by JoAnn Ross
“Guess she’s off getting a makeover.”
He shoved the carrot-colored hair that had fallen over his eyes out of the way and scowled at that idea. “She doesn’t need any stupid makeover. She’s only eight.”
“I’m no expert on the female of the species, but it’d be my guess that most of them like getting fancied up.”
“Maybe.” The kid, whose name tag read JOHNNY, shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his thin jeans, raised his chin to a stubborn level, and shot Gabe a skeptical look. “Are you really a Marine?”
“Yeah. Well, I’m not active service anymore. But there’s a saying in the corps that once a Marine, always a Marine.”
Gabe knew that the corps still clung to him, ingrained in the way he stood, the way he moved, the way his experiences had set him apart from civilians. The same way growing up with drunks had set him apart. He’d long ago come to the conclusion that some people were meant to fit in. He wasn’t one of them.
“Did you kill anyone?”
And why was it everyone always eventually got around to asking that? Gabe wondered wearily. Most of the time, when asking, the questioners would be looking at him as if they expected him to go Rambo at any minute.
“I was in my share of battles. But since I was a combat photographer, most of the time I was taking photos.”
“But did you kill anyone?”
Gabe had been lied to enough times that he’d always sworn he’d never lie himself unless his life, or the life of someone he cared about, was at risk. Which it wasn’t.
“Yeah.”
“Did you like it?”
“No.” Gabe considered blowing the kid off, but he recognized him all too well. Except for the difference in their coloring, he could have been looking in a mirror nineteen years ago. “You sure you don’t want a tattoo?”
Thin lips turned up in a sneer. “Stick-on ones are for little kids.”
Gabe shrugged. “Your choice.” He glanced at the long line forming behind the teen. “That about it?”
The kid flushed, his ears turning bright red. “Yeah.”
“Okay, then.” Gabe kept his tone casual, matter-of-fact. “Guess I’ll see you around for the photography class.”
Another shrug. “Maybe.”
The lost boy named Johnny turned and slunk away. With that false wall of bravado on the verge of crumbling, he reminded Gabe of a whipped dog. Of himself a very long time ago.
Hell. And isn’t this a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into?
31
Johnny didn’t know why he’d even gotten in that fucking line in the first place. It wasn’t like he wanted one of those stupid sticker tattoos. Okay, maybe the dragon ones were kind of neat. And he would have liked the skull if he hadn’t known it would scare Angel. But part of him, the part that kept clinging to the idea that there really was a life after the system, had been thinking that maybe if he joined the military after graduation, then the state would consider him a responsible adult. Which would let him apply for custody of his sister.
Of course, if they sent him off to fight in some bumfuck war, he wouldn’t be able to take care of her himself while he was gone. But lots of Marines and soldiers were married and had kids. Which meant that maybe he could pay someone to be like a live-in nanny. It wasn’t that he’d need whatever salary the military would pay him. If they covered his room and board—which they had to do, didn’t they?—then he could just sign his paycheck over to Angel.
He’d wanted to ask that Marine how it worked. But as soon as he’d looked into those gray eyes, which outwardly seemed friendly enough, but looked as if they could see straight through him, all the questions he’d thought up while waiting for those other kids to get tattoos popped like a soap bubble.
He glanced back, watching as the Marine wiped a little kid’s arm with alcohol, patted it dry, then applied a tattoo of the cowboy from Toy Story. The kid was beaming and his chest was so puffed up with fucking pride, he looked like he was about to float all the way up to the wooden rafters.
Which, for some stupid reason, as his fingers curled around the stupid anchor tattoo he’d stuck in his pocket, made Johnny want to cry.
32
Since she hadn’t brought any animals today, Charity was drafted into doing makeovers. Which, although she wasn’t nearly as handy with curling irons and polish as her mother and Camille, she found herself thoroughly enjoying. Not so much for herself, but for the pleasure it obviously gave the girls.
One especially captured her heart. The little blonde had talked a mile a minute, her pale blond Orphan Annie curls bouncing like springs as she’d accented her words with nods and shakes of her head. Angel Harper had been in and out of the system since she was a toddler, but somehow it hadn’t seemed to leave any emotional scars on her. Yet.
And wasn’t that the key? Charity thought as she sat in the passenger seat on the way home, barely listening to her mother rattling on about her day to Gabe, who’d slant Charity a questioning look every so often. She knew he was wondering about her silence. Probably wondering if she’d changed her mind.
Which she hadn’t. In fact, one of the reasons she didn’t want to meet those all-seeing gray eyes was that he’d undoubtedly realize she was close to sitting on her hands to keep them from ripping open his shirt.
Which was why it was better not to think about it. At least not until later tonight.
But still, just the idea of him following through on his promise had her blood humming.
“Well,” he said, as he pulled up in front of the house, “what time do you want me to pick you up?”
“The Sea Mist tends to have a rush from about five to seven,” she said. “All the tourists and retirees like to eat early. How about seven thirty?”
“Works for me.”
He got out of the car. Charity hopped out of the Jeep and was on the sidewalk before he could open the passenger door, but Amanda, accustomed to men’s attention, waited, then climbed out, her hand laid lightly in his, with the grace of a princess exiting a royal coach.
“You’d be doing me a great favor if you let your sweet little dog stay with me again,” Amanda volunteered. “He has such a way of lifting my spirits.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Gabe said. He gave Charity a long look rife with sexual promise. “See you in a couple hours, then.”
“I’ll be ready.”
His grin was quick and wicked as sin. “I’m counting on it.”
This time she didn’t watch him leave. After checking with the fill-in vet and Amie, who were buttoning up after a fortunately uneventful day, and Janet, who reminded her that—damn—she’d scheduled a surgery for tomorrow morning, she raced up the stairs to the living quarters.
“I need something to wear,” she called out to her mother.
“You’re looking for a seduction dress. Something that will make Gabriel St. James swallow his tongue.”
“That’s a bit extreme. What I’m looking for is something besides jeans to wear to dinner.”
Though, admittedly, whatever she unearthed in her mother’s closet, she didn’t intend to wear that long.
“What happened to wanting a forever after?”Amanda asked, even as she began delving into the guest room closet.
“I still want that.” Charity yanked the T-shirt over her head. “I want a husband, kids, a house, and a dog. I’ve already got the house and the dog, so all I need is a husband to have kids with. But since I realize that I’m not likely to get that with Gabe, I’ve decided to settle for hot, no-strings, chandelier-swinging, mind-blowing sex.”
“Hot, mind-blowing sex isn’t exactly settling.” Amanda pulled out a handful of dresses and tossed them onto the antique four-poster bed. “And your Marine certainly looks capable of providing it. But you’ve never been a no-strings type of person.”
“Neither are you.”
“True enough. Which would have saved me a great deal of heartache.”
“Yet somehow you’ve managed to stay friends
with all your exes.”
“I have.”
“So, looking at the bright side, you managed to enjoy the companionship, and probably hot, mind-blowing sex, with some really interesting, talented men.”
Amanda paused, her hand over the top of a quilted jewelry bag. “Again, that’s true.”
“So it hasn’t all been negative.” Charity picked up one of the dresses.
“That’s one of my personal favorites,” her mother volunteered. “The judge bought it for me at a little boutique during a trip to Santa Barbara.”
The watercolor silk halter dress was the color of the sea, with a handkerchief hem that would flow seductively around her calves. It was wispy and romantic. And made Charity wonder where on earth her mother thought she’d wear such a dress in Shelter Bay.
“It’s pretty. But so not me.”
“And isn’t that precisely the point? To push your boundaries?”
“Good point.” She put aside another, a silk sheath in a bold, eye-popping leopard print. She might be ready to jump off the sex cliff, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to live up to the wildcat billing the dress advertised.
The third dress, a short, strapless cotton covered with tropical flowers on a dark background, shouted out, “Choose me!”
So she did. “This one.”
Her mother nodded. “A perfect choice. I bought it before Benton informed me I wouldn’t be going to Hawaii with him, so naturally I won’t be able to wear it after what he’s done. But it’s such a cheerful print, and I thought it was perfect for you, so I brought it along.”
“So why didn’t you just show it to me first?” Comprehension hit. “Because you knew I’d have to reject some before I totally wrapped my mind around this.”
“I’m not accusing you of being predictable, but—”
“But I am.”
“Not always.”
Charity knew her mother was referring to Ethan. Whom she so didn’t even want to think about ever again. Let alone tonight.
“I’m going to take a bath.”
“Do you need appropriate underthings?”
“Actually, believe it or not, I’ve got that covered.”
Other women might buy shoes. Or expensive designer bags. Perfume. Or jewelry. Charity’s sole indulgence was lingerie. Although she might be the only person who ever saw the expensive bits of lace and silk, there were times when she thought she was single-handedly keeping Oh So Fancy, Shelter Bay’s lingerie boutique, in business.
“Good. Because anticipation is the key to romance. And I promise the man won’t taste a bite of dinner wondering what you’re wearing beneath that dress.”
Charity was about to insist that this wasn’t about romance. That it was merely sex. Amanda might be the world’s expert at seducing males, but what Charity had in mind was a great deal more basic—she and Gabe both had an itch, so why not scratch it?
As she turned the water on in the tub, tossing in a handful of tropical-scented bath salts Janet and Amie had given her last Christmas, Charity wondered when she’d become such a liar.
What she wanted, with every fiber of her newly awakened being, was for Gabriel St. James to take one look at her and swallow his tongue.
33
He couldn’t believe it. As he climbed the steps to Charity’s porch, Gabe felt ridiculously like a pimply-faced kid on his way to his first prom. With the head cheerleader.
Biting back his anxiety, he rubbed his jaw, which he’d shaved for the second time today after getting back from the camp. Then took a deep breath meant to calm—it didn’t—and rang the bell.
The door, with its leaded-glass fan insert, opened instantly, making him wonder if perhaps she’d been just as impatient waiting for him. But as he took in the sight of her, that question, along with any possibility of coherent thought, fled his mind as all the blood in his head flowed south.
“Hi.” Her voice was breathless. As if she’d run down the stairs.
“Hi yourself.”
He wondered if she had any idea what a vision she made, with her dark hair in that artful tousle atop her head. He thought he detected a touch of uncharacteristic makeup, but she’d applied it with such a light hand he couldn’t tell if the soft color in her cheeks was due to cosmetics or emotion.
Instead of her usual jeans, she was wearing a strapless sundress that displayed her long curves and showgirl legs to mouthwatering advantage. The black cotton, brightened with a tropical print, hugged her body like a glove and made him wonder what she might be wearing beneath it.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Wearing that dress.”
She skimmed a hand over her hip. “You can thank my mother.” She reached into the front closet and took out a lacy summer cardigan. “It was originally hers.”
“I’ll do that.” She looked like a tropical flower that had been transplanted to the foggy Oregon coast. He toyed with the seashell earring that dangled nearly to that bare, fragrant shoulder he had a sudden urge to nip. “When I bring you back home tomorrow morning.”
Her forehead furrowed. “About that.”
Reminding himself that she was allowed to change her mind, Gabe said, “I guess I was rushing.”
“It’s not that. It’s just that my receptionist reminded me that I have a surgery scheduled for tomorrow. It’s a simple spay and the vet who’s filling in for me offered to do it, but the owner had an unfortunate veterinary experience when she was living in Corvallis, and it’s taken me a while to earn her confidence, and—”
“And you feel responsible.”
“Yes. I do.”
“What time?”
“Nine. But I’ll need to be back to the clinic by at least eight thirty.”
“No problem.” It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected.
“Thanks.”
“Hey, you’re good at your work. And you care. And while I’ll admit to being sidetracked from time to time by the fact that you’re sexy as hell, I also admire your commitment.”
“Well.” She blew out an obviously relieved breath, which had him wondering if the former fiancé perhaps had problems with her not always being available for him. “I still appreciate your understanding.”
As much as he wanted to believe that it was that simple—a dinner out, a roll in the sack, no strings, no ties, no promises, Gabe still wasn’t sure they were on the same page.
“I still have Washington to photograph,” he said as they walked toward the Jeep. “Then I want to finish up in Alaska before the snow drives everyone inside.”
“That’s a good idea. Although I imagine the winter scenery is spectacular, your dog—which I really wish you’d name because I hate talking about him in such an impersonal way—has the kind of fur that clumps up really badly in snow.”
Still not trusting his luck, he asked, “That’s it?”
“You told me your traveling schedule. You also made it very clear that you’re not interesting in long-term relationships. So we’ll keep things simple.”
“Simple.”
“Simple,” she repeated with the patience one might use when talking to a simpleminded kindergartner. Believe me, I’m used to people in my life moving on. . . .
“There is one more thing,” she tacked on as he opened the door and, with a palm to her elbow, since she was wearing a pair of strappy, barely there sandals, gave her a boost up into the high leather seat.
Ha! He knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.
“And that would be?” He struggled not to swallow his tongue when the dress pulled even higher on those long smooth thighs as she settled into the leather bucket seat.
“It’s important to me that you understand I don’t have sex with just any hot guy who comes through town.”
“I suppose I should be flattered.”
“Absolutely. And I’m totally with the program. Except I’m not really into regrets. So, when you leave town, and again, I totally understand you plan to, I want it to b
e without regrets on either one of our parts.”
He was about to assure her that wouldn’t be a problem when a warning tolled in the back of his mind. He ignored it.
“Agreed.”
“Well, then.” She flashed a bright smile, then crossed her legs. “We’d better get to the Sea Mist before we lose our table. This is steamer night. Which is always popular.”
Still thinking there had to be a catch—wasn’t there always?—Gabe closed the door, walked around, climbed into his own seat, and found himself wishing for those days, before his time, and definitely before seat belt laws, when vehicles had bench front seats and girls snuggled up against a guy while he drove. Because as he drank in the scent of Hawaii emanating from her buffed and polished flesh, the console between them seemed to be a gap as wide as the Grand Canyon.
“Where in the hell are you from?” He realized he’d asked the question out loud when she laughed.
“That’s a long story. I’m not sure we can cover it in one night.”
“The camp’s just begun.” He skimmed a palm over her left thigh. “There’ll be other nights.”
She covered his hand with hers.
“I’m counting on it.”
34
The Sea Mist restaurant harkened back to the town’s seafaring days. The paneled walls were stained a light blue-gray, designed to appear weathered by decades of wind and coastal storms. A mural of the Shelter Bay lighthouse covered one wall. Old black-and-white photos had been hung on the other walls, and over the arched doorway a carved wooden bust—a female figurehead of Rubenesque proportions, salvaged from the prow of some ancient ship—kept a watchful eye over diners.
The wooden tabletops glowed with the patina of years of lemon oil. The lighting was soft, flickering in shadowy corners. In the center of the table, a white candle glowed in a short brass seaman’s lantern.
“Inside or out?” the hostess, clad in a black skirt and starched white shirt, asked.
Gabe looked down at Charity, inviting her to make the decision.