by Meryl Sawyer
“Right. Let’s get going.”
Jennifer hunkered down, her head against Kyle’s back in a futile attempt to keep the blinding rain out of her eyes. She had no idea how Kyle could possibly see where he was going. Arms around his powerful chest, she hung on as the motorcycle barreled down the road, littered with palm fronds ripped from the trees by the relentless wind. He swerved unexpectedly to avoid trash cans and plastic beach chairs that had blown into the street.
Thunder boomed, shaking the ground, and chain lightning arced across the dark sky, searing the tops of the palms. Kyle skidded to a halt, and the Harley tipped sideways. Her backpack lurched to one side and the shifting weight nearly toppled her into the rain-filled gutter. The ruthless wind had destroyed a stately royal palm. Its majestic crown of huge fronds blocked the street.
“Get off and walk around it,” Kyle yelled above the howl of the wind and the pelting rain ricocheting off the pavement like a hail of machine gun fire.
She did as she was told and climbed over the palm’s massive trunk, barely clearing it without scraping her leg. Standing on the other side, shivering because the wind was blowing through her wet blouse, she watched Kyle. He hoisted the Harley up sideways until it straddled the palm. Then he hopped over the trunk and pulled the motorcycle to the other side.
He wasn’t even breathing hard when he said, “Hop on. Let’s go.”
Waves blasted out of the sea, shooting high into the air and swamping the road in places. Twice the Harley stalled out. When it stalled for the third time a few blocks later, Kyle stopped and got off.
“The Harley’s flooded. We’re not going to make it back to Thunder Island before the hurricane hits full force. Let’s try for the house Trevor’s renovating on Angela Street.”
She had no idea what he was talking about but assumed Trevor, who owned Half Moon Bay, was renovating one of Key West’s historic homes in the Old Town section. Kyle hauled the Harley off the street up onto the narrow sidewalk. Head bent to keep the rain out of her eyes, she followed.
They must have walked several blocks with Kyle pushing the motorcycle before he shoved aside a gate hanging by a single rusted hinge and guided the bike onto a flagstone path. Jennifer stayed two steps behind him, and took a quick glance at what once must have been one of Key West’s finest historical mansions.
Kyle led her around to the back where he leaned the Harley against the side of the house while he opened a rickety storm door into the cellar.
“Got a flashlight in that backpack?” he hollered over bellowing wind.
She dropped the pack to the weed-choked grass and unzipped it. Shielding its contents with her body as best she could, she pulled out the small, high-intensity light and handed it to Kyle. He propped it up on a beam inside the building. He rolled the Harley into the cellar, and she followed.
Kyle pulled the storm door shut. The cellar was dank, the air heavy from mildew and the moist earth. The support beams were festooned with cobwebs. In the deep shadows beyond the circle of light, something scuttled away. Piled near the door were empty burlap bags stamped: Aker’s Extra Fine Steel Wool.
“What are they doing with so much steel wool?” she asked, water dripping into her eyes from her hair.
During the ride, the leather thong holding Kyle’s hair back had fallen off. His chin-length, wet hair fell around his face in wet hanks. He finger-combed it off his face and squeezed the water out of it. In one deft motion, he secured it at the nape of his neck by tying two strands of hair together.
He stripped off his soaked shirt and hung it from one of the Harley’s handlebars. She ignored her body’s unwilling reaction to him. If Kyle had been just handsome, Jennifer was positive she would be more detached. It was the size and power of his body that she found so intriguing. He took his strength for granted, moving with a natural, athletic grace.
Hoping he hadn’t noticed her staring, she dragged her gaze down to her hands. She busied herself by attempting to wring the water out of her cargo shorts. Then she yanked her T-shirt out of the shorts and tried to get the water out of it.
“They use extra-fine steel wool to lightly sand the wood in the house,” he said, answering her question. “Knowing Trevor, he’s probably saving the bags to recycle them.”
“I see,” she managed to respond as she wiped her soaked hair off her face. He was unzipping his wet shorts. “What are you doing?”
He stepped out of them and draped the dripping shorts over the Harley’s seat. His Joe Boxers were soaked, too, and clung to his body. If she hadn’t noticed how impressively built he was before, there was no mistaking it now.
He turned, caught her staring, and flashed her a cocky grin. “See something you like?”
She ignored him, repeating her question. “Why are you taking off your clothes?”
He scattered some of the burlap bags on the stone floor. “No sense in sitting around in wet clothes. We’re here until the hurricane is finished with us.”
They would be alone together for hours. He glanced at her, and she looked away. She had seen that expression more than once. Even in the dark, she recognized that look and felt it touch her body like a lover’s caress. She cursed herself and promised she would get through this … somehow.
He smiled again, only this time his grin was all male arrogance. “Turn around or you’ll get a real show.”
Oh, my God. He’s going to strip bare. She whirled around, telling herself that one of Key West’s voodoo queens had put a hex on her. Luck had most definitely taken a powder the moment Kyle Parker walked back into her life.
A rustling noise was followed by a wet slapping sound. Out of the corner of her eye, Jennifer saw his undershorts hurl through the air and hit the Harley’s front fender. For a moment, the underwear clung to the metal, then slowly slid to the stone floor in a wet slosh.
The cellar seemed eerily silent now except for the plink-plink-plink of the rain dripping from a broken board overhead. The thick walls protected them from the storm’s fury, but through the plank door, she heard the frightening sound of tree branches being ripped away and hurled like javelins at the house.
She tried valiantly to concentrate on the almighty Frances and her power to destroy Key West. It was difficult for Jennifer to stay focused. Her mind kept straying to what Kyle might be doing behind her.
Kyle Parker buck naked.
Despite her wet blouse plastered to her chilled skin, prickles of heat rose from her body in shimmering waves. She reluctantly recalled another time—long ago—when she’d seen him without a stitch of clothing.
Their parents had been living together in a small house near the Navy base. They all shared one small bathroom. Believing she was alone in the house, Jennifer barged into the bathroom and saw Kyle as he stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel.
It had been a defining moment for both of them. He’d stood there, nude. She’d stood there, awestruck.
The air between them had crackled with sexual tension, then he tossed her a towel, saying, “Dry my back.”
She’d been a year younger and totally in love, yet she’d managed to hide her feelings. Despite her shock and embarrassment, she brazened it out, refusing to run like the stupid little kid he believed her to be. She grabbed the towel and rubbed his back for all she was worth.
Before she’d finished, he snatched the towel away, then hooked it around his waist. The whole time she never looked down. Still, she remembered what she’d seen when he stepped out of the shower.
“You ain’t seen anything yet,” he had informed her.
Jennifer had bolted from the room, but not this time. She was older now, experienced, in control of her emotions. She turned to face Kyle.
She inhaled a gulp of air, then burst out laughing. Kyle was reclining against the pile of burlap bags, a single bag negligently draped across his midsection.
“Do you know how ridiculous you look with ‘extra fine’ blazoned across your … your—”
“Co
ck?”
“Private areas.”
“As opposed to public areas?” he replied with another grin some women would have found hard to resist. “You didn’t used to be such a prude. I seem to recall that you were one hot number.”
She refused to allow him to bait her. Still, a long buried memory surfaced, startlingly vivid despite all the years that had passed. She had been a virgin the first time they’d made love, and he’d held her in his arms all night. What had happened to that sweet, tender young man?
“Don’t tell me you’re going to spend all night in those wet clothes,” he said with another adorable smile.
“They’re not bothering me,” she fibbed.
He rolled his eyes heavenward and settled back against the stack of burlap bags. “Suit yourself.”
She pulled a few bags of a stack and arranged them on the floor as far away from Kyle as she could get and still be able to lean against the bags to support her back. Sitting down, she tugged at her wet shorts.
“You’re gonna get crotch rot.”
“Very funny. There’s no such thing.”
“Yeah? Tell that to guys working in the rain forest. It’s worse than athlete’s foot.”
For a second she wondered if he could possibly be telling the truth, then decided some men would say anything to get a woman to take off her panties. She was itchy and clammy, but nothing could make her take off her clothes when Kyle was so close. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and tried to go to sleep.
The somnolent drip-drip, drip-drip of the rain leaking into the cellar irritated her rather than made her sleepy. She realized less noise was coming through the cellar door. Ready to ask Kyle if he thought the storm was over, she opened her eyes.
“Oh, my God!” She sat bolt upright.
Without making a single sound, Kyle had moved right next to her. He lay on his side, the burlap bag draped over his hips. One elbow was bent to support his head as he stared at her with that intense gaze of his.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking at you,” he answered, his voice a shade shy of a whisper.
“Well, stop. I don’t like it.”
“Not unless you tell me why you’re so damn mad with me, yet want me in spite of yourself.”
“In spite of myself. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You still have the hots for me even though you’re engaged to another man.”
Her first reaction was to deny it, but decided to deal with it instead. “I understand why you may have deluded yourself—”
“Deluded?” He slapped his bare thigh. The sound echoed through the dark cellar. “Yeah, right. That’s why you turn into a porn star every time I—”
“Porn star?” She whacked at him with her left hand and succeeded only in hurting her wrist when her hand hit his powerful shoulder.
To herself, she admitted she had given him good reason to think she was crazy about him. She wished she had an explanation, but she didn’t. All she could think was that her mind had never quite let go of the past.
Chapter 19
Jennifer tried to decide what to say without stripping her heart bare. This was more difficult than she could possibly have imagined. During the long, lonely years since she’d last been with Kyle, she’d lived with the consequences of what had happened. And suffered for her mistakes.
Finally, Hiram Whitmore, her stepfather, had brought her out of her funk by telling her she would end up like her mother. It was then that he began showing her how to train bloodhounds. She’d enjoyed the work, but the hurt remained, buried deep inside her head.
She had imagined this conversation a thousand times, but had never actually thought it would take place. She’d never dreamed she’d be in a deserted cellar, with a hurricane threatening their lives, explaining her feelings to a nearly naked man. A man who had no intention of asking forgiveness.
“Kyle, I understand why you were confused—”
“Confused? Babycakes, I’m not one damn bit confused. I know exactly what you want.”
He ran the tip of one finger along her cheek, then brushed a wet strand of hair away from her face. The mere touch of his hand sent a warming shiver through her.
“I … want … to … marry … Chad Roberts.” She paused to put special emphasis on each word to make certain he understood she loved Chad.
“Why?” He arched one eyebrow.
“Why?” She sat up straighter. “I—we want to start a business.”
“A buddy of mine wants me to go into business with him, but we never discussed marriage. Maybe we should.”
“Very funny.” In the sheen of the flashlight, his smile challenged her. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. Explain it to me.”
“Chad and I have similar goals and a vision for our future.”
His smile vanished. “What kind of business?”
“Specialized security, like what corporations use. I will do sweeps.”
“Sweeps?”
“You know, taking dogs like Sadie to facilities to sniff for drugs.” She tried to sound positive, but it was difficult. They had discussed this, yet Chad hadn’t made any definite plans to leave the DEA and start a business. “Sweeps are the bread and butter of security firms. Insurance companies insist on drug-free workplaces, so I’ll handle the sweeps while Chad develops high tech corporate accounts.”
“High tech. Chad? He’s an expert on South American drug smuggling.”
“Yes, and those experts are in tremendous demand.”
His eyes narrowed until the green was barely visible between his dark lashes. “In demand for what? Sex?”
There was no point in talking about Chad. For whatever reason, Kyle was determined to bait her rather than have a serious discussion.
“You started to tell me why you’re so pissed off.”
“That sounds crude.”
“A pitcher of margaritas in the face. Now that’s crude.”
Silently conceding she’d behaved extremely childishly, she decided to tell him part of the truth. An instinct for self-preservation told her not to completely open up the old wound. It had taken her years to come to terms with what had happened. Why depress herself?
“I shouldn’t have thrown the pitcher of margaritas. It was a really stupid thing to do. It was a gut reaction.” She choked out the last words. “I’m sorry.”
He smiled, a cute grin that struck her as incredibly funny. She giggled a moment, then broke into a laugh.
“What’s so damn funny?”
“I was just thinking you have weird outfits. You sometimes wear margaritas. Now you’re wearing nothing but a smile and a burlap bag.”
“I could always take off the bag. Women tell me I look best wearing nothing but a smile.”
“Don’t you dare!”
He put his hand on the edge of the burlap sack carelessly draped over his hips. “Talk or this comes off.”
She was fairly sure it was an idle threat, but with Kyle you never knew. “I threw the margaritas because I was angry with your father.”
“My father? What in hell does he have to do with it? Your mother left him.”
“She left because he refused to marry her.”
“Look, he had a bad experience with my mother. He didn’t want to get married again. He said so right from the beginning.”
She couldn’t deny it. Her mother had been warned when their relationship started. Still, her mother had secretly hoped she could change Vincent Parker’s mind by living with him.
“If he’d come after Mom, it might have helped. She would have known he cared.”
“Dad cared,” Kyle said, his voice suddenly husky. “Believe me, he cared.”
But not enough to come after her. Vince hadn’t made the effort and neither had Kyle. She longed to ask him about it even though she’d known the truth for years. To Kyle, their relationship hadn’t been about love. It had merely been sex, a moment in time easily forgotten.
It had been radically different for her. The experience had drastically changed her life, leaving a hidden scar.
“Within eight hours of your mother’s leaving, Dad’s unit was called to Greneda.”
How long had that “conflict” lasted? She tried to recall, but couldn’t. “Greneda? I’m sorry I don’t remember much about—”
Kyle barked a laugh. “That’s the hell of it. Ask the average American and they can’t remember why we were in Greneda, yet the government sent the military in like it was some big deal. World War II all over again, or worse.”
Granted, Vincent Parker had been sent to Greneda, but Kyle hadn’t. Why couldn’t he have called her? There wasn’t any excuse she could imagine.
“SEALs hadn’t seen action since—”
“Vietnam,” Kyle finished, his smile as stiff as his emerging beard.
“Your father always talked about going into combat.”
Kyle responded with another of those looks she couldn’t quite decipher. She waited a moment, knowing Kyle had idolized his father. He had followed in his father’s footsteps and become a SEAL, too.
“How is your father?” She hated to ask because she didn’t want to tell him about her mother and what had happened after her death.
Kyle stared off into the darkness beyond the dim circle of light. The rain must have stopped; the leak was no longer dripping onto the stone floor. A cryptlike silence filled the dank cellar. Suddenly, she … knew.
“Your father died.”
Kyle slowly turned to face her, sorrow etching the masculine planes of his face. “He was the first SEAL killed trying to take the airport in Greneda.”
“Oh, God, my mother never knew,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. She should have told him first that she understood how traumatic it was to lose your only parent at such a young age. “I’m so sorry.”
“Didn’t your mother read the papers or watch television? There weren’t many casualties.”
She shook her head, and the still-damp curls slapped her cheek. “No. We didn’t have much money. We stayed in a flea bag without a TV for a month. There was a pay phone down the hall. Every time it rang, Mom rushed to answer it hoping your father was calling.”