Her stomach quivered every time she looked down. Sometimes, like now, she hated that she was such a wimp. It only made doing what she had to do harder.
Kind of like getting married. Not that she had to, but she wanted to. Sometimes when playing with a client’s child, her arms ached to hold a baby of her own. Her mom said she was too choosy; there ought to be one marriageable man among the hundreds she saw every day at Lejeune. But Pickett knew exactly the kind of man she needed to complete her dream of a stable, secure marriage, and it wasn’t a military one. She’d seen way too much of how the stress of military life caused marriages to fail.
Sweat prickled at her hairline and made her silk shirt cling damply to her shoulders by the time Pickett stepped onto the deck of the cottage. It was hot out here, too, in the afternoon sunlight, too sultry feeling for October. But after the stifling heat inside the cottage, the wind that lifted her golden curls felt wonderful.
Pickett loosened another button on her barn-red shirt to allow the breeze to reach her breasts. She ran her eyes over the long flight of weathered steps that crossed over the dune and led down to the beach. If the hurricane lurking off the coast struck, they’d probably be torn away.
Already the surf had taken on that odd, booming sound that heralded a storm at sea. Tides were running above normal, nibbling at the base of the dunes in some places, pushing the threat of the ocean closer. But as long as the dune held, the cottage would be okay.
Unless the hurricane strengthened.
Up and down the shoreline, gold and blue in the afternoon sun, the broad expanse of sand was almost deserted. No gulls swooped. No sandpipers played tag with the ocean’s advancing and retreating edge. Already the birds were seeking shelter in the deep marshes and protected coves of the sound. Pickett murmured a little prayer for the safety of all wild things.
It seemed the only creatures left on the beach were herself and a man and a little boy sitting in the soft sand in front of the cottage next door.
The man, muscular brown arms clasped around raised knees, sat looking out to sea. The little boy, dressed in coordinated red striped shirt and red shorts, half-squatted, half-knelt outside the reach of the man, playing joylessly with toy trucks. He kept his face averted, shoulders hunched.
This didn’t look right. Subtle signals passed between people who were emotionally close, even if separated across a crowded room: the set of a shoulder, matching tilt of the head, unconscious synchronization of hand movements. If she had to guess, she’d say these two were keenly aware of—yet pretending to ignore—each other. Rather like two shy strangers. But from their matching seal-brown hair, Pickett presumed they were related.
Therapist instincts aroused, Pickett went down the steps to the first landing to see them better.
The man picked up a blue and yellow kite and said something over his shoulder to the child. The little boy’s shoulders hunched tighter and he shook his head. The man said something else and got the same response.
So. The man was trying to interact and, judging from the restless movement of his powerful shoulders, was losing patience.
He probably thought the child, who looked four, maybe five, was being sulky, peevish. He probably didn’t know the little boy’s defensive crouch was typical for an insecure child who was afraid of doing the wrong thing, and so wouldn’t do anything.
The sun was bright, the ocean dark blue and sparkling, with only a few more whitecaps than usual. A day to rejoice in, but the man and boy looked so lonely. It broke Pickett’s heart.
They wanted to be together, yet neither one knew how.
It would be so simple—a piece of cake, really—to show them how to establish rapport. The thought lured her like the scent of chocolate.
Pickett squeezed her eyes closed so she wouldn’t be tempted. Uh-uh. No. No. No. They weren’t her clients, and it wasn’t any of her business.
Taking herself metaphorically by the scruff of the neck, she turned back to the task of closing the shutters on the ocean side of the cottage. Thank goodness she could stand on the deck to reach them.
As the shutter clanked into place, Pickett felt herself light up. There was another way to look at it! From his superb physical condition, he could be a Marine from nearby Camp Lejeune. If he was, then her part-time job with family services there could make it her business.
Pickett squashed the thought. She was a soft touch and she knew it, but no matter how much she wanted to rescue them, she had no right to intervene unless asked.
She snapped the shutter into its slot, then, still drawn by the puzzle of the pair on the beach, moved to the rail to peer down at them.
As if he felt her eyes on him, the man’s head swiveled smoothly like that of a lion surveying his territory. His own eyes were hidden by aviator sunglasses. Even so, a jolt sprinkled goose bumps up her arms. Pickett knew the instant he spotted her.
Embarrassed at being caught staring, she gave a little wave and almost turned away, but hesitated when the man’s rather forbidding expression gave way to a smile of great charm.
Just like that, Pickett made up her mind. If there was any place on earth it was acceptable for a stranger to casually walk up and start talking, it was on a beach.
Quickly, she stepped out of her low-heeled pumps, stripped off her stockings, and started down the steps.
Maybe this day was looking up, Jax thought, watching the shapely woman skip down the steps of the cottage next door. Unless the hurricane struck ahead of schedule, it sure couldn’t get much worse.
Monumentally bored from inactivity, more frustrated by Tyler’s refusal to play than he cared to admit, he’d watched her watching them from the deck of the cottage next door. He couldn’t help but grin at the still intensity with which she studied them. It said she was interested. Very interested.
It wasn’t a novel experience for Lt. Jackson Graham, U.S. Navy SEAL, to catch the eye of a pretty woman, though if he met one on the beach, he’d prefer she be in a bikini. He watched her, however, because right now any distraction, even a fully dressed one, from the hopeless task of doing quality time with Tyler was welcome.
When she reached the base of the steps, she waved and turned his way. His lungs expanded with what felt like the first satisfaction in days. He tilted his head, riding a wave of masculine calculation. O-o-o-h yeah. She was going to come to him.
Pickett might dither, but once she made up her mind, she didn’t look back.
It would be child’s play—literally!—for her to establish rapport with the boy herself, but that wasn’t what she wanted. How to get him to do so with his father without seeming to, that was the challenge.
The soft sand near the dunes was warm on top and cool underneath, a sensation Pickett relished with her bare feet. The breeze, stronger near the water, snatched locks of gold hair from the clasp at the nape of her neck, and caused the legs of her beige slacks to snap and flutter. She let her mind turn over strategies for approaching the pair.
The little boy’s body language said he felt something was wrong, something he was helpless to fix. Okay. She would confirm for him that something was wrong, but make it completely external to him. Then she would offer him some action to take to make it right. Boys his age still engaged in parallel rather than interactive play, one reason the kite and ball hadn’t worked well; so if she had to, she would just plain tell the father to play beside him.
The man rose from the sand in one smooth motion. His welcoming smile was confident, bordering on arrogant, and just for a second Pickett wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into.
Of only average height or maybe a little taller, he nevertheless seemed to command the entire beach as if it, or maybe the whole world, were his.
Suddenly she could feel the heaviness of her breasts and the way the wind pressed the red silk of her blouse against them. The heavier silk of her slacks moved in a sensuous slide, outlining then fluttering around her legs.
The salt breeze carried the scent of his
sun-warmed skin overlaid with coconut oil sunscreen, and she inhaled reflexively. She ignored the way her heart was beating much too hard and told herself to get a grip. Working at a Marine base, Pickett dealt with well-built, thoroughly masculine men all the time. How different could this one be? Resolutely she held her hair out of her eyes with her left hand, and thrust out her right.
“Hey.” She infused her tone with a combination of friendliness and authority. “I’m Pickett Sessoms. I noticed y’all from the deck of the Howells’ cottage. I thought I should warn you two that both of you are wasting that sand over there,” she indicated the strip of firm sand beyond the reach of the breakers, “and that’s wrong. In fact, it’s a crime.”
Jax’s smile broadened at her cheerfully imperious tone. As a pickup line, it was a little thin, but he’d give her points for originality. He still wished for the bikini, but he would settle for shorts. Nobody needed to be that formally dressed on a beach.
Her hand in his was slightly cool, tiny, and soft. So soft. She was tiny all over. He wondered if she was this soft all over.
“I’m Jax Graham. This is my son, Tyler. Stand up, son,” he added in gentle command. “You don’t sit when a lady is standing.”
Tyler scrambled to his feet grudgingly, then stood head down, rolling a car up and down his chest. Typical. Would a good father prompt him to speak? How the hell was he supposed to know?
The woman was tugging on her hand. He released her and slid his sunglasses off so he could look directly into her eyes. “We’ve been committing a crime, huh? Are you going to arrest us?”
“Nope.” A tiny dimple dotted the corner of her mouth, though she continued to pretend to be stern. “I’m going to let you off with a warning this time.”
Pickett bent down to look at Tyler’s face—not easy, as he kept his head down. “Besides,” she added with soft compassion, “you didn’t mean to do anything wrong, did you?” Tyler shook his head and sidled closer to his father. “That’s okay then.”
Still speaking to the child, she went on. “If you and your daddy work together, there’ll be time before the tide comes back in to build a sand castle, and then you wouldn’t be wasting the beach. Have you ever built a castle in the sand?”
Tyler shrugged. Then, as he realized she was going to wait for a reply, he raised his gray crystal eyes, so like his father’s, to her face. “Maybe. When I was little.”
Pickett straightened and transferred her attention to Jax. “How about you? Have you ever built a sand castle?”
Wow. A couple of sentences and she had the kid talking to her. Whatever she was doing worked. If she wanted to concentrate on charming Tyler, he’d play along. “Maybe,” he drawled, loading his tone with innuendo. “When I was little.”
“Good!” The perfect bow of her lips primmed in a smile of officious satisfaction. “If the two of you get right to work, you can fix your problem with the sand.”
Suddenly her mouth opened in a cartoon “O” of horror. She smacked her forehead. “Oh no! What was I thinking? You can’t build a sand castle! You don’t have a dump truck.”
“Nuh-uhn!” Tyler scooped a toy truck from the sand at his feet. “I have a dump truck! See?”
Pickett’s huge sigh of relief made it clear they’d had an extremely narrow escape. “That is so lucky,” she deadpanned. “I don’t suppose you have a sand pail and shovel, though.”
Tyler smiled. His too-thin cheeks grew pink and his gray eyes glittered with little-boy enthusiasm. “I do! Gan-gan got me one. I’ll go get it.” Heels flying, he raced for the steps up to the cottage.
Deep inside Jax a knot—an agonizing twist he’d lived with so long it didn’t feel like pain anymore—loosened.
Stunned, not sure what he’d witnessed, Jax turned to the woman who had changed everything. Unaware of his scrutiny, she was watching his son climb as fast as his skinny little legs would carry him. Intelligence sparkled in her ocean-colored eyes. Lips pursed, cheeks bunched, she looked like a woman delighted with a job well done.
Was he an ass or what? She hadn’t come down those steps to flirt with him. At all. He registered the tiny prick to his ego, while true regret that he might’ve met her at the wrong time and in the wrong place grew.
He had the oddest feeling that he was just now, for the first time, seeing what she really looked like.
She was more wholesome-looking than pretty, her coral-tinged cheeks free of makeup. The wind, having freed her curls from the tortoiseshell clasp at her nape, was busy whipping them into a golden froth. Though a trained observer like himself couldn’t miss the tiny waist, or full breasts, in a flash of insight he saw that those too-serious clothes had been chosen to conceal her charms more than complement them.
She turned to him now, one golden eyebrow lifted in a smile that invited him to share the triumph.
In a voice gone scratchy with wonder, he said, “Who are you, lady? I’ve been trying for three days to get that kid to smile. What the hell did you just do?”
TWO
Tyler had withdrawn again by the time he returned, bumping the yellow plastic pail against his knee. “Now, you have to look for the perfect spot,” Pickett told Tyler with calm, kind authority. “You need sand that’s wet, but not too close to the breakers.”
“Here?” Tyler asked with that little quaver in his voice that sliced off a piece of Jax’s soul.
“I don’t know.” Pickett tapped her cheek with a forefinger. “Look around some more. You’ll know it when you find it.”
Tyler moved a few feet. “Here?”
Pickett waggled a hand. “Maybe. Does it look right to you?”
Tyler looked around. Really looked. Jax could almost see the shell Tyler had pulled around himself open to let in color and light and texture. “I see it! Over there!” Knees and arms flying, kicking up little spurts of sand, the little boy raced to another spot.
“All right.” Pickett’s coral lips moved in a secret smile. “If you’re sure.”
Tyler jerked his little chin. “Right here.”
“In that case, you’ve got a castle to build. Get to work.” Jax was so engrossed watching her maneuver Tyler into claiming the project for his own, he almost missed the look she aimed at him. It said: “get to work” means you!
Then she knelt in front of Tyler and looked directly into his face. “You know that you are the king, don’t you?”
Tyler shook his head and pointed at Jax.
“Uh-uh. When it comes to this castle, you’re the king,” she told Tyler, with a conspiratorial jerk of her head toward Jax. “Can’t you see how strong he is? On this castle,” she gave a magic nose twitch, “he’s the bulldozer.”
Tyler ducked his head and giggled.
Pickett’s face lit up with humor, and a flick of her gold-flecked eyes invited Jax to share it with her. Her glance lingered longer than it had to. A lot longer.
She inhaled sharply, then stood up, slapping sand from her knees. “I think you two will do fine without me, now. I’d better get back to work closing up the cottage.”
With a polite “Nice to meet you” and a cheerful wave, she was gone, striding with light grace across the slipping sand.
That poised grace was the first thing he had noticed about her, when he’d seen her standing on the deck of the cottage next door.
With the sun in his eyes she’d been only a feminine shape. But he knew, even then, no matter how she moved, all parts of her would be in exquisite balance. She’d invested the simple act of standing with a regal air as if a flick of her finger would command him to come to her.
Jax added some arrow slits to the tower he was building. His eyes crinkled. Apparently, she was right. He was hers to command. He and Tyler were building a sand castle, weren’t they?
But she was aware of him, too. She might hold her head at that snooty angle and try to save all her warm smiles for Tyler, but sometimes she forgot. And then the heat between them … yowsa.
“Dig over here.” Tyler i
ndicated a section of the moat he wanted widened, and Jax obligingly moved beside him to begin scooping.
He could have her, he mused, pressing the sides of the moat. It would take some work … he crunched the thought like an empty beer can. Okay, he admitted he had a weakness for women like that, challenging women who turned on his hunting instincts, but he was a man who learned from his mistakes.
Women like Pickett were high-maintenance. They expected a lot. Too much. Marriage to Danielle had taught him all he wanted to know about high-maintenance women.
Now he looked for women who could be satisfied with what was left over from his SEAL career. Easygoing, good-natured women who knew the score. Those relationships didn’t last, either, but nobody got hurt. It was a price he paid.
The tide was coming in, filling the moat he and Tyler had dug, making Tyler crow with delight, but also sucking away some of the exterior fortifications. Deep blue shadows striped the beach as the sun sank into the sound behind the cottages.
Tyler’s arms and legs were coated with sand. His hair stood up from his forehead where he had pushed it back with a sandy hand. His red striped shirt was wrinkled and his matching red shorts were wet up one leg and across the bottom. Those fancy designer clothes were fairly well wrecked. Jax grinned. At least he looked like a boy.
A retreating wave carved out a section of rampart Jax had just reinforced.
“That’s it, Tyler. It’s time to go in.”
“No. I don’t want to.” The whispered protest from the suddenly hunched-over child was almost inaudible.
It wasn’t often that anyone told Jax no. He encouraged his men to disagree, to freely share their opinions about the best way to accomplish an objective, but once he told them to move, they moved.
“Now. Move it.”
Short dark lashes screening his gray eyes, Tyler hunched even further, exposing the vulnerable nape of his neck that looked too slender to hold his head. “I don’t want to,” he mumbled even more softly.
Mary Margret Daughtridge SEALed Bundle Page 2