Spurred by the memory and the way her eyes grew darker under his continued study, he wound a tendril around one finger, then brushed the back of it along her cheek. He felt more than heard the intake of breath, and his pulse jumped another notch along with it. “Chameleon eyes. Amber, then gray, then the most stormy of greens. If I knew your rhythms better, perhaps I’d be able to match color to mood.”
To his surprise, rather than sway her further into the sweet tension building between them, the comment made her roll those hazel eyes of hers and tugged a wry smile from one corner of her mouth.
“You’re very smooth with that,” she said, the self-deprecation in her tone making it an admission that she wasn’t immune to his charm.
“And you’re quite hard on a charmer like me,” he said, completely unrepentant.
“Someone needs to be.”
That surprised a laugh out of him, even as he was quick to note neither of them had shifted so much as a millimeter away from the other and her hair was still wrapped around his finger.
“I’ve been nothing but kind,” he said, smiling down into her upturned face, tempted, so tempted to lower his mouth the few inches it would take to seal his lips to hers. “I offer up my personal shower and exceptional tweezing skills. Even go so far as to bathe your fish-loving scruff of a wee dog.”
“For which we were—and are—very grateful. Although you have to admit that some of that was motivated by self-preservation. We all smelled pretty bad.” Her lips curved in that way they did, with that little twist nudging at something inside him he didn’t have a name for and was likely better off not knowing.
Yet self-preservation slowed him not in the least. “Indeed. I was going to mention how much sweeter your scent was, but I knew you’d see right through my shallow, shallow ploy.”
The eyebrow arch was the other thing he’d missed and he grinned when she deployed it. She was sharp, too sharp, missing nothing, calling him on everything, and if he was any judge, enjoying herself in the process.
“So is that it, then?” she asked, injecting a hint of his own lilt into the words, her efforts making his smile grow. “You came here to shallowly see if you could charm me into . . . what? Signing the boathouse back over to you?”
He shouldn’t have been surprised she’d think exactly that, so it shouldn’t have pricked his pride. Yet it did. He let the curl wind off his finger and let his hand fall to his side, but his tone remained light. And he stayed right where he stood. “You made it quite clear your intent was to move forward, and you’ve wasted no time doing so. Your passionate speech the day we met, and again just now didn’t go unnoticed.”
“So . . . why the visit?”
“You made a point of saying we’d have to find a way to work together, or at least side by side.”
“I don’t know that I meant that quite so literally.”
His grin spread again as he laughed. “You call me the charmer, but you undersell your own allure. You’re not to be underestimated, Grace Maddox.”
She laughed with him. “I’m glad you figured that out, although it’s the brainy part I rely on, not so much the beauty—which is a good thing, given their relative distribution in my gene pool.”
“Fishing, are we?”
“What?” She looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned. “Oh. No. I wasn’t asking—I don’t . . . that’s not something I’d do.”
“No,” he said more quietly. “I imagine you don’t.” His lips curved. “Else you wouldn’t be giving me such a hard time on it. A bit of pot and kettle, otherwise.”
“Right.”
Despite her straightforward speech, she seemed . . . flustered. He found he rather liked that and wondered how long it had been since someone had flustered her a little. Or a lot. He reached up again, rubbed at a smudge on her cheek with the side of his thumb. “You could rely on both. Makes me wonder if the person who underestimates you most . . . is you.”
He felt the finest of tremors race under her skin and let his hand drop away. Not because he minded disconcerting her, but because he liked it rather too much.
“I just walked away from a very secure career and significant annual paycheck to turn a two-hundred-year-old boathouse into an inn, which I then intend to run. Both things I have zero experience doing. I’m either grossly overestimating myself, deluding myself, or both.”
“The risks we take with time and money are nothing in the face of the risks we take with our hearts and souls.”
She tilted her head at that and smiled. “Nice quote. Who said it?”
His grin returned slow and deep, and he noted her gaze drop to his mouth . . . and saw her throat work again. He had to curl his fingers into his palm to keep from sliding them under that waterfall of hair and pulling her mouth up under his.
“It’s the accent,” she added dryly. “Makes everything you say sound profound.”
That got a chuckle out of him. She managed that quite frequently, he thought. It felt . . . good. In turn, it made him realize that most of his laughter lately was in reaction to the smiles and guffaws he elicited in others. ’Twas rather nice to be provoked to laughter by someone else.
“I don’t know about profound, but it’s the truth as I see it. Do you?”
“Do I . . . ?”
“Think true risk is putting yourself on the line, and no’ simply your bank balance?”
She laughed, and he noticed how it brought a light to her eyes, made them crinkle at the corners. Something his sisters would have rushed off to put this or that cream on in an attempt to smooth them out. Not Grace. She seemed unconcerned about that sort of thing. There’d been a time when the fresh and natural approach wouldn’t have turned his head, but at the moment, it had his full, undivided attention.
Perhaps the briny, fresh sea air in Maine had changed him after all. Alex MacFarland had turned his head not soon after his arrival and she was certainly a far cry from primped and polished, almost tomboy. Grace, however, wasn’t that. On first glance in her tailored coat, office shoes, and city-girl satchel, he’d thought her a little buttoned up, definitely out of her element.
He’d watched her perched out on the end of the pier the past few weeks, dressed much the same as she was in army green khakis, a thin, figure-hugging lemon yellow tee, and unbuttoned plaid camp shirt. With her hair down around her shoulders and the most becoming flush on her cheeks, she didn’t look the least bit repressed. Her natural, earthy air, the way she moved, her laugh, the arch of her brow, and the wry twist at the corner of her mouth all spoke of a woman very in tune with herself, the essence of female. She held her own when she looked at him.
“I think putting my bank account on the line is risking myself,” she said, seemingly unaware of his frank appraisal.
She was woman incarnate, in her very own, particular way, and it had quite the effect on him. He shifted his weight, but it did little to ease the growing discomfort in the fit of his denims.
“It will certainly be putting me in a very different position in life if I do this and fail. But yes . . . risking heart and soul is more terrifying.” She looked up and around the place again, and he saw the yearning . . . and the fear.
Och, Grace, but your heart is already caught up in your dreams, isn’t it? As much as he didn’t really want to see that, to know that, he understood such dreams too intimately not to acknowledge their power.
“You can always earn more money,” she added, though she wasn’t looking at him, but taking in the world that would be her future.
“Aye,” he agreed, watching her. “But there are only so many pieces of your heart to be given away.”
Pain flashed over her face and through those ever-changing eyes.
He touched her cheek without thinking about it, compelled by her expressiveness, her frankness. And her complete and utter lack of concern regarding what he thought of her. “Did someone cast your heart aside, Grace Maddox?”
Her gaze moved right to his, and the resp
onding smile was softer, more wistful, and a good bit sad, like nothing he’d seen from her thus far. That glimpse of vulnerability pulled at something completely different inside him. Something he was in no hurry to put a name to. Och, my blunt, outspoken little warrior, no’ so bulletproof after all, are ye now?
He tipped her chin up. “Was he blind then? And dumb to boot?”
A quick smile as she shook her head just slightly, but she didn’t pull away. Her gaze seemed lost in his, drenched with emotions she didn’t put words to.
Even knowing her thoughts were somewhere else, on someone else, Brodie drank from the well of her gaze like a man desperate to quench his thirst after a long stint in the desert. He wondered what it would feel like to inspire such depth of emotion in a woman.
“It wasn’t like—it’s not what you think.” She went to duck her chin, but he kept his finger under her chin and her eyes on his. He was not ready to lose that connection, though he realized it for the selfish gesture it was.
“Ye want me to hunt the dragon down for you?” he offered, intending it to sound like a tease, to lift the sadness from her eyes. The question came out sounding far more serious.
Her gaze searched his. “I almost think you mean that.” She smiled again, though he noted it didn’t reach her eyes. “I appreciate the offer, but I came here to hunt him myself.”
Brodie went still, then started to pull back. Idiot. Do you really think a woman like her would be available for the taking? Was that the truth of it? Did he want her to be available? And would it be to simply slake the thirst of his too long ignored physical needs? Or for more than that?
“I’m talking about my brother,” she added, making Brodie wonder what she’d just seen in his expression. “And it’s not his fault. There were . . . circumstances. A lot of circumstances.”
He was relieved—more, he thought, than he should have been—and disconcerted to realize that the revelation only left him feeling a stronger connection to her. He, better than anyone, understood that particular brand of pain. “Aye. Family can break yer heart like no one else can.”
She looked into his eyes in a way she hadn’t as yet, as if she were really seeing him. Perhaps she was. He felt . . . exposed.
She cast her gaze downward and laughed shortly. It sounded a bit thick, and there was little humor in it. “Aye, indeed.”
“Och, Grace, now yer breakin’ me heart. Come here.” Had he thought about it, there were a dozen, a hundred reasons, why he should have kept his hands and his mouth off her. But he was thinking only of the damsel in a bit of distress in his arms. He did what he knew he could do, even if it was the only thing he could do. He consoled her.
Had she turned away or given any indication his attention wasn’t welcome, he’d have come to his senses and stopped. He almost wished she had. Almost. Instead, she trembled ever so slightly under his touch. One palm cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the curve of her chin as he lifted her mouth to fit his. She let go the softest of sighs. And he was lost.
He sank his other hand into that mane of hair and pulled her in. The feel and fit of her, so right and perfect, pressing against him had him sighing a bit himself.
She opened her mouth under his, lips parting, accepting, taking. She tasted sweet, her lips even softer than he’d have thought. The hunger for more grew fast and fierce.
He groaned a little as she moved fully against him, so easily, so naturally. Her palms smoothed over his chest and pressed against his shoulders. Rather than push him away, it was as if she was steadying herself. He teased his tongue into her mouth, and she groaned, giving herself over to the moment, over to him. Her hands moved to the back of his neck, her fingertips teasing up his nape, and into his hair as he took the kiss deeper. His response was a growl as she kissed him back, dueled with his tongue, incited him, excited him, matching him thrust for thrust.
Lost completely, pulse thrumming, he moved his mouth from hers, kissing, nipping along her jaw. She tipped her head back, gasping as he found the softest of spots beneath her ear, kissing the pulse point there, teasing her earlobe with his teeth. She moaned when he shifted his thumb from tracing the curve of her chin to brushing it along her bottom lip, tugging, pressing at the softest, fullest part.
She nipped at it, making him twitch hard and pull her into the frame of his hips. With a little growl of her own, she pressed against him as he slid one finger into her mouth, his hips jerking when she sucked on it. Nipping down the curve of her neck, he slid his hand down, cupping the soft curve of her, pressing her against the rigid length of him as he nudged aside her camp shirt and left a string of kisses along the open V neckline of her T-shirt.
She moved into him easily, sinuously, arching in, letting her head fall to the side, the soft gasps, the twitch of her hips, slowly killing him in the most exquisite way possible. He slid his finger from her mouth, then slid two back in, pushed himself right to the edge when she took them almost greedily. He didn’t know where her moans ended and his began as he slid his hand under the edge of her tee and slid his palm up along her spine, finding the hooks of her bra. Her fingers curled into his hair, holding, pulling, demanding. Growling yet again, he slid his fingers free and turned her head, taking her mouth hungrily, greedy for more. She met him, dueled with him, taking his tongue, possessing it, then giving him hers and demanding he do the same.
He slid damp fingers along her jaw, down her neck and onward over the front of her shirt. She moaned, writhed a little as he ran his fingertips over her nipples, so hard and full he could feel them through the layers of shirt, tee, and bra. He wanted his tongue on them, wanted to taste, to tease, to wring more from her, for her.
He hiked her up on his body, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist, mindlessly wondering if there was something, anything to push her up against, or lay her down upon.
A sudden clearing of a throat instantly paralyzed them. Then a gruff voice said, “Well, if this is how you conduct interviews, I’m surprised there isn’t a line around the harbor, begging to be hired on.”
Chapter 9
A bucket of frigid seawater tossed directly on her couldn’t have had a more bracing effect.
Grace unwrapped herself from Brodie, all but springing backward in fact, one hand flying to her mouth, the other to the front of her shirt. She stumbled, her knees like jelly, and would have probably fallen if Brodie hadn’t moved immediately toward her. He took her gently by the elbows, pulling her to him, then shifted her behind him as he turned toward their surprise visitor.
That his instincts had been immediately to assist and protect, to shield her from this sudden intrusion, did absolutely nothing to help her regain her equilibrium. Every one of her X chromosomes all but quivered in response to his XY alpha display. As if she hadn’t gotten enough alpha from him already. That was the single most carnal thing she’d ever experienced. And that included actual sex. Holy . . . wow.
“Langston,” she finally managed to rasp out. Putting her hand on Brodie’s shoulder, she moved next to him. “It’s okay. He’s a friend.”
Still feeling wildly out of sync with the sudden change of events, she took a short, steadying breath and turned to look at her dear friend, mentor, and architect. “I . . . didn’t know you were coming up. I thought you were at some conference thing in Prague.”
Brodie kept his hand bracing the small of her back and didn’t move away. Nor did he seem the least bit embarrassed or abashed by the sudden intrusion. Or that they’d been caught about a breath away from getting naked.
The rightful way he stood by her side even after their intruder had been identified should have annoyed her or . . . something. It didn’t.
“My favorite person went and bought herself a two-hundred-year-old boathouse that I get to play with and you thought I wouldn’t come see my new toy in person?”
My new toy. Grace’s mind went immediately to the man at her side. She specifically didn’t look at him for fear he might see something of her thought on
her face and grin. Lord help me, she thought, because she’d have grinned right back.
She dragged her mind from those thoughts and back to Langston. “Marnie sent me your sketches and told me you’d be away through next week. I told her to let you know I wouldn’t be ready to go through them until after you got back.”
“Yes, she told me how excited you were about them.”
“I told her not to mention that. I couldn’t help saying something, they really are amazing . . . but I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
“Last I checked, she works for me, not for you, so of course she told me.”
With a dry smile aimed at Langston, she then turned to Brodie. “This is Langston deVry, an old friend and also my architect for the inn. Langston, this is Brodie Monaghan. The shipyard property has been in his family since the town was founded in the mid-eighteenth century.”
“Earlier—1715, actually,” Brodie said, glancing down at her. “Although Blueberry Cove wasn’t properly recognized until 1734, the McCraes and Monaghans were already well in business by then. This yard was originally built in 1765. Big storm destroyed the two main piers in the early 1800s and did its fair share of damage to this place, as well. Half of the north wall and most of the east one were all she left behind. Rebuilt it, though. Shakes on both the exterior walls and roof have likely been replaced more times than you can count since then, of course.” He tapped his heel on the floorboards. “These are original cypress, dating back to before the turn of the nineteenth century for sure, if not original to this building. Same with the interior wood on the rear wall.”
Grace met his gaze, wishing she knew what was going through his mind as he talked about the provenance of the building, its place in his family’s history. When he wanted to be inscrutable, he did a good job of it.
Langston shifted a shrewd look from one to the other, but Brodie took a half step forward and reached out his hand before Langston could give voice to whatever was on his mind. Grace was sure he’d be certain to share it with her later, however. Whether she wanted to hear it or not.
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