Tides of Passion

by Tracy Sumner

  "Tomorrow," he said, pulling her to a sitting position and taking her hair in his hands. He combed his fingers through it, once, twice, as tremors of awareness danced along her spine. Grains of sand filtered down the back of her dress, and she shivered.

  "When?" She didn't have to ask what he meant or where they would go from here. In her mind, she'd scuttled far past the point of return. Wasn't it past time for her body to catch up? "Where?"

  "Noah and Ellie are returning to South Carolina day after next. They're taking Rory for dinner and ice cream tomorrow evening. After five, my night is free."

  She smiled. "My last class is over at four-thirty." Caroline's reading lesson.

  Bracing his hand on the dune, he leaned in and kissed the base of her neck. She swallowed hard, bright bursts of light scattering her vision. "The coach house above the school. I'll meet you there. Five o'clock. Four forty-five if I can make it. It's empty, and the door is unlocked."

  Moaning softly when he took her earlobe between his teeth, she leaned into him, as pliable as runny clay.

  "They're looking," he said gruffly, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her into him, "and I don't want them to find us."

  A second later, they scrambled apart as Caleb called their names from the other side of the dune. Zach slipped his hand over her mouth and gestured for silence. Grinning, she licked his palm, then bit down on the pad of one finger.

  His gaze narrowed; he moved forward slightly. She could see his focus draining away like water from a leaky can. "Tomorrow, I'll make you pay for that," she thought he whispered.

  She couldn't wait.

  Chapter 7

  Tell almost the whole story.

  ~Anne Sexton

  Dropping her bicycle by the garden gate, Savannah raced into Elle's school the next afternoon and slammed the door before anyone had a chance to see her. Ripping the veil from her head, she went to stand before the oval mirror hanging in the washroom.

  Saints' blood, was this a curse for her egotism? The price to pay for feeling beautiful for the first time in her life?

  She brushed her fingers over her swollen cheeks and dabbed at the blister on the end of her nose. A tear trickled down her face, then another, the salt in them bringing pain and more tears.

  Naturally.

  Undeniably, hers was the most hideous case of sunburn ever seen in Pilot Isle. As Constable Garrett prepared to meet her in less than two hours, here she stood, covered in blisters and a flaming crimson stain. She gripped the washstand, praying the chills were part of this mess and not additional punishment for considering intimate relations with a man outside of marriage.

  She bowed her head as a shiver rolled through her, weakening her knees and making her wish she had worn her bonnet on the beach as Zach had advsied. I'm fine, Constable, play daddy for someone who needs it.

  Oh Lord, what would he say when he got a good look at her face? I told you so, more than likely.

  She shook her head. As wretched as she felt, his censure would be enough to send her over the edge into complete and utter misery. She straightened, a method of deliverance popping into her mind. She would send a message through Caroline when she came for her class. An innocent lie about a forgotten meeting with Lydia.

  That would work.

  From Rory to the life-saving crew to daily complaints from every person in town, Zachariah Garrett had a thousand ways to fill his time. He probably wouldn't care one way or the other if she canceled their rendezvous. As another wave of agony hit her, she convinced herself that any excitement about this afternoon had been hers and hers alone.

  * * *

  Zach looked at his watch for the fifth time in an hour, wondering why days you wanted to pass in a blink never did. He'd swept the floor. Twice. Plumped the pillows on the cot, checked the sheets to make sure they were clean, and changed the daisies in his mother's vase. End of the month meant payroll time; the jail was certain to have a rowdy visitor or two any day now.

  The cargo records were as up-to-date as he could make them and not go stark-raving mad. The breech buoys were in good shape, and everyone on this evening's patrol had been accounted for.

  Slipping his watch free, he let the second hand complete a full circle before returning it to the small pocket at his waist. Twenty minutes and he could lock up the place, leave the key with Christabel in case of an emergency, and hightail it to the coach house. Dropping into his chair, he propped his feet on his desk, imagining what his sassy Irish belle might be wearing—or not wearing—when he arrived.

  It made for heady contemplation.

  Leaning forward, he thumbed a dirty spot from the tip of his newly polished boots, approving of the effort. He'd gotten a quick haircut, too. And made sure to wear pressed trousers and the best-looking shirt he owned that wasn't reserved for Sundays. Even his underdrawers were starched: it wasn't comfortable, but it had to come across better for public viewing.

  Damned if he wasn't excited.

  About seeing a woman.

  A sudden smile split his face. How long had that feeling been missing from his life? Put a little joggle in a man's step to know a pretty woman waited for him on a delightful summer afternoon. Made Zach feel in the prime of life instead of miles past it.

  He hoped Hannah looked down on him from time to time. And he hoped she approved of what he was doing. Once or twice, during their years together, she had told him to find someone else if anything should ever happen to her. Someone clever and vivid, all the colors of the rainbow like he was. Of course, he'd scoffed at the idea. Imagine being with anyone except Hannah? He hadn't wanted anyone else, loved anyone else. She'd been the mother of his child, his sweetheart... his wife. If they didn't match up in all the ways people in love could, he'd never given it much thought.

  He'd been content.

  Then God had chosen to take her. And his child. After a year or so of wishing he had died with them, he and God had made peace.

  However, to this day, he didn't think he had made peace with himself.

  Savannah Connor, with her glowing green eyes and stormy nature, her naughty smiles and soul-stirring kisses, had promised to help him do that.

  He was checking his watch for the seventh time when a gentle knock sounded on the door. Had she come here? Had she confused the location? His eyes drifted toward the freshly made cot in the jail cell. Not what he wanted for the first time they made love—if that came to pass today or ever—but it would do. If need outweighed reason, as it often did with Savannah.

  He strode to the door, disappointment dropping like a weight on his shoulders when he opened it and saw Caroline standing on the other side.

  "What can I do for you, Caro?" He mumbled a quick prayer that some catastrophe wouldn't keep him from his appointment. Please, not now. "Anything wrong?"

  Caroline laughed, her rouged lips breaking into a wide smile. Resting her weight on her peacock blue parasol, she rummaged through her beaded reticule, muttering about a note inside a side pocket. "Here it is, praise be! I knew I stuck it inside that one." She slipped it into his hand with a wink. "It's from Miss Connor. I had a class scheduled with her today, but she's apparently busy and had to cancel and wanted me to give you—"

  "Thanks." Grabbing his coat from the peg, he shrugged into it as he skirted Caroline. "Close the door if you don't mind," he shouted over his shoulder as he raced along the boardwalk.

  Of all the nerve. Instead of facing him directly, bringing her fear or her displeasure to the forefront, she had sent a note. A goddamned note. Through a third party no less.

  A note that said...?

  Halting in the middle of the street, where a carriage wheel came close to smashing his foot, he unfolded the crumpled missive and held it up to block out the blinding rays of sunlight.

  It said, in unexpectedly feminine script:

  Constable, I'm unable to attend our meeting this afternoon. I will call on you presently to reschedule.

  Yours,

  Savanna
h M. Connor

  He felt a slow, creeping burn of embarrassment. To think he had been anticipating their afternoon all day. Had felt a smidgen of excitement, even. Call on you presently to reschedule, would she?

  They would see about that.

  * * *

  Shivering, Savannah rummaged through a cedar chest in the corner of the coach house's bedroom. Noah's sweaters lay on top, but below she could see the tail of a green-and-gold knitted shawl. Reaching for it, she sniffed, the action stretching skin she didn't want to stretch—or touch—at the moment. There had been nothing in the school to warm her, and Zach had said the coach house was unoccupied. And strangely enough, or perhaps not for Pilot Isle, unlocked.

  Wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, she returned to the main room, studying the oceanographic maps tacked in neat alignment to the wall. The others, composed of dotted lines and jagged swirls, she guessed were tidal charts. Brushing aside a spider web, she perched on the edge of a settee that had once been dark magenta and was now dusty pink, and waited for the sun to set. Another hour, maybe two, and she could travel back to the boarding house under the cover of darkness.

  She was dosing lightly, her cheeks throbbing in time to her heartbeat, when Zach called to her from the landing outside the front door.

  "Go away," she croaked, certain she had never looked, or felt, more miserable in her life. And, clearly, their friendship did not extend to loving care in sickness or in health.

  The doorknob jiggled. "Miss Connor?"

  Stumbling to her feet, she crossed the room, careful to stay in the shadows. She could see him peering through a narrow, rather dirty window. His hair: he'd had his hair trimmed, exposing nicely shaped ears.

  Shaking her head in bemusement, able to smile at the absurdity of the situation despite her melancholy, she called, "Constable, I'm... indisposed."

  There, that sounded like a dignified excuse. And how could a man argue with a woman in—

  "Are you alone?" His head banged against the glass pane as he strained to see her.

  A fevered flush, fueled by anger and sunburn, crawled up her chest and into her face. Alone? Did he imagine she had collected a string of men she wanted to seduce in his brother's coach house? "Of course I'm alone! And indisposed."

  He tapped on the window with his knuckle. "Women like you are rarely indisposed. I lived with one for ten years who often and truthfully was, so I'm a decent enough judge. A girl like you would be just plain sick." Another sharp rap on the glass pane. "Now open the door and tell me what the hell is going on."

  "No," she said, mortified to hear a sniffle threading the word.

  A pause. "Irish, you okay in there?"

  Oh, heaven. She knew the man well enough by now. He would walk away if she made him angry but never if she were in need. "I'm fine, Constable. Truly."

  Some performance, she thought, sagging against the wall. It had started weak and ended with a whimper.

  The doorknob jiggled again, forcefully. "Open up, now. Whatever's wrong, I'll fix."

  That's what she was afraid of.

  In the end, she unlocked the door, her shawl slipping to the floor. The scent of sunshine and soap traveled in with him. It heartened her to see that he had taken care with his appearance. Heaven, his underclothes were probably starched.

  He got one look at her face, and an expression of pity crossed his. "Ah, Savannah. Why didn't you tell me?"

  She sniffed. "Because I'm...." A tear rolled down her cheek. "Ugly."

  A soft smile played at the edges of his lips. "No, no. You're just'"—he shut the door behind him and retrieved her shawl from the floor—"well done." Taking her arm, he led her to the monstrous leather chair beside the settee and forced her into it. Tucking the shawl in, he crouched before her.

  Even in her sickly state, she couldn't fail to notice how well his trousers conformed to his thighs, the lean line of his hip. If she had to have a nursemaid, at least she had a handsome one.

  His gaze searched her face. "It's not that bad," he concluded after a moment. "I've seen worse." He laughed and dabbed a tear from her cheek. "I've had worse."

  "Truly?" Another sniffle surfaced. This, from a woman who hadn't cried any of the thirteen times she'd been arrested.

  Not once.

  Nodding, he placed the back of his hand against her brow. "You've a bit of fever."

  "Probably," she agreed, feeling weaker by the moment, as if his ministrations sapped her strength.

  She could have sworn a flash of amusement lit his gaze, though he quickly banked it. "Sit back. Close your eyes." He pressed her shoulder into the worn leather. "I'll see what we have around here to take care of this."

  She heard him walk into the small kitchen, open cabinets, a drawer. He clicked his tongue in displeasure, then snapped his fingers: the universal signal for success.

  For a moment, she dozed, the late afternoon sunlight drifting across her face. She found the sound of him moving about, whispering beneath his breath and occasionally cursing, strangely comforting.

  His touch drew her from her light slumber. She blinked, his handsome face flooding into view. "What is that?" she asked, nodding to the bowl in his hand.

  "Baking-soda paste."

  She felt her nose wrinkle. Painful. "Yuck."

  Grinning, he replied, "Yes, but it'll cure what ails you."

  He had a son. And more than likely experience with cuts and scrapes and sunburn. She closed her eyes and leaned forward. "Okay."

  While he related a story about Rory getting locked in the coach house as an infant, he smoothed the cool, immediately soothing mixture on her face. For a man, he really did have a gentle touch. Nothing like she had ever known. She couldn't imagine Daniel Webster Morgan, her father, vice president of an investment firm in New York, touching her with this amount of tenderness. And her brother? She had seen the way he treated his wife and two young children.

  As if they were cattle to be herded through life.

  "I'm sorry about this," she whispered, shrugging faintly.

  He paused, his fingers stilling at the edge of her mouth. "Why?"

  "Because." She sighed, pleating her skirt between her fingers. "I can't, we can't... well, you know. I can't be appealing."

  With a sweeping glance down her body but no comment, he continued his nursing until the gritty paste covered every square inch of her face. "Maybe, once I get some of these windows open and let a little fresh air in this hothouse, we can simply talk. That's enough for now."

  She blinked. "Really?'

  His eyes did the sweep again, but his voice was neutral when he replied, "Really."

  "What did you think earlier?" She wrinkled her nose and reached to scratch. When his magic salve began to dry, it itched like the devil.

  "Hands off." He interrupted her movement. "No scratching or we will have a mess on our hands." Tipping her chin up, he ran the rough pad of his thumb along her jaw. "Does this hurt?"

  "Hmmm?" Her lids had drifted low, his touch relaxing and invigorating all at once. Her knees certainly wouldn't support her if she had to stand anytime soon. "What?"

  He released a peppermint sigh into her face. His finger quivered against her skin. "Where else are you burned, Irish?"

  Her lids fluttered. Her hands rose. When she began to unbutton her shirtwaist, his eyes grew round as coins. She spread the material aside, baring her neck and the faintest hint of her chest. "I left it open yesterday because of the heat. Stings a little bit."

  He sighed, shook his head, chuckled. She had no idea what he found amusing. The situation, her, or himself. "No blisters at least."

  She cast her eyes down, unable to see. "Lucky me."

  He raised a brow without commenting, stuck his finger in the bowl, and began to dab the paste on her skin with light, diligent strokes. When he reached the top edge of her camisole, he sat back on his haunches, his expression vexed. "You want me to do this or should you? The pink runs down some into, past"—he gestured vaguely—"past y
our whatsit here."

  She couldn't have said before this moment what her answer might have been if asked such a personal question. Half the time since arriving in Pilot Isle, she figured she had gone crazy to let things go as far as they had with Zachariah Garrett. But she trusted him.

  There. She had admitted it.

  He was so bloody sincere and understanding. So dependable. She could say no anytime; she felt relatively certain he would back off.

  Moreover, the medicinal treatment had been his idea. If you considered the facts, it seemed like rubbing salve past her whatsit was his responsibility.

  Thrusting her chest out, she smiled, hoping it seemed innocent rather than cunning. "Go ahead, please. That stings, too."

  He muttered something rough, but his touch was gentle. Unbuttoning another button, a total of three, he spread her shirtwaist further apart. Her camisole straps he slid close to the edge of her shoulder. She didn't watch him, but she heard his breathing sharpen, felt a moderate increase in the force he exerted.

  Her nipples, she was finding, had a mind of their own. Beneath the thin camisole, they puckered tight as Zach's fingers came within inches of brushing them. It was delicious, exposing this previously virginal four-inch patch of skin.

  How wonderful would it feel to be completely naked?

  "You're loving this, aren't you?"

  She cracked a lid, saw him squatting there and, well, glaring at her. "Pardon me, Constable?"

  His lips curled, a subtle set of dimples she hadn't noticed before flaring to life. Bracing an elbow on the arm of her chair, he leaned in. The soft puff of air hit her neck and sent a shiver racing in the opposite direction. Then he aimed lower, making sure to reach everything hidden inside her shirtwaist's folds. It worked, hardening the paste and making her nipples ache.