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

by Tracey Alvarez

  “Dance with me?” The rough tone of his voice translated the words to, “Have scorching hot sex with me?”

  “Ah…” Her pulse spiked into an uneven rhythm at the soft sweep of his thumb over her knuckles. Tingles buzzed along the new highway formed from the nerves in her hand straight to her girly-bits.

  “West, my man.” Ben appeared at West’s shoulder and gave him a hearty back slap. “You’re not copping out on our traditional poker game tonight, are you?”

  Piper tried to tug her hand away, but West gripped harder, sending more of those electric tingles skittering along that highway.

  “Actually—” West said.

  “Don’t be a piker now.” Joe appeared on his other side, bumping West’s arm with his fist. “Bill warned me about you, he did.”

  West finally released her fingers and Piper stepped back. Tingle time officially over. But her body still hummed like a tuning fork with anticipation.

  “I’m pretty hammered after the game—hey!” West snarled, flicking Ben’s hand away when he patted his head.

  Ben chuckled. “Aww, you poor lamb. But Doc here will provide smelling salts at the poker game in case you swoon from the agony.”

  “Did someone say poker game?” Kip ambled over, two teenage girls in micro board shorts trailing after him, at what they likely thought was a discreet distance. He stopped, and the girls tittered behind cupped hands. “I’m in. What time?”

  “In an hour, at West’s place,” Ben said.

  “Why does have to be my place?” West sent her a look of apologetic frustration, telling her an hour wasn’t long enough for what he had in mind.

  “Because you’re the boss. See you in sixty.” Kip strode away, his teenage posse falling in behind.

  “I’ll let Noah know we’re still on.” With a nod at Piper, Joe wandered off in the direction of the bonfire.

  “I might’ve forgotten and had plans,” West gritted between clenched teeth.

  Ben smirked, knowing exactly what plans he’d interrupted. “Poker beats any other plans you made, right Piper? You play poker with your cop buddies back in the city?”

  Piper cleared her throat, swallowing the thickness gathered there from the touch of West’s hand. “Not any more. I whipped their butts one too many times. But I’m game to take your money, brother dearest.”

  West’s mouth curved in a grin that sling-shot another load of tingles south. But there’d be no shower scene replay tonight and West’s rueful smile confirmed it. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe it was the sensible thing and Ben was right. She should keep her legs crossed.

  “But you’re not a guy,” Ben said.

  “That is true.” West’s gaze dropped to her breasts before they returned to her face, his gaze smoldering. “Piper’s definitely not a guy.”

  Her toes curled into the damp sand, legs aching to metaphorically uncross—aching to wrap around West’s hips so she could grind against him. Damn him and his sexy voice that told her without words he wanted the same thing.

  Ben grunted. “God’s sake, West. Can’t Joe give you a shot for those hormones?”

  “Scared I’ll fleece you, Benny-boy?” Piper cocked her chin at her brother. “We could play with jellybeans like we used to, if you’d prefer.”

  “Men don’t play with jellybeans,” Ben said.

  She widened her eyes. “Nuts then? I’m sure you’ve some nuts somewhere?”

  “Unlikely,” West said.

  Ben laughed, and for the first time the sound was laced with nothing but good humor. “Still a feisty thing, aren’t you?”

  “Feisty enough to empty your wallet.”

  “We’ll see.” He hop-turned on his crutch. “I better ask Shaye to play too, or we’ll never hear the end of it. Oh—and West?”

  West’s intense gaze wrenched away from hers. “What?”

  “Go and rustle up some nuts for the game, ay?”

  West swore under his breath and the look he sent her before he turned away nearly set her just in case I get lucky a second time underwear on fire.

  Chapter Thirteen

  West rose at dawn, sat at his piano, and hammered out Chopsticks. Since Ben’s bedroom was underneath his, he hoped the bastard had the mother of all hangovers and each chord throbbed like a blister in his brain.

  They’d played hand after hand of poker until four in the morning. Shaye left at one, Piper quit with her winnings at half two and disappeared into her room, and the rest of the guys staggered off just before four. Only Ben remained a little longer, giving him the stink-eye before he limped downstairs. Like West still planned to have swinging-from-chandeliers monkey sex with Piper the moment Ben’s back was turned.

  Tempting. But what he had in mind for Piper wasn’t a quick tumble in his bed. Oh, no. When he got Piper beneath him he intended her to be panting his name and he doubted she’d be keen on a screaming orgasm if Ben listened below.

  West’s fingers moved over the smooth keys, sliding from Chopsticks into Chopin. He sighed as the melody wound around him, the notes unknotting the ropy tension in his shoulders. He should thank Claire for all the time she put into teaching him to play, but he’d chew his own hand off first. Over the years she never once asked about her beloved piano. Out of sight, out of mind. A bit like him and Bill.

  A soft thud at his bedroom door before it swung open. His fingers stilled as Piper walked in with two coffee mugs, her hair in random wet spikes and her robe knotted around her waist. She smelled like mangoes and his conditioner again. West curled his fingers into fists so he wouldn’t do something dumb—like haul her onto his lap.

  “Don’t stop, it was amazing.” She placed one steaming mug on a small table beside the piano and cradled the other to her chest, standing by his bench seat.

  He shifted along and patted the empty space. “Sit with me, then. And thanks.” He nodded at the coffee.

  After placing her drink next to his, she perched on the edge of the bench, keeping plenty of air between them. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

  “You’re not. Come closer.”

  Piper scooted over so the soft toweling of her robe pressed against his bare bicep. A pretty flush crept up her cheeks as her gaze zipped down to the open waist of his jeans he’d tugged on and forgotten to button.

  “I can put on a shirt…if you want.”

  “No. I’m good.” Her voice came out a little strangled.

  West’s gut dipped into a barrel roll. Piper drove him to the edge of madness as her usual ass-kicking self. But being vulnerable?

  She slayed him.

  “Play for me?” she said, her voice a whisper, a caress.

  He wrenched his gaze away and started to play, cursing every now and then when his fingers hit a sour note. Nerves. Anyone would think he was soloing at Carnegie Hall.

  West never played for the rare women he brought back to his room—though a few had asked. He smiled at their sly innuendos about the skill of his fingers and shook his head. Music revealed too much.

  And yet he didn’t hesitate when Piper asked. Because she knew his soul and all its scars, and wore her own hidden under a mask of bravado. Or was it just the tinkling ivories weaving silly fantasies in his head?

  Each time his right hand swept across the keyboard, their arms brushed, awareness sparking the hairs to attention along his skin. He switched from classical to jazz, allowing the conflicting emotions to ooze out through his fingertips as they stroked the haunting notes of Kosma’s “Autumn Leaves.” When the last chord drifted away, his bare foot slid off the pedal and he turned his head. Piper stared wide-eyed at his fingers, a solitary tear tracking down her cheek.

  “Jesus, Pipe.” He reached for her but she slid off the bench seat too fast, standing a safe distance away.

  Her palm rested against her breastbone, her fingers spread across her throat. He’d caught her off guard and something inside him softened. He ached to sweep her into his arms and take her to bed—brush the tears off her face and
make her forget everything but her own name. And maybe that, too.

  But not now, not like this.

  “Was it me, or the music?”

  “Both,” her voice quavered. “I didn’t know you could play like that—it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, and you…you’re beautiful.” She wrapped her arms around her waist.

  “Thanks. Though I’d prefer to be called hot, or manly. God-like or generously-endowed, even better.” He swiveled to face her, the boulder on his chest falling away at the small curve her lips. “But I’ll take ‘beautiful,’ because it’s better than cute.”

  “Cute, huh?” She scrubbed the last teardrop off her face. “You were cute, deadly cute, you know—back when you were five and sitting on that same piano bench in your little Superman tee shirt and teeny-tiny sandals.”

  He groaned. “Ma showed you that photo?”

  Piper grinned, and this time her eyes creased in humor too. How had he ever labeled her smile as sweet yet sexy? It was wicked—pure wickedness with lashings of black leather and a riding crop.

  “Your mother showed me more than just the piano one when I was growing up. There was baby Ryan having a bath, toddler Ryan on his potty wearing only his red gumboots, and I believe there’s even one of an older Ryan streaking butt-naked along the beach at Horseshoe Bay.”

  Jeez. Thanks Ma for snatching away his illusion of mystique amongst Oban’s eligible females. How many other people had seen Claire’s dirty little stash? “Hopefully there were none of me as a teenager.”

  “Given your penchant for nudity, it’s fortunate there weren’t.”

  Another evil, evil grin. Her tears had evaporated, but he remained curious at her reaction. So, instead of taking the bait of a verbal sparring match, he stood, and sipped his coffee.

  Her gaze zipped to the door and he pictured the cogs and gears of her mind grinding as she thought of her next quip before darting away. Because bantering was easier than talking. He should know, he’d been a bartender longer than a manager. Keep the smartass comments popping back and forth and no one got to dig below the surface.

  “Why the tears, Piper?”

  Her mouth flat-lined, the last curve of her lips disappearing. “What? I’m so tough I can’t get girly once in a while over a movie or a piece of music?”

  He cocked his head at the thread of bitterness in her tone, an icy sludge settling low in his stomach. Back then he’d fed her some line like that. Too tough, too stubborn, too boyish. And it had all been bullshit—except perhaps the stubborn part.

  But he’d pulled the other two words from the air in desperation because, at twenty, he had no clue how to tell Piper he loved her. That he was terrified she’d leave for the city and never want to come back. His cowardice hurt her—and right before Michael drowned. No wonder she hated him.

  West rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re not so tough.”

  “Yeah, I am.” Her lower lip trembled and she tucked her hands up higher under her armpits.

  “You don’t have to be, not around me.”

  A bitter laugh slipped through her lips. “Of all the people I need to be tough around, you’re number one. You shattered me once—” She shook her head and grimaced. “You won’t slip past my guard a second time.”

  An apology burned on his tongue, but he swallowed it. If he said those two little words, Piper wouldn’t hesitate to plunge a scalpel in to try and dissect his motivations.

  West rolled his shoulders to try and ease the stiffness bunching the muscles across his back. “Listen, it’s a nice sunny morning. How about we go fishing?”

  Piper’s eyebrows winged up like he’d suggested she join him for a yoga session. Or maybe strip poker. “Fishing?”

  “We’ll take my little run-around out, like we used to.” Rubbing a hand down the back of his neck, West met her wide-eyed stare. “When we were friends.”

  “We’re not friends, West.”

  He shrugged and gave her a lopsided grin. “Fake it till you make it?”

  When she said nothing, he added, “C’mon, Pipe. You and me, the screaming gulls, and a couple of rods. It’ll be fun. We both could use some fun.”

  After a moment she uncrossed her arms. “You used to sulk when I caught the biggest fish.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t sulking. I was quietly resigned because I knew you’d boast all over town and do that crazy happy dance.” He leaned an elbow on the piano top and scanned the length of her, from the tips of her purple painted toenails, to her hair, which had dried into an interesting just-been-tumbled-between-the-sheets style. “I’d pay cash to see you do those jiggley dance moves again, baby.”

  “In your dreams, Westlake.” With lips twitching to keep a smile at bay, Piper grabbed her mug and made a fast exit.

  West drained the rest of his coffee and shut the piano lid. The thing was, now she’d reminded him of the way her body looked under those jeans and baggy tee shirts she favored, he would dream of her tonight. And every night until he managed to get his hands—and mouth—back on her.

  “See? No sulking,” West said.

  Behind her sunglasses, Piper kept her eyes closed and stretched out her bare legs. The sun warmed her skin and the cool sea spray tickled as it splashed over the hull. West’s boat, the thirteen-foot-long “Daisy,” skimmed across the bay and headed around the tree-lined coast. Fortunately, she hadn’t suffered the humiliation of puking over the side.

  Yet.

  Being this close to West without resorting to tart one-liners threw her off kilter. She vowed before leaving Halfmoon Bay to keep her cool and play the we’re-just-friends game, like West wanted. Except it hadn’t worked out well. Hyper-aware in the small space of his fishing boat, every move he made impacted her. Even while they waited for the fish to bite in amicable silence, not a moment passed when she didn’t think about him. And her thoughts were far from platonic.

  “And the reason why we’re heading to another fishing spot around the coast?” She raised her voice over the rumble of the motor.

  “Gotta give a man another chance to reel in a kahawai as big as yours.” Wind ruffled West’s hair and his grin stretched as wide as the horizon.

  Goosebumps prickled along her arms.

  So in over her head. She’d been smacked in the face with that certainty this morning after listening to him play. My God, talk about Killing Me Softly. Sneaky bastard. And trust West to have such a classy trick to seduce women.

  Her mind travelled back to the previous day—West pulling her into the shower, taking her to heaven regardless of her weak protestations.

  Dammit. West didn’t need to trick a woman into his bed.

  Piper focused her gaze on the coast, the tree line giving way to another long, sandy beach dotted with—“West!”

  She lurched to her feet and West pulled down the throttle arm, the little craft slowing.

  “Oh, Christ. I see them,” he said.

  Piper’s pulse leaped as she counted the haphazard line of charcoal-colored bodies scattered along the sand, the small waves hissing onto the beach barely reaching their large, triangular tail flukes.

  Twenty-six stranded and helpless whales. Pilot whales, by their resemblance to giant dolphins.

  West guided the boat closer. “They’re still alive. Some, anyway.”

  Piper grabbed the plastic bin storing the fish they’d caught, dumped the contents at her feet and chucked a couple of smaller plastic buckets inside. “I’ll swim ashore and start wetting them down. You go for help.”

  She kicked off her sandals and tossed them into the bin. When she looked up, West stood right beside her, his face grim. He slid one rough palm along her nape and tugged her in, his lips feathering over hers with restrained fire.

  “Be careful around them,” he said pulling back. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  She nodded like a marionette, the brief taste of him lingering on her lips. Wrenching her gaze from his mouth, she dropped the bin overboard and dived after it, the col
d slash of the ocean on her skin distracting her from the urge to reel West in for another, hotter kiss.

  Nearly an hour later, Piper’s arms ached from lugging bucket after bucket to the twelve whales that still lived. The back of her neck stung as she hauled more water up the beach. She couldn’t imagine the pain these poor creatures were in and if their skin dried out the results were a lot more serious than sunburn.

  She poured the contents of the first bucket over the whale, carefully avoiding its blowhole, and bent down to meet its small black eye. “It’s okay, buddy, I’ve got you.”

  Running a hand over the creature’s massive flank, she grabbed the second bucket and tipped her head back to glare at the sky. Why couldn’t it have poured today? Stewart Island was notorious for its four-seasons-in-one-day climate and high annual rainfall—surely on the one day it would be welcome, the island could cooperate?

  From the distance, yet growing louder, drifted the growl of engines. Piper upended her bucket over the whale and jogged back to the water’s edge. A fleet of boats appeared around the rocky tip of the bay—dinghies with outboard motors, larger fishing boats, and bringing up the rear, The Mollymawk—all of them filled to capacity. More volunteers on their way, thank God.

  Tarryn, the new Department of Conservation worker, jumped off the first dinghy to arrive. She scanned the line of whales, some still now, as she waded onto the beach.

  Expecting a blunt request for details followed by a string of orders, Piper was shocked when Tarryn grabbed her in a quick hug. “You’re doing an amazing job.”

  Piper didn’t have time to mumble more than, “Thanks,” when dinghies and people and supplies descended into organized chaos across the sand.

  Hours blended into a sweaty, salty blur as countless people, both locals and loopies, toiled under the sun to keep the whales hydrated. Her mother, sister, and Erin worked together on the whale next to the one she, West, and Ben claimed responsibility for. Piper had no energy to even raise an eyebrow when Ben arrived with the second wave of volunteers, a rubbish bag taped around his cast and a don’t give me any grief scowl on his face. Everyone worked as a team and they needed each and every person if there was any hope of refloating the last nine whales on the incoming tide.