by Meg Benjamin
He raised his eyebrows, lifting the plate from her fingers. “That’s one hell of a selling job there, lady. Remind me never to have you promote anything of mine.”
She shrugged. “I just want to be upfront about it so you won’t have to try to save my feelings if it’s a bust.”
“I promise I won’t try to save your feelings.” He grinned, sliding his fork into the cake.
Greta took a bite. Not too bad. At least it didn’t taste like old carrots or citronella, the way it would in a worst-case scenario. And the frosting had turned out very, very well. Everything was sort of vegetal, almost flowery. She stole a quick look at Hank.
He was chewing slowly, his expression distant. She thought about telling him he didn’t have to finish it, then decided to see what would happen if she didn’t.
He put his plate and fork down beside the blanket. “This is one of the most fantastic cakes I’ve ever tasted. You’re an artist, babe. The Chagall of cake pans.”
She let loose the breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you. It turned out okay, didn’t it?” She placed her own plate beside his.
He nodded, reaching toward her. She caught her breath again, this time with full knowledge.
“Frosting,” he murmured. “On your nose.” He touched his index finger to the tip of her nose, then her lips.
She tasted the remnants of sweetness, sucking in the tip of his finger almost before she knew she’d done it.
He caught his breath in a hiss and she pulled back, blinking. “I… Sorry,” she whispered.
“Why?” He leaned closer, his eyes the color of moss in the shadows.
“I’m…not. Really.”
“Good.” He cupped her cheek, gently pulling her closer until his lips touched hers.
Sweetness again, frosting and cake and him. Mostly him. She opened her mouth to him, running her tongue along his, angling her head to take the kiss deeper. For just a moment, she wondered what the families at the picnic tables were thinking, and then she didn’t care. A thrill of heat passed down her body, centering in her core, leaving her wet with longing.
He pulled back for a moment, running his thumbs along her cheekbones. “You taste like flowers.”
She closed her eyes, trying to slow down her thundering pulse.
His hands slid along her sides, dipping beneath the edge of her T-shirt, then upward to cup her breasts.
“Just my luck,” he groaned. “When did you start wearing a bra again?”
“I only have one with me,” she whispered. “I wore it in your honor.”
“For the future, I can think of lots of different ways to honor me.” He ran his lips along her throat beneath her chin, leaving a warm line with his tongue. “Wearing a bra wouldn’t be one of them.”
She dipped her head, touching her own tongue to the hollow of his throat, nipping lightly at his collarbone. He groaned low in his throat.
Parents. Kids. Picnic tables.
She pulled back abruptly, staring back toward the beach. The suddenly empty beach. “Where did everybody go?”
“Home, I imagine. Looks like we’re all alone.” He slid his lips farther down her throat to her shoulder. “Does it matter?” he murmured.
She shook her head, suddenly mute.
“Good.” He slipped his hands beneath her shirt again, then pulled it over her head. His thumb moved beneath her bra strap, sliding it off her shoulder. Then he pushed his hand beneath the bra to cradle her breast, freeing it from the cup. His tongue moved along the upper curve, and he took the nipple into his mouth, sucking it until the tip ached, like an arrow straight to her core.
She sank her fingers into his hair, holding his mouth tight against her until he raised his head to move to the other breast. She slid down against the blanket, her breath suddenly tight in her chest. Her body arched, rubbing her throbbing mound against his thigh.
His hand dropped to the top of her jeans, pushing the button open, then the zipper. And then his fingers slid inside her panties, stroking swollen, wet flesh.
She brought her own hands to his chest, fiddling with buttons, finally pulling the shirt loose so that she could touch him, sliding her palms over warm skin, prickling hair, the hard buds of his nipples.
He slid a finger inside her, working her clit with his thumb, and she fell back again, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his jeans. His teeth caught her nipple, pulling it taut as his thumb pushed her toward the top. Her hips arched beneath him, bringing more of her in contact with his hand as she writhed against him. Then she came undone with a moan, biting her lip to keep from crying out.
His hands eased her jeans and panties down, sliding them below her knees to free her legs. She felt cool air touching her skin, a sharp contrast against the heat burning inside.
She wished for a moment that she could see him more clearly. She wanted to know what he looked like without clothes, to see the stripes of muscle and bone moving beneath that golden skin. Her hands moved over his thighs to the button of his jeans, pulling down his zipper and reaching inside to take him in her hands.
“Easy, babe,” he whispered as he dug into his pocket.
She slid her hands along his length as he groaned against her ear. And then he was tearing open the condom with his teeth and sheathing himself in what seemed to be a very fast time.
She leaned back beneath him, feeling his warm hands on her inner thighs as he spread her legs farther, the slight crinkle of fabric against her buttocks. The head of his cock pressed against her opening and then slid in slowly, thick and wide, stretching her beneath him, reminding her how long it had been since she’d done this with anyone. She sighed, then wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He groaned again, louder this time, but they were all alone. Or if they weren’t, it didn’t matter. She refused to care. He began to move slowly, propping himself above her on his forearms. His face was almost lost in the darkness, his skin silver in the shadows. She rose to meet him, bringing him even deeper, her muscles tightening around him.
“Holy god,” he muttered, his face against her hair.
She cupped his face in her hands, bringing his mouth to hers, biting his lower lip, then plunging her tongue inside.
He growled deep in his throat, his teeth grazing her lips as his hips slapped against hers. One hand moved to her breast, his fingers closing around her nipple, pulling it taut.
She sighed against his mouth, her hips jerking against him. The pressure built again in her core, the rush of blood and heat. His hand dropped down between them to touch the place where they were joined, and she flew apart.
He came with her with a strangled cry, his body thrusting into hers, their hips slamming together. For a moment all she could feel was heat and light. And then she was sliding down the other side, her arms tight around his body, her head tucked into the hollow between his chin and his shoulder.
“Greta,” he murmured. “Good lord above.”
She closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “Gosh,” she whispered.
It was never that good with Ryan, was it?
The thought drifted through her brain, but she quickly pushed it aside. Thoughts of Ryan didn’t belong here. And they sure as hell made no difference.
Hank rolled to his side, taking her with him, one hand tangled in her hair. “You can cook. You can rock a hoopskirt. And you’re sexy as hell. Maybe you should tell me about your flaws now before I decide you’re the ideal woman.”
She sighed. “I’m not talking about flaws at the moment. Maybe later. When my bones stop feeling like elastic.”
“Okay,” he murmured, “later then.”
Much later. Possibly never. But for now, she’d settle for the feel of his arms tight around her shoulders and his body pressed against hers.
Chapter Eleven
For the first time in days, Sophie woke up without that churning combination of irritation and fear in her stomach that had haunted her ever si
nce Greta had driven off. Late yesterday afternoon, Hayley Stone had called with the news that there was no news. No accidents had been reported with unknown female victims. No wandering amnesia sufferers had been admitted to any regional hospitals. Wherever Greta was and whatever she was doing, she appeared to be okay.
Of course, Sophie was still vaguely irritated that she’d taken off in the first place. If she’d stayed put, she could have helped out. She could have done…something, although Sophie wasn’t entirely sure what that something would be. Answered the phone maybe. The phone that was still ringing with annoying frequency.
Today it was Alma Martinson from the hardware store, checking to see how Sophie was doing. How do you think I’m doing? Sophie wanted to ask. How is it any of your business how I’m doing? Instead she said she was doing just fine, thank you for asking, and hung up.
She hadn’t let herself think much about Owen’s suggestion for a brief escape. Greenbush Island. Spa treatments. Golf. She hadn’t played golf for years, not since her husband had died. Getting away from Promise Harbor for a week or so suddenly seemed really appealing. No Alma Martinson. No Bernice Cabot. No one calling every morning on the off chance she’d heard more devastating news and needed someone’s shoulder to cry on.
She wondered if she and Owen would have adjoining rooms, then felt her cheeks flush. Of course not! What are you thinking?
Sophie was still blushing when she heard the doorbell. She sighed. Probably another neighbor or friend or acquaintance checking to see if she’d gone over the edge yet. At least she’d have the satisfaction of seeing their disappointment when they realized she was just fine.
Not that she really was fine, exactly. But she was…okay. Surprisingly okay.
She peeked through the front door peephole to see Ryan McBain standing on her doorstep. All dark, curly hair and broad shoulders, dressed in a light blue knit shirt and khakis, as if he’d just stepped out of a J. Crew ad.
Her heart promptly began to thump in panic. Greta! She threw open the door. “Ryan. What are you doing here? What have you heard?”
Ryan’s forehead furrowed attractively. But then Sophie had always thought he was a handsome man. Just not a very nice one. “Heard? About Greta? Nothing. That’s why I’m here. I thought maybe you’d know something more.”
She took a relieved step backward, and Ryan walked into her living room, glancing toward the kitchen. “Is Josh here?”
Whatever good opinion of him she might have been considering promptly disappeared in a puff of angry steam. “No. I’m here by myself. What do you need, Ryan?”
His forehead furrowed again, as if he were considering Deep Thoughts. “I’m concerned about Greta. I thought maybe Josh had had some news about her.”
“Why would Josh be the one to have news?” Sophie folded her arms, knowing full well what the real answer was. Because Josh is the responsible male in the house rather than the irresponsible female.
Ryan shrugged. “No particular reason. So have you heard anything new?”
“The police checked for accidents. None have been reported. I’m sure Greta will let us know where she is when she’s ready.” She managed a thin smile.
Ryan sighed. “Well, that’s good, I guess. Not as good as a message from Greta would be, but good. I’m glad to hear it.”
Sophie’s heart softened somewhat. At least he was concerned about her daughter. As he should be. Her good manners gave her a quick kick. “Would you like something to drink? There’s fresh coffee.”
“Coffee would be great, thanks. Black.” He followed her into the kitchen, slumping into a chair at the table.
She poured two cups from the percolator, stirring milk into hers. At least she might be able to pump Ryan for a few more details about the divorce. “When was the last time you heard from Greta?”
Ryan frowned slightly. “A couple of weeks ago, I guess. When the final decree came down.” His ears turned faintly pink. Apparently, the subject of the divorce was still sensitive.
Sophie nodded, as if she heard her daughter’s final divorce decree discussed all the time. “Did you realize she was coming here for Josh’s wedding?”
“No.” He frowned. “Josh got married?”
“Not exactly,” she said quickly. “Greta was supposed to be the matron of honor.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “I thought maybe she came back here to be with her family after…everything.”
“Everything.” Sophie sat down opposite, stirring her coffee, trying not to sound like a prosecuting attorney. “Just what does everything include?”
Ryan licked his lips. “Well, the divorce. The separation. All of that.”
“So Greta was upset about all of that?” She took a sip. “I only ask because she didn’t seem particularly upset when she got here, but I might not have noticed. There was a lot of confusion surrounding the wedding.” And a lot more surrounding the fact that it hadn’t taken place after all.
Ryan’s gaze darted around the kitchen. Sophie got the distinct impression this wasn’t a topic of discussion he was enjoying much. “She seemed okay the last time I spoke with her. But, as I say, that was a couple of weeks ago.”
“How long were you separated before the divorce?” she asked flatly.
He licked his lips, staring down at his hands. “Around three months. It didn’t take long to reach our property settlement and get the filing done.”
“So you and Greta have been separated for four months now?”
“About that.” He finally looked directly at her.
Sophie noted the tightness around his jaw, the slightly narrowed eyes. Something was obviously making him feel very uncomfortable indeed. She considered the possibility that it might be something Greta had done and then dismissed it. Only someone with a guilty conscience would bother to drive from Boston to Promise Harbor to find out what had happened to his ex-wife.
“Do you mind my asking what happened between you? Since Greta didn’t get a chance to tell me herself before she left?” She managed to keep her voice pleasantly noncommittal, but she’d already begun considering just what choice expletives she could use on the good-looking weasel before she tossed him out. By now, she was beginning to have a very good idea what might have produced the guilty conscience that had brought him to her door.
Almost as soon as she’d had that thought, she heard the front door open. “Sophie?” Owen’s voice called. “You here?”
Oh wonderful, somebody else to put their two cents in. “We’re in here,” she replied. “In the kitchen.”
Owen stepped through the door, then paused, frowning slightly in Ryan’s direction. “Hello.”
Ryan blinked, then glanced at Sophie, clearly waiting for an introduction, which she regarded as another mark in his disfavor. How much energy did it take to say hello, for Pete’s sake? Plus he should remember Owen from when he was married to Greta. “Ryan, this is Owen Ralston, a family friend. Owen, you remember Greta’s ex-husband, Ryan McBain.”
Ex-husband. Funny how much easier it had become to refer to him that way now.
Ryan nodded in Owen’s direction. “Hello.”
Owen nodded again, then took the chair next to Sophie. “Something up?”
“Not exactly. Ryan was just telling me about the divorce.” She turned her best eagle-eyed stare in his direction.
Ryan glanced at Owen again, clearly unhappy with the idea of discussing his marriage in front of a stranger. Sophie found she really didn’t care whether Ryan was happy or not. “About the divorce?”
“It was…” Ryan licked his lips. “It was sort of a misunderstanding. My fault, really. Just incompatibility. Sort of.”
Sophie decided that was the lamest excuse she’d ever heard. But she also decided she really wasn’t interested in hearing much more from Ryan McBain, particularly since she doubted he’d tell her the truth. “Well, I haven’t heard anything more from Greta, as I said. I can have her call you when she comes back.” Assuming she does come back.
Sophie pushed that thought from her mind.
“I’m not leaving town just yet. I thought maybe I’d talk to people around Promise Harbor a little before I left. See if I could find out any more information.” He was looking uncomfortable again.
“Any more information about what?” Sophie felt a slight sting of exasperation. The man made no sense at all. And she didn’t much care for the thought of him stirring up more gossip in the harbor. “We’ve already asked the people who were at the wedding and they haven’t seen her.”
“Look, this is my responsibility.” Ryan pulled himself up so that he was sitting very straight, the model of a responsible male. “If Greta’s done anything…”
“Done anything?” Sophie stared at him. “What do you mean ‘done anything’? She just drove away. She didn’t knock over a liquor store.”
“Suicide,” Owen said flatly, staring at Ryan. “You think she’s killed herself.”
Ryan’s face turned pink, his lips narrowing to a thin line. “I don’t know what to think.”
Sophie’s exasperation instantly morphed into full-blown rage, with perhaps a slight tinge of fear. Had he heard about her depression after Dave had died? Was he assuming like mother, like daughter? Maybe Josh had thought she was suicidal, but he’d been wrong. She’d never come close to suicide, even when she was at her lowest. And Greta hadn’t even seemed depressed. Suicide? The very idea made her want to slap him across that smug, WASPy face.
“You think my daughter would hurt herself? Over you? You conceited ass! My daughter would never kill herself over you. Or over any other man. She’s got too much good sense to do something like that.” She pushed herself to her feet, her hands shaking. “Get out of my house. Right now.”
“Sophie…” Ryan looked scandalized.
“I’m serious, Ryan. You get out. If you think Greta would hurt herself over you, you obviously don’t know her at all. Which is maybe why you’re not married to her anymore.” Sophie closed her hands into fists at her sides. She didn’t really think she’d sock him, but she wasn’t entirely sure.