by Dani Wade
Willow slid from the high counter with difficulty, struggling to keep her skirt down out of a belated sense of modesty. Then she backed slowly away, step by step. She fumbled with her bra, struggling to get it back down over her breasts. Her mind, heart and body were too caught up in turmoil to even form coherent thoughts.
She couldn’t look up at him, not even when he whispered her name. Her back bumped against the door frame, and she fumbled behind her for empty space. A quick glance at his face revealed the same wide-eyed surprise mixed with chaos that she felt inside. But she didn’t stick around to share.
Acting completely on instinct she threw herself out the door, racing for the staircase.
* * *
Well, that hadn’t gone according to plan.
Tate’s goal had been strictly professional behavior. He’d been aiming for almost cold, almost impersonal. How he’d gotten from that to his current conundrum was a complete mystery to him.
A combination of dismay and satisfaction swept through him as he glanced down to see the ruined remains of Willow’s panties on the floor. Chauvinistic though it may be... Hypocritical though it definitely was... Tate had to acknowledge the heat that rekindled inside of him with the knowledge that he would keep that small reminder.
He picked up the scrap and slid it quickly into his pocket, as if it didn’t really happen if no one saw him. Then he circled the island to clean up at the sink. He didn’t want to think about what had occurred. And he didn’t want to think about how much he wanted the proof that it had.
It wasn’t until he held the towel in his hand with his unbuttoned pants still around his hips that he realized something was very wrong.
The adrenaline that coursed through him now was true panic—pure and simple. As he turned and raced down the hall and up the stairs, he clenched his hands against the unwanted emotions.
I can fix this. I can fix this.
He stormed through the door into Willow’s bedroom, only to find it empty. So much chaos churned inside him that for a moment he couldn’t grasp the fact she wasn’t there. He crossed to the bathroom door, only to find just enough self-control not to blow it off its hinges. Pressure built inside as he pounded on the wood separating him from Willow. The bitter taste of regret flooded his mouth.
“Willow!”
Just when he thought about breaking the door down, he heard the click of the latch. The door swung open on a woman whose auburn hair was in disarray and red-rimmed eyes burned with fire. Tate refused to register with that might mean.
“What the hell—” she started.
“We made a mistake.”
Apparently that was the wrong approach.
“We?” One brow arched high as she glanced down at his crotch. Her sharp tone brought him up short.
Old instincts immediately kicked in—a lifetime of protecting himself against the aggression of others. It was the way his family had operated since the beginning, from what he could tell. The turmoil and uneasiness of this unusual situation gave Tate permission to slide right into the comfortable role.
“If you think this is all on me, you’re mistaken,” he asserted. “I didn’t hear any protest from your direction when I had you on the kitchen counter.”
A bright pink flush started at her neck and quickly spread up and over her cheeks. Tate actually felt the urge to step back. He didn’t know Willow as well as he should, but he had a feeling that was a very bad sign.
But she didn’t yell as he expected. Instead she set him straight through teeth clenched so tight she’d have a headache later, he was sure.
“Are you seriously banging on my door so you can make sure I know this was my fault?”
Her escalating volume urged him to move, to speak, do something. He opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him a chance to defend his stupidity.
“I did protest,” she insisted. Striding forward, she actually crowded him back across the room. And he was gentleman enough to let her...this time. “Long before we ever got to the kitchen. All the way back to the house. You are the one who wouldn’t listen. You are the one who pulled the caveman act.”
“You shouldn’t have gone in the water. It’s off-limits for a reason. You should have known that.”
Willow cocked her head to the side. “Let me get this straight...all of this happened because the ocean, the very body of water that surrounds this island, that this house is actually built on, is off-limits?”
The rising anger in her voice and the use of air quotes edged her into dangerous territory. The redheaded temper was a real thing. A lifetime of fighting back urged Tate to retaliate, but he had just enough intelligence left to realize he’d get nowhere. He had to calm her down before she’d listen.
Unsure of his next move, he simply let her blow off steam.
“I protested plenty while slung over your shoulder, he-man.” She poked his chest with a short finger. He let her because he was not proud of that behavior now, outside of the haze of desire. “You are the one who kissed me, remember?”
Finally Tate grasped her hand. Without intending to, he curled his fingers around hers until some of her stiffness melted. Quietly he admitted, “I remember.”
How could he forget? The taste of her, the smell of her. He would swear everything about Willow was designed to be his own personal kryptonite. He didn’t want to notice how her breasts moved with each breath, or how full her lips were after she’d kissed him. So why did he?
And the situation they were in now was the very reason he needed to stay far, far away. He released her and deliberately moved closer to the door, to freedom.
“Look, I didn’t come here to make accusations or blame you for what happened.”
“Could have fooled me.”
Tate tamped down his instinct to tear into her. She didn’t deserve that. And he was better than that, better than his ingrained family traits. “We have a problem, Willow.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Tate was done with the hysterics. It was time to figure this out, to find a solution. He looked her straight in the eye with a stern expression.
“Willow, I didn’t use a condom.”
Seven
Tate would hate for her to lock herself in the bathroom again. But Willow couldn’t find it in herself to care. She needed time to process how to fix the mess they’d landed themselves in. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over when he harshly insisted on knowing if she was on birth control.
As if that demand was the response she’d been expecting after the most incredible sexual experience of her life.
She also didn’t expect him to go away and leave her alone, but that’s exactly what he did. After half an hour of silence, she poked her head out of the bathroom to find her bedroom empty, the door closed.
Miracle of miracles, as Auntie would say.
Willow flopped down on her bed, but her body remained tense. She was waiting for Tate to come barging in again. She couldn’t think about the lack of a condom, or the possible consequences.
Instead she focused on the practical. What should she do now? Leave? Stay?
Facing Tate every day after making love to him and pretending it never happened wasn’t something she could handle. Knowing he saw it as a mistake, a complication, when she’d experienced something far different would be unbearable...
No, she couldn’t stay.
She allowed herself the luxury of a few tears before dragging herself from the bed. The pounding headache brought on by the rapid flux of emotions only added to her misery. But she forced herself to start opening drawers and emptying them onto the bed in neat little piles. She’d go home...even if that was the immature thing to do.
After about an hour, she heard steps approaching from Tate’s wing. He paused outside her door.
She stared at the handle, anticipating the
turn. The nerves tightening her stomach only made her headache worse. There was almost a feeling like any noise from her would cause him to barge through that door. She didn’t dare move. But long minutes later he continued on, leaving her to collapse on the last available space on her bed in relief.
She’d just started to drift off when the sound of a motor disturbed her. It was so unusual on the island that her foggy mind struggled for a moment to identify it. Dragging her weary body to the window, she saw Tate drive the house’s Jeep out across an unknown path instead of down the drive. From Murdoch’s notes, she knew the unfamiliar road led to the airplane hangar on the other side of the island. For some reason Murdoch hadn’t explained, Tate didn’t take the car on the rare occasions he left the island. His only method of transport away from Sabatini House was his plane. Murdoch had used the Jeep to handle all of the travel to Savannah for household necessities.
Was Tate going to blow off steam by working on his plane? Or fly for a while, the way some people would go for a drive? Her answer came about thirty minutes later when she heard his four-seater plane take off. She reached the window in just enough time to see it lift over the trees, curve in a graceful arc, then disappear out of her line of sight.
Where was he going? Especially this late in the evening. But Willow was too tired to figure it out. Instead she sprawled on her bed next to her packed suitcase and let sleep obliterate all the questions and her headache.
When she woke, darkness had fully arrived and the clock said it was just after eight at night. Somehow she knew Tate wasn’t back, but she padded out to the garage and confirmed the Jeep wasn’t there.
As she walked back to the house and glanced up at its grandeur, even in the darkness of the summer night, her heart spasmed. In all the drama, she’d forgotten one of her main reasons for coming to Sabatini House.
The third floor.
She rushed back inside. Why, oh why, had she fallen asleep? She needed to find the keys.
Where had Tate gotten them from the other day to let the workmen up to the third floor? The utility room off the kitchen. She remembered seeing him come out of there. She only hoped he’d put them back where he got them from and not dropped them in his office or something.
After fifteen minutes of searching the drawers, she opened the cabinet and found a pegboard with several sets of keys. She quickly grabbed the one marked Third Floor, then rushed for the stairs.
As she worked the key into the lock, she glanced to the side to see an open door. Light from the hall showed letters stenciled onto the wall. Not a poem or a quote, but the ABCs.
Like for a nursery.
She shouldn’t open the door. She really shouldn’t. But still she reached out to push it back, letting the hall light spill into the darkened room.
She flipped the light switch, but only a single bulb in the huge room lit up, leaving lots of gray shadows clouding the space. Gorgeous built-in bookcases with filigreed edges lined one wall. The shelves were filled to the brim with hardback books, but no pictures or personal memorabilia. Large toys that would now be considered antiques were scattered throughout the open space. Some of it was covered like the furniture downstairs, but she could make out a couple of handmade rocking horses, a large wooden playhouse shaped like a pirate ship and two tricycles. An open chest under one window overflowed with painted building blocks. Bins marked Toys or Clothes were stacked in one corner, partially concealed by a tarp.
Willow wandered farther in, fascinated by the abandoned nature of the space. Even though it was filled with stuff, there was no sense of any of the occupants who had previously lived and played here. Even though the items were personal in nature, the arrangement was more of a storage area. Yet some things looked as if the owner had simply walked away from them one day. Weird.
She passed a large oversize bassinet filled with neglected stuffed toys. Involuntarily, she rubbed her hand over a fluffy elephant dressed in a sailor suit.
The sight that stopped her short was a crib. No, not one crib. Two cribs, pushed together so their sturdy hand-carved railings almost touched. She stared for a moment, trying to figure out the puzzle. A quick glance into a second open area of the room revealed two twin beds and dressers on opposite walls. The beds were neatly covered with navy comforters decorated with sailboats. As if someone had simply gotten the children up, made their beds and walked out yesterday, except for the layer of dust covering them and more boxes lining the wall.
From what she could tell, Sabatini House hadn’t had children in it since, well, Tate. Had it? Crossing to one of the dressers, she picked up a simple photograph, the only one she could see in the entire space. For having so much stuff, the room was oddly stark. No family photographs lining the mantel: no baby pictures, no cute little bathtub photo ops. Were the mementos all packed away?
Only this single framed photograph still remained. She rubbed the dusty glass to get a better look. It had been taken in a photography studio and showed two little boys in smart white sailor suits with navy decorations. Two dark-haired, dark-eyed boys with the same full, definitively shaped lips as Tate’s.
“What are you doing in here?”
Willow twisted around to find Tate behind her, his face tight and menacing.
* * *
“Tate! You scared me.”
Something about being in this room, seeing everything that had meant so much to him and his brother, and knowing the eventual outcome, deepened the darkness of his mood.
“I told you to stay out of the rooms.” He almost said she knew the rooms were off-limits, but the last thing he wanted was to bring back the memory of her teasing him about the use of that phrase.
Thoughts of their lighter moments, thoughts of the easily lit attraction she held for him, made him want to rage at the universe. As if he hadn’t martyred himself enough, the world saw fit to bring him this incredible temptation. He knew good and well he was supposed to look and not touch. As usual, touching hadn’t turned out so well, had it?
Not realizing just how dangerous he was, she quickly fired back.
“Actually,” she said, adopting the stubborn look that made her sparse spattering of freckles stand out. “You told me to stay out of the third floor. I’m not on the third floor.”
“Touché.”
He stared directly at her, almost afraid of what he’d find in this room. He probably hadn’t been in here in a good five years if not more. Though it was easier than going into his brother’s last bedroom.
But that door was currently locked, unlike this one.
When she raised her brow, Tate knew he’d stretched the moment too long. Forcing himself to glance around, he noted as if for the first time that everything had been stored in sets of two. A dead giveaway. Had she divined his secret already?
“And what did you find so interesting in here?”
She hesitated only a moment before answering. “Honestly, it’s hard to imagine Sabatini House with a nursery.” Her voice softened as she, too, looked around, the framed photograph in her hand forgotten for the moment. That was one thing Tate refused to acknowledge.
“It should be. The Kingstons have never been well-known for their softer side.”
“What do you mean?”
Her voice seemed to come from the very shadows of the room. Under normal circumstances, the last thing Tate would do was indulge her curiosity. But maybe letting her in on some of Sabatini House’s secrets would be for the best. She should know exactly what this family was like—it would help win her over to his way of thinking regarding the encounter they’d had in the kitchen.
“Every last one of us was born from the loins of a pirate. Not the well-known kind here in Savannah. Not the watered-down version who loved to drink, enjoyed women, and roamed the seas far and wide. Oh no.”
Tate swallowed hard, stomach churning as he contemplated his heritage. “We come fr
om the bloodthirsty, ice-cold kind. The kind that roamed the seas to kill for sport, to take what didn’t belong to him. For my ancestor, that included his wife, who belonged to someone else.”
He wasn’t sure why he smiled. Surely the expression looked as grim as he felt. “He brought her here to this island and started his dynasty, determined to be the best in the shipping industry that was rapidly growing. He wanted to be a respectable man—but had not-so-respectable practices. He was ruthless and went after anything he wanted, staying just on the right side of the law. He was exceptional at not getting caught.
“His wife gave him three sons, a single and a set of twins. Each generation since has had another set of twins. My brother and I were identical.”
“Where is he?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Adam is dead,” Tate said starkly, “and it’s all my fault.”
“Why?”
He liked that she didn’t protest...didn’t throw out platitudes to try to make him feel better.
“Because I did what we always do. I took what I wanted without caring how he felt about it. And he died. I lived.”
His father and grandfather would have called that survival of the fittest. Tate saw it as perpetuating the bad things in the world...drowning out the good.
The atmosphere in the abandoned room drew out his next words. “Some days I wonder if the universe took him on purpose. Regardless, his death taught me something. There will be no marriage, no children, no future for me. When I die, this family is done.”
He stubbornly shook off whatever hold the memories had over him and focused hard on the woman in front of him. “That’s why I want you to take this.” He pulled a flat packet from the back pocket of his jeans.
Willow squinted in the dim light. “What is it?”
“A morning-after pill.”
Even in the shadows he could see her eyes go wide, exposing the whites. “Are you serious?”
