by Tracy Sumner
"I admire your tireless dedication, Vannie, but when are you going to start living for yourself?"
I started last evening, she was tempted to say. But, telling Elle that Zach had kissed her and that they were considering whatever it was they were considering was like telling his sister how he looked naked. Or his mother.
Not an appealing thought.
Elle fiddled with the ragged tassel of a pillow, humming beneath her breath.
Savannah brushed her feet aside, perching on the edge of the love seat. "Spill it. You only hum when you're trying to devise a way to present your case. Remember when we got thrown in jail after the march down Fifth Avenue? You hummed the entire time you waited in line to speak to the judge. The other ladies thought you were close to having apoplexy."
Throwing the pillow at her, Elle lifted herself up onto her elbow. "You're right. I'm sitting here wondering how to bring up a hush-hush subject when I've never worried about discussing anything with you before. But sex"—Elle's cheeks flushed—"isn't something women go around discussing like the weather."
Savannah laughed. She couldn't help it. "Okay, okay, I'm listening. Please get this out of your system so we can have a pleasant day tomorrow." Settling in, she drew her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. "A vulgar position for a vulgar discussion." She smiled. "Do you want to tell me how it's done? I know it's unseemly, but I confess to reading a naughty novel or two in my day. I understand the mechanics. The man puts his mem—"
Elle reared, plastering her hand over Savannah's mouth. "Vannie!"
Savannah pried her hand away. "Oh Ellie, when did you become so priggish? The other night—"
"The other night," she interrupted, sinking back on the loveseat, "I had a glass of wine before you arrived. Then Noah kissed me and... oh, suffering cats, I was ready to give an introductory coitus lecture to every virgin in town!"
Savannah dropped her head to her knees and howled with laughter.
"Oh it's funny all right." She felt Elle roll off the loveseat, her boots tapping against the floorboards as she began to pace. "But you'll get yours. Do it once, and you'll never be able to think of anything else. Every time he walks into the room, boom, like a bolt of lightning, there goes your mind right out the door."
A vivid picture raced through Savannah's mind all right: Zach flashing his heart-stopping smile, those long, slim fingers closing around her waist and drawing her forward.
Into a roaring, uncontrollable blaze.
".... if you change yours."
Savannah lifted her head, squinted into the broad band of sunlight flooding in the window "What?"
Elle paused, an expression of sheer frustration crossing her face. "Juste Ciel, I'm running out of patience. I'm not going to be here to help you if you decide to seduce Zach. Caroline will have to help. Anyway, she's the natural choice. You'll have to make the first move because he's as close to a virgin as you'll find for a man his age. He's too noble to visit Madam Stella's outside town and his marriage, while loving, wasn't passion—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Savannah cried, using Zach's expression without thinking. "What in heaven's name are you talking about? Caroline who? And Constable Garrett has a child. How can he be a virgin?"
Elle grunted and stalked the length of the parlor. "Close to one, I said. Close. He was very inexperienced when he married Hannah, and he hasn't done a thing, if you grasp my meaning, since she died. In a town this small, indiscretions travel as quickly as the pox. Zach's record is as clean as a baby's bottom fresh out of the bath. Because of that, he's liable to be rusty. That's where Caroline comes in. She knows men better than anyone in town. She can help."
Again, a vision of Zach's hands flashed through her mind, his actions not the least bit rusty. "How do you know about this supposed inexperience? Did he tell you?"
Pausing in the middle of the room, Elle threw a thoughtful glance at the ceiling. "No. Hmmm. Let me see." Chewing her lip, she mumbled, "Honestly, he didn't. I guess Caleb told me. Or Noah. No, no, it wasn't Noah. He lived in Chicago then. And poor Hannah would have fainted before she talked about what went on in her bedroom. Couldn't have been her. Caleb then."
"Basically what you're saying is that this is pure speculation."
"What if it is? Take a look at the man. Does he look wild to you?"
Something must have crossed her face, a look that spoke volumes.
"That look, what is that look?" Elle threw herself to her knees before Savannah. "You've done something. What? Ohhh, you'd better tell me."
Savannah released a tense breath. She shrugged her shoulders, within seconds of giving up, when a soft knock on the parlor door deflated their conversation like a needle prick to a balloon.
"Mrs. Garrett?" a frail voice called from the other side of the door. "Your husband is here to escort you home. Are you decent, my dear?"
Savannah had serious doubts about Vinecia Broom's mental state, she truly did. "Decent?" she whispered. "What does she think we're doing in here?"
"You'd better tell me what that look meant. Pull me aside at the picnic. I mean it." Elle wagged her finger in Savannah's face for emphasis, then called out, "Yes, Miss Vin, we're decent."
"Or one of us is," she added with a heated glare thrown Savannah's way.
"I'm not her husband," Savannah heard Zach explain from the hallway, giving her enough time to scramble for a less scandalous pose, though she couldn't have placed her hand on the Bible to swear Zach didn't get a peek at her bloomers.
He halted in the doorway, his gaze bouncing off her before landing on Elle. "That woman needs a doctor's attention. She thinks I'm Caleb. And your husband. How could she get it so mixed up?" His eyes found Savannah again, a long, measuring study before sliding away. "Asking if you're decent. What did she think you were doing?"
Elle laughed, a nervous titter of a laugh. "We were looking at lists of books for classes and talking. The school. So much about the school. Tireless, tireless work." Her calculating gaze darted between the two of them. "My, yes. My, my, yes."
Savannah wanted to kick her. Elle sounded as unbalanced as Miss Vin.
All at once, Zach frowned, drilling Savannah with a questioning glare.
She shook her head. No, I didn't tell her.
He looked doubtful.
While she felt choked for air, watching him tap his hat against his thigh, each ripple of muscle highlighted by his close-fitting trousers. His soiled vest hung open, revealing a cotton shirt dampened with sweat and clinging to the ridges and valleys beneath.
What a fine specimen of masculinity he was. Broad shoulders, a trim waist, surely a firm, flat tummy. Long legs and those magnificent fingers. How could anyone look upon a man like Zachariah Garrett and think rusty?
Elle leaned down and pressed a rather rough kiss to her cheek, whispering, "If you want to hide this, you'd better stop looking at him like he's a piece of chocolate cake just out of reach."
She nodded, her gaze leaving him for the first time since he'd entered the room. "Yes, I'm excited about the picnic, too. See you tomorrow."
Elle drew back. "Me, too. Very excited."
Ducking to avoid receiving more advice, and hoping to reduce the stinging heat from the Constable's gaze, she fiddled with the clasp on her boot, releasing a shaky breath when she heard the parlor door close behind them.
Moments later, just when her heartbeat returned to normal, the door opened and Zach stepped inside. He leaned against it just long enough to let his gaze glide the length of her.
Blinking dully, she could do no more than watch in amazed silence as he crossed the room in three long strides, circled her waist, and brought her to her feet, covering her mouth with his.
She barely had time to register the faint taste of whiskey before it was over.
"I won't get to do that tomorrow, and I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten our agreement." His warm breath breezed past her ear, where he pressed a quick kiss before leaning down to pick up Elle's glov
es from the loveseat.
"Tomorrow," she repeated, sounding breathless and feminine, and not at all like Savannah Connor.
He paused in the doorway, smoky eyes glittering. "Rory and I'll be by at noon to pick you up." Then he was gone, leaving only his teasing scent and a badly shaken woman.
Tumbling to the loveseat, Savannah placed her hand over her heart and pressed down to slow its frantic rhythm.
Rusty, she thought, and began to laugh.
Chapter 5
Principles are a dangerous form of social dynamite.
~Katharine Susan Anthony
Zach directed Savannah to the flat-bottomed skiff moored next to the ferry bell. The two boats docked next to it were his as well.
When you had a brother who built them for a living and used you to test each new design, three seemed reasonable. In the early days of Caleb's career, Zach had ended up ass-over-teakettle more than once in a craft of poor construction.
These were not too bad.
He hid his grin behind his hand and coughed as he watched Savannah peer into the skiff with an interest-and-uncertainty-laced expression. She watched Rory scramble in and fasten his skinny bottom to a plank seat, as he had been taught to do from the time he was a baby.
Looking back, she cast a dubious glance at the hand Zach offered.
"Take it. I won't bite." At least not yet.
She still looked skeptical.
"It may be a bit slippery and your shoes aren't the most practical." The last earned him a cross look, though she couldn't seriously argue. Bright blue with white lacing and a silly little bow, her boots looked expensive, made of some kind of soft leather.
They'd be ruined after one dip in salt water.
"It's a bit smaller than the one I was in before."
"No doubt, princess."
She frowned but obviously decided his plan of action seemed best. Grasping his hand so hard he winced, she boarded the skiff as apprehensively as a sinner entering the caverns of hell.
City girls sure didn't belong on the water.
Damned, though, if he wouldn't take city over country any day, if this was the end result. She'd obviously borrowed an item or two of clothing from Elle and mixed those with her own. Her outfit, a curious blend of tattered sea attire and contemporary fashion, gave Zach his first sight of her looking young, fresh, pretty, and terribly out of her element. Settling in behind her, he decided he felt more in control than he had when he'd kissed her.
With a billow of white canvas, the skiff sailed from the dock. Shading her eyes, he watched her tilt her head back, recording the progress of a flock of seagulls that had chosen to follow along.
"The gulls want food. A scrap of bait, maybe a shrimp. I feed 'em stale bread even if it has some green stuff on the edges. They don't care, 'cuz my Uncle Noah says they'll eat practically anything that won't eat 'em first." Rory leaned over the edge of the skiff, batting at the waves slapping the hull. "But we don't got none. Just stupid coleslaw."
"Young man, hand inside the boat."
"Awww, poop, Starchy. You're no fun."
Savannah lowered her head but her laugher drifted out on the salty breeze, withering Zach's reprimand in his throat. Of course, Rory followed suit, giggling and holding his side, pleased to entertain.
Zach gritted his teeth and grappled with the lines, ignoring them both. Damn Caleb and that stupid nickname, anyway. The boy was going to be a handful today, and Miss Connor, well, she looked good enough to eat.
As Rory chattered away, telling "Miss Savannah" all he knew about the shoals and inlets, the island they lived on, and the one they sailed to, Zach noted that she listened with genuine interest if not ease.
They hadn't spoken more than five words to each other all morning and hadn't touched once, unless you counted his helping her into the boat.
He didn't.
He only wanted to count the times he touched her and her eyes darkened with pleasure. The times her breath crossed her lips in eager little pants.
Suddenly, Savannah shrieked and leaned over the side, jerking the skiff off course a notch. Zach's heart lodged in his chest as he yanked on the lines, anticipating disaster until he saw what she pointed at. A dolphin. Running alongside the boat, in turn diving beneath the waves and jumping high into the air.
"Constable, look!" she exclaimed, releasing a burst of joyful laughter, the wind ripping her bonnet off her head. A mass of hair the distinct color of mahogany tumbled into her face and came damn close to slapping his. Zach pictured that silken heap spread across a pillow, his pillow, and his stomach sank to his knees.
"Do you see him? A dolphin. How adorable."
"Yeah," he croaked, shifting on the hard plank to get away from those beguiling strands. "Adorable, all right."
"I think that's Lulu." Rory stuck his fingers in his mouth and executed a sharp whistle. The dolphin responded with a high-pitched squeal. "See? She's got a scar on her nose shaped jus' like a lightning bolt. Uncle Noah said it was probably from some fight with a killer fish. Like a shark. I've seen a shark up close, real close, when my pa caught it. We were fishing with sand fleas, which ain't the best bait, so he was hungry, I reckon."
"Fascinating," she said, propping her arms on the side of the skiff to record Lulu's antics. Zach had a hard time looking away from them, hanging over the edge of the boat, their faces coated with a constant spray of water. Rory patted her on the shoulder at various intervals, relating information about the shape of Lulu's fins and how she breathed, things Noah must have told him. His information sounded a bit mixed up to Zach, not quite right. If she noticed, she didn't let on, nodding and chatting, relaxing in the boy's presence.
Except for Elle, his son didn't have a close relationship with a woman. Only four when his mother passed away, he must miss the special tenderness a man couldn't give. Or couldn't show. Or didn't have.
But Zach didn't want him getting attached to a woman who'd go trotting back to New York City the first opportunity she got.
"Son, you want to grab that rope by your feet and give it to me? We're almost there."
Clapping his hands, Rory grabbed the rope and scrambled across the seats. "I bet Ellie brung fried chicken. I'm starving."
"Brought," Savannah corrected without looking up, her face only inches from getting plastered by a wave. "I bet Elle brought chicken."
"Brought," Rory parroted, dancing a jig. "Chicken, chicken, chicken."
Zach wrapped an arm around his son's waist and hauled him in between his legs. "Sit while I sail in, we might hit a rough patch."
"Naw, that sandbar is more over there." Rory stuck his tiny arm out. "Right, huh?"
Zach closed his eyes and felt a subtle shift in the wind; he responded with a minor adjustment to the sail. "To the left about twenty feet, I'd say," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the slap of waves against the hull of the boat. He'd sailed the area for so many years—since he was Rory's age or before—that when he closed his eyes he could see the inlets and shoals in his mind, almost like a map. At one time, that map had brought him plentiful sums of money and minor fame in the commercial shipping community.
And for a while there, it had brought him women.
Zach opened his eyes to find Savannah's green gaze centered on him. Or more specifically, on his chest. Rory had moved to the side, doing another dance, and the wind ripped at Zach's shirt, exposing him nearly to the waist.
Raising a brow as he angled them in to the shore, he asked, "Problem, Miss Connor?"
"No." Tugging her bonnet into place, she let her gaze drift before he could make a move to cover up.
Savannah took a breath of salty air and tilted her head to let the sun warm her face. Continual beads of perspiration coursed down her back and between her breasts, but she didn't care. It was glorious, exhilarating. The rush of wind in her face and at her back, the swift dips when the boat crested a wave and slid home.
The heat of Zachariah Garrett's gaze.
She gra
sped the edge of the plank seat, digging her nails into the moist wood. She had never sailed with a man before, not a real man, just a puffed-up city version of one. Nothing like the windblown, sun-browned male working the sail's ropes with those stunning hands and muscled arms, looking like he could maneuver the boat with his eyes closed. Which he had, for a moment back there.
She fingered a splinter in the wood, wishing she could unbutton her dress down to her waist and let the wind rush inside, too.
She wished a lot of impractical things at the moment.
"This area is rather dangerous sailing, isn't it?" she asked, determined to dictate her interaction with the man. Their relationship must remain on friendly terms today: no heated arguments, no wild kisses, no errant touches, absolutely no depraved or impassioned behavior.
She planned to schedule an appointment for those.
And until she felt secure in her decision, she would face the front of the boat, whatever that part was called, and avoid Constable Garrett's temptingly naked chest.
"Yes, ma'am. Surging ridges of sand all over out here, southeasterly from the north end to the tip of Cape Hatteras, then southwest to Cape Lookout Point, just over there."
She didn't turn but rather imagined him rooted to the spot, arm extended, gaze scanning the glorious, vast horizon.
"Shipwrecks often enough, Miss Connor. Too often."
"I've read about them."
The sound of snapping canvas as they closed in on shore was the only reply.
After a moment of silence, Rory slipped in beside her and said, "My pa is going to let me go on a rescue someday."
"Rescue?" She smiled and shifted a fraction to the left, away from him. He was a lovely child, lively and polite. A typical little boy, she supposed. Only, she didn't handle children well. They seemed to sense her discomfort.
Why Rory didn't was a mystery to her.
"You know, row out to gather the sailors from sinkin' ships. Pa needs volunteers all the time, 'cause people move and die or they're just plain lazy. So he needs me." Rory wiped his nose with his sleeve. "But I can't touch buoys until I'm ten."
