by Renee Roszel
She sat for a long time staring at her sandal, laying on its side where he’d tossed it. Caustic fumes of the spilled Scotch burned her nose and stung her eyes. But her tears had nothing to do with that.
Lyon Gallant couldn’t have made his attitude any clearer if he’d put her on a plane himself. She could never be the kind of woman he wanted. And he had no intention of being the kind of man she needed.
It was too bad that knowledge didn’t make the pain of loving him thud less severely in her chest.
Meg fell backward onto Emily’s bed, covering her face with her hands and wailing theatrically. “So, you’re saying you wouldn’t let Lyon make love to you and you wouldn’t let him, uh, initiate you, either? And he offered to do both?”
Emily wearily lowered herself to her dresser bench. She’d only managed to keep her awful secret for four days, and with Meg’s aghast expression, she wished she’d sewn her mouth shut. “I knew I should never have confided in you.” She laced her fingers and clenched them into a ball in her lap.
Meg rolled on her side to scowl at her friend. “Em, honey, wake up and smell the nineties before they’re over!” She pushed up, so agitated she couldn’t be still for a second. “You wanna know how I lost my virginity?”
“You lost it on your wedding night with Larry.”
“No, I didn’t. I never told you the truth because I knew you’d have a cow.” Meg fell back again, staring at the ceiling. “I was sixteen, and let’s just say it wasn’t to a handsome millionaire under a tropical moon. More like a rattletrap pickup truck on a muddy country road. I probably still have the gearshift scars on my—”
“Meg!” Emily interrupted, disquieted by the bombshell. “You’re not helping.”
The petite brunette vaulted up so quickly Emily almost fell off the bench in surprise. “Look, Em,” Meg cried, exasperation sharpening her tone. “I’ve been helping. I’ve been a good and true friend! I got you out of town, talked the most straitlaced woman in creation to lie so we could come here! What more can I do than I’ve already done?”
Emily was abashed, squeezing her hands into a tighter ball. Meg was right. She’d been as good a friend as she knew how to be.
“It’s only sex,” Meg insisted. “You’re not murdering anybody!” She came over to perch on the bench beside Emily and seized her hands. “Em, remember when you took that frog class in college?”
Emily was confused for a moment, then understood. “The evolution of amphibians?”
“Whatever.” Meg waved a dismissing hand. “You hated the professor, but you knew you needed to know the stuff and he was the best teacher. Right?” She squeezed Emily’s fingers. “What’s so different about this? You’ve always pursued wisdom and education. What’s your problem now? You need to know about being sexy. Lyon’s the best teacher—maybe in the whole world! He’s willing! Can’t you think of it as another course you need?”
Emily averted her gaze. “But—but he’s so...” She couldn’t tell Meg she’d fallen in love with him and that his casual attitude about sex and women was too distressing to deal with—let alone experience. And have to remember for the rest of her life. She hedged. “He’s just not—my type.”
Meg made a disgruntled sound. “Impossible! That’s like saying breathing doesn’t agree with you.”
Emily couldn’t argue with that and lowered her gaze to the Oriental rug. Her friend’s glowering face was too hard to look at. Withdrawing her hands from Meg’s, she sighed. “Besides, I don’t think he’s willing anymore. I’ve rejected him too much.”
“You’re probably right. Why should he waste his time—” She paused, and Emily looked up in time to see her screw up her face, looking contrite. “Sorry, Em. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
Emily laughed ruefully. “Sure, you did. Why should he waste time on a reluctant schoolteacher when beautiful models and superstars are throwing themselves at him.”
Meg patted Emily’s arm encouragingly. “Well, if that’s the way it is, then you should try somebody else.”
Emily was so stunned by Meg’s singlemindedness she couldn’t imagine she’d heard right. “What?”
Meg’s shrug was unperturbed. “Aunt Ivy told me Lyon’s having his legal department over for a party tomorrow. Naturally we’re invited. I bet there’ll be a dozen good-looking lawyers roaming around.” She stared hard into Emily’s eyes, as though trying to force her will directly into her brain. “You’ll look them all over and then...” She winked. “Then—let the one you like best know you’re available.”
Emily gaped, nonplussed. She couldn’t believe she’d heard what she just heard. “Tell me, Meg, as a child did you eat a lot of paint?”
Meg’s guffaw filled the room. “I know you’re surprised by the idea, but think about it. It’s perfect!”
“It’s terrible!”
Meg’s face fell as though she’d been slapped. “You’re impossible!” She jumped up, throwing her hands in the air. “I give up! Go ahead, be America’s oldest virgin! Maybe they’ll build a statue to you, and you can cuddle up to that on cold nights!”
Emily stared, stunned by her friend’s hateful tone. Meg was fed up, and that knowledge wounded her deeply. Scanning her friend’s pinched face, Emily felt misery ooze from her every pore. It suddenly seemed as though she was mourning the death of both a friendship and a mission. The first was too important to her to lose, the other too trifling to fight about in this day and age. Meg had gone above and beyond the call of duty, with only Emily’s best interest at heart. And how had she repaid her? By acting like a prude and a coward. After all, what Meg said was true—it was only sex.
Swallowing hard, she made her decision hastily, knowing that was the only way to finally do it—fast and without deep thought. That had always been her problem. She thought too much. Girls lost their virginity all the time, just to have it over and done. She’d heard her own students whispering about just such plans as though they were talking about going to the movies! She was twenty-four, for heaven’s sake. Her turn was way overdue.
Rocketing up from her seat, she grasped Meg by the shoulders and made a solemn vow with her eyes. “Okay, tomorrow I’ll pick out a handsome young lawyer and—and just do it.”
“No kidding?” With Emily’s resolute nod, Meg’s face lit in a grin. “Operation Lay a Lawyer is underway!” She planted an enthusiastic kiss on Emily’s cheek and flounced out of the room.
Feeling strangely drained, Emily trudged to her bed and sprawled on her face. “Operation Lay a Lawyer,” she mumbled into the bedspread. Closing her eyes, she pressed her hands to her temples, not a bit surprised a harrowing headache had sprung to life in her forehead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE early morning quiet was destroyed when Emily heard the roar of the big helicopter coming in for a landing. Hastily she decided to change her jogging route. She hadn’t seen Lyon since the scene in the kitchen five nights ago, and she didn’t care to see him until it was absolutely necessary—if at all. She spun around, intent on racing down the beach the way she’d come, but she came to a stumbling halt.
The master of Sin Island couldn’t be landing on his island this morning because he was strolling along a pathway leading out of the woods. Since he was coming directly toward her, she didn’t have a chance to escape unnoticed. Uneasily she scanned him, the sight of his bare chest and shoulders triggering a disconcerted frown. He was clad only in cutoffs and work boots. His tool belt hung low on trim hips, and he carried the infamous toolbox she’d so gracelessly tumbled over the first time they’d met. No doubt he was on his way back from working on his cabin in the cove.
He didn’t smile at her. When he was within a few feet, he halted and nodded, his eyes silently appraising. “Morning, Miss Stone.”
She frantically pulled herself together. Though she was short of breath from his unexpected appearance and her jog, she was determined to explain something that had been preying on her mind. “Look, Mr. Gallant. My airline ticket
is nonrefundable. I can’t fly back to Plattville for three more days. I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to throw away a five-hundred-dollar ticket.”
His brows dipped. “I didn’t mean you had to leave my island. I just meant you shouldn’t force yourself to be what you can’t be.” He cast a glance behind her toward the distant helipad. “I need to get changed. My guests are arriving.”
She took the statement as a dismissal and started to sprint away from him when the sound of her name halted her. Reluctantly, she turned back.
“There’s going to be a picnic on the beach this afternoon. Do you plan to attend?”
She shrugged, unsmiling, but remembered her promise to Meg. “I suppose...yes.”
He lifted his chin in a half nod, his features giving away neither pleasure nor irritation. “I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll try not to get in your way.”
His teeth flashed, and even as brief and derisive as the grin was, it took away her breath. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You won’t.”
Though she’d intended to make a hurried escape, she couldn’t seem to move as he turned and walked away. Heaving a sigh, she shook her head. His remark could be taken two ways, but she supposed after their last disastrous encounter she could only believe the scathing interpretation. He wouldn’t notice if she was there or not because he’d marked her off his list of inhibited schoolteachers to give sex lessons to. She knew she should be grateful for that. The tragedy was—she was devastated.
Straightening with difficulty, she cast a helpless gaze toward the sky. “You’d better get changed, too, Emily,” she muttered, her voice cracking. “You have a lawyer to...”
Just because she couldn’t say the word didn’t change anything. She’d promised Meg. She’d promised herself. And today was her day of reckoning!
It was no picnic like Emily had ever seen or imagined. A band was set up at the edge of the beach, under the shade of tall, feathery ferns and palms. They were playing popular soft rock to the attendant harmony of hissing surf and songbirds. Glossy coquina shells glinted in the sun like uncovered pirate’s treasure. A few brave pelicans, looking like prehistoric reptiles, skimmed the glimmering ocean or glided overhead to gawk at the human invasion.
Emily was sitting alone at one of the more obscure of ten card tables that had been set up on the beach. Each had been covered with a white linen cloth and had a centerpiece of fresh-cut flowers in a crystal vase. From her shady vantage point on the edge of the festivities, she dug her toes into the cool sand, inhaling the smell of sea salt and algae, mingled with the aroma of grilling steaks.
A long table farther back on the lawn was loaded down with boiled shrimp, lobster, crab, oysters on the half shell and smoked salmon. Tons of fancy hors d’oeuvres were on the table, along with plates of colorful melon and other exotic fruit.
The steaks, as well as delicacies not yet on display, would be the main course, but Emily wasn’t hungry. Though she toyed with a serving of delicious pineapple seasoned with fresh mint, she couldn’t manage to eat much. She was too aware of what she must do. Uneasily, she surveyed the assembled guests, her stomach knotting with fear.
There were certainly enough handsome lawyers in the Gallant legal department. Meg had made it her duty to cull the married from the unmarried. Her whispered reports revealed that there were five single males to choose from in a department of twenty lawyers.
Now all Emily had to do was decide which of the five would suit her purposes the best. That might not be as difficult as she at first feared. Three of the men had made it obvious that they were interested in getting to know her better. One of those was heading her way now, his plate piled high with shrimp.
She sat back in her lawn chair, trying to appear relaxed and receptive. Taking a sip of cola, she watched his leisurely approach. Not quite six feet tall, he was stocky, like a football player. His hair was light brown and slightly thinning. His face was nice, his features strong. His light blue eyes were thickly lashed, and he had a neatly trimmed mustache. Good smile, too.
Inadvertently she noticed Lyon as he drifted into her peripheral vision. Well, maybe it wasn’t all that inadvertent. He was hard to miss when he was standing, for he loomed above his employees. Even when he was sitting, his laughter carried to her, crisp and clear, over all other noises, a superb, atmospheric sound that made her heart leap.
His laugh rose again, rich and resonant in the warm air, and her heart reacted. Forcing her thoughts away from her host, she pretended nonchalance, taking a bite of pineapple. She swallowed with difficulty as the lawyer stopped beside the empty chair on her right. “May I join you?”
She looked up, remembering to sit back just a little, as though considering if she should allow him such a huge privilege. Counting to five, she gave him the smile Lyon taught her. “You don’t look too dangerous,” she teased softly.
“You mean for a lawyer?” He laughed, placed his plate on the table and sat. He was wearing a salmon-colored shirt over a matching swimsuit. The shirt was buttoned and she was glad. She wasn’t ready for a bare chest at this close proximity just yet. She’d have to work up to that.
Belatedly, she remembered to smile at his little joke, shifting her legs away from his touch. She knew that was old Emily behavior, but she couldn’t help it. “I’m afraid I don’t recall your name,” she lied. She knew coyness required that she not show great interest. Make him work for it.
He held out his hand, and she noticed his stubby fingers had well-groomed nails. “Wymon. Brice Wymon.” They shook hands, and as she expected, his fingers squeezed and lingered. “And you’re Emily, right?”
She smiled again, but removed her hand, taking up her glass of cola to sip. “Stone.”
He adjusted his chair, and in doing so his hairy leg brushed hers. She sucked in a breath but forced herself to stay still, to endure the touch. When she did, she noticed that Brice pressed harder. Gritting her teeth, she managed to hold on to her smile. “So what do you do for Mr. Gallant, Brice?”
He shrugged, peeling a fat prawn and dipping it in a pool of shrimp sauce. “I’d rather talk about you, Emily. All I’m sure of is, you’re a model.”
He was sure of that? She toyed with her glass, wondering if she should bother with the truth. Everything else about this experience was bogus, and she knew she’d never see him after today. So why should she bore him with the mundane truth? She nodded. “You’re so insightful, Brice,” she cooed. Actually cooed! She was both horrified and a little impressed with herself. She didn’t know she possessed a cooing gene.
He stuffed the prawn in his mouth and chewed, immediately taking up another. His leg, however, was pushing against hers so hard she was afraid if she didn’t hold onto the chair he’d knock her off. “Are you kidding?” He went on munching. “What other kind of woman would Lyon have on his island but models and movie stars?”
She nodded, her jaws aching from her continued effort to smile flirtatiously. “Of course you’re right,” she agreed in her most syrupy tone.
A large shape emerged at her left and she glanced toward it, already aware that Lyon was coming their way. In an effort to appear utterly disinterested, she picked up her glass and lifted it to her lips. Unfortunately she couldn’t manage to do more, for just at that moment his dark eyes met hers, and the effect was paralyzing. And there was no reason for it. His expression was merely polite, vaguely curious. When he reached the table, he paused. “Hello, Brice. Emily.”
She put the cola glass down with a thud. He’d never called her by her given name before, and the sound of it spoken in his low-pitched voice set off a tingling all through her body.
“Great party, Lyon!” Brice lifted his drink in salute. “What I can’t figure is how you always manage the greatest weather, too.”
Lyon grinned. “Connections.”
Emily pretended to admire the cut flowers, touching the soft petal of one golden lily.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Emily?” he asked.
His eyes narrowed a bit, not with anger but something else. Concern? Now that was crazy. Besides, she probably hadn’t even seen the look at all, for he was grinning at Brice now. “I just wanted to say I’ve been informed the steaks will be ready in about ten minutes.”
“Man, I’m ready,” Brice enthused, plucking up another prawn and peeling it.
Emily gazed out to sea, wondering how Brice could stuff anything else down after all the food he’d consumed.
“Emily?” Lyon’s coaxing tone was like the world’s most powerful magnet, dragging her gaze to his face. When their eyes met, he merely nodded goodbye.
She nodded, too, stiffly, hating herself for caring. Dismissively, she shifted her perusal to Brice, gracing him with a brilliant show of teeth as he gobbled his last prawn.
Their conversation went smoothly throughout the steak course and the dessert course. Especially since she’d managed without much effort to get her dinner companion to talk about himself. So far she’d learned that he loved handball, loathed fishing, loved Stephen King—whoever he was—and planned to retire a millionaire at forty-five and play duplicate bridge for the rest of his life on some private beach just like this. She spent a lot of energy stifling yawns and working to keep herself from being tossed to the sand by Brice’s constant leg butts. She began to fear she’d have a permanent dent where he kept jamming her with his shin.
As servants cleared away the remnants of dessert, castiron butterflies were doing real damage to her stomach. Operation Lay a Lawyer was rapidly approaching. Brice was definitely interested. He’d laughed and chatted, seeming to find her extremely good company, which was strange, since she hadn’t opened her mouth except to eat for the past hour. Perhaps her smiling and nodding told him more than they seemed to—or, more likely, he was very superficial when it came to women. She supposed it was just as well that he didn’t insist on knowing anything more about her than what he could see. She’d already lied about what she did for a living. She would only have had to continue to lie, something she wasn’t very good at, anyway.