* * *
Contents:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
© 1999
* * *
* * *
1
^ »
She hoped it wasn't an omen.
As Callie Marshall waded through warm, murky puddles in her expensive high-heel pumps, she thought about the Mercedes her sister had insisted she borrow to bring across an authoritative, I-mean-business image to the hometown folks who might otherwise receive her as the wayward teen she'd been twelve years ago.
The Mercedes now sat a mile behind her in the dense Florida foliage, bumper-deep in wet sand.
When the hell had Gulf Beach Road
turned into a car-eating bog? She'd driven too far down the narrow sandy lane to hike back to the paved highway. If memory served, the beach and its private cottages should be closer.
Or so she hoped.
Sweat trickled between her breasts and dampened her white silk blouse as the Florida heat visibly steamed around her. At least she'd had the foresight to leave her panty hose and suit jacket in the car. She'd left her cell phone, too. The connection had been too weak for anyone to understand a word she said.
Gritting her teeth in frustration, Callie trudged between giant water oaks and palms, ropelike vines, glimmering spiderwebs and ghostly beards of black Spanish moss. The sweet, cloying scent of tropical foliage and fresh decay mingled with the tang of sea air.
The dense gloom hummed, shrieked and buzzed around her.
She'd known as a kid to avoid these woods during summer. After all, Moccasin Point hadn't been named for Indian shoes but for a noteworthy element of its wildlife. Water moccasins.
She swore she heard slithering in the bushes beside her and quickened her pace. Just as she began to worry that she'd grossly misjudged the distance to the beach, a tunnel of light opened ahead. Relief washed through her in strong, reviving currents. Squaring her shoulders, she plunged onward.
Dimness soon gave way to the golden sunlight of late afternoon. Lifting her face to the cool gulf breeze, she stepped onto firm malt-colored beach. Seagulls swooped with playful screeches in the azure sky. Gray-green waves crashed and foamed against the shore, where seashells glistened like treasures. The tranquil, wild beauty filled her with intense appreciation and a sudden nostalgic ache.
She used to belong here.
For an instant, she expected to see a ragtag group of barefoot kids running toward her from the boat docks or the sand dunes, led by a strong, fair-haired boy with sun-browned skin and a flashing white smile that usually meant mischief was afoot.
Jack.
He'd been her pal. Her accomplice. Her wild, fun-loving comrade at arms.
A sweet, sharp ache pierced her, and she cursed herself for it. She wouldn't think about Jack Forrester now. At least, not in any fond way. She'd have to deal with him soon enough. She wasn't looking forward to it.
As she turned toward the distant cottages, determined to concentrate on the business at hand rather than bothersome memories, a stirring in the palmetto bushes stopped her.
Her heart stood still. Two reptilian eyes peered at her from very near ground. They looked too big for a snake.
A beast slithered out from the brush. An alligator.
In dry-mouthed disbelief, Callie took one cautious step backward. Even when she'd been a kid, alligators were few and far between on this northern Florida peninsula. She'd seen them crossing the highway at times and glimpsed a few in the culverts and ponds, but she'd never been confronted with one, up close and personal.
The huge, lizardlike creature crawled forward. An alarm sounded in Callie's head. Gators usually fled from humans. Forward behavior meant they were hungry. Looking for a meal.
As fear squeezed the breath out of her, she noticed a scrap of orange fabric dragging behind the gator's short front legs. A shred of clothing from a previous victim, maybe?
Courage deserted her. In a blur of terror, she fled down the beach, her heart hammering. She'd grown up hearing grisly gator tales of mutilation and death. She wasn't ready to die.
Awkward in her high heels, she stumbled in the sand, highly aware that the gator kept easy pace beside her in the saw grass. With a terrified sob, she kicked off her soggy leather pumps and ran to a nearby cedar boathouse. As she leaped onto its stairway, she slipped and fell against a wooden rail.
Pain shot through her. Holding her injured side, she threw open the door and rushed into a dim, musty room. Slamming the door, she leaned against it and fervently prayed that the gator couldn't break through it.
A few heart-skidding moments passed. Her erratic pulse and frantic panting gradually subsided enough for her to think. She seemed to be safe for the moment. But what the hell should she do now?
She looked wildly around her, hoping for inspiration. The afternoon sun barely filtered through small dusty windows on the back wall. The redolence of dried shells, sea brine and diesel fuel permeated the air, a smell that brought back vague but comforting memories of her childhood.
She seemed to be in a large storage room at the rear of the boathouse. Old man Langley's boathouse, she believed it was, if it hadn't changed hands in twelve years.
Maybe she could signal for help. But how? As she searched for a way to do it, a noise caught her attention—a distant purring from out in the gulf. The sound grew steadily louder and she recognized it as a motor. An incoming boat!
She almost cried in relief. Help would soon be here, or at a nearby boat slip.
In moments, the floor and walls vibrated with the roar of an engine, and she realized the boat had pulled into this very boathouse. The engine sputtered into silence, and soon footsteps thudded up the plank.
Callie realized then that the newcomer was also in danger. Reports of vicious gator attacks again flashed through her mind. As the footsteps neared, she flung open the door to warn whoever was approaching. But before she could utter a word, a huge, solid body charged into her and slammed her against the interior wall of the boathouse, pinning her there with iron-strong arms and a muscled chest.
She struggled to catch her breath.
A man, she dazedly realized. A large, powerful man with angry brown eyes, golden hair and a jagged scar slashed across one cheek. He looked like a vengeful, mythical sea god rising up to slay her.
He didn't slay her, though. He merely held her against the wall and gaped at her as if she'd stunned him.
She gaped back, thoroughly stunned herself—and not only because of his attack. Despite the savage scar, angry scowl and caveman brutality, she recognized him.
Jack Forrester.
Of all people … Jack Forrester!
The surprise was enough to keep her breathless, even without the muscled forearm lodged against her windpipe.
"What the hell are you doing, lady?" he finally thundered, again invoking the image of an angered god. Even in the dimness of the boathouse, his hair glowed like muted sunshine and the strong, clean lines of his face radiated virility and power. "Don't you know I could have killed you?"
Oh, she knew.
"Let me go," she silently mouthed.
He immediately lowered his arm from her throat and backed away. His high-powered stare kept her pinned to the wall just as effectively.
She gulped in huge, blessed drafts of air, feeling dizzy, weak and shaken. He'd called her lady. He obviously hadn't recognized her. The idea both pleased and annoyed her. She liked having the upper hand, but how could he have forgotten her when she would have known him a hundred years from now?
Deciding to hold on to her slim advantage for as long as possible, she swallowed the sardonic retort that had risen to her lips. Might as well strike the right note with him from the start—distant
and polite. Anything but familiar.
"Sorry I startled you," she said, her throat tight from the shock of the attack. Reluctantly she noted that he was even more handsome than he'd been as a teenager. His face, with its new jagged scar, a five-o'clock shadow and laugh lines around his amber-brown eyes, held a more rugged appeal.
She wondered how he'd earned that scar. A fight, probably, or some macho stunt. She wasn't surprised to see the scar.
His body, always athletic and trim, had filled out into a well-honed, manly physique. Faded jeans molded to long, corded thighs and legs. An army-green T-shirt stretched across a powerful chest—wide and muscle hard, as she knew from having been crushed beneath it.
He was too damn attractive for the good of womankind. Whose heart, Callie wondered, was he breaking now? He'd cut his teeth on her sister's.
Resentment she'd thought long buried flared once again. Coolly she explained, "I may have saved your life."
"Saved my life?" The Southern-soft voice was deeper than she remembered and provoked a curious weakening of her knees. She couldn't afford that. She couldn't afford a weakening of any kind.
She raised her chin. "That's right. You see, there's an—" Her words broke off and her eyes widened. "The door!" she cried in renewed panic. "Shut the door!"
Jack Forrester frowned, but obligingly pushed the door closed, his gaze never leaving her face.
With every muscle in his body still tense from the adrenaline rush of being startled into a defensive attack, Jack struggled to make sense of what she was saying.
He was having a hard time of it.
Little wonder in that. He'd been strolling along after a day of fishing, wondering what diversion might keep him occupied for the evening—whether to drop in on a party or start one of his own—when a form had lunged at him.
The shock of it seemed to be stopping his mind from forming coherent thoughts. Or maybe it was the sheer surprise of having the breath knocked out of him by a pair of dusky green eyes. Something about them stirred him in a very personal way.
He felt oddly dazed.
Who was she?
She smelled like sunbaked wildflowers and clean, fresh, feminine sweat, as if he'd already engaged her in a long, hot bout of lovemaking. The idea, once in his head, wouldn't leave him. She'd felt soft, slender and incredibly right beneath him. He could still feel her womanly curves imprinted against his chest and thighs.
"My God, the door was open all that time," she murmured, more to herself than to him, crossing her hands over her heart. Her soft, throaty voice sounded vaguely familiar. "We could have been devoured!"
"Devoured," he repeated.
Her face, he suddenly realized, also seemed familiar. Why? He doubted he'd met her before. He would have remembered. Just looking at her now made him feel as if a freight train had thundered through his chest. A man tended to remember something like that.
Hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, he took in the rest of her. Short, dark hair glimmered around her face in feathery disarray. Sand sparkled on her short-sleeved blouse. Silk, he believed it was. Damp, white silk. It clung to small, pert breasts in the most provocative way.
Heat kindled in his loins, and his body reacted. Shaken by his own response, he forced his gaze downward to a slim gray skirt that came to just below her knees; shapely calves; slender bare feet.
Business clothes, he realized, fixing his attention on something he could objectively consider. She was wearing business clothes. On the beach. In his boat-house.
Had she said something about being devoured?
"There's an alligator out there," she divulged, "and he's acting hungry." Her serious, gray-green eyes remained on his as she pressed her slender back to the door. "He chased me down the beach!"
That caught his attention. Finally she was making sense. Or maybe his thought processes had simply started working again. "An alligator. My God, no wonder you're shaken up. And then I had to go and tackle you. Damn, I'm sorry. I even yelled at you, didn't I? I really am sorry. You just startled me. Are you okay?" He reached for her, then stopped himself. He'd almost pulled her against him to comfort her, to run his hands soothingly up her arms, and down her back.
He'd always been a physical person, given to casual hugs and comforting pats, but he realized she might not appreciate that sort of contact, especially after his initial attack. Besides, he was having a hard enough time thinking clearly without distracting himself further. Reining in his impulse to touch her, he hooked his thumbs safely into his jean pockets again and repeated, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, thank you." The hint of gratitude for his concern had lightened her eyes to a softer shade of green, but then she shifted her gaze quickly away from him, looking uncomfortable with the change in chemistry between them. "I, uh, was afraid the gator would go after you, too. I just wanted to warn you."
"Then I owe you my thanks and an apology." He extended his hand. "I'm Jack Forrester."
She didn't take his hand but slowly returned her gaze to his face. "I know who you are, Dr. Forrester."
He stared in surprise. Had he imagined the mocking emphasis on the word doctor, or the inexplicable gleam in those gray-green eyes? He certainly hadn't imagined her refusal of a courteous handshake. Withdrawing his hand, he said, "Then you have me at a disadvantage."
Her lips quirked to one side. Generous, shapely lips. Warmth again stirred low in his gut, even as a chord plucked in his memory. He'd seen those lips before, slanted in that exact same way, in a wry expression of annoyance. A nonverbal chiding for something stupid he'd said or done.
As he struggled to bring the memory into clear view, a blush crept into her face—a dusky-rose color that darkened the velvety skin just above and below her high cheekbones.
Recognition hit him, swift and hard. He felt as if a horse had kicked him in the stomach, or in the head. He almost saw stars. "Callie." Incredulity robbed him of all other words.
She simply arched a brow.
He drew in a slow, much-needed breath. Callie Marshall. She'd been his friend. His right-hand man. His best bud. He'd taught her how to gut a fish, how to throw a football, how to spit and hit her target. She'd taught him how to whistle between two fingers loud enough to hear at the other end of the Point. Damn. Callie Marshall.
The skinny little tomboy who'd always worn her hair shorter than his and got her face dirtier than anybody's had blossomed into … by God … a woman.
And what a woman.
Now that he knew who she was, he could see that her eyes were basically the same. Maybe a little wider. Maybe a little greener. But why the hell hadn't he recognized them?
Or her mouth. It had been the sassiest mouth on the Point, spouting the most irreverent wisecracks a kid had ever gotten away with.
In their teenage years, he'd started noticing that mouth more and more, and not because of the things she said with it. Sometimes just a glance at Callie's smooth, full lips had made his insides warm up and his thoughts turn to kissing. It had embarrassed him, thinking that way about her. She'd looked more like a boy than a girl … except for her mouth.
The clue that had finally tipped him off today had been her blush. When most people blushed, their entire faces turned red. Not Callie's. Only her cheeks grew rosy, near her slanted cheekbones, as if an artist carefully brushed the color there whenever she got embarrassed, which she had every time he'd stared at her too long.
That discovery had also made him uncomfortable, back when he was sixteen, seventeen years old. He'd realized then that he'd better find a girlfriend. Someone he wouldn't mind getting worked up over.
He'd found one. A few, actually. But never another friend like Callie.
Gladness to see her swelled up in him, along with a good measure of relief. No wonder he'd been so personally affected by the sight, the feel, the scent of her. On some subconscious level, he must have recognized her as one of his oldest, dearest friends. That had to be it.
With a shake of his head, he
laughed out loud. "Callie! Damn, it's good to see you. It's been too long. Way too long." He opened his arms to fold her into a welcoming hug.
She backed away, into the wall again. "No, wait." He stopped, bewildered.
She gnawed on her bottom lip in clear dismay.
Concern and foreboding tempered his joy at seeing her. Something was wrong here. Definitely wrong. Although they'd never actually hugged as kids, they'd shared some fine times. Surely their reunion called for a friendly hug?
"I'm not here on a social visit, Jack. I mean—" she cleared her throat and straightened into a dignified pose "—Dr. Forrester."
His eyes narrowed. "Dr. Forrester?"
"I've got that right, don't I? I understand you're an orthopedic surgeon now, as well as a general practitioner." She smoothed her silky dark hair rather nervously, then brushed the sand off her blouse and skirt. "In case no one's pointed it out to you, that does entitle you to be called 'doctor.'"
"Ah. So that's why folks have been calling me that. I was beginning to wonder." He forced an amiable smile. "I'd say you know me well enough to call me Jack, wouldn't you?"
Something in her eyes flashed, like lightning on a stormy sea. His bewilderment deepened. What had he said that bothered her?
Her tone remained excruciatingly polite. "Thank you, but I'd prefer to use your title. And you'll probably want to call me Ms. Marshall."
He frowned. She sounded as poised and impersonal as a business-minded stranger. He couldn't let her get away with that. Wedging a shoulder against the wall and leaning deliberately closer than a stranger would have dared, he asked in a soft, down-home drawl, "So, what's going on, Cal?"
There went that blush again. And another mysterious flash in those eyes. But her chin came up and her voice remained cool. "You remember Meg, don't you? My sister?"
Of course he remembered Meg. His long-ago romance with her hadn't ended on a very good note. There'd been quite a scene between them before he'd left for college. Was Callie holding a grudge because of his awkward breakup with her older sister all those years ago? He found that hard to believe. He doubted Meg herself would care much about it by now. Cautiously he replied, "Sure, I remember Meg."
TEMPERATURE'S RISING Page 1
