Hot Under Pressure

by Louisa Edwards

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks for sticking it out so long, and entertaining me with your tale of woe.”

  “It’s not a tale of woe.” Beck stuck his hands in his back pockets and looked down at one of the best friends he’d ever had. “It’s just my life, man. And that part of my life is finished.”

  Looking perfectly at home lounging on a tasseled blue velvet pillow like some kind of pasha, Winslow laced his fingers behind his head and regarded Beck seriously. “What part? Love? I hope not, Beckster, for your sake.”

  “Love.” Beck laughed, but the sound tore at his throat with jagged edges. “Jesus Christ. This isn’t some romantic comedy, Win.”

  He expected Winslow to argue with him, extol the virtues of falling in love, take him to task for acting like he didn’t know what the word meant.

  But Win just blinked slowly and smiled. “You know, we’re only going to be here a few more days. Maybe you should take some time to revisit the parts of your life you left behind.”

  Taking a look around the crowded bar, full of chatter and laughter and the clink of glasses, sucking in a breath heavy with smoke and the scent of sweaty bodies packed close together, Beck suddenly felt an intense urge for fresh air. And that made him think of …

  “What are you smiling at?” Win wanted to know.

  “Nothing. See you around.” Beck hitched up his jeans and headed for the exit, still grinning, an odd lightness filling him at the thought of seeing a particular corner of his past, one last time.

  Chapter 14

  Beck’s worn leather boots skidded on the loose gravel of the faint path, and he shot a hand out just in time to steady himself against the rough trunk of a tall eucalyptus tree.

  The whole area around Kirby Cove was covered in eucalyptus, cypress, and pine trees, and the fresh, green smell of them on the cool night air filled Beck’s lungs with welcome relief.

  Picking his way more carefully, and glad for the hundredth time that he wore his old, comfortable boots in the kitchen rather than the more common leather or rubber clogs, Beck peered up through the enfolding branches and wished for a full moon.

  This far off the official trail, he needed all the light he could get.

  Finally, he emerged from the woods into the clearing at the top of the bluff overlooking the bay. Beck blinked away the sudden dazzle of the lights of San Francisco in the distance and the glow of the Golden Gate Bridge stretching away from him and out over the black water.

  Something in his chest settled as he took in the view. He might deny it, he might hate it, he might fight against it and vow never to come back here—but no matter what Beck said, this would always be home.

  A salt breeze off the bay got him moving again, pulling his T-shirt up and over his head as he clambered down the rocky embankment.

  Now that he was here, he found himself in a hurry to get down to the protected inlet, hidden from the campground, where he and Skye used to swim.

  Without warning, memories swamped him. Of that first night, the night they’d met, when he’d hiked through the forest after checking his highly illegal crab traps and found a beautiful young girl perched on a rock, like a mermaid or a siren, something out of the illustrated book of myths his parents had given him for his sixth birthday. The one with the cover falling off, and the edges of the pages all worn soft and rounded from constant handling and banging up against the other crap he hauled around in the backpack that carried all his belongings.

  Shaking away the vision of Skye as she’d been twelve years ago—pale as the moon shining down on him now, her red hair a waterfall of curls over her shoulders, the soft, smooth curves of her body—Beck ducked a low-hanging cypress branch.

  He slung his T-shirt around his neck, his boots finally crunching on the sharp gravel of the beach as he jogged around the last cluster of rocks and got his first real glimpse of the cove.

  Their own, private swimming hole, they’d called it, and in all the times they’d gone there, they’d never seen another camper or hiker adventurous enough to bushwhack down to this little inlet and try the water.

  Not surprising; it was dangerous to swim in the San Francisco Bay at the best of times—skinny dipping at night was crazy.

  Only a lunatic—or a couple of kids convinced they were invincible—would dare.

  Beck froze, staring out at the dark water in disbelief. Apparently, he wasn’t the only lunatic at Kirby Cove tonight.

  A hundred feet away from the rocky shore, a white figure stroked cleanly through the choppy waves.

  The compromised visibility made the distance too far for Beck to make out a face, but with a shiver of premonition, Beck knew in his gut who that swimmer was.

  A quick recon of the beach proved him right.

  Right there, piled at the foot of Skye’s favorite sunbathing rock, was a neat stack of folded clothes, topped by a stained white chef’s coat.

  Whirling to face the water, Beck stared hungrily out into the bay, willing his eyes to sharpen. He had to see her. He had to be sure.

  The swimmer paused mid-stroke and hung in place, treading water beneath the surface as she tilted her face up to the night sky. The sound of her panting breaths carried over the open water, as clearly if Beck were treading water beside her.

  Wind kicked up around him, whipping the trees and scudding the clouds that had covered the moon away, shining a brief, milky light over the woman’s features.

  It was Skye.

  Beck flung his shirt to the ground beside her clothes, then went to work on his jeans.

  *

  This was dumb. Skye knew it was dumb. If any of her friends went swimming alone at night, even in a nice, safe pool, she’d whack them across the head and warn them about the danger.

  Which was exponentially greater when swimming in open water. Notoriously treacherous open water, at that.

  But she’d always felt safe at Kirby Cove … and besides, she’d needed this like she needed air. And chocolate.

  This swim had been essential.

  A mere hour of solitude, and she could hear herself think again. Everything seemed clearer out here, away from the noise and bustle and demands of her kitchen and crew. She loved them like crazy, but … sometimes crazy was the operative word.

  Involuntary shudders wracked through her, cues from her body that this water was really too cold, especially when she wasn’t doing much more than hanging out and maybe it was time to think about getting out, thank you very much.

  A noise, like pebbles shifting and rolling, sent a chill through Skye that had nothing to do with the water temperature.

  Right. Because death by drowning wasn’t the only thing a solitary swimmer risked.

  Heart in her throat, every muscle corded with tension, Skye kicked her legs furiously to turn her in place so she could see the shoreline.

  The beach was empty.

  Scanning the gravel bank for a hint of what could’ve made the noise she’d heard, Skye felt her leaping pulse begin to even out.

  It was nothing. Probably a rabbit or some other harmless little animal. Still, the peace and serenity of the moment was broken, and she figured it was probably time she got dry and went home, anyway.

  Reluctantly pulling toward the shoreline, Skye was just beginning to feel the good, satisfying tremble in her shoulders and arms from the workout she’d given them today when something touched her leg.

  Still jumpy, she gave an embarrassing shriek and thrashed a little, even while her brain tried to convince her it was nothing, some reeds or a harmless fish.

  But then the touch came back, and this time it slid from her knee to her thigh, shockingly warm against her water-chilled flesh, and Skye’s mind went blank with terror. Throwing all her strength into her stroke, she swam as hard as she could for the beach.

  A familiar laugh behind her startled Skye so badly she nearly choked, saltwater burning down her throat and up into her nose.

  Coughing and hacking, Skye whipped around to see water pouring in rivu
lets down Henry Beck’s handsome, smiling face and over his broad shoulders.

  “You asshole!” Skye could barely see him, shock and adrenaline making her eyes water.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, slicing through the water toward her. “But it’s been way too long since I snuck up on you like that.”

  “I could kill you right now,” she snarled, wiping at her face and kicking her legs to keep out of reach of his long arms, gleaming bare in the moonlight.

  “Aw, come on, that’s no way for a pacifist to talk.”

  “You’ve always been a bad influence,” she told him, finally getting her breathing under control. She had to fight the urge to try and smooth her impossible hair down. It wouldn’t work, and she’d just make him think she cared what she looked like in front of him.

  Which wasn’t true. At all.

  For instance, she definitely wasn’t thinking about the fact that she was swimming in only her currently very translucent pink bra and panties.

  Or that she hadn’t lost any weight since the last time he’d seen her in her skivvies … in fact, she’d done the other thing.

  It wasn’t easy to keep afloat while crossing her arms over her chest, and she felt like a tool, so she gave up on that and concentrated on keeping her head above water.

  Beck’s dark stare dipped to the water line, zeroing in on the plump upper swells of her breasts peeking out over the tops of the bra cups sticking to her skin.

  “I thought you were about to get out,” he said casually. “How long have you been swimming, anyway?”

  Kicking slowly toward the shore, Skye frowned. “About an hour, I guess. I don’t know, I came straight here after we left the competition kitchen.”

  Beck followed her at a slow, deliberate pace. She couldn’t seem to stop sneaking glances at the swift, sure stroke of his arms through the water, the bunch and play of muscle in his big shoulders.

  Closer to the beach now, Skye felt the mucky ground under her feet and started to stand up.

  A sudden gleam in Beck’s eyes had Skye sucking in a breath and ducking back down into the water. “You complete shit! You just want me to get out so you can see me in wet underwear!”

  “Never said I didn’t.” Not looking too pissed off at being thwarted, Beck flipped onto his back and floated lazily.

  One good thing about being scalded with a furious blush … it took some of the chill off the surface of Skye’s skin.

  “What is with you?” she hissed. “You left me ten years ago, remember? And after that last phone call…” Her voice shook. The memory of that staticky, halting conversation would be with her till she died. Skye firmed her chin and skewered him with a glare.

  “After that, not a word. Not a single call, or postcard, or singing freaking telegram, Henry. You could’ve been dead for all I knew!”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  That was a solid hit, right to the gut. Winded and shocked, a storm of pain rose up and pushed the words out of her clenched throat. “Oh, fuck you, Henry. Seriously, just…”

  Not caring anymore what he saw or didn’t see, Skye stood on wobbly legs and started wading toward the beach.

  All she knew was that she had to get away from him, and the memory of those long months alone with her grief.

  A soft curse and a splash from behind her was all the warning she got before a hard hand shot out and gripped her wrist.

  “Skye, wait…”

  “No!” Tugging frantically, Skye twisted to get free of his implacable hold.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

  His deep, solemn voice drained the fight out of her. Trouble was, it seemed to drain everything else, too, every drop of energy and spirit the peaceful hour of solitude had given her.

  Struggling against the urge to wilt completely, Skye swallowed hard. “It’s fine. You can let me go now.”

  Beck made that inarticulate noise she knew so well—the one that meant he was frustrated, hounded by some emotion he couldn’t or wouldn’t express. “Not yet.”

  Flexing her wrist against his fingers, Skye played her trump card. “You’re hurting me,” she said quietly.

  He let go as if her skin had burned him, and she began picking her way back up the beach without another word or glance.

  This was too hard. Everything with Beck … it was too much, and for a brief, horrible moment, Skye saw the dark, gaping mouth of the past surging up to swallow her whole.

  “Skye.” His voice was raw, ragged around the edges. “Please.”

  She didn’t want to react to that voice, but it called to something deep inside her. Skye stopped walking, ankle deep in cold, brackish water. Chills zipped through her body, raising goose bumps on her arms and legs, but she didn’t try to cover herself up when she turned to face him.

  He’d seen it all before, anyway. She’d been pudgy back then, she was pudgy now. Five months of pregnancy did that to a person. Maybe nine and a half years should’ve been long enough to take some of those pounds off, but … what difference could it possibly make at this point? She was too tired, exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the last few days, to care anymore.

  “What?” Skye hated the defeat in her tone, but didn’t know how to mask it. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”

  His expression tightened, sending his dramatic cheekbones into stark relief. With his chin-length hair swept back off his face, droplets of saltwater tracing rivulets over the smooth, bare musculature of his massive chest, he looked like exactly what he was … a warrior.

  Battle scarred and battle hardened, changed by what he’d seen and done, he wasn’t the same boy who’d signed the marriage license with her in front of the Justice of the Peace.

  But when he held out his hand to her, that mute appeal in his fathomless, shadowed eyes, Skye could no more resist the man in front of her than she’d been able to deny the boy anything he asked.

  Without conscious thought, without ever making a rational decision one way or the other, Skye lifted her arm and placed her stiff, cold fingers on his waiting palm.

  Something bright and fierce flashed across his enigmatic face, too quickly for Skye to read, but she knew exactly what it meant when his hand closed over hers and pulled her in close.

  “You’re freezing. C’mere,” he said, wrapping his free arm around her shivering shoulders and sheltering her from the wind with his big, rangy frame.

  And Skye let him, too cold, too tired, too confused to fight anymore. Tucking her nose into his chest, Skye let her eyes drift shut as the deep, steady beat of his heart drummed beneath her ear.

  “You left me,” she muttered again, but this time it came out sounding less like an accusation and more like a plea. For what, she didn’t know—answers, maybe? “Why didn’t you come back?”

  “After everything that happened, I didn’t think you’d want me to” was all Beck said.

  How could he think that? Oh, right. Because after she’d sobbed out the ugly, tragic news—that their baby, the baby he’d joined the Navy to provide for, the baby they’d made together, would never be born—she’d paused just long enough to drag air into her tortured lungs and whisper that she never wanted to see him again.

  “I was distraught! Eighteen years old, completely alone in the hospital, dealing with a miscarriage.”

  “I know. But you were right. I should’ve been there.”

  Ten years of going over and over and over this in her head, and Skye still didn’t get where it had all gone wrong. “No. I was wrong to tell you to stay away. I understood, even then, why you felt you had to join up.”

  They’d had less than no money, and no support from her parents, who couldn’t believe their little love child had run off and taken up the hideous bourgeois state of matrimony. When she’d gotten pregnant, she and Beck hadn’t had any insurance, no way to pay for all the prenatal vitamins and ultrasounds and hospital stays …

  Skye had insisted they’d get by and that they
should stick together. But Beck had bigger plans … plans that had meant Skye was alone when that nurse came back with their baby’s first ultrasound photo and a strained, nervous smile. Skye was alone as she waited for the doctor to come in and explain exactly what was going on, what they’d seen in that blurry black-and-white photo.

  She’d been alone when they told her she’d never get to hold her baby.

  The memory swamped her, a swell of sadness and longing rushing over her head and dragging her down, catching her in the riptide of familiar grief.

  Skye didn’t realize she was shaking her head until Beck’s fingers caught her chin, stilling the denial and tilting her face up until she had no choice but to meet his stare.

  For once, she could read the emotion in his dark eyes, the torment there sharp as glass.

  “I hate you,” she told him, but her voice broke pathetically as she said it. By the quirk of Beck’s hard mouth, she could tell he believed it about as much as she did.

  “No, you don’t,” he said, not unkindly. “You wish you could hate me—it’d be a hell of a lot easier—but you don’t, Skye.”

  God help her. It was nothing but the truth. She didn’t hate him at all.

  And as she gazed up at him, dazed under the intensity of his expression, the set of his jaw, the rise and fall of his solid chest against hers, she knew the rest of the truth.

  In spite of everything, she still loved him.

  Chapter 15

  Skye stood there, trembling in the moonlight, the creamy paleness of her naked curves glowing like a beacon against the darkness. The sodden scraps of her underwear concealed nothing, clinging to her lovingly. And her expression …

  She was broken wide open, like an egg dropped on the floor.

  But she wasn’t denying anything.

  Ferocious need swept through him—the need to touch her, to erase the memories from her eyes, the sadness from her trembling mouth, to take her and re-stake his claim on her.

  Even if it was for the last time.

  Beck didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about anything.