Born to be Wild

by Anne Marie Winston

  Reese. Ridiculously, it still hurt to think of him. Were his eyes still that beautiful shade of gray that could turn as silver as a dime or as stormy as a rough sea? Was his hair still long enough to blow in the ocean breezes that filled the sails?

  Don’t be silly, Celia. You remember a fantasy. Maybe her memory had embellished on eyes that were really quite ordinary. Maybe the hair had silver in it now. Maybe that lean, whipcord body had softened and filled out a little too much. Maybe—

  It didn’t matter. He’d sailed away without a word to her after the news of his impending fatherhood had trickled out to the Cape from Boston. She’d been left with the realization that she’d meant nothing more to him than a little convenient summer sex. The only good thing she’d had to cling to was that he hadn’t gotten her pregnant.

  Although…

  There was a tiny, traitorous part of her that had regretted, for a very long time, that he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have stayed, but she’d have had a little piece of him to hold on to.

  That part of her had softened when she’d married Milo and had melted completely away after she’d finally gotten pregnant and had Leo. She couldn’t honestly say she’d forgotten Reese, but she hadn’t entertained any more thoughts of ever seeing him again.

  Well, it was probably a moot point. She briskly straightened her papers again, then reached for the phone. She had work to do.

  Thirty minutes later, one of the young men who worked for her at the marina skidded to a halt just inside her office door. “Hey, Mrs. P.! You gotta check this out! There’s an eighty-footer coming in. I swear it looks brand new!”

  Celia rose from her desk, quickly pasting a semblance of a smile on her face as the kid babbled on about the incoming yacht. Most of the staff had worked for Milo before she’d taken over, and she hated for them to see her blue. Their spirits rose and fell right along with hers.

  She went to the door eagerly, glad for the distraction. The kid was easily impressed, but if he was right, she wanted to see the yacht. The young worker said it was one of the newest models available—and one of the costliest. Extraordinary wealth was common in the area around the Cape but a brand-new yacht built to spec from any of the top makers was worth a close look. If only to drool over.

  Walking to the door of the shack, she stepped out onto the pier, shading her eyes from the morning sun as she squinted southeast toward the opening of the small harbor. The sleek silhouette of a cruiser glided in and she watched as one of her staff directed its captain to a slip then waited until the boat was tied up. A man leaped from the deck of the yacht to the pier and conferred with the dock worker for a moment, and she saw the boy pointing her way.

  The man came striding up the pier toward her. He was tall and rangy, with wide shoulders and a lean, easy movement to him that would make a woman look twice. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight—

  And her heart dropped into her stomach where it promptly began doing backflips. The man coming up the pier was Reese Barone.

  She barely had time to recover, to gather her stunned sensibilities into some semblance of a professional attitude. Thank God Roma had warned her that he was in the area.

  “Hello,” she called as he drew near. “You need a temp mooring?”

  “I do. I’d really like to get a slip at the dock if you have one available for short term.” The voice was very deep and very masculine, shivering along her hypersensitive nerve endings like the whisper of a feather over flesh. He extended a hand. “Celia. Dare I hope that you remember me?”

  “Reese.” She cleared her throat as she took his hand, giving it one quick squeeze before sliding hers free and tucking it into the pocket of her windbreaker. Was it her imagination that made her feel as if her palm was tingling where their hands had met? “Welcome to South Harwich. It’s been a long time.” There. Nice and noncommittal.

  “Thirteen years.”

  She couldn’t look at him. “Something like that.”

  “Exactly like that.” There was almost a thread of anger in his low tone, and it startled her into looking at him. Instantly, she was sorry. His eyes weren’t nearly as ordinary as she’d hoped, but as extraordinary as she’d remembered. Thick, dark lashes framed irises of gray. At the moment they looked as dark and stormy as his voice sounded. Crackling energy seemed to radiate from him. What could he have to be mad about? He was the one who’d taken off without a word.

  “Mrs. Papaleo?” Angie, her office assistant, stuck her head out the door. “Maintenance is on the phone.”

  Maintenance. She needed to take the call. She had to get the fourth piling replaced; it hadn’t been the same since that boat crashed into it on the Fourth. Angie could help Reese. Twenty-two and supremely capable, Angie Dunstan had worked for the marina since before Milo had died. Angie could charm a bird from its tree—and she’d be delighted to entertain Reese. Let her deal with him.

  “I have to go,” she said to Reese. “Come on in the office and Angie can show you what’s available.”

  “You’re the harbormaster?” There was a definite note of skepticism in his voice.

  “Yes.” A small thrill of pride lifted her chin as she turned and headed back up the pier. But she couldn’t ignore the sensations that tingled through her as she walked. She could almost feel him behind her.

  Well, it didn’t matter. He’d asked for temp space, which meant he’d be gone again in a few days.

  “How long have you had the job?” he asked from behind her.

  She didn’t turn around or slow down. “Over two years.”

  “Somebody retire? I can’t even remember who worked this marina.”

  She was at the door of the office by now, and she took a deep breath, turning to meet his eyes squarely. And just as it had in the old days, her stomach fluttered when those gray eyes gazed into hers. “My father-in-law was the harbormaster for years,” she said quietly. “When he died, my husband got the job. Then the selectmen offered it to me after Milo passed away.”

  “I heard you were widowed.”

  She nodded. God, how she hated that word.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She saw something move in his eyes and she looked away quickly. Compassion from Reese, of all people, would do her in. “Angie, how about putting Mr. Barone in the Margolies’ slip along pier four. They won’t be back until May and they gave us permission to rent it out on a temp basis.” She gave a perfunctory nod of her head without meeting his eyes again. “Enjoy your stay.”

  Enjoy your stay.

  That night, lying in the stateroom of his boat, Reese’s teeth ground together at the memory of Celia’s glib words. She’d blown him off as easily as she had thirteen years ago. No, he corrected himself, even more easily. Last time, she’d had her father do it.

  Father. That led to thoughts of other things she’d said. Father-in-law. He knew, on an intellectual level, that time had passed. But he didn’t feel any older. And Celia still looked much the same. It was hard to believe she’d married and buried a husband since he’d seen her last.

  Had she had something going with the Papaleo guy that summer while she’d been with him? His memory of this marina was vague, since his family had always kept their crafts at Saquatucket, but he could dimly recall the wiry Greek fellow who’d kept things in order years ago. He had an even less reliable memory of the man’s son, no more than another wiry figure, possibly taller than the older man.

  No. If she’d cheated on him, he’d have known it. He’d been sure of Celia back in those days. She’d been his. All his.

  He swore, gritting his teeth for an entirely different reason as his body reacted to the memories, and flipped onto his back.

  Celia. God, she’d been so beautiful she’d taken his breath away. Today had been no different. How could that be? After thirteen years she shouldn’t look so damned good. She was thirty—he knew she’d just had a birthday at the end of September.

  The thought pulled him up short. Why did he still remember the birthd
ate of a woman he’d slept with years ago for one brief summer?

  She was your fantasy.

  Yes, indeed. She had been his fantasy. At an age when a young man was particularly impressionable, Celia had been lithe, warm, adoring and pliable. If he’d suggested it, she’d rarely opposed him. She truly had been every man’s dream. But that was all she’d been, he assured himself. A dream.

  A dream that had evaporated like the morning mist over the harbor once she’d heard the false rumor about him and that girl from Boston.

  An old wave of bitterness welled up. He didn’t often allow himself to think about the last words he and his father had exchanged all those years ago. To people who asked, he merely said he had no family.

  And he didn’t. He’d never opened nor answered the letters from his mother or his brothers and sisters, mostly because there was nothing to say. He hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, and he had nothing to apologize for. Nick had been the most persistent. Reese bet he’d gotten fifteen letters from his big brother in those first five years or so. There were probably more out there floating around. He’d sailed from place to place so much there would have been no way to predict his movements or the places he might have chosen to dock.

  On the other hand, he’d never received so much as a single line from his father. That was all it would have taken, too. One line. I’m sorry.

  He exhaled heavily. Why in the hell was he thinking about that tonight? It was ancient history. He had a family of his own now, was a very different person than he’d been more than a decade ago.

  The thought brought Amalie to mind and he smiled to himself. He’d never pictured himself as a father, and he certainly wouldn’t recommend acquiring a child the way she’d come into his life, but he loved her dearly. If he could love a child who wasn’t even biologically his so much, what would it be like to have a child of his own?

  As if she’d been waiting for the chance, Celia sprang into his head again. He was more than mildly shocked when he realized that, subconsciously, he’d always pictured her in the role of his imaginary child’s mother. Dammit! He was not going to waste any more time thinking about that faithless woman.

  Throwing his legs over the side of his bunk, he yanked on a pair of ragged jeans and a sweatshirt and stomped through the rest of his living space to the stairs. On deck, he idly picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon. Nothing interesting, only one small fishing boat. A careless captain, too, he observed, running without lights.

  Casually he swung the binoculars around to the shoreline. The area had been developed considerably since he’d been gone, as had the whole Cape and the rest of the Eastern seaboard. A lot of new houses, some right on the water. The only place that would still be undisturbed completely would be the Cape Cod National Seashore on the Outer Cape, but here along the Lower Cape he couldn’t see that.

  The quiet sound of a small, well-tuned motor reached his ears and he glanced back toward the south. The little boat he’d seen was coming in, still without lights. Then the motor cut out and he saw the flash of oars. Why would the guy kill his power before he reached the dock?

  The quiet plish of the oars came nearer. The boat was close enough that he could now see it easily without the binoculars, then closer still, and he realized the guy intended to put in right here at the marina.

  There appeared to be only one sailor aboard, and a small one at that. Probably a teenager flouting the rules, which would explain his cutting the motor early and trying to sneak in. The boy tied up his boat and caught a ladder one-handed, nimbly climbing to the dock while carrying a fishing cooler in his other hand.

  Reese grasped the smooth mahogany rail of his boat and vaulted over the edge onto the dock. He walked toward the boy, intending to give him a rough education in proper night lighting, but just then the boy walked beneath one of the floodlights that illuminated the marina.

  The “boy” was Celia daSilva. No, not daSilva. Papaleo.

  “Celia!” He didn’t even stop to think. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Of all the irresponsible, un—”

  “Shh!” He’d clearly startled her, but she recovered quickly. She ran toward him, making next to no noise in her practical dockside slip-ons. Before he could utter another syllable, she clapped one small hand over his mouth.

  Reese wasn’t a giant but he was a lot bigger than Celia, and the action brought her body perilously close to his. He could feel the heat of her, was enveloped in a smell so familiar it catapulted him instantly back in time to a day when he’d had the right to pull that small, lithe figure against him. His palms itched with the urge to do exactly that and he rubbed them against the sides of his jeans, trying to master the images that flooded his mind.

  Her eyes were wide and dark, bled of any color in the deep shadow thrown by the angle at which she was standing. But he could see that she recognized the familiarity of their proximity almost as fast as he did.

  “I can explain,” she whispered, her voice a breath of sound. “Just don’t make any more noise.”

  The words had barely left her mouth when a light snapped on aboard a nearby yacht. “Mrs. Papaleo? Is that you?”

  It was a deep, slightly accented male voice. Reese felt the vibration as the man leaped onto the dock, much as he had a moment before, and walked toward them.

  “Don’t say anything,” Celia warned. To his astonishment, her hand cupped his jaw, sliding along it so that her thumb almost grazed the corner of his lips. At the same time he felt her bump his hip with the cooler she still carried. He lifted his own hands automatically, curling his fingers around the handle, over hers and putting his other hand at her waist. A part of him registered the fact that the cooler felt a lot lighter than it should if it was full of fish. But a larger part of him was much more attentive to Celia’s proximity, the way her soft hand felt curled under his and the way her palm cupped his jaw. Her hands were warm and he knew the slender body concealed beneath the wind shirt and jeans would be even warmer. Even softer.

  She waited the barest instant until the man walking toward them couldn’t help but see the intimate pose, then she slowly stepped away a pace, letting her hands slide off him as if reluctant to let him go despite the interruption.

  “Hello, Mr. Tiello,” she said. “It’s me. This is, uh, an old friend. Reese Barone. Reese, Ernesto Tiello.”

  Reese stepped forward and extended his hand automatically, trying to ignore his racing pulse. What was she up to? She’d deliberately made it sound as if he were a very good old friend. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And you, sir.” Tiello was a bulky fellow, probably ten years older than Reese himself, with a heavy accent that might indicate nonnative roots. The man looked from one to the other of them. “Were you out on the water?”

  “Yes.” Celia turned to face Tiello. Her free hand reached for and found Reese’s and she intertwined their fingers. “A little night fishing. We used to do it all the time when we were young.”

  A gleam of amusement lit the dark eyes and Tiello smiled. “I see.”

  Reese felt his own lips twitch as he fought not to chuckle. Celia was going to be sorry she started this.

  Another boat light along the dock snapped on. “I thought I heard your voice, Ernesto.” The voice was feminine, smoky and suggestive. It instantly made a man wonder if the woman attached to it lived up to its promise.

  Tiello’s tanned features creased into what Reese assumed was a seductive smile. “It is, indeed, and I’m flattered that you thought of me, Claudette.”

  A form leaped from the deck of the yacht from which the light shone. Backlit by the brightness, the woman appeared tall and slender. Then she drew closer. She had blond hair caught in a thick braid that trailed over one shoulder so far that Reese knew if it was unbound her hair would reach her hips. Big blue eyes, a heart-shaped face and a slight cleft in her chin added even more interest to her pretty face, but the mouth changed it all. “Pretty” became “sexy as hell” at the first glim
pse of those lips.

  “Hello,” she purred, extending her hand and favoring him with a brilliant smile that revealed small, perfect white teeth. “I’m Claudette Mason.”

  “Reese Barone.” He repeated the ritual he’d just completed with Tiello, who was wearing a distinctly sulky look on his face.

  “Did you just arrive?” Her gaze drifted over him. “I’m sure I would have noticed if you’d been here earlier.”

  “I docked a few hours ago.” Celia’s fingers had gone stiff and uncooperative in his; he glanced down at her but she was wearing an absolutely expressionless mask that would have served her well in a poker game.

  “I hope you’ll be here for a while. We could get to know each other.” Claudette had yet to acknowledge Celia’s presence, let alone the fact that he was holding her hand.

  “Er, thanks,” he said, “but I’ll be occupied while I’m here.” He dragged Celia’s hand up with his to display their entwined fingers. “Celia and I haven’t seen each other in a while and we have a lot to catch up on.”

  “Ah. I see.” Claudette Mason made a moue of regret. Without even a pause, she turned back to Tiello. “Could I interest you in a drink, Ernesto? Mr. Brevery has gone to Boston for the night.”

  The man’s face brightened as if she’d brought him a gift. “I would be delighted,” he said. He turned to Celia and Reese. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Barone. Have a lovely evening, Mrs. Papaleo.”

  “Thank you. You do the same.” Celia tugged discreetly at the hand he’d lowered, but he kept her fingers imprisoned in his. “Are you ready to go, Reese?”

  As the other pair walked back down the dock toward the woman’s yacht—the Golden Glow, he noted—he lifted a brow and looked down at Celia. “Sure.” In a lower voice, he added, “But it might be nice if I knew where I was supposed to be going.”