She had no time to dwell on it. Ash somehow rolled off his knees, laid her on her back, and put them right back to where the whole thing began—Rowan trapped beneath him, Ash’s hands in her hair, both of them on the edge of doing something they could never take back.
But this time, Ash was buried deep inside her, controlling the movement of both their bodies with his physical strength and the force of his will.
Rowan closed her eyes. Nothing existed but the fierce heat of their need. She allowed him to carry her away and pull her under.
* * *
Mona Flynn blew out the match and dropped it, half incinerated and still smoking, into the Mother’s Day clamshell ashtray Rowan had made for her in second grade. Yet another clap of lightning was followed by yet another growl of thunder. The flash momentarily illuminated the faces of the eight Mermaid Society members assembled in her small living room.
“This is a pretty bad one,” said Abigail Foster, stating the obvious, as usual.
Izzy McCracken put her flip-flopped feet up on the center coffee table. “Good thing the council decided to take down the giant starfish. With all this wind, we could have had another decapitation.”
Polly Estherhausen groaned. “You aren’t talking about that man from Arkansas, are you? Because he wasn’t decapitated. We’ve been over this a hundred times.”
“Well, he did have to have several stitches.”
“A couple stitches do not a severed head make.”
Abigail Foster pulled off her wet wig and threw it to the center of the table with a flourish. It landed with the thud of a lifeless animal and smelled almost as musty. “Can we stop arguing about whether or not that tourist’s head was cut off? It was twenty years ago, people! It’s time to move on.”
“I could not agree more.” Izzy crossed her arms under her shells and pouted like a grumpy toddler.
“Pass the merlot,” Polly said.
“Let’s move along, shall we?” Mona was just as wet and irritable as everyone else in the room, yet she couldn’t let it show. As president, it was her responsibility to keep them on point. The official festival kickoff was now a little more than twelve hours away, and the Mermaid Society had actual business to attend to. She grabbed her indexed three-ring binder and placed it with a solid thud on top of her knees.
“Day one—the parade. We must be at the judging stand by one p.m. and not a minute later. I’ve received confirmation that all the floats were garaged before the storm, so the order is as we originally planned.”
“Thank God.” Abigail rolled her eyes. “It was like pulling teeth trying to get even two dozen entries this year. Enthusiasm is way down.”
“It’s all this resort bullshit.” Layla O’Brien’s eyes widened and she slapped a hand over her mouth, but the words were already out. She stared at Mona.
“Oh Jesus.” Polly poured herself a giant glass of wine.
“I only meant—”
“It’s all right.” Mona closed the binder with a sigh, taking a moment to gather her patience. She couldn’t blame people for thinking her position was nothing but stubborn folly. For more than a year now she’d been called a control freak. A bitch. An idiot. And because she’d only married into the Flynn family and wasn’t born and raised on island, some of the people she’d counted as friends for nearly forty years had taken to calling her an interloper, an outsider, and a party crasher. Or worse.
Mona took it in stride. She knew that by refusing to negotiate with the developers, she had become the defender of all that was good and honorable. It wasn’t always fun and games standing by one’s principles. Which was all right by her. Not everyone had the distinction of being born a leader.
Take Frasier, her beaten-down and passionless estranged husband, for example. He was proof that just because a man happened to be mayor didn’t mean he possessed the gift of discernment, or a backbone. Simply put, the smell of money had made him lose his mind. It poisoned their thirty-eight-year marriage in the process, leading to their separation. So the mayor of Bayberry Island now hid out in a studio apartment over the boogie board shop on Main Street, while Mona took up residence in the rental home they owned on Idlewilde Lane. Love wasn’t the issue. Mona most certainly still loved her husband. But, oh, how he’d disappointed her.
She didn’t blame him for being tempted. Two decades of financial struggle had been hard on Frasier—closing the fishery after more than a hundred years of continuous operation, turning the family home into a bed-and-breakfast to make ends meet, and then watching Rowan lose what little was left of the once-impressive Flynn fortune.
But she believed money wasn’t all that mattered, and losing money was no excuse for losing your moral footing. What about a sense of history? Family tradition? Loyalty to one’s roots? Mona knew that if it weren’t for her, Frasier would have sold the land out from under them without a second thought. And then what?
She’d always been more of a visionary than her husband, and Mona had no doubt that in his old age, Frasier would regret that decision with every fiber of his being. It would have made him heartsick to see his island destroyed.
So that’s how Mona had become the only landowner on the cove to tell Jessop-Riley and their league of gluttonous jackals to go screw themselves.
This had made her rather unpopular.
“I ask only that we get through festival week as a cohesive unit,” Mona told her group. “These seven days are about the power of love, not the lure of cash. Can we aspire to live as our higher selves for just this one week? That still leaves us fifty-one weeks of the year to wallow around in our greed and fight like schoolchildren.”
Polly raised her hand. “I’ve pretty much drained the merlot. Is there any more of that chardonnay in the fridge?”
Abigail cleared her throat, which meant she wanted to say something she feared would receive a less than stellar approval rating. “I was thinking about that very issue this morning, in fact.”
“The chardonnay?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Only you think of wine over your morning coffee, Polly. I’m referring to the lack of enthusiasm this year. All this infighting has left us exhausted—jaded even.”
“No shit,” Polly said.
Abigail ignored her. “So I was thinking that what this island needs is something to believe in, something big. We need to be reminded of what is special about this place and what connects us, not what divides us.”
“You’re right,” Layla said. Her comment was met with nods and murmurs of agreement around the circle.
Mona had to concur. “We have Annabeth Parker and Nathaniel Ravelle’s wedding this fall.”
“Bigger,” Abigail said, spreading her arms wide to demonstrate. “It needs to be huge and it needs to happen in public during festival week, while the world has its eye on us.”
“The world?” Polly drained her glass. “Let’s not go completely apeshit, here.”
Mona smiled. “I know we’d all love to see the mermaid bring two people together in a made-for-TV moment, but as we know all too well, the magic never happens on cue.”
Suddenly a small, soft voice jolted everyone to attention. Darinda Darswell, who had barely made a peep since she left the fairies and joined the mermaids five years before, had just spoken.
“Sometimes magic needs a little push to get started.”
Everyone looked with stunned expressions toward the tiny woman in the long black wig whose eyes burned in the candlelight like two dark marbles.
“Please go on, Darinda.” Mona reached her way and patted a knee of blue iridescent spandex scales. “We’d absolutely love to hear what you have to say.”
“Well, the Man Grab . . .” Darinda’s focus darted around the room. “He was very handsome, wasn’t he? A kind of elegance to him, I thought. And I know this is going to sound silly, but I swear I saw something in his eyes when he looked up at the Great Mermaid. He seemed, well, I don’t know . . . in awe of her.”
Every woman in the
living room had stopped breathing. “We’re listening,” Mona said.
“I think something happened when he touched her hand.”
A collective gasp escaped from the group.
“And I’m talking about something real.”
Mona placed the heavy Mermaid Society planning binder on the coffee table and leaned even closer to Darinda. “What do you mean by real?”
“I . . .” She stopped. “You must think I’m nuts.”
“No!”
Darinda pressed into the sofa back as if the group’s answer had startled her. Maybe it was just the decibel level.
“Tell us,” Mona said.
“I’ve been carefully watching the Man Grab for five years now, and I’ve never seen someone react the way he did. He was special.”
“I thought he was kind of a dick, really.”
“Polly!” Abigail shook her head and looked up at the ceiling in exasperation.
“Well, I’m sorry, but he acted pissed off. Bored. Like he couldn’t wait for it to be over.”
Izzy grunted. “At least he wasn’t drunk and laughing and making obscene comments like last year’s Man Grab.”
“True enough,” Layla said.
“Polly does have a point.” Mona thought back to the man the kids had brought to the fountain just hours before. He hadn’t been enjoying himself; that much was beyond debate. She’d had to basically threaten him to get him to join in on the fun. She turned toward Darinda. “But what does he have to do with our made-for-TV moment?”
“Ah.” Darinda smiled. “I think we should keep an eye on this guy, just in case the Great Mermaid has something special planned for him this week.”
“But we don’t even know who he is!” Izzy was obviously distressed. “We don’t know where he’s staying!”
“Oh, dear God.” Polly held the bottle of merlot perpendicular to her wineglass and shook it, dramatically forcing out the last few dribbles. “The island is the size of a bar coaster. He can’t exactly hide from us.”
“His name was Ashton.”
Mona looked at Darinda, curious about why the usually silent Mermaid Society member had chosen that particular moment to become Chatty Cathy. “Go on, Darinda.”
“All right. I guess what I sensed about him was that he was empty, completely alone, an island unto himself. And extremely sad. But by the time the ceremony ended, he was filled with a new sense of purpose.” She bit her lip shyly. “As I watched him run off through the rain, I had the feeling I was watching a man running headlong into his destiny.”
* * *
She tasted like cranberries and lime. She smelled like rain and summer grass. She felt slippery like satin against his skin. She was the finest vise of velvet around his cock.
How had this happened? Why had he let a legitimate accident turn into this, something that had already messed with his head and twisted his heart into some unknown shape? Who was this woman, and what was she doing to him?
At the moment, she was coming all over him again for about the fourth time in the last half hour, which just spurred him on to make sure that this orgasm would not be her last. Ash was aware that Rowan Flynn hadn’t been dating since her scumbag fiancé destroyed her, but the sheer power of her sexual hunger astounded him.
He’d never been with a woman quite like her.
In the back of his mind, he was aware that this was the exact wrong thing to do. His plan was to slowly earn her trust, seduce her with such subtlety that she wouldn’t even notice she was being seduced, and carefully win his way into the Flynn family’s good graces.
What they were doing on the floor of her carriage house apartment wasn’t slow or subtle and it sure as hell wasn’t careful.
It was outright recklessness. It was wild. It would complicate everything. Probably destroy it.
Ash clutched her perfect round ass in his hands and continued to give her every inch he had, keeping her in the position he liked best, her legs bent back by the weight of his body. He kept his mouth on hers, because the thunder and lightning had subsided and nature was no longer providing cover for her screams of pleasure.
He felt her fingers on his back. By now he had become accustomed to her touch. Even at its most gentle, it delivered a kind of hot electricity that penetrated into his muscle and bone.
Ash felt her tighten around him yet again, and he felt her lips move under his.
“Ash,” she whispered.
It was the first time he’d heard her say his name. He was sure of it. Despite his request at check-in, she’d continued to refer to him as “Mr. Wallace” even when she came to check on him in the storm. No, she hadn’t referred to him that way in the clutches of passion, but she hadn’t said his name, either. The sound of it now, in her hoarse whisper, made him ripple with delight.
Rowan freed her mouth from his. “You are incredible, Ash,” she whispered, her voice catching as she threw her head back. “So good. I—”
“Shhh.”
“No. You don’t know. You just don’t know.” When he touched the side of her face, he felt tears traveling from the corners of her eyes into her hair. “Thank you, Ash.”
Oh God, it was too much. Her sweetness, her tears, her beauty, the force of her desire. And the way she said his name. Ash put his mouth over hers once more, tasted her passion, then exploded into her.
That’s when the lights came on.
Both of them froze. Ash kept his face buried in her fragrant shoulder, trying desperately to regain his senses, his breath. He felt her body stiffen beneath him, and not in a good way.
Oh shit.
Slowly, he opened one eye. In the light, he saw golden brown hair. The sharp glint of a small silver earring—one of those dangly things women seemed to like. He saw the barest glimpse of a soft, pink cheek.
What the hell had he just done?
“I should be going,” she whispered.
Ash felt her withdraw. It had been a sudden transition—as soon as the lights came on, the hot, open, and ravenous woman in his arms turned off.
“Rowan.” He angled his face toward her and left a gentle kiss on the side of her neck. He inhaled—suddenly overcome with sadness and dread. He’d just had the best sex of his whole life and the whole thing was wrong. Totally messed up. It would likely be the first and last time she’d ever be this close to him, and the thought of that was painful.
“Please. Let me up. I need to get back.”
Ash pushed on his arms, rose over her, and withdrew from her body. He made a point of meeting her gaze, but she glanced away. He felt like a guest who’d overstayed his welcome.
He rolled over, landing on his back on the hallway rug, still gasping for breath. Just then, he realized he had no idea where they’d crash-landed. All his attention had been on the woman, not the surroundings.
She popped up with such speed and determination that Ash half expected to see her do a series of back handsprings across the living room floor. He groaned and threw an arm over his eyes.
Ash remained silent as he heard her open and slam drawers, racing around the small apartment in bare feet, no doubt doing whatever had to be done so she could make her escape. He decided to push himself to a sitting position just in time to see Rowan standing like a crane, with one leg inside her jeans and the other bent in preparation to slide down into place. She wore an unripped T-shirt and a tiny pair of black bikini panties. Despite everything, the sight of her made his dick twitch.
He was a complete dog.
Rowan’s eyes flashed toward him. She looked angry. Disheveled. Well fucked. Embarrassed. And she couldn’t zip her jeans fast enough. She walked right past his naked, slumped form on her way to the steps.
“Please say something to me.” Ash didn’t turn around. He figured it might be easier for her if he wasn’t making eye contact. She stopped walking, but was silent. Ash swiveled around and saw her back. She was breathing hard and had a hand propped against the stairwell wall. She looked so fragile that his heart c
ontracted.
This was nuts. They were both adults. It wasn’t like he’d attacked her. He’d asked at every turn whether this was really what she wanted. Not to mention that she’d been as demanding as he’d been!
He saw her shoulders tremble as she took a deep breath. It sliced him open to think he’d hurt her.
“Rowan, please. Talk to me. Say something.”
“Sure.” Her voice was mechanical. “Breakfast is served tomorrow from seven to ten.” She clomped down the steps. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable.”
Wham! The carriage house door slammed shut.
Ash suddenly felt as if his body weighed eight hundred pounds, four hundred of which were made of utter confusion and the other four hundred, something he didn’t have the word for. Lovesick seemed close. But that couldn’t possibly be right.
Chapter Five
“What in heaven’s name is wrong with you this morning?”
Rowan stared at the shattered coffee cup at her feet, Imelda’s question barely registering. She’d already begun strategizing the best way to deal with the complete mess she’d just made. First she’d need the broom and dustpan to get the sharp, broken pieces of china off the kitchen floor and safely in the trash. Next she’d need paper towels to sop up the puddle of liquid.
The other mess—the one she’d made with the guest now eating blueberry scones at table six—that was going to be a little more complicated.
Imelda stood over Rowan as she squatted down with the dustpan. “Are you ill? Did you catch cold running out to the carriage house yesterday?”
Rowan’s head snapped up. She blinked in surprise. Imelda had seen her? Oh crap. “I forgot to give Mr. Wallace a flashlight before the storm. I had to get some candles to him.”
“I figured as much.”
Rowan’s heart pounded in her chest. She finished her task in record speed, nearly running to the trash can. Then she threw the broom in the pantry and snagged a handful of paper towels, immediately returning to finish the job. Rowan had already decided to never speak a word to anyone about what had happened with Ash. Maybe not even Annie. But if Imelda were even the slightest bit suspicious, it would be a matter of seconds before her mother was informed.
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