sure she’d seen it at all. He said nothing. He simply slid the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip, then, as he kissed her, he pushed inside her. His hardness filled her, and she moaned with satisfaction.
Though that sensation didn’t last long.
As he began to move, and their hips found a synchronized rhythm, the tension of desire tightened. Satisfaction spiraled away, replaced by a desperate hunger for completion. A need for more. Faster, harder, stronger.
The jerk of her climax, when it finally broke, made her cry out in surprise. The pulsing sparks that followed and spread outward to affect every inch of her body were extraordinary, something she’d never before experienced with any lover.
Suddenly, she knew she was in trouble. That once wouldn’t be enough. One night couldn’t be all they ever had.
And she wasn’t, in any way, shape or form, over him.
TYLER HAD NO IDEA how long his phone had been ringing when he finally emerged from his comalike sleep and groped along the nightstand to silence the irritating sound.
“Tyler, it’s Sheriff Caldwell.”
“Yeah?” He yawned. The sheriff’s normally commanding voice sounded far away. “Y-yes, sir.”
“You’re not still in bed, are ya? It’s eight o’clock.”
“Uh, I—Uh…”
“No more cushy hours for you, boy! This is law enforcement. We don’t sleep.”
Eyes still closed, Tyler rubbed his temple. “I know what dawn looks like, Sheriff. I was in the Navy.”
The sheriff snorted. “Sissies.”
“The Marines.”
“Cocky sissies.”
“Are you serious, or is that a ploy to get me up faster?”
“I don’t do ploys, son.”
With a sudden image of the sheriff—six feet six inches, even without the Stetson, shoulders as broad as an aircraft carrier and piercing blue eyes—Tyler blinked. He tried to remember where he was and recalled immediately he was naked in an unfamiliar bed. But a somehow familiar scent lingered in the air. Her scent.
He bolted upright.
She was gone. Hell.
Memories of the impulsive, carnal night flooded him, bringing a physical reaction to various parts of his body. He recalled his mystery lady’s slim, athletic body, her inviting smile, her moans of pleasure mingling with his.
At one point, he’d finally convinced her to take off the mask, but only with the lights off. He’d wondered if she had a scar on her cheek or near her eye that she was self-conscious about, but he’d been pretty intimate with her skin throughout the night, and he hadn’t felt one.
So why the mystery? Did she have anonymous sex with strangers often?
No, wait. Not strangers. She’d said they’d met before. How? When?
“I need your help,” the sheriff said, yanking Tyler back to reality—and the job he was supposed to be focusing on. “Dwayne just called me in a panic.”
“Burris?” Other than his fear of gunfire, Dwayne was a pretty easygoing, if not incredibly experienced, fellow deputy. “Is he okay?”
“Besides having to breathe in a paper bag to deal with his anxiety attack, I expect so. He’s over at old Mrs. Jackson’s house. Seems her silver tea set is missing. Stolen, according to her.”
Tyler had an immediate recollection of a tiny, gray-haired woman who lived alone in an enormous beach house with half a dozen fluffy show dogs and was notorious for flirting like a teenager with every man on the island. “You mean that old lady at the south end of Beach Road with the dogs? She’s got to be a hundred by now.”
“Ninety-three last June,” the sheriff confirmed. �
�If you remember her, I’m guessin’ you also know she claims to be a descendant of President Andrew Jackson.”
“Claims? I thought she was.”
“I expect she is. Don’t know for sure. But when you’ve got that much money, son, very few people argue with you.”
“I guess so.”
“I’m makin’ this distinction because you should never take anything on word only in an investigation. Legends on this island are as plentiful as gossip. Retold so often, it’s hard to pry apart truth and fiction.”
Recognizing the admonition was Buddy’s way of imparting advice, Tyler responded with a polite, “Yes, sir.”
“The missing or stolen tea service was apparently the president’s favorite. He even took it with him during his years in Washington. She’s pretty insistent about gettin’ it back.”
“I imagine it’s valuable.”
“To her and the rest of the island.” He cleared his throat. “My daughter will be bending my ear about the historical significance as soon as she hears—and you can bet Mrs. Jackson is already on the phone to her. Dwayne is okay and all—once he stops hyperventilatin’—but he’s not exactly Perry Mason. And I’m in Bermuda. What am I supposed to do about any of it?”
“Nothing, Sheriff. That’s what I’m here for, right?”
“You bet your ass you are. Hang on.” Even though the sheriff must have covered the phone receiver, Tyler could hear muffled voices—one of them distinctly female. “Sorry about that,” Buddy said when he returned. “It sure couldn’t hurt your campaign to solve a sentimental problem like this one so close to the election.”
“I’ll alert the papers.” And despite the issues of the night before still yet to deal with, Tyler found himself intrigued by the case. It had to be more interesting than rosebush vandalism. “You said missing or stolen. You doubt the theft?”
There was a brief pause. “See there, knew you’d make a good sheriff. And, yeah, I got plenty of doubt about the theft. With the owner’s advanced age and general dottiness, who knows where the tea set really is. The old lady could even have her mind on insurance fraud.”