Second Chances Boxed Set: 7 Sweet & Sexy Romances in 1 Book

by Tracey Alvarez

  “Staying in Oban was too hard with all the memories of Dad and some people weren’t very kind. Plus, you knew you had to leave to join the police.”

  She found herself nodding. Job opportunities in Oban were scarce and the National Police College was located in Wellington. They were the standard party-lines she trotted out when questioned about her reasons for leaving Oban for the city.

  “But that doesn’t explain why you cut us out of your life like we were a bunch of inbred yokels you couldn’t wait to get rid of.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Shaye whipped around, snatched a mandarin from the fruit bowl and fired it across the table.

  Piper ducked to the side, the mandarin grazing her shoulder before it hit the counter and rolled into the sink. Dammit—her sister had a killer aim.

  “Stuff you, Piper, you did. The odd phone call and weekend shopping trips with you in the city once a year doesn’t count for much of a relationship.”

  “I didn’t mean to cut you out.”

  “But you did. You weren’t there for us when we needed you most.” Shaye’s eyes glistened. Crap, now look what she’d done. “I was fifteen—a kid, as you pointed out. Fifteen and forced to glue the pieces of Mum’s life back together when she fucking fell apart.”

  Piper dropped her head into the palm of her hand. Tried to think of something that wouldn’t make her sound any more like the selfish bitch she so obviously was. At eighteen she hadn’t thought about what she’d dumped in Shaye’s lap by taking off to live with her dad’s aunt in Wellington. She’d just needed to get away from all the murmured accusations—and West. If it weren’t for that knife aimed between her ribs, the decision to leave may have been different.

  “I’m sorry, Shaye. Jesus. You never told me.”

  “Would it have made you come home?”

  The Hello Kitty clock on the wall ticked off the seconds as Shaye swiped a finger beneath her eyes, smudging her mascara. She smoothed her ponytail and adjusted the collar of her pretty apple-green blouse. “Sorry about the mandarin.”

  “You missed my head, at least.”

  “If I’d been aiming for your head, I wouldn’t have missed.”

  Piper barked out a laugh. “And the boat thing?”

  “Getting on a boat stresses me out—big time. I avoid them when I can.”

  “Hon, you live on an island.”

  Shaye sent her a duh glare. “I cope with it, okay? I use the ferry all the time. Just so long as the boat ride doesn’t involve going anywhere near divers or snorkelers or Paterson Inlet.”

  Paterson Inlet, where their father drowned. How could she continue to push Shaye in light of that revelation?

  “Is there anything I can say, anything I can do, to show you how sorry I am?”

  Shaye returned the jug to the fridge. She paused with the door open, turning her three-quarter-profile toward Piper. Even with raccoon circles under her eyes and her hair caught in a casual ponytail, Shaye epitomized the graceful beauty of a 1950s movie star. Piper’s breath hitched, and for the first time in many years she ached for the sisters they used to be.

  “Saying sorry is the easy part,” Shaye said. “It’s what you do now that’s important, and you’ve come back to help. It’s a start.”

  And it was a start discovering if the ties binding them as sisters were strong enough to repair the damage of neglect. They could forge a new relationship—assuming Shaye wanted her back in her life. And assuming a relationship could span the distance once she returned to Wellington.

  Because after these six weeks?

  She was outta here.

  A light breeze skimmed across the ocean, and the clear water made sunglasses essential as the sun slipped out from behind the veil of cirrostratus cloud. Other than a case of sunburn and a temporarily misplaced contact lens, the trip was a success, with the two Great Whites who duly appeared both entertaining and scaring the crap out of their enthusiastic clients.

  Piper packed away the last of the dive equipment and then kept herself busy in the galley. West could do the last round of schmoozing with the clients as they exited The Mollymawk onto the wharf. If she had to smile one last time for the camera, someone would sustain a Piper-inflicted injury. Not good for business.

  Thank God the day was over. Once they motored back to The Mollymawk’s mooring spot, escape would be imminent. If you could call working the evening shift in Due South’s sweltering kitchen an escape.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, the quick, purposeful tread alerting her to their owner. Heck, the tingle across her scalp told her West had entered the room. Like he discharged some weird static electricity and only she received a zap.

  “Ben’s on the wharf and he wants a rundown.”

  A rundown—more like checking she hadn’t screwed up. Piper straightened. Might as well get it over with. “A quick one.”

  “Naturally. Dad’ll have stacks of dishes waiting.”

  “Lucky me.”

  She followed West onto the wharf. Sitting on a bench facing the boats moored in Halfmoon Bay, Ben cut a striking solitary figure among the tourists strolling by. Piper rolled her eyes as they approached him. Ben probably set it up that way: the Heathcliff of Stewart Island. He certainly had the whole don’t approach me, I’m brooding thing going on.

  West peeled away and sat on a nearby wharf bollard, while she slid next to Ben, nudging his shoulder to rattle his cage a little. “So brother dearest, the loopies seemed happy with their experience, huh?”

  His arm tensed and with a subtle shift he pulled away, instead of elbowing her back as he used to, and as he continued to do with Shaye. The rejection smarted, but she pulled up her big girl panties and refused to be offended.

  “West said you handled yourself.” Ben continued to stare at the bay.

  Waiting for violins to kick in, no doubt.

  “I did better than handled myself. One of the guys talked of taking our romance cruise on his honeymoon because his fiancée’s a shark nut—another possible booking.”

  Ben grunted, a sound she identified from years spent with other testosterone drenched males who couldn’t concede a woman may have actually done well.

  “And we have a group of seven booked for a full-day beginners scuba trip tomorrow, so it’s a solid start.” Piper’s gaze snapped between Ben and West, both of them appearing unimpressed at her marketing abilities.

  What was it with these two? Seriously? She still couldn’t do anything right?

  “You didn’t scare the clients away, that’s a bonus,” Ben said.

  Piper huffed out a sneering breath. “I never claimed to be a people person—that would be West.” She angled her chin at him. “And since there are three females in the group tomorrow, why don’t you use that smarmy charm of yours to take one of the dives?”

  West stretched out his long legs, crossing his ankles. “Can’t.”

  “Whaddya mean, can’t? Why not?”

  “That’s your job. I wouldn’t want to deprive the clients of all your skills that aren’t being utilized in the backwater of Oban.”

  West got a warning glare, even though he didn’t add anything further.

  Ben sat forward. “Plus diving with scuba would interfere with West’s training.”

  Training? What training? Ah—the pool laps. Her brow furrowed—how could that affect his ability to dive? “Swimming laps in the community pool is your training?”

  “Nope.” West hooked his thumbs into the edge of his shorts’ pockets, fingers flexing and releasing. “I use the pool to practice dynamic apnea, because my safety diver mucked up my free immersion training by breaking his ankle.”

  Dynamic apnea.

  Free immersion.

  Terms she’d once been intimately familiar with when the three of them free-dived with her father. The discipline of a one breath dive to incredible depths without the benefit of scuba hadn’t appealed to her, but West took to it like the proverbial duck to water. Michael’s true prodigy. />
  But after all they’d been through, West continued to free-dive?

  Blood napalmed through every artery, consuming her from the inside out. Piper lunged toward him before rational self-restraint could overrule her legs.

  Past strangled vocal chords she gritted, “Free-diving?”

  West stood, hands still hooked in his pockets, his eyes wary. “I’m training for the Lake Taupo Nationals.”

  The words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t verbalize the plummeting-elevator sensation in her gut at the idea of him training for the same competition that drove her father to his death. Her inner ear rang with an endless loop of “How could he? How could he?”

  “You son of a bitch.” She slapped both palms against his broad chest and shoved.

  The plume spraying up as West hit the water gave her some satisfaction as she stomped away from the dock, ignoring the laughter following in her wake.

  Piper stormed toward Due South, using the short walk to work off the need to punch something or someone. She refused to glance back over her shoulder to see if West had dragged his dripping carcass onto the wharf. Likely a cluster of sympathetic local women like Erin fussed over him, telling him what a dreadful cow she was and always had been. And he’d enjoy all the attention.

  Piper marched faster.

  Donny’s head got a brief pat at the back door as she commiserated with him on the moronic owner he’d been saddled with. She sailed into Bill’s kitchen, snatching her apron off the hook. Jamming it over her head, the neck loop caught on her ears. Tacky, ugly, Made-In-China apron.

  Bill emerged from the cooler with an armful of carrots. “You get much hotter girl and your punk hair-do will catch fire. Then you’ll need to take a dip like West.”

  Piper yanked the ties around her waist and knotted them. “Why am I not surprised you know about that.”

  “Because I’m all-seeing and all-knowing—and if you didn’t want to cause an explosion in the gossip pool, you should’ve kept your hands off my boy.” Bill placed the vegetables on the prep counter and moved to the stove.

  “Your boy’s an ass—” She caught herself, remembering he was the asshole’s father. “Idiot.”

  “An ass-idiot? Don’t believe I’ve heard anyone call him that before.”

  Piper glanced at Bill’s slumped posture as he stirred a delicious smelling concoction in a large saucepan. “Well, he is one.”

  She moved past him and twisted on the hot water tap, adding a squirt of dishwashing detergent to the sink.

  Behind her Bill sighed theatrically. “What’d he do this time?”

  Piper whipped around to give him an earful on what an irresponsible, unfeeling and plain frustrating excuse for a human being his son was, when Bill’s pasty face and hunched shoulders shoved aside her lingering temper.

  Holy crap. Bill Westlake was not a well man.

  She twisted the hot water tap off. “Remember when you said I looked like something Donny had vomited up on the carpet? Well, right now you look like the something that squeezes out his other end.”

  “Yeah, I’m feeling a bit crook today.”

  She could count on one hand the times Bill had taken a day off when she was a kid, and he never, ever admitted to being unwell. “Good grief. Did hell just freeze over?”

  He snorted, coughed, and looked miserable. Piper stood alongside him, taking in the slight yellow discoloration of his skin and the way his apron bagged around his stomach. Maybe he didn’t have much of a beer belly to start with—but given she’d had to nag him to stop for meals since she’d been back…

  “I’m going to make an appointment with the doc for you and I’m guessing it probably isn’t still Nigel.”

  “He left a couple of years ago.”

  “Sensible man,” she muttered, and then louder, “So who’s his replacement?”

  “Joe Whelan, a young Irish lad. Number’s the same. It’s by the phone. But I don’t need a bleedin’ doctor. I’m just a bit off-color.”

  “Uh-huh.” Piper gave him her mother’s look, which she practiced and renamed as her I’m a cop and I will kick your ass glare. “You’re going to see the doctor and don’t make me drag your son into this. He’s already in a foul mood.”

  “Hah. Like West can make me do something I don’t want.” He turned back to the stove and stirred his pot.

  “No? Well, I can.”

  Bill uttered a couple of foul words he must’ve picked up in the army, followed by a cynical huffing noise.

  Piper sauntered over and picked up the wall phone receiver. “I’ll just give my mum a ring, shall I? Tell her to alert the church ladies that you’re feeling poorly? They’ll be down in their droves to fuss all over you.”

  Bill’s shoulders hunched so high they touched the lobes of his reddened ears. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a scheming bitch?”

  Piper replaced the receiver with a grin. “I consider it an off day if someone doesn’t.”

  “Make an appointment, then,” Bill said, and slammed the lid on the saucepan.

  Chapter Seven

  West's shitty day just kept getting shittier.

  As if being the laughing stock of Oban with Piper shoving him off the wharf wasn’t enough, he’d arrived back at Due South to find his dad taking a sickie. So he had to juggle staff, which wouldn’t have been a storm in a teacup except two of his waitresses were also home in bed with the flu. Which meant he’d run his ass off serving tables instead of bailing Piper up in a dark corner and finding out what the hell was her problem.

  And now, with the kitchen closed for the night and things slowing down in the pub, he finally found a spare minute, only to discover the kitchen was deserted. She’d bailed.

  Typical.

  Striding into the pub, West caught Kip’s eye behind the bar. “Bring a beer to my office when you get a moment.”

  Curious stares tracked his every movement—he’d never live the dive off the wharf down. He turned on his heel and walked out again. Half an hour till closing and he was gone. And if Piper was tucked up sound asleep? He’d take pleasure in disrupting her sweet dreams.

  The lights were off when he arrived home an hour later. West stepped into the foyer and toed off his shoes, tempted to hammer on Ben’s door and wake him up too, since he’d caught him busting a gut as he climbed back onto the wharf. Ha-frickin-ha.

  But, no. He and Piper had things to say that he didn’t want Ben overhearing.

  He climbed the stairs, turned on the lights, and headed to the back door to feed Donny. Not that the mutt needed an extra handful of dog biscuits since Piper started sneaking him kitchen leftovers. The dog biscuit bag by the back door had a note taped to it: Wake me when you get in, no matter what time. We need to talk about Bill.

  That sucked the joy right out of jarring her awake. Not that he’d softened his ass-kicking stance just because she had some concern for his father.

  Crazy, impulsive little witch.

  He blew a stream of annoyed air out his nose and opened the biscuit bag, grabbing two. Donny shuffled from foot to foot on the back step, his tail a wagging blur as West opened the door and tossed him his supper.

  “And don’t think you’re getting another later.” Except he’d cave like wet cardboard when Donny started his soft whining.

  “I’m such a pussy.” He leaned against the closed door, slanting a look down the hallway. “And not just with the dog.”

  Walking the few steps to his office, West scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He didn’t have the energy to deal with Piper tonight after all. Surely a case of the man flu wasn’t enough to warrant a late night nag-session? He could think of a few things he’d rather do than challenge Piper to a verbal duel at midnight.

  Like slide a hand up those long tanned thighs? Or crawl into her bed and plant a trail of hot, wet kisses from the indentation of her throat due south?

  West leaned an arm against the door and dropped his forehead on his elbow. Christ Almighty. He needed to get a grip. Get a gri
p, and get laid with some pretty stranger who wasn’t Piper.

  The office door jerked inward and he stumbled forward, just about flattening Piper, who stood, squinting, in a white tank top and teeny-tiny shorts, her hair mussed and flattened on one side. The hallway light angled down, and the pajamas—if that’s what they were—showed more skin than they covered.

  West’s gaze plummeted to her breasts. His cock woke up and completely sucked all the blood from his remaining brain cells. “Ah…what is that thing on your top?”

  Piper looked down, made the unfortunate motion of straightening the knit fabric, which only emphasized the hardened buds of her nipples. “It’s Animal, you know, from The Muppets.”

  She cut him a glance which said, “Why are we talking about pyjamas?” then her gaze lowered, skipping to a part of his anatomy that totally rebelled against the whole I’m not interested in having wild monkey sex with you plan his brain had settled on.

  He bent closer, the hint of coconut from the conditioner she’d pinched from his shower curling into his nostrils. That, and the scent of mangoes on her skin, made him want to lap her up. Sweet as warmed honey. West reached out to see if the skin on her collarbone was as soft as he remembered.

  Eyes widening, she turned away. “I’ll just grab my robe.”

  He dropped his hand and clenched his fist. Resisted the temptation to pound it into his forehead to kick start his brain out of its adolescent lusting. Hot things burn, Westy. Look at the pretty flames, but don’t touch.

  She bent to pick up a pile of black fabric pooled on the floor, and his gaze fastened on the printed “A.N.I.M.A.L” across the bum of the shorts. The teeny, tiny shorts now riding up the crack of her deliciously-shaped ass. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he groaned. Either way, he nearly swallowed his own goddamned tongue.

  If she wore that get-up on their overnight cruise this weekend he was screwed—because he couldn’t keep his hands off.

  He needed to get the hell away from her. Now.

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” West muttered and escaped to the kitchen.