by Meryl Sawyer
“A-a-ah,” she moaned beneath his lips.
His skilled hands found the cargo shorts’ zipper, and he had them undone while his tongue explored the sweet channel of her mouth in a primitive, sexual parody of the act to come. He shoved her shorts off her hips and would have smiled, if he hadn’t been kissing her.
Son of a bitch. She was wearing silky bikinis no bigger than an eye patch. His blood thickened, pulsing through his entire body and hammering in his groin.
“Sexy,” he heard his raspy voice say. “You’re so damn sexy.”
Her arms were around his neck, and she pulled his head down, silently making him kiss her again. As he did, he caressed the soft roundness of her hips and the baby-fine skin between her thighs, carefully avoiding the bikinis. She arched against him, again begging without words.
Sensing her desire, his pulse kicked up another notch, and his cock strained for release. It took all his willpower, but he forced himself to take his time.
He whipped his head back to gulp in a fresh breath of air. The leather band holding his hair back broke, and his thick hair swung free. He tipped his head forward, his hair brushing her cheeks as he kissed her.
Finally, he inched one finger under the silky bikinis and rubbed it against her warm mound, determined that she needed to be as fully aroused as he was. Hot and achingly hard, he gently probed, finding her wet and slick.
She pulled away from his lips just enough to whisper, “Oh my goodness.”
He intimately stroked the tender flesh, steeling himself so that he was gentle even though he longed to bury his entire length to the hilt. He fondled her, concentrating on the small, tight nub between the slick folds of skin.
“Parker! Parker, where are you?”
Aw, hell. What did Hawke want? He froze, his penis inside her panties, intimately pressed against her. It took several gulps of air before he could muster a response.
“What the hell do you want?”
“Dowd called. There’s a Code 11 at the base.”
Just his luck. Interrupted two nights in a row.
*See Half Moon Bay by Meryl Sawyer
Chapter 17
Kyle let out a string of four letter curses under his breath as he forced himself to stand up straight. The movement was an act of self-castration that left beads of sweat across his upper lip. He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“It’s an emergency at the base. Trevor will see that you get back to Thunder Island safely,” he told Jennifer, his hand on the doorknob. “Later, babe.”
Hardly able to walk, he staggered into the hallway where he found Brody Hawke waiting for him. Brody had such a shit-eating grin that Kyle almost believed the guy had the balls to make up the Code 11 just because Kyle had gone off alone with Jennifer.
“What in hell’s going on?”
“Dowd beeped me.” Brody pointed to the beeper attached to his belt. “He’s enacted a Code 11. Let’s get out of here.”
Code 11. A “priority” situation. Commander Dowd never would have called one unless something important was happening.
Fuming, still cursing under his breath, he hobbled after Brody down to Half Moon Bay’s private dock instead of going to the community pier the way he’d come with Jennifer.
He walked out on the Half Moon Bay’s private gangway and recalled the night Amy Conroy had nearly died on this very spot. He’d had a small part in saving her life, and a surge of pride welled up inside him as he stood there, gazing across the narrow channel at the lights of Key West.
The wind had kicked up, he noticed. Chains of seaweed was being beaten against the shore by angry, white-capped waves.
“Trevor sent his house boy to take us back to Key West as quickly as possible,” explained Brody.
“Good thinking.” Kyle jumped into the launch, knowing that if they’d had to wait for the Sunset Key shuttle to take them across, they’d be stuck here for nearly an hour.
A prickle of alarm waltzed down Kyle’s spine. Jennifer and the others were isolated here on Sunset Key. Their only link to the mainland, Key West, was the shuttle and the private boats like this one. In rough seas, lightweight boats like these weren’t worth a damn.
In a few minutes, Trevor’s boat reached the Sunset Pier, and Kyle stepped onto the dock. The wooden pier rocked beneath him as he waited for Brody to get off. The water was much more turbulent than when he’d crossed with Jennifer.
“I’ve got my Harley chained to a palm tree,” Brody told him.
It figured, Kyle decided. Brody Hawke had a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. There was something a bit wild, a bit defiant, about both the man and the machine.
Without talking, they walked the short distance to the palm where the Harley was chained. Raucous sounds roiled out of the open air bars lining nearby Duval Street. With the noise came the moist, tropical scent of Key West perfumed by night blooming jasmine and fragrant plumeria.
Brody unlocked the motorcycle and gunned the engine. Kyle straddled the leather seat behind him. The Harley shot forward like a rocket. Feeling uneasy because he wasn’t driving, Kyle set his jaw and tried to forget kissing Jennifer during the ride from hell.
Finally, they slowed down at the Navy Base, where they parked the Harley and crossed the pitch-black grounds to the commander’s headquarters. At the main desk, they announced themselves, then an ensign led them to Commander Dowd’s office.
“What’s going on?” Kyle casually asked the commander.
“Tropical storm Frances has been upgraded to a hurricane,” Mike Dowd said. “I’ve ordered our men to secure the military equipment in the underground bunkers.”
“Is the storm headed this way?” Kyle asked.
“Not at present, but remember Honduras. Hurricane Mitch unexpectedly veered inland, destroying everything in its path.”
Kyle asked, “Shouldn’t civilians be notified?”
“I’m under orders to protect Navy property,” Dowd answered. “It’s up to the Civil Defense authorities to notify the civilians. I spoke with the brass at their headquarters. They claim alerting the population prematurely would panic people unnecessarily.”
“People? They aren’t worried about locals. All they give a damn about are tourists.”
Mike shrugged, but he was too honest a guy to deny it.
“What about the danger?” asked Kyle, thinking about Jennifer and his friends isolated on Sunset Key. They could be killed or stranded for days without food or water.
Mike Dowd lifted his hands, palms upward. “This is just a precautionary measure. We need to be ready in case it’s a rogue hurricane and changes course.”
Dowd assigned a team to help Kyle move his valuable antiterrorist gear to underground bunkers. When they finished, it was the middle of the night. The moon was obliterated by bands of dark, sulky clouds. The wind was blowing harder now, bending the palms sideways.
“What does the satellite say about the storm?” Kyle asked one of the Navy intelligence officers.
“Hurricane Frances is still headed due north straight up the Gulf of Mexico. It’s projected to make landfall on the Alabama coast.”
Kyle wondered if Jennifer and the others had gotten home, or had they stayed on Sunset Key because the water in the channel was too rough to cross? He tried to telephone, but the lines were down, which wasn’t surprising. In a strong wind, Sunset Key’s phone lines went down much sooner than the lines on Key West. The cell phones were out as well.
A few minutes after Kyle left so unexpectedly, Jennifer went out to the terrace and watched the others at the party. She didn’t feel like celebrating. Her emotional compass was way off kilter. Once again, she’d let Kyle Parker get to her.
And what had he done?
He’d left her, the way he had before, when he’d broken her heart. Would she ever learn her lesson, she wondered. The man was poison—pure and simple—yet she melted in his arms without blinking.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She walked
along the beach where the turbulent surf pounded the shore, sending frothy spume high into the night air. Wind-whipped clouds sailed across the moon like streamers, and a hot, seething restlessness filled the tropical air. Harbingers of a summer storm, she decided, then her thoughts drifted.
She should go back to the terrace and talk with some of the interesting people, but she didn’t feel like it. She was too depressed about shooting Sadie and too disturbed about the way she’d behaved with Kyle. What was wrong with her?
Trying to concentrate on Chad and their future together, she walked across the beach to Half Moon Bay’s private pier. Trevor and Clive were putting several people in a boat.
“If you have to be somewhere early in the morning, I suggest you leave now,” Trevor told her. “The sea’s so rough because of the storm, we may not get everyone back to the mainland tonight.”
“There’s plenty of room here, if you want to spend the night,” Clive added. “It’s up to you.”
“I’d better go. I have to be at the base at dawn tomorrow,” she said. “Thanks for a wonderful party.”
“We’ll get together again,” Trevor said as he helped her into the boat.
She waved good-bye as the launch pulled away from the dock. They were such fascinating people, she thought. She wasn’t surprised to find Kyle knew Logan McCord. They’d both done antiterrorist work. But the others didn’t seem to have anything in common with Kyle, yet they all knew him and seemed to genuinely like him.
Kyle was so much different than she’d expected. Granted, her assumptions were based on old, old memories. Years had passed. They were both different people now.
As much as she wanted to hate Kyle for what had happened back then, it wasn’t entirely his fault. The mess her mother had made of her life and the tragedy that followed was as much Jennifer’s fault. She’d fallen for Kyle, knowing he intended to join the Navy and follow in his father’s footsteps.
Was it any wonder that he never tried to find her?
It was an old wound, one that should have healed long ago, but it always lurked in the corner of her mind. When she least expected it, she would experience an aching sadness too deep for tears.
Why was she subjecting herself to more heartache? By allowing Kyle to kiss her and … everything, she was ruining her relationship with Chad. What would he say if he knew?
It had taken her years to find the right man. True, it then had happened with astonishing speed, but she knew Chad was the man she wanted to marry.
How could she possibly be susceptible to Kyle after what had happened? Years had passed, yet her body seemed to operate independently of her more rational mind.
She mulled over her feelings and still didn’t have an excuse for her behavior when the boat pulled up to Key West. It was well after midnight, but, as usual, the town was just getting going. Music blared from the bars and groups of people who roved the streets laughing and talking. It would be safe to say many of them had “wasted away” in Margaritaville.
She headed toward Thunder Island, then changed her mind. What point was there in going home? She would never be able to sleep. Her time would be better spent on the firing range.
After finding her car, she drove out to the base. The guard at the gate checked her security pass and told her the base was being prepared for a hurricane.
“Is Frances heading toward us now?”
“It’s just a precaution.”
Good, she thought. She would have the firing range all to herself. Her car was the only one in the lot when she parked at the range. It was lucky she hadn’t had the time to turn in her smart gun after the search.
The person who usually checked out weapons wasn’t at his post, and no one seemed to be around. She made her way into the depths of the dark building. It was the first time she’d set up her own targets, and it took a little longer than she anticipated. She stood behind the firing line, thinking of the alligator and seeing Sadie.
“I’m going to be a crack shot or die trying,” she said to trigger the voice activation mechanism.
“Oh, my stars! Not another hurricane.”
Thelma Mae stood on the widow’s walk outside the secret room, listening to the wind lashing the palm trees. Behind her the radio was giving the latest weather forecast. Hurricane Frances was still heading north and was expected to hit near Mobile. Even though the storm was miles and miles away, it wasn’t unusual for it to cause rough surf and strong winds.
As a precaution, she’d had the beach chairs moved into the storage shed on top of the pool chaises. The shutters on the windows of the lower floors served as storm shutters and were closed just in case. If the wind was worse in the morning, she would be forced to tape the windows on the upper floors.
She hated taking such precautions because it upset the guests. No doubt some of them would panic and leave even though the storm wasn’t expected to come anywhere near Key West. It couldn’t be helped. She had no choice except to protect her home. Last year hurricane Georges had unleashed its fury on them. Thunder Island had narrowly missed being destroyed.
She couldn’t chance having that happen. The guest house and the inhabitants’ private affairs were her whole life. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do without them. Thunder Island was more than just a place to call home.
She’d sold her soul when she gave up her baby and married a wealthy man older than her father. Fate had been cruel. She’d been unable to have another child.
Her husband had indulged her by purchasing the dilapidated old mansion. She’d lovingly restored Thunder Island, so named by the original owner because the cannon at Fort Zachary Taylor sounded like thunder to his young son. The house became more than just a project to Thelma Mae. It gave her direction and purpose especially after her husband’s death.
Finally, fate had smiled on her again: the baby boy she’d given up walked back into her life again. Of course her son didn’t understand the importance of Thunder Island, but it didn’t matter.
Having him back was all that counted.
Chapter 18
Kyle helped the other men secure laptops and sensitive files in another underground bunker near where he’d put his equipment. They were stashing gear so quickly that Kyle hoped someone was keeping a log or they would play hell finding everything again.
Commander Dowd stormed in, yelling, “Hurry up! Hurry up!”
“What’s the rush?” Kyle asked.
“Frances is a goddamned rough hurricane. She just changed course and is gaining strength as well as speed. She’s dead-heading for Key West.”
“Aw, shit!” Kyle hustled to put things away, but his mind was on Jennifer and the others on remote Sunset Key. Trevor’s home had a basement, and he knew Trevor had lived in the area long enough to be prepared for a disaster like this. Still, he couldn’t help being uneasy.
They completed the project and Dowd ordered his men to remain in the bunker until the hurricane passed over. Dowd could order his men to remain on the base, but Kyle was free to leave. If he went to the dock, he could get some kind of boat to Sunset Key.
Even if he couldn’t rent or borrow a boat, he could swim the narrow channel. Hell, he had been a SEAL and had swum longer distances in rougher water. He had to make sure Jennifer was safe.
Leaving the bunker, Kyle spotted Brody. “Hawke, may I borrow your Harley? I’ll stow it in a safe place.”
“Ah, yeah. Sure, man.” Brody handed Kyle the keys, but he didn’t look too thrilled about it.
Kyle raced out of the building and streaked across the parking lot, ignoring the hitch in his knee. The wind howled through the palms with a snapping sound like whips. The heavy air was rain scented and crackled with electricity. Any second the heavens would open and rain would pummel the earth. He’d been through three hurricanes and knew what to expect. It would be the leading edge of the storm. Worse would follow.
He jumped on the Harley and gunned the engine, intending to drive to the docks, stow the Harley in one of the wa
rehouse basements. Hell-bent for leather, as his father used to say, he sped down the dark black top road leading off the base. He leaned hard into the turn near the firing range.
He blinked twice, not quite believing he’d spotted Jennifer’s car. What in hell was she doing here? He swung the Harley to the side and drove into the lot and parked next to Jennifer’s car.
Inside, his footsteps echoed through the empty corridor as he rushed to the firing range. He figured Jennifer must still be blaming herself for shooting Sadie, but practicing during a hurricane was damn stupid.
He found her standing there without earphones, firing away. The back of the range was littered with discarded paper targets. From the looks of them, Jennifer was improving.
“What in hell are you doing?” he yelled.
She spun around, pointing the gun at him. Instinctively, he ducked and lunged for her. His hand locked around her wrist. The gun dropped to the floor with a clank.
Eyes smoldering, she glared at him and yanked her hand away. “I’m practicing. Is there a law against it?”
He quickly picked up her gun, saying, “Didn’t you hear? Hurricane Frances is coming right at Key West.”
“No. The guard at the gate said it was heading toward the Alabama coast.”
“She changed course.”
“Oh, my God. What about Sadie?”
He put his hand on her arm. “The vet has a basement. I’ve seen it. They’ll take the animals down there.”
“We have to evacuate to Key Largo. I—”
“There isn’t time. But we may be able to help batten down Thunder Island. Let’s go.”
Jennifer grabbed her gun and shoved it into her backpack. They raced to the parking lot, but when Kyle opened the door a blast of wind driven rain hit them full-force. He slammed it shut.
“I’ve got Hawke’s motorcycle. We’ll take it instead of your car.”
“So we can get soaked? Sounds like a great plan.”
There were times he was so damn tempted to put his hands around her cute neck and squeeze. “The way the wind’s blowing, trees are bound to fall. I can lift the Harley but not the car. I—”