Dedication
To all the readers who dream of visiting Whispering Cove.
Chapter One
“I hate Christmas!”
Skylar Wellington, aka Tempest Sky, slammed her palms against the steering wheel of her recreational vehicle, feeling twice the fool when the sting tingled through her freezing palms. Closing her eyes, she clenched her teeth and pressed the stud in her pierced tongue against the roof of her mouth.
The Black Angel had finally died.
As she placed her forehead on the wheel, an exasperated breath left her lungs. She tightened her fingers around the cold leather. Yeah. Yeah. She knew the old RV was on its last legs, but it was Christmas. Perhaps it was ridiculous, but she had hoped for some of that holiday magic—that nonsense a lot of people spewed around this time of year.
But noooo…
Raising her head, she forced her eyelids open before reaching for the key in the ignition. “Please start.” She sent a silent prayer to the big guy up above and then gave the key another twist. The rat-a-tat-tat that followed confirmed what she already knew—she was screwed.
“Dammit,” she groaned, totally deflated. For two cents, she’d get out and kick the tires if it would do any good. Instead she mentally attempted to get a hold of herself. She was a survivor—she had to be.
Gazing out the large glass windshield, she watched several laughing couples spare a glance toward her vehicle that sported a large, ominous angel painted across the side. Others hurried onward, arms loaded with packages as they scurried to their cars, seeking shelter. A stiff breeze gathered a flurry of newly fallen snowflakes, waltzing them across the black asphalt. Judging by the gray clouds hovering above, there was more snow to follow.
A scan of her surroundings deepened her frown. “Where am I?” As her gaze landed on a sign posted above a smaller storefront, she released the pent-up breath.
“Whispering Cove? Great. I’ve broken down in some Podunk coastal town.” A place she’d swear wasn’t even on the map thrown across the passenger-side seat. “Well there isn’t much I could have done,” she consoled herself. When the needle on the gas gauge swayed dangerously close to empty, she had been forced to take the first exit off the highway. After which a trip to the gas station and Delmarts left her flat broke and stranded. She took one more discouraged look around. “Great. Just great.”
Thirteen days before Christmas, she had hoped to be in Augusta, Maine, for the Winter Craft Show. For weeks she had prepared for the event. Her stock of hand-blown glass ornaments and other wares was at its highest. Hence the reason her pocketbook was now bare. Next year she’d have to plan better—if there was a next year.
Frustrated, she slid from behind the steering wheel and grabbed her leather bomber jacket. As she slipped her arms into the weathered coat, she recalled the full-length, silver fox coat her father had purchased for her sixteenth birthday. It had been an expensive gift, one she should have appreciated, but no one could put a price on freedom.
With a tug, she zipped her jacket and caught her reflection in the side mirror. Maybe she should have rethought her current attire. Black fishnet stockings, a gothic miniskirt sporting large buckled straps with eyelets, and a red bustier with black laces were hardly winter-wear. At least her matching corseted thigh-high boots would keep her feet and legs warm.
The second she opened the door and stepped outside an elderly woman gave her the once over. Her slow disapproval started at Sky’s feet and just seemed to grow in disdain as she came to Sky’s elbow-length black hair adorned with bright purple hair extensions.
“Stare all you want,” Sky whispered beneath her breath.
By now she was used to the attention her outrageous appearance garnered. A wild-gothic chick would be the last person her esteemed father would search for. At least she was living the life she wanted—well, sort of. She scowled at the aging vehicle with rust forming along the wheel wells.
If she dipped into her inheritance she could not only fix the Dark Angel but replace the vehicle altogether. There would be no scrimping for money, no purchasing second-hand clothing like her skirt and boots, but more importantly, no more days without food in her belly. Said belly took that moment to do a roll as if to remind her that she hadn’t eaten today. But accessing her funds would tip her father off to her whereabouts and she wasn’t prepared for the fallout—not yet, anyway.
Maybe someday.
Feeling a little browbeaten and worse for wear, she inhaled a breath to steady herself. The good news was that this particular merchant graciously allowed travelers to stay several nights in their parking lot, so she didn’t need to figure out how to have her vehicle towed to a campground or neutral spot. And because a girl had to do what she had to do to survive, she’d set up shop right here and hope for the best.
Without a second thought, she activated the slide, thankful the battery had decided to work this time. It was a bitch hand-cranking the side panel. With a moan and a grind, a portion of the RV extended to reveal her hot shop—a traveling glassblowing workshop—her pride and joy. It took several minutes to raise the panel and reveal her equipment, but when it did she smiled.
A whoosh filled the silence as she lit the furnace, followed by the bitter scent of sulfur. The sudden flood of heat from the fire was welcome and she took a moment to warm her hands. As the oven temperature began to rise, she stepped back into the vehicle and began to gather some of her product. It always gave her a sense of satisfaction to display her wares, which included some of her favorite pieces—hand-painted Christmas bulbs. Her father would die if he ever discovered how she was applying what she’d learned from all those expensive art classes in France he’d paid for.
As she began to set up, placing a multitude of colorful bulbs in all different shapes and sizes on a wrought-iron framed Christmas tree display, she wondered what was wrong with the Dark Angel this time. How much would it cost to fix her? Would she still be able to make it to Augusta before the craft show was over?
A moment of melancholy swept over her. This would be her first Christmas without her dear friend and mentor. A tear threatened to swell, but she sniffled it back into the recess of her memories. All she had to remember was that Stella was better off. She no longer hurt. She was at rest.
And now this big tub of nuts and bolts known as the Dark Angel had been Sky’s for two months. She chuckled at the absurdity of it all. It didn’t take long for the damn thing to give up on her. Maybe she should give the tire a kick. Instead, she went back for a couple tables and boxes of glassware.
When the furnace thermometer hovered in the right area, she surveyed her displays again, making sure they were arranged to get maximum benefit for marketability and safety. The heavier pieces, bowls and vases, were together, while ornaments, trinkets and the more delicate pieces were closer to the RV to block any strong winds. When she felt confident all was where it should be, she dug in her coat pocket and unwrapped a piece of bubble gum. Chewing as she talked helped to disguise the years of training to articulate and speak clearly. She blew a bubble, sucking it in, snapping her gum. Then she picked up her favorite blowpipe and pushed it inside the oven, only to remove the long stainless-steel tube with a glob of molten glass on the end. She added more layers of glass using a gathering iron as the first group of spectators arrived, along with a beady-eyed man in a suit that turned and left immediately.
Win some, lose some.
Standing so close to the oven overheated her, and she unzipped her jacket. Then she added a pinch of gold metal oxide to the batch, morphing the glass into a stunning ruby red. With a twist of her wrist she began to rotate the pipe while she spoke.
“Did you know that the first century B.C.
Syrians are credited with the serendipitous discovery that glass could be blown from the end of a hollow tube?” Sky loved providing a little history while she worked.
Uncapping the blowpipe, she blew into it. To the crowd’s delightful awes and clapping the glass began to expand and form a bubble. As they watched intently, more people gathered around. Some of the children sported the same fascinated expression she had when she’d seen Stella in Canada. The thought thickened the knot in her throat, but she swallowed past it. It was time to get down to business and business was one thing she was good at.
She turned and twisted the pipe until the glass spoke to her, and then she smiled. That special moment when her creation began to take shape had always thrilled her. She never knew what she was making until that point. Today it was a bowl. In no time, she had the edges scalloped. Within another five to ten minutes she had cut the bowl from the pipe and put it aside for cooling.
An elderly man who had been observing from a distance was the first one to stroll up to her collection of Christmas ornaments. “These be for sale?”
Sky carefully leaned her pipe against the RV. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you have two that be identical?”
His accent marked him as Irish. Of course, so did his features. A raised forehead, reddish pigment and fair skin that once had a sprinkling of freckles where age spots now congregated. And he had the most intriguing pair of laughing blue eyes that made him appear as if he knew something she didn’t.
Sky found herself smiling back as she snapped her gum a couple of times. “No two pieces of glass are ever identical. They are as unique as their new owner.”
His grin deepened when he chuckled. “Ahhh. A silver-tongued lassie, you be.”
The same could be said of him. She doubted much got by this man, judging by his sharp gaze. “If you tell me a little about who you are buying for perhaps I can help you choose.”
The barrel-chested man shoved a hand out to her. “Harold Adair. I be lookin’ for something special for me twin great-grandsons.”
“Tempest Sky.” The name came easily off her tongue as she took his large, warm hand in hers. Before she released him, she asked, “How old are they, Mr. Adair?”
“Call me Harold. The young ’uns are fourteen months. This be Daniel and Donal’s second Christmas.”
“I might have something just right for your grandsons.” Sky hurried back to her RV, pleased when she returned to find a couple more individuals admiring her work.
Setting one of the two boxes she held upon a table, she opened the other box. Carefully, she extracted one of the smallest bulbs she had ever attempted to decorate. It had taken her several long nights to paint the delicate angels using a magnifying lamp to ensure their expressions and wings were just right.
Harold’s hand trembled slightly as he took the bulb from her, holding it carefully in his large palm. “It be the bonniest thing I’ve ever laid me eyes on.”
She quickly opened the other box and displayed its mate, which had playful devils scampering about.
A burst of laughter shook the man’s large belly. “Just what I be looking for. Wrap ’em up, lassie. I’ll take that fancy bowl you made and that hand-blown fish too.”
Score, she hummed to herself. He hadn’t even asked about the prices. That meant she could charge anything she wanted. Then again, she had never gouged anyone.
As she gently wrapped the items and placed them into a bag, she heard the shuffling of footsteps. More customers. She fought to hide her delight, but when she turned around every muscle inside her tensed.
Oh, can this day get any better?
Thirty minutes into her work and one of Whispering Cove’s finest had arrived. By the strawberry-blond policeman’s dour expression when their eyes met, she knew he wasn’t part of Whispering Cove’s welcoming committee.
Silently he scrutinized her heavy-lined eye makeup, black lipstick and her pierced brow, before his gaze moved to the five studded earrings along the shell of her left ear to the large dangling hoop. As he slowly scanned her attire, he raised a single eyebrow in blatant disapproval. Of course, she shouldn’t have expected anything less, but for some reason it needled her. She didn’t need this added complication.
“Looking for something special for your wife, Officer?” she asked so sweetly that even butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“Wife?” His liquid gold eyes widened, and then he grunted, “No.”
As the pink bubble she blew grew, his eyes widened. The snap of her gum made him startle. “Girlfriend?”
His eyebrow dipped, joining the right one in a scowl. “What?”
Sky should have stopped there, but “Boyfriend?” slipped out before she could help herself.
The cool air between them seemed to solidify into rock-hard ice, until hearty laughter shattered the moment. Both she and the officer turned to Harold, whose nose and cheeks were a jolly red at their expense.
“She be something.” His grin curved higher as he glanced between the two of them, before adding, “Don’t you think, Leo?”
Oh, yeah. The gum-chewing vixen be something all right, and it started with a capital T.
This woman meant trouble. It was in the air that surrounded her, the cocky tilt of her head, and the smug grin she had the good sense to at least attempt to hide behind plump, luscious lips painted a god-awful black. The thought caught him unawares and he scowled.
“The store owner has asked that I escort you off his property.” In fact Bert Delmart had made it clear he wanted her gone—now.
Her eyelids sprung wide. “What?”
Leo couldn’t help noticing the intriguing blue-green of her large, round eyes, which was disturbing because he didn’t find her attractive, not in the least. He preferred a more conservative woman, not one who looked as if her latest boyfriend had been Count Dracula or Charles Manson. Then again, he would have to be a eunuch not to appreciate the firm globes of her breasts presented so nicely in the bustier that hugged her ribs so tightly. Leo was nearly bowled over when his cock twitched. He shuffled nervously before he realized what he was doing.
“Ma’am, this is private property. You must leave.”
And the sooner—the better.
“I see other RVs parked here,” she stated firmly. “I thought the proprietor of this establishment allowed travelers to stay overnight—”
“Yes, but the other residents haven’t opened up shop,” he retorted, thinking her cultured speech was oddly at war with her gothic image. Then he remembered his father scolding, “Son, you can’t judge a book by its cover,” after he had made a derogatory comment about a young boy who had come to school in threadbare clothes. Said boy had become one of Leo’s best friends, one he kept in touch with even today.
The woman started to speak, but hesitated. Instead she puckered up and blew the biggest bubble he’d ever seen and then sucked it in, drawing his attention once again to her full lips. All thought incinerated into a cloud of smoke. It took him a moment to collect himself. It didn’t help that a breeze kicked up, carrying with it the sensual scent of her leather jacket and something uniquely feminine.
“So if I relocate my merchandize—” she chewed hard on her gum, “—can my vehicle remain parked here?”
Was there a slight edge of desperation in her voice? The thought vanished when a squeal of delight stole his attention. A dark-haired girl pointed to a small glass figurine hanging on a display rack.
“Oh, Mommy. It’s a fairy. Can I have it?”
The child wasn’t the only one showing interest in the delicate trinkets or intricate bowls and vases. Judging by the quality of glassware, Leo had no doubt the woman could make a killing at the holiday bazaar. But her type usually didn’t stick around in this sleepy coastal town. Even his parents didn’t understand the allure of Whispering Cove. The quiet, laid-back atmosphere was just what had attracted him. The social life of New Hampshire had never been for him, even if he was born into money.
; Leo swept his gaze over her once more. “Do you have a business license to sell on the street?”
She jerked her gaze from the child to him. “No.”
“Bar Harbor is just over an hour down the road. Perhaps you’d have better luck there.”
“Leo!” Harold’s bushy brows furrowed, while the woman’s face reddened and her glare flashed fire. “Is this the way we be treating our guest?”
Guest?
Leo left the word unspoken, reminding himself that Harold was the sheriff’s grandfather-in-law. “No, sir.” And what was worse, the man was right. Whispering Cove was the friendliest town he had ever known. Still, there was something about this woman that bothered him. “She has no business license.”
“She’ll be getting one tomorrow morning, won’t you, lassie?”
She nodded in silent agreement. Her mouth thankfully shut. She had even stopped that disgusting chewing.
So did that mean she planned to stay?
Either way, she couldn’t remain parked here. The radio call he had received had been clear. Bert wanted the woman off his property. Leo had no choice.
“She can’t remain here.”
“Why?” Both she and Harold asked simultaneously.
“Because it’s private property and the proprietor has asked that she leave.”
“Believe me, I would if I could,” she spewed before pinching her full lips together.
Was that a tear glistening in her eye?
Dammit. That’s all he needed. Leo had never done well with feminine emotion. And if this tough, worldly woman was about to cry then something had to be wrong. She confirmed his suspicion when her chin trembled, yet just as quickly she took control of herself. She raised her chin, narrowing her gaze on him. Then she folded her arms across her chest, a sack dangling from the bend of an elbow as she edged her feet apart and planted them as if she had no intentions of going anywhere.
“Well, Officer, then we have a dilemma.” Something in her tone and mien changed. “The Black Angel won’t start and I’m short of funds, which means no mechanic and no tow.” Which also meant no business license, Leo concluded as she continued. “If the proprietor wants me off his property, he’ll either allow me to sell a few pieces of my work or he can call for a tow. I presume that would be under your jurisdiction. And I’m further assuming an upstanding citizen like you couldn’t live with himself if he put me out on the streets, in the cold, with no place to live, this close to Christmas.”
Stockings (Whispering Cove) Page 1
