But watching Matt pull Allison close in their first dance, he wanted what they had. What his parents had. That love. That trust. Now and forever. His throat tightened.
“Damn it, boy, smile. It’s a wedding, not a funeral,” his father said.
“I know it’s a wedding,” Luke said. “Mom wouldn’t get you in a tie otherwise.”
Tom’s weathered face cracked. “It’s more comfortable than that uniform you’re wearing.”
Luke moved his shoulders uncomfortably. “I won’t be wearing it much longer. Not like you.”
Tom had served in the Corps for twenty-five years. All Luke had ever wanted was to be the man his father was.
“Because that was right for me,” Tom said. “Like this is right for you. I’m proud of you, boy.”
“I thought—” Luke clamped his jaw shut. You’d be disappointed.
“I was proud when you enlisted,” his father said. “Proud when you deployed. Proud of you now, doing the right thing for your little girl. You got a lot of years to make up for there.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Luke said honestly.
Tom’s faded blue eyes narrowed. “And the job?”
Luke smiled. “Looking forward to that, too.”
Tom grunted. “Good.”
They stood, shoulder to shoulder, as the music changed and Allison danced with her father.
Matt led a glowing Tess onto the floor. They made some picture, Luke thought, his tanned, rugged brother with his big hands and feet, their tiny mother with the old spring in her step. Matt twirled Tess carefully under his arm and Luke’s smile broadened. Matt must have taken dance lessons.
“I’m cutting in,” Tom announced. “You should dance with your daughter.”
Luke glanced at Taylor standing with the rest of the wedding party, wrinkling her nose at something Josh had said. She looked cute as a bug in her pale pink junior bridesmaid’s dress. My daughter. A great wave of thankfulness swamped his chest. She’d changed his life, his parents’ lives, everything.
In her first pair of heels, she almost reached his shoulder. They’d put some gunk on her hair and gloss on her lips. She smelled sweet and unfamiliar and alarmingly grown up.
“What were you and Josh talking about?” Luke asked as they shuffled across the floor. More couples joined the dancing. He scanned the crowd for Kate.
“Who’s getting married next, you or Aunt Meg.”
His attention snapped back to Taylor.
“Josh says it’s gonna be Aunt Meg and Sam, because they’re already engaged,” Taylor said. She tilted her head back, fixing him with her big blue eyes. “But I want it to be you and Kate.”
Luke’s heart pounded. “Why is that?”
“Because then she could stay with me when you have to work and stuff. And we need a bigger house. With a yard. For JD.”
JD was almost the size of Fezzik now and still growing.
“Taylor, you can stay with Grandma and Grandpa. Or Uncle Matt and Allison. Or—”
“I know.” Her pointed little chin stuck out. “But I want Kate.”
Luke exhaled. “Yeah.” So do I.
Had he done enough to convince Kate of that? He’d been so damn busy the past few months. Had he taken the time to show her how much she meant to him, to reassure her in all the ways she needed to be reassured?
The music switched up, pounded out, as the DJ coaxed more people to the dance floor.
“Hey, shorty.” Josh appeared at Luke’s elbow. “Wanna dance?”
Taylor’s face radiated joy. She sniffed. “If you think you can keep up.”
Josh grinned. “Whatever. Let’s see you break it down without your Wii to follow.”
Luke watched them jump into the dance before he turned to search for Kate.
She was there, standing there, waiting for him, smiling and solid and so beautiful his chest hurt. It was all he could do not to grab her and kiss her. And then he thought, What the hell, and grabbed and kissed her hard.
She got into it, too, twining her arms around his neck, kissing him back.
He raised his head. “Sorry I’ve been tied up.”
“It’s your brother’s wedding,” Kate said a little breathlessly. “You have things to do.”
“I don’t mean today. The last three months. Driving to the base for training, taking law enforcement classes at night . . .”
“Do you regret it?” she interrupted.
He took a step back onto the dance floor, using the excuse of the music to hold her close and sway. Maybe they weren’t moving to the beat, maybe he wasn’t going to score any points on Wii. But she felt good against him, warm and soft. “That I’ve barely seen you for more than a couple hours at a time? Yeah.”
“That you’re taking the class. That you’re taking the job.”
He shook his head. “No. I thought it would be tough. It’s been a long time since I was in school. But I like it. Community policing—most of it’s problem solving. Making a difference, helping people make better choices. It’s challenging.”
She smiled up into his eyes. “And you like a challenge.”
He grinned back. “Ooh-rah.”
“When will you start?”
“July. Middle of the tourist season.”
“That doesn’t give you much of a break,” she observed.
“Four days.” Over by the three-tiered cake, Jack Rossi was chatting up Jane, the pretty blond baker from the Sweet Tea House. Luke shrugged. “Jack needs the help. It’s what I want. Why wait?”
Kate regarded him thoughtfully.
Sam spun Meg and pulled her close. Meg laughed and slipped off the dance floor, smiling at him over her shoulder. Sam caught her hand and followed her out of the tent.
“Where are they going?” Kate asked.
Luke grinned at her slowly.
She blinked. “Wedding sex? But Matt and Allison haven’t cut the cake yet.”
Luke chuckled and held her closer. “It’s the wedding mojo, babe. Puts you in the mood.”
“You’re right.” She swallowed. “Let’s do it.”
He drew in a deep breath. Let it out in a rush. “Okay.”
She flushed. Dimpled. “I meant . . . Let’s get married. In July. You have four days.”
He stopped. His feet simply would not move. Now he couldn’t breathe at all. “Kate. Are you sure?”
She met his gaze, her beautiful hazel eyes shining with confidence and trust. “‘It’s what I want,’” she quoted back at him softly. “‘Why wait?’ I think when you finally know that you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
“I love you.”
She touched his cheek. “I know. I love you.”
The words sank into his bones, wrapped around his heart. “I want to make you happy.”
“You already do. And sometimes we’ll fight and maybe we’ll hurt each other. Bad things could happen, and that’s okay. It’s really okay. Being around your family, watching your parents together, taught me that. I’m not searching for guarantees anymore,” she told him. “All I need is your promise that you’ll stand by me. That you’ll be with me. That you’ll love me.”
They stood together, surrounded by his family, the cool salt air, the warm spring sun, the sound of music and the scent of flowers.
“Forever,” he promised and laid his lips on hers.
Turn the page for a preview of Virginia Kantra’s next Dare Island novel
Carolina Blues
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
LAUREN PATTERSON OCCUPIED the corner table of Jane’s Sweet Tea House, barricaded behind her laptop, a latte, and a Glorious Morning muffin.
Facing a blank computer screen wasn’t nearly as terrifying as confronting three masked men with guns, she told herself firmly. She hadn’t frozen then. There was absolutely no excuse for her to be paralyzed now.
The July sun pooled like syrup on her little table.
Beyond the window, the waters of Pamlico Sound gleamed. Vacationers packed the bright bakery, seeking an air-conditioned respite from the North Carolina heat. A young couple, broiled pink by the sun, held hands at the next table. A father lifted his little daughter onto his shoulders in line. All of them happy. Together.
Lauren’s muffin stuck in her throat.
Behind the counter, a pretty teenager in geek-girl glasses struggled to meet the stream of orders for iced espresso drinks. Before Lauren’s fifteen minutes of fame, she’d worked as a barista to make ends meet. Her graduate student stipend had barely covered her tuition. It definitely hadn’t stretched for luxuries like cable. Or even food.
Lauren tore little strips from her napkin. She would be happy to show the teenager working the Cimbali machine how to pull a proper shot. Or jump up and bus tables. Anything, really, to avoid the cursor blinking on her screen.
The cheerful silver bells on the door chimed, announcing the arrival of another customer.
She looked up, seeking a more positive direction for her thoughts. Or maybe, she admitted, she was simply searching for a distraction.
A man stood silhouetted against the bright glass door, dark against the light. Thick, close-cut hair. Lean, muscled body. Dark mirrored sunglasses.
Her heart beat faster. A cop.
Save me, she thought.
She took a deep breath and looked away. The sudden sight of the law was never good news. A uniform at the door, blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror . . . Anybody could get sweaty palms and a dry mouth. There was nothing unusual about her response.
He entered the shop, moving with a quiet, contained authority more menacing than a swagger. Among the soft, pink, underdressed tourists, he stuck out like an assassin in a ballroom.
He promised safety. He promised danger. An irresistible combination.
She rolled the shreds of her napkin into tiny balls and dropped them on her plate.
He nodded to the young woman behind the register; she had a fat blond braid and the dreamy gray eyes of a princess in a fairy tale. The blonde nodded back, never losing her rhythm or her sweet, rather vague smile.
Lauren didn’t understand why the girl wasn’t melting into a puddle at his feet. Okay, so he wasn’t Prince Charming. Not the kind of guy you wanted to meet at midnight, unless you intended to lose a lot more than your shoes.
But hot. Very hot. Smoldering, in fact.
Given the slightest encouragement, Lauren would have followed him home, like one of the island cats that seemed to hang around the bakery’s back porch, lean and hungry and hoping for handouts. Pet me. Rescue me.
She shook the thought away. She was not a police groupie. Before that horrible day almost a year ago, she’d always gone for the bad boys, tortured, sensitive souls with lousy home lives and pierced tongues and nipples. She didn’t do authority figures.
“This isn’t peppermint schnapps,” complained a thin woman at the head of the line.
“No, it’s Irish cream syrup and whipped cream,” the blonde said.
“But I ordered Irish coffee. There should be peppermint schnapps.”
Not in Irish coffee, Lauren thought.
The blonde blinked. “I’m afraid we’re not licensed to serve alcohol,” she said with doll-like calm. “But I can add a touch of mint syrup if you’d like.”
“I don’t want any damn syrup,” the customer said loudly. “I want my drink. I want to speak with your manager.”
The people behind her in line shifted away. Lauren had seen that kind of body language before. They didn’t want to get involved. They didn’t want the drama.
Lauren, on the other hand, had already proved she was a total sucker for other people’s problems. Not just where her family was concerned. She had a master’s degree in psychology—practically a license to meddle. And even though she knew better now, her muscles tensed in instinctive sympathy.
“I’m Jane. The owner,” the blonde was saying. “If you’d like me to make you another drink—”
“What I’d like is a real Irish coffee,” the angry woman said. “It’s false advertising, that’s what it is.”
The blonde flushed scarlet.
Lauren couldn’t stand it. She stood to bus her empty mug, breaking the tension with action.
Hot Cop spoke. “This is a bakery, not a bar.” His deep voice raised all the little hairs along Lauren’s arms. “You want a drink at ten in the morning, you’ll have to take your business elsewhere.”
Okay, so his by-the-book attitude wasn’t going to win the bakery any patrons, Lauren acknowledged. But at least he was stepping in, defending the princess against attack.
The unhappy customer folded thin, tanned arms across her skinny bosom and turned to give the interloper a piece of her mind. But faced with Hot Cop’s cool air of authority, she faltered. “But I’m on vacation,” she said almost plaintively.
He regarded her impassively from behind mirrored sunglasses. “Yes, ma’am. Have a nice stay.”
“Carolina sea salt caramel latte to go,” the owner, Jane, said, setting a drink with a clear domed lid on the counter. “On the house.”
The customer pursed her lips. “Skim?”
It was important in negotiations, Lauren had learned, to give the hostage taker an opportunity to save face.
Jane nodded. “And whipped cream.”
The thin woman took the cup without thanks or payment. The door bells rattled in her wake.
Hot Cop looked at Jane. “You really want to start rewarding customers for bad behavior?”
Jane’s flush deepened.
Lauren dumped her dirty mug into the bus tray. “I’m pretty sure she just wanted to get her out of here before she made more of a scene.”
The sunglasses turned in her direction. “You don’t stop bullies by appeasing them.”
Memory tightened Lauren’s chest, constricted her throat. Lying flat on the bank floor, her face pressed to the cool tiles, the smell of fear rank in her nostrils . . .
She smiled, because that had worked for her in the past, and because Hot Cop so obviously needed to lighten up. “Sometimes you do whatever it takes to survive.”
His dark brows flicked up. “Her survival isn’t in question.”
Lauren shrugged. “It is if a customer decides to trash her bakery online.”
“Thank you,” Jane said.
Hot Cop didn’t budge. “So, in your opinion, she should compromise her principles to avoid a customer lying in a bad review.”
“I wouldn’t say lying. Exactly. Everybody tells their story in a way that makes them the hero.” Or a victim. “I think she should go with whatever makes people feel good.”
“Here’s your coffee,” Jane said, setting it on the counter. “Black. No sugar.”
Lauren glanced from the cup to the cop’s hard face. A smile tugged at her mouth. “I guess you don’t worry about stereotypes, huh?”
For a moment she thought that he wouldn’t answer. That he didn’t get it. And then his smile flashed, robbing her of breath. “I didn’t order donuts,” he pointed out.
She tilted her head, challenging, flirting. Enjoying the freedom of her anonymity. “You don’t like sweet things?”
He surveyed her coolly from behind dark mirrored glasses. “I like them fine. I’m watching my weight.”
Was he kidding? Her gaze dropped to his lean waist. He had the flat stomach and disciplined body that came from serious gym time.
Several months ago, Lauren had started working out as a way to deal with the stress, the constant meals on the road, the loneliness. But recently she’d realized that exercise wasn’t fun anymore. The routines she’d adopted to make herself feel better had become another obligation. So she’d quit. She still ran sometimes or did a little yoga, but her compulsive fitness days were over.
“Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem,” she said.
“Occupational hazard,” he agreed, straight-faced.
“Jack is our ch
ief of police,” Jane put in from behind the counter.
Not just a cop. The top cop.
“I’m impressed,” Lauren said.
“Don’t be. We’re a small department. Until last week, it was just me and one part-time officer.” He removed the glasses. His eyes were sharp and dark in a hard-featured face. Stern jaw, strong cheekbones, bold, prominent nose. Her heart beat faster.
“Jack Rossi.” He introduced himself.
Italian. It figured with that face.
“Lauren.” No last name. To make up for her omission, she offered her hand.
His hand enveloped hers, sending a shock of warmth up her arm. Lauren swallowed, resisting the urge to tug back her hand. He did not recognize her. No one had. She didn’t look anything like the pictures that had flashed on the news or the girl who had appeared, smiling and made up, on all the talk shows. She’d taken out the little ring in her left eyebrow. Her hair was shorter now and darker, almost black.
“What brings you to Dare Island, Lauren?” he asked.
“Oh, you know,” she said vaguely. “Work.”
His gaze narrowed slightly on her face. “What is it that you do?”
Even after all the media interviews, she hated that question. At thirty, she should be able to answer with certainty, I’m a cop, I’m a baker, I’m a doctoral candidate in psychology. Anything other than, I’m famous for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She couldn’t be sorry that her presence in the bank that day had saved lives. But the whole hostage thing had changed her in ways her family couldn’t see, her friends refused to accept. After her appearance on Dr. Phil, her book Hostage Girl: My Story had spent forty-eight consecutive weeks on The New York Times bestseller list. She was as isolated by her fame as she had been by her captors.
“I’m a writer.”
Who couldn’t write. Her stomach cramped. Her follow-up book, Hostage Girl: My Life After Crisis, was supposed to come out in six months. Before—her agent had explained with brutal honesty—no one was interested in her anymore.
That sexy little indent at the corner of his mouth deepened. Even his smiles were cool and controlled, she thought wistfully. Everything in her life felt so out of control. She was jealous.
Carolina Man Page 27