Pure Iron

by Bargo, Holly

  PURE IRON

  By

  Holly Bargo

  © 2015 Karen M. Chirico

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Hen House Publishing

  henhousepublishing@gmail.com

  Acknowledgements

  This little book wasn’t written or dedicated to anyone in particular; nonetheless, I still have people to thank.

  Primarily, I wish to thank my dad whom I could always count upon for support. Dad will never read this, but not because he didn’t believe in me. You never ridiculed me for writing and that means a lot.

  I also thank friends and acquaintances who have encouraged me. Some served as valuable beta readers, others just lent their kind words of support, and a few more still opened their wallets to buy the finished product. Support your local author. It’s not just a movie title inspired by James Garner.

  Finally, I wish my older son, Matt, good luck as he heads off to college. My little boy’s all grown up now. If he ever reads what Mom has written, I hope he learns this one thing: a woman’s most potent sexual organ is her mind. Use your words, boy.

  Books by Holly Bargo

  Paranormal Romance

  Rowan: Book 1 of the Tree of Life

  Cassia: Book 2 of the Tree of Life

  Willow: Book 3 of the Tree of Life

  The Barbary Lion

  Tiger in the Snow (coming fall 2015)

  Contemporary Romance

  The Mighty Finn

  Chapter 1

  She walked, tawny ponytail swinging in counterpoint with her hips. Her athletic shoes left zig-zag prints in the wet sand as the tide retreated. She wore tight black, Spandex leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that looked gray in the slight fog of dawn. As she had the last five days, she raised a hand in a friendly wave as she passed his cottage. It was a quick habit he had developed, because until yesterday he had not waved back and this morning he did again, even though he felt wary of the gesture. Few knew his place here and he preferred to keep it that way. He did his best work surrounded by quiet and solitude.

  An hour later she passed by again, approaching from the opposite direction. Mick still sat on his front porch, quietly strumming his acoustic guitar and working out the right sequence of notes that would match the music running through his mind. She waved again, but, immersed in his craft, he did not notice.

  As had become her quickly adopted habit over the past five days, Sonia jogged up the wooden stairs, slick with heavy morning dew, and entered the small cottage she had rented. She breathed deeply of the salted air, luxuriating in the peaceful sounds of the ocean lapping at the shore, seagulls calling insults, and the gentle creak of settling wood. She rolled her shoulders and headed toward her room anden suite bathroom for a hot shower and change of clothes.

  Fresh and clean, she emerged from her room and frowned at the unmistakable sounds emanating from the bedroom on the other side of the cottage. Apparently her roommate had brought home a guest from last night’s party. She shook her head, picked up a novel, and headed out to the back deck. As she dragged the heavy Adirondack chair to take best advantage of the rising sun, she spied her neighbor. He glanced up at the noise she made.

  “Hi, there,” she called softly as she lowered herself into the chair. “Sorry about the noise.”

  He nodded curtly and went back to ignoring her.

  Her hand drifted to her lap to pick up the book even as she watched him bend over his guitar. The book stayed closed as she listened to him pick out a melody she did not recognize.

  “That’s really lovely,” she complimented just loudly enough for him to hear. “What is it?”

  “It’s not titled yet,” he replied with a growl, reluctantly looking up from his guitar just as a loud yowl issued from the neighboring cottage. The young woman who admired his playing cringed.

  Cheeks flaming, she offered a weak smile and said apologetically, “Roommate.”

  Mick just looked at her, but her expression remained clear and honest. His fingers segued into a ripple of familiar notes. Her eyes flickered over the play of muscles under the tattooed skin of his forearms. Sonia grew uneasy as he continued to stare at her.

  “That’s really impressive,” she complimented him. “You’re very skilled. Do you play professionally?”

  Well, he thought sarcastically, that would teach him to rein in his pride. She honestly did not recognize him.

  “I play gigs here and there,” he answered evasively.

  “Really? That’s amazing. Do you have a band you play with?” She set her book aside, levered her body from the chair, and walked over to the railing.

  Mick wondered how much he should reveal and then decided to keep everything as vague as possible. So he answered, “Yeah, I have some friends I play with.”

  “Wow, I’ve never met a real musician before. Oh, my brothers played instruments, but that was just in the school’s marching band.” She chuckled, which was so much more attractive than an inane giggle, and added, “Mom made me play piano. I absolutely sucked at it.”

  A flash of heat went through him at the word sucked. He glanced up at the rising sun which had started to burn off the morning fog. Loud moans and grunts poured through the roommate’s open bedroom window.

  “Ride me, you sexy cowboy!”

  Sonia’s cheeks flamed brighter red and she averted her gaze in utter mortification. Mick thought her embarrassment sweet. He grunted softly, astonished that he found anything as innocent as her embarrassment sweet anymore. Coming to a snap decision, he set aside his guitar, rose to his feet, and approached the railing of his own back deck.

  “Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

  “Er, no,” she replied hesitantly, eyes going side at the sight of him. He didn’t think it was recognition; it was more like an innocent’s fear of the big bad wolf.

  “I make a mean skillet of scrambled eggs,” he said with a small smile.

  “I couldn’t impose,” she replied politely, having gathered her composure and her wits.

  “Fuck me harder! Spank me, you stud!”

  “Oh, Lord,” Sonia moaned.

  “You’re perfectly safe with me,” Mick assured her, thinking that, while he had seen—and had in his bed—more blatantly sexy and more gorgeous women before, this one was quite pretty. Her eyes flickered over the colorful tattoos running the length of both arms, peeking above the collar of his tee shirt. Instead of the usual contempt he felt for anyone who categorized him as a thug because of his ink, he found himself wanting to reassure this innocent young woman. So he gave her a smile and said, “I’m harmless, really.”

  Sonia battled her anxiety for several uneasy seconds. She mentally chastised herself for her prejudice. Really, just because the man was covered in tattoos didn’t mean he was an axe murderer or rapist. And he’d been quite genial. But then, so had Jeffrey Dahmer, her cautionary internal voice warned. At that moment, a long, drawn out groan echoed loudly, very loudly.

  Could this get any more embarrassing?

  “Sure,” she said, surprising herself. “Breakfast sounds great.”

  “Come on over,” he invited.

  She practically skipped down the steps leading off the back deck, crossed the narrow divide between their two cabins, and trotted up the steps leading up to his back deck. She stopped an arm’s length from him and offered her hand in polite greeting. She had to tilt her head back to look into his face.

  “Hi, I’m Sonia.”

  The guitarist glanced down at her hand as though he were unfamiliar with the greeting. Slowly, he extended his hand and grasped hers. He was more accustomed to sweet young things blatantly throwing th
emselves at him, not sweet young things minding their manners with polite behavior. He found himself marveling at how well her hand fit within his. With a little shake of his head, he released her hand, realizing that he had held on for a few seconds too long.

  Sonia felt a weird mix of relief and regret when he released her hand from his warm grip. His fingers were calloused, which was no surprise. After all, he played guitar and guitarists had to have calloused fingertips, right? Just like there was no such thing as chef who didn’t boast a collection of small burns and scars from kitchen accidents. Or an equestrian who hadn’t been kicked, bitten, stomped, and thrown at some point.

  “Involuntary dismount” came the wry, but silent, comment as she remembered how one childhood friend explained his latest collection of scrapes and bruises when the young horse he was riding had violently spooked. The memory brought a small curl to her lips.

  Mick hesitated, almost asking her what brought that smile to her face, but she was obviously lost in her own thoughts and not focused on him. He decided she’d suffered enough embarrassment that morning and simply said instead, “Kitchen’s through here.”

  He opened the screen door and she followed him inside. A quick glance showed that the layout of his small cottage was remarkably similar to hers.

  “Take a seat,” he suggested with a wave toward the stools neatly stowed beneath the breakfast bar.

  “May I help?” she asked as she pulled out a stool and gingerly perched on it.

  “No, I’ve got this,” he replied easily as he set a cast iron skillet on the stovetop and turned on the burner. “Two eggs okay?”

  “Yes, that’s fine, thank you.”

  She watched him pull out a carton of eggs. He cracked several into a bowl and efficiently whisked them with a fork. Her teeth worried her bottom lip as she repressed the urge to offer advice on something as simple as scrambled eggs.

  “Toast?” he asked as he dropped a pat of butter into the skillet. The butter sizzled—a satisfying sound—when it hit the hot metal.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Two slices?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  He poured the liquid eggs into the melted butter and popped slices of bread into the 4-slice toaster. She watched him as he stirred eggs, swapping the fork for a spatula. A few minutes later he scraped the skillet’s contents onto two plates, one receiving noticeably less than the other, just as the toaster ejected its burden. He buttered all four slices, set them on the plates, and deftly served the simple meal.

  He grinned at her and said, “I worked as a short order cook as a teenager.” He speared a fluffy bit of egg on his fork and added, “Some skills you never really lose.”

  “They’re good,” she agreed as she ate. “If we keep up this neighborliness, I’ll have to reciprocate with making supper.” She gave him a bright little smile and added, “I’m a pretty decent cook, too.”

  “So, what brings you to this corner of the world?” Mick asked as he rose to pour them each a glass of orange juice.

  “Some rest and relaxation,” she replied and offered a polite thank-you when he handed her the glass. “I graduated just a couple of weeks ago and my folks agreed that it wouldn’t hurt to take a relaxing vacation between school and job hunting.”

  “What did you study?” he asked, thinking she looked a bit like a librarian or maybe a grade school teacher.

  “I’m a chef,” she replied demurely.

  “Oh, then this is so not up to par,” he said with self-deprecating chuckle and a gesture at his half-finished plate of food.

  “No, it’s good. Really. I like simple food,” she insisted.

  “You’re being generous.”

  “I’m being truthful. It’s not often that someone cooks for me, so this is a treat.”

  “Where did you graduate from?”

  She tilted her head to one side, as though it were a difficult question to answer. Finally, she swallowed some juice and replied with quiet pride, “The Culinary Institute of America.”

  That impressed him. His gaze flickered downward and, for the first time, he noticed her hands and wrists and the collection of small scars from nicks and burns. She noticed the direction of his gaze and said, “Sometimes I get careless or overenthusiastic.”

  “Precise finger work is important in your business.”

  “In yours, too.”

  He shrugged and forked some egg into his mouth. In the companionable quiet of his kitchen, they could hear the screech of birds and the roar of the ocean through the open windows.

  “It’s soothing, isn’t it?” she observed aloud, listening to the sounds of nature.

  He did not pretend to misunderstand her and nodded, just as lusty screams issued from the cottage next door.

  “Well, maybe not that,” he replied with dry humor.

  Sonia’s cheeks flamed again with renewed embarrassment. Her head fell forward and she groaned, “Good grief, what you must think of us.”

  Mick reached across the tiny table to lift her chin with the pressure of a single, calloused fingertip. Looking right into her eyes so that she could see his sincerity, he said, “I think you’re perfectly nice.”

  She smiled at that, a little sadly he thought.

  “Thanks,” she said and wondered why being called nice felt like being damned with faint praise.

  “Your friend, however …” he let the thought trail and grinned at her.

  “She’s … well … she’s popular.”

  He drew back his hand and shoved a half-slice of toast into his mouth before he said something he ought not, like “She’s easy.” After all, he could not exactly defend himself against similar accusations. He’d been known to indulge in the reckless, careless sex offered by fans. Doing so was practically expected. But he at least considered himself more selective than the more promiscuous members of his band. Good Lord, his keyboardist epitomized the term “man-whore.”

  “So,” Sonia asked in all innocence, “do you spend a lot of time out here?”

  Mick went very still, considering how much to reveal. But he was already convinced she truly had not recognized him, so it probably wouldn’t hurt to be more forthcoming. He replied, “I come out here every summer for two or three months. It’s a great place to hide from the world and get some creative work done.”

  She nodded in agreement and said, “I can imagine. Already, this salty air has had me thinking of the wonderful things I could do with fish.”

  She offered him a cheerful grin as she ate, no doubt envisioning a fantastic twist in bouillabaisse. Mick ate a few more bites, thinking that it had been forever since he’d spent time in the company of a “nice” girl. Maybe that was what his life was missing, something good and pure. On impulse he invited her to spend the day with him, “Why don’t you get your purse and we’ll head to the aquarium? It’ll be quieter there.”

  She looked down at herself, wondering whether the rose colored golf shirt and khaki walking shorts were adequate. Then, she decided, that, yes, they were. It wasn’t like they were headed to the opera. Mick found himself watching her, reading her expressive face. He finished his meal and drained the last of his juice and said, “I’d better put on something respectable.”

  Sonia looked at him, the tight tee shirt that looked as though it had been painted on, the low-riding cut-off shorts that were almost indecent, the bony feet bare of even flip-flops. He looked good, really good, but she nodded in agreement. The man ought to cover up or he’d have women drooling all over him as soon as he stepped into public.

  He rose and said, “I’ll be just a minute. Finish your breakfast.”

  A couple of minutes later he returned wearing jeans and a tight tee shirt that displayed his lean, muscular physique rather than covered it. His bare feet had been tucked into sandals. Sonia gulped down the last of her juice and said, “I’ll just be a minute getting my purse.”

  He nodded and replied, “I’ll wait out front for you.”

 
; And he was waiting out front for her, sitting in an Audi R8 convertible that, of all the cars he owned, he most preferred to drive. The car wasn’t flashy like the Maserati and it fit in with the Monterrey crowd. Sonia’s eyebrows rose and she thought that he did more than just play a few gigs here and there. Or else he had a trust fund.

  “Nice car,” she complimented as she got in.

  “Thanks. Buckle up.”

  She fastened her seatbelt and hoped she just hadn’t given herself into the care of criminal. Again, she chastised herself for stereotyping the man who had just fed her breakfast. But he caught her worried look and said with a small smile, “Ask me about them.”

  “About what?”

  “The tattoos. You keep looking at them.”

  Her face went red and she stammered an apology, “I—I’m sorry to have been so rude. Really, you’ve been nothing but nice. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  Wow, she really was an innocent, a nice girl and all that nice implied, he thought.

  “I’m not uncomfortable,” he reassured her. “The ink means something. Otherwise why indelibly mark my body?”

  She looked over the arm nearest her and asked, “What do the notes mean?”

  “That’s the opening refrain of the first song I sold. It was the song that got studio notice and resulted in a recording contract.”

  “What about the grape vine?”

  “Alcoholism runs in my family. It’s a visual reminder to watch what I drink.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she asked, “And the … is it a phoenix?”

  “I’ve not always had an easy life. I got the phoenix when I rose above some really difficult circumstances. It’s a symbol of my triumph and reminds me to be strong.”

  “Wow,” she said. “That’s really admirable. It almost makes me wish I had something so incredible to celebrate so I can immortalize it on my skin.” She gave a short laugh and added, “But what would I have tattooed? A spatula?”