Dare Island [2] Carolina Girl

by Virginia Kantra

  It was back now, though, pressing against his fly, pointing the way to the good stuff right there in front of his face.

  Raising her other boot, she planted it near his crotch. “If I step on a ghost crab, I’m going to kill you,” she said conversationally.

  “I’m trembling all over,” he said dryly.

  His hands were shaking like a fifteen-year-old’s, a fine tremor of lust. All because he was touching her again. He hadn’t touched her leg, her ankle, in eighteen years. He hoped to God she didn’t notice.

  He tugged the boot from her other foot. Peeled off her sock. Her toenails were painted some dark color that looked almost black in the twilight. Her skin felt cool. Her feet looked pale and very naked. He ran his thumb along the delicate arch, and she shivered.

  “Can I have my foot back now, please?”

  He looked up at Meg, her bright, intelligent eyes, the quirk of smile playing on her mouth, the only woman he’d never been able to snow, and wanted her. Right there in the moonlight, wanted her now and forever.

  Sam dropped her foot as if he’d been burned.

  He didn’t think in terms of the future. He was a live-in-the-moment kind of guy.

  Standing, he brushed his hands on his jeans.

  * * *

  “WHAT WERE YOU and Walt talking about?” Meg asked as they strolled down the beach.

  Sam was focused on the angles and shadows of her in the twilight, all short dark curls and smooth pale skin, tormenting himself with fantasies of how she would feel, how she would move, under his hands and tongue.

  “Sam?”

  He pulled himself together. Walt. Right. “I’m trying to talk him around on something.”

  She nodded. “Well, you’re good at that.”

  “Talking?”

  “Getting people to do what you want.”

  “It’s a gift,” he said modestly. “Want to go back to the truck and make out?”

  She laughed, like she thought he was joking. “I didn’t mean me. People in general. So, what do you want from Walt?”

  “Support with the zoning board.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “You’re going forward with the development.”

  “If I can. I’ve had a couple meetings.”

  She nodded. “On Monday.”

  He looked at her, surprised.

  “You were wearing a tie when you came to the house,” she explained. “I figured you’d come from a meeting.”

  He caught himself smiling. He had it bad when it made him feel good that she’d noticed the tie and wondered about his day. “Yeah, with Herb Stuart, the architect for the Riverside development outside Wilmington. And after that, I met with the Parker Group. They’re responsible for a lot of low-impact development along the coast.”

  “And?”

  “Well . . .” His smile spread. “They liked the tie.”

  She laughed. “What else?”

  “They’re both putting in bids on the project. I gave them the site surveys, the basic direction, and asked them to come up with preliminary plans.”

  She nodded. “For mixed-use housing.”

  She listened. Maybe because of that, he found himself still talking, confiding hopes that had just begun to shape themselves in his own mind. “I want to see a variety of housing options, you know, for singles, families, retired couples. Mixed with light commercial, so people are working and shopping where they live.”

  “Won’t that compete with the businesses in town?”

  “Most of the shops in town cater to tourists. We don’t need another gift shop, another ice cream parlor. I want to bring back the fish house.”

  Her eyes got big. “Sam.”

  “It won’t make that big a difference to the charter fishermen like Matt and your father,” Sam felt compelled to point out. “They can get their ice from the tackle shop, and you have Fletcher’s Quay to unload.”

  “During the sport fishing season, yes,” Meg said. “But Matt still puts nets out on the old Sea Lady sometimes. He’d save so much in gas and time if he could sell his catch here, if the fish house were back in operation. But can you make it pay?”

  “They made it work on Ocracoke. Why not here?”

  “I’m impressed.”

  He shrugged, embarrassed by her praise, uncomfortable with his own enthusiasm. “Don’t be. It’s all talk at this point. I can provide the slips and the facilities, but the watermen need to organize to make it work. Cut out the middleman, form a nonprofit to run the fish market. There’s a lot of PR involved, not just to get a project like this off the ground, but to sustain the funding.”

  “It’s very promising. And exciting. You have a lot riding on this,” she observed softly.

  More than she knew. More than he wanted to admit, even to himself. “A house.”

  “Excuse me?”

  It was too soon to tell her. Until he had backers, until he had the fishermen and the town behind him, he didn’t have anything to offer her or anybody else. Just a growing, gut-clenching recognition that if he failed in this, he failed everybody.

  “The old man is giving me a house if I pull this off.” He slanted a look at her. As far as he knew, Meg had never accepted a dime from her parents, never asked for anything from anybody. She’d earned her own way through school and on Wall Street. “Still impressed?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not a gift. It’s compensation. Like a bonus.”

  “It’s a bet,” Sam said flatly. “He’s counting on me failing. He figures he can’t lose.”

  “He’s not going to lose,” Meg said.

  His shoulder blades tightened. “You think I can’t do it.”

  She gave him this incredibly patient you-are-such-an-idiot look. “No, I believe you can. And that means everybody wins. Your father gets a great development with the Grady name on it. The watermen get a working fish house. The island preserves a piece of its heritage and stops shedding jobs. And you get . . .”

  A chance to prove myself, Sam thought. Or fuck up on a large and public scale.

  “Real estate,” he said.

  “A chance to prove your ideas.” She stopped him with a hand on his arm, turning to face him in the moonlight. “Your vision.”

  Her eyes shone like the night sky. When she talked like that, with passion and conviction, he could almost believe her. Almost believe in himself.

  Smiling, he shook his head. “Sugar, I don’t have visions. I’m just a builder.”

  “Liar,” she said. “You called me a planner before like that was a bad thing. But you’re planning for the future of the whole island, Sam. You’re building people’s dreams.”

  He stared at her, shaken by her faith in him. “Meggie.”

  He didn’t waste time contemplating the future. But with no effort at all, he could picture the next fifty years or so with her. Not at the edges of his life, but part of it. His.

  Now he just had to figure out how to make her see things the same way.

  “If you stay,” she continued, “it won’t be because of anything your father does. Not because of his health or the house, not because you’re rebelling or conforming to his expectations. It’s because of who you are. Because of what you want.”

  He wanted her. His heart pounded. “What about you?”

  She blinked in genuine bewilderment. “What about me?”

  All in, he thought. “Will you stay?”

  She gave a half laugh, like he’d surprised her. “I’m leaving for New York.”

  His throat felt tight and dry. Deliberately, he swallowed. “You don’t have to.”

  Her brows drew together, forming a little double crease above her nose. “I do, actually. I have a thing, a sort of interview, on Friday with a PR firm I used to work with. That’s what I wanted to tell you earlier. Ask you.” She smiled at him a bit uncertainly, Meggie, who was certain about everything. “I was hoping you could give me a ride to the airport.”

  * * *

  “YOU WANT
ME to drive you to the airport on Friday,” Sam repeated slowly.

  “If you have time.” He didn’t look very enthusiastic about the prospect of chauffeuring her around, Meg thought. Well, he had better things to do with his time. “Look, if you’re tied up with this project, don’t worry about it. It’s not that big a deal.”

  “It sounds like a big deal to me. When are you leaving?”

  She drew back, confused and a little offended by his tone. “I haven’t made my airline reservations yet. I figured I’d fly into LaGuardia early Friday morning. Bruce wants me to meet with the management team and then have lunch with the client.” Her earlier excitement returned, overriding her disappointment at Sam’s attitude. “It’s not financial services, and it’s contract work, not an actual position within the firm, not yet, but . . .”

  “What time are you coming back?”

  “I thought I’d stay the weekend.”

  “Where?”

  “At my place.” Where else?

  “With him. That Derek guy.”

  Meg narrowed her eyes. Okay, the tone, the attitude were beginning to piss her off. “Of course with Derek. It’s his condo, too. Our condo.”

  “How many bedrooms?”

  Her lungs emptied. Was Sam jealous? The notion was oddly, darkly thrilling. And ridiculous. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Are you going to sleep with him?”

  Her stomach jumped. She ignored for the moment the fact that she wasn’t eagerly anticipating having sex with Derek. She still needed to see him. To talk to him. What they did—or didn’t do—after that was between the two of them. “I live with him.”

  Sam’s eyes were dark beneath that cowlick lock of hair on his forehead. “What about us?”

  She wanted to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. But of course she did. Guilt sharpened her voice. “There is no ‘us,’ Sam. Not the way you mean. We’re friends. We have a . . . a history, I guess you’d call it. But that’s all.”

  “Bullshit. You want me.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

  The laughter leaped back into his eyes. “And I want you,” he said. “The labels don’t matter.”

  She felt the situation slipping away from her, the conversation spinning out of control. “Of course they matter,” she snapped. “Derek is my boyfriend.”

  “Then why the hell doesn’t he act like he is? Why don’t you?”

  She was furious with him. And with herself, for letting things get this far. “You have no right to talk to me like that.” Her voice shook shamefully. “You have no reason—”

  “You want reasons?” Sam rapped. “Fine.” He grabbed her upper arms and hauled her against him. “Here’s your reason,” he muttered and crushed his mouth to hers.

  Her brain shut down. His kiss was bruising, shattering. He pressed her mouth open, delving inside, blanketing her in sensation, hot, heavy, smothering. Her skin prickled with lust. He tasted of coffee, bitter, strong, and sweet. She sagged against him, responding helplessly to the blatantly suggestive thrust of his tongue, the rough possession of his mouth and hands. His arms banded around her. Her toes curled in the sand. There was something almost desperate in his demand, something almost indecent about her surrender, yielding, liquid, holding nothing back.

  Out of control. She fisted her hands against his chest.

  He jerked back. Their eyes clashed.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. She’d never imagined she could be this upset. This aroused.

  Screw it. She dragged his head back down to hers, meeting his demand with her own. No surrender. He used his tongue. She used her teeth, nipping lightly at his lower lip, taking his mouth as he devoured hers. Her fingers twisted in his shirt, pulling him closer before she shoved him away.

  He released her instantly. They stared at each other, their breath rasping against the quiet night. This time, her gaze fell first.

  “Meggie . . .”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” She was burning up, her face on fire, her body aflame.

  He swore. “You can’t kiss me like that and then go back to him.”

  Her mouth felt bruised. A vicious tic of arousal pulsed low and thick inside her. “I need to go home.”

  A long pause before he nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll drive you back. Taylor should be there by now.”

  “No, I mean home.” She straightened her spine. “To New York.”

  Twelve

  HE’D FUCKED UP.

  Sam drove Meg home in quivering silence. The night air streaming outside was cool, but inside the cab the atmosphere was a lot warmer, a slow burn of lust and frustration on his side, anger and embarrassment on hers.

  She was pressed against the passenger door, her full lips a tight line, resolutely ignoring him. Like if she gave him the slightest sign of encouragement, he would fall on her like a dog with a bone. Which he had. Dumb move.

  But then she’d kissed him back.

  The streets were almost empty. The truck’s headlights caught a couple teenagers drifting home from the party at the gym, flashed off a cop car cruising under the streetlights.

  You have no right to talk to me like that.

  So yeah, maybe he should have tried to persuade her, reassure her, share his feelings like a girl instead of acting like a possessive asshole.

  But he could fix this. He could make her listen to him.

  He shot a considering look at her sharp, white profile. If she gave him a chance.

  He pulled in front of the Pirates’ Rest, all tricked out for Halloween with creaking shrouds and floodlights and a pirate mannequin glowering from the porch. Meg was out of the truck before Sam could come around to open her door.

  He caught up with her on the walk. “You still need a ride to the airport?”

  She climbed two steps to the porch, so that their heads were on a level—she wouldn’t give him the advantage of height, she wasn’t giving him anything—and whipped around. “Go to hell,” she said, low and clear, and stalked off.

  He grinned. “Meg.” He strode up the steps after her, yanked at the door before she could slam it in his face. “Meggie.”

  Everybody turned. The hall was full of light and Fletchers, Tom, Tess, Matt, Allison.

  Sam checked on the threshold. Shit.

  “Hi, honey, did you have a nice . . .” Balanced on her walker, Tess looked from Meg’s stormy face to Sam, stopped dead in the doorway. Her eyebrows rose very slightly. “Well.”

  Allison blushed as if she were the one they were all staring at. Matt cleared his throat.

  Tom’s eyes narrowed on his daughter’s mouth, her full lips rubbed free of lipstick and swollen from kissing. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Walking,” Meg said. “Did Taylor get home all right?”

  Matt nodded slowly. “Counted her candy bars and went to bed about ten minutes ago.”

  “Bouncing from the sugar rush,” Allison added with a smile. “She’s probably still awake if you want to say good night.”

  “I’ll do that,” Meg said. She swooped on her parents like a bird skimming the water, dart and peck, two kisses good night, and went upstairs without a backward glance.

  Sam stood on the faded Morris carpet, listening to her boots clack up the stairs.

  “Have a popcorn ball,” Tess said.

  So they weren’t going to talk about it. The knot between Sam’s shoulders loosened. Good. He didn’t know what he would say to them. He respected their concern. Envied their bond. But this thing was between him and Meg. Until they figured it out, until she admitted they had something going on, what could he say?

  “Thanks.” He stepped forward to accept the wrapped treat.

  “Talked with your future brother-in-law today,” Tom said.

  Sam withdrew his hand cautiously from the candy bowl. Not the opening he was expecting. “Ryan?”

  “He called to reserve rooms for the wedding party,” Tess said.

>   “Nice kid,” Tom said. “Sounds like his dad on the phone.”

  The two men had served together, Sam remembered. He nodded, still wary. Meg got her directness from her father. Despite the personal connection, he figured Tom wasn’t making small talk.

  Tom Fletcher had been a career sergeant major in the Marines. At sixty-four, Tom was leaner and grayer than he’d been twenty years ago when he’d first accepted Sam into his household, taught him to set a screw and bait a hook. But if the old man decided he had reason, he could still kick Sam’s ass.

  “He might be an officer and a squid, but the boy knows what he wants. And he wants your little Chelsea,” Tom continued. He fixed Sam with shrewd, faded blue eyes. “Guess that makes you the holdout in your family, marriage-wise.”

  Marriage?

  A popcorn ball–sized lump scraped Sam’s throat.

  He swallowed. “I’m not holding out against anything,” he said, meeting Tom’s gaze steadily. “But marriage isn’t something you can rush into.”

  Especially not when one of you was running away to New York. His mouth compressed.

  Tom snorted. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. From that fellow Meg’s living with.”

  “Tom.” Tess laid a hand on her husband’s arm.

  “Look at us,” he said to her. “I talked you into marrying me two weeks after I met you.”

  “You can help me to bed now.”

  “Sam and me are having a conversation here,” Tom said.

  Tess’s eyes lit with humor. “It’s only a conversation when more than one person is talking, darling. Good night, Sam. Matt, Allison.”

  Italian-American Tess would never be mistaken for a Southern Steel Magnolia, but her Chicago-bred toughness was every bit as formidable. Slowly, she and Tom made their way down the hall. He held open the kitchen door as she clumped through with her walker, letting it swing shut behind them.

  Allison looked from Sam to Matt’s impassive face. “I think I’ll head back to the cottage.”