by Anna Leonard
The only squall might be the boyfriend. He had come in a few times, and Nathan had pointed him out. Once by himself, twice with another woman. No, the boyfriend wasn’t a problem. He would have sensed it, if his mate was spending any time with that man, if she had been intimate with him….
The thought, the faintest shadow of another man touching his mate, and his gut clenched in near-agony, a red sheen of rage. No. He forced himself to calm down. He was not a bull seal, to become mindlessly violent with need. He was seal-kin, and he would be patient.
The easel set up, he opened the sketch pad and let a different part of his brain take over. He had been right; the colored sticks did flow smoothly, the connection between eye and hand almost instantaneous.
He would arrange things so that she had no choice but to come to him. If he asked Joyce, used her romantic nature…used the couple’s desire to see their friend happy…
It was trickier than he liked, trickier than his nature enjoyed. If it worked, he would apologize over and over again, until she relented and forgave him.
Between his thoughts and the soothing act of sketching, before he knew it the sun had risen well into the sky, and he had filled four sheets with seascapes that he was almost satisfied with. Almost, but not quite. There was something missing from the horizon, some element that should have been there and wasn’t. Waves, sky, distant passing ships, the occasional flipper of dolphins or the silvery splash of a school of fish… All there, and yet something lacked.
He shook his head, unable to put a finger on it. His stomach rumbled, and he noted that Ned and Josh had already packed up and headed home for their own breakfast. He carefully placed onionskin over the drawings, closed the pad and placed the sticks and pad back into his knapsack. Brushing dry sand off of his butt and pant legs, Dylan froze, some warning system going off in the back of his brain.
Danger. Danger. Be still, go low.
There was nowhere to go low, on the beach, but he stayed on his knees, barely breathing, waiting for the dark shadow of danger to slide by.
Nothing. No movement. No threat. But his instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong, something was trouble. Someone—a predator—was watching him.
Nothing moved. Nothing attacked.
He forced himself to stand up, standing tall against the horizon, a perfect target.
Nothing happened.
Taking a deep breath, Dylan picked up his knapsack and forced himself to walk normally down the beach, fighting the urge to run every step of the way until he came to the end of the deserted strip of beach, within view of the nearest homes along the road. In that moment, the feeling of danger disappeared, and he was alone once again.
“Come on. You’ve been mewed up here all week, and the weather is gorgeous, and pretty soon the tourists will show up and it will be impossible to go anywhere without tripping over them.”
Beth kept her back to her friend, trying to focus on the negative she had on the light-box in front of her. Joyce was exaggerating, anyway. Tourists came here, but mainly the ones who wanted a quiet, relaxing getaway, the honeymooners or the older adults. It never got as bad as some of the more picturesque towns or, God help them, Cape Cod.
Although, the weather had been lovely, as though apologizing for the damage the storm had done: bright blue skies and clear sunlight, with constant light breezes off the water keeping the air cool and comfortable. Perfect spring weather, the kind that was rare on the New England coast, and you were supposed to appreciate when it came by.
She hadn’t even been out for her run this morning. Dreams had kept her tossing and turning all night, and when she woke up the last thing she had wanted to do was get up and sweat.
Her dreams—again erotic, if only dimly remembered—had her sweating enough. The voice of a man, calling to her, and the sound of waves mixing with his voice, and over it all that taste of sea-spray and salt water on her tongue, and rising from her skin when she finally awoke…
“Beeeeeeettttth. Come on. And don’t tell me you’re working. You were complaining two weeks ago that work was slow and you were thinking about taking a vacation! Come on, you’re turning into a dried-up, no-fun prune!”
Beth swiveled around in her work chair and stared at her friend. Joyce had been her best friend in grade school. They had sworn to be best friends forever in fifth grade, and even when different interests took them in opposite directions, the friendship remained.
Beth was starting to reconsider that, right about now.
Joyce was sprawled on the old blue velvet love seat in Beth’s office, her tailored pinstripe pantsuit a marked contrast to Beth’s jeans and long-sleeved polo. High-heeled shoes had been kicked off and lay discarded on the floor, and she was rubbing the instep of one foot with the steady moves of someone whose feet always hurt.
Joyce Caylor had gotten her MBA right after college, and should have been off somewhere learning to run the world. Instead, she had come home after her mom’s heart attack, and was learning to run her parents’ bait and tackle with her dad. She still dressed like a benevolent Wall Street tyrant, though, and nobody doubted that within ten years the one successful store would become a chain of successful sport fishing supply stores, probably with guides-for-hire and a line of associated charter boats.
You didn’t say no to Joyce, not without a damn good reason and the strength to stand your ground. Beth had the strength, but her reasons…
I got freaked by a good-looking guy looking like he wanted to put me up against the wall and screw me until we both passed out is probably not going to go over as a good reason, she thought wryly. Even if it was the truth, and no more or less than what Joyce would expect from her more cautious friend.
As though scenting surrender in the air, her best friend’s green eyes brightened. “Come on. I’ll buy lunch.” Joyce swung her legs over the side of the love seat and sat up straight. “And we can go somewhere other than Apollo’s, if you’re that freaked out over one good-looking guy.”
Beth’s mouth opened to deny it, but nothing came out, making her look and feel like a fish.
Damn old, lifelong best friends, anyway.
“All right?” Joyce was practically purring with satisfaction.
“All right,” she agreed, sliding the negatives she had been working with into a dust-free cover and turning the light-box off. Because Joyce, as usual, was right on the money. Beth was bored, she was tired of the same four walls and she was changing her schedule because of one stranger in town, which was…ridiculous. “You’re buying lunch, and I’m picking the place.” Somewhere far away from Apollo’s, in feel if not in distance.
Ten minutes later they were piling out of Joyce’s lime-green VW Bug in front of Ben and Glory’s diner, laughing at some inane joke that didn’t even make sense to them but was hysterically funny anyway if you had been in the car with the two of them. Beth walked in the door first, and then stopped dead, making Joyce run hard into her.
“Ow! What’s the deal, brick wall?”
The deal was sitting at the front table, leaning back against the leatherette banquette like he owned the place.
So much for her choosing somewhere safe. Honestly. Didn’t the man have work to do? Wasn’t he supposed to be at Apollo’s, not slutting around in other restaurants?
She knew she was being irrational and squelched her annoyance. It was a free country, and he could go wherever he wanted. Nobody was forcing them to interact, after all. He hadn’t done anything objectionable, really. A touch, a look…
Look like he wanted to devour her, yeah. Touch her with fingers that burned. And asking about her, endlessly, since that moment, until he knew everything about her. It was a small town, off-season, and he was new blood. Handsome new blood, with a touch of mystery. It would take stronger folk than her neighbors to resist that. She couldn’t really blame them.
But oh, how she resented being part of it! Especially since she knew nothing at all about him.
Ben was at t
he table with him, looking intently at a bunch of sheets of paper on the table, while Gena, who was another old schoolmate, now an architect, hovered by his shoulder. Gena looked up and saw Beth and waved, then pointed to the counter where…oh, joy, Jake was waiting for his coffee. This just wasn’t her day, was it?
“I should have stayed in the office,” she muttered, and headed for Jake before he could turn and see her. Might as well deal with this right away.
“Hey, stranger.” She didn’t mean to startle him, but the way he jumped when she came up next to him suggested that his brain was somewhere else. “Sorry.”
“No, no, my fault.” He grabbed a few napkins and blotted at the spill of coffee. “Was thinking when I should have been looking. Guy-brain, we only manage one thing at a time.”
It was a long-standing joke between them; while most people could and would multitask, they were both happier when faced with a single task they could devote everything to, finish it and then move on. Guy-brain, Jake claimed.
Beth used to take it as a compliment. Now, it annoyed her. Was that how he saw her—as another one of the guys?
Maybe she was. Maybe that was the problem.
“You been busy?” He hadn’t called her again to reschedule dinner. She hadn’t called him, either. He was kind enough—or clueless enough—not to point that out.
“Nine-tailed cat, room full of rocking chairs,” he agreed. “Added three summer houses to my rotation, Gena’s clients. She recommended me.” A slight hesitation, before he continued. “She’s been sending a lot of work my way.”
“Oh.”
She waited for even a hint of jealousy, a sour curdling in her stomach at the thought of him spending time with the admittedly lovely and perfectly single Gena. Nothing. Not even a twinge. In fact, she felt…relief.
“Hey, Miss Elizabeth! Over here!”
Ben’s summons saved her from having to respond one way or the other to Jake’s news, and she gave her soon-to-be-ex-for-good boyfriend a faint smile before going over to the table. From one unwanted encounter to an even less-wanted encounter: He was there.
She had seen him in town, of course. Across the street, working in the café, or down on the beach in the morning, knapsack in hand. She had changed her exercise routine to avoid the shoreline, trying to stay away from him. In the end, it was all pointless. Here he was. Here she was.
Beth Havelock had never been a quitter, damn it. Sometimes it just…took her a while to work up to the battle.
Despite that, the closer she got to where Ben and…He sat, the more she wanted to run. Her body felt too warm, like she had been sitting in the summer sun for hours without protection, and her eyes itched like she had sudden-onset allergies. Lewd images tried to elbow their way into her brain, slinky, sweaty images of limbs tangled, bodies bracing, merging, rising and falling in a wave….
“Beth, have you met Dylan?”
Bastard. Ben knew damn well she had met him. The entire town knew she had met him. She hoped that her face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.
“We ran in to each other in the café,” he said, and the laughter in his voice tempted her just enough that she looked at him. Sideways, briefly, but it was enough. Too much. His face was turned up to her and their gazes crossed and locked.
Her breath stopped and the fluttery panicked feeling started again in her chest. Those eyes…she remembered those eyes from her dreams. Those eyes, and those hands, stroking her skin, so tenderly, but with possession in them, too. Her name on his lips, his breath in her ear, the feel of water lapping at them, blood-warm and salty.
Her elbows—her elbows!—felt weak, and her knees wobbled, and she tasted blood, salt and spray on her lips, until she licked them just to make sure it wasn’t real, and she had the horrible feeling that she whimpered.
Dylan made a noise, a low whisper of something she wasn’t sure he even knew he was saying, low enough that the only way she knew he had said something was that she saw his lips move.
Beth looked away quickly, back to Ben’s face, before she humiliated herself further.
“He’s quite the artist,” Ben was saying, indicating the drawings spread out on the table in front of him. “I don’t know why he’s bothering with the handyman gig—he should be hawking these at crafts fairs and galleries. Not that I know anything about art, but I bet these would sell. Don’t you have artist friends, on the mainland, who could give us an opinion?”
“That’s really not needful,” Dylan said hastily, reaching out to reclaim the drawings, his arms over the sheets as though to protect them from being seen. “They’re just scribbles.”
Beth hadn’t wanted to take a look at all, hadn’t wanted to be anywhere near the man who made her feel so off-kilter. But to be rebuffed that way, her opinion unwanted, her influence dismissed…that stung as much as his physical presence appealed, and her wobbly knees locked even as her spine stiffened.
“If it’s not needful, then I won’t waste either of our time,” she said, her voice as stiff as her back. Ben started to say something, and she looked at him, her gaze daring him to make even one sound.
He didn’t.
She nodded to him, ignoring the other man at the table as best she could with every nerve ending still madly aware of him, his arms still curved over his drawings, his body half-turned to her. The body language was just as confusing as her own physical reaction, and she fled to the table Joyce had gotten them, her appetite completely gone but damned if she would be driven out of one more place by that… Idiot.
And it was only a faint flicker of weakness that made her replay, over and over again, that involuntary word, the movement of his lips, breathing out a single word: beloved.
“Well,” she didn’t hear Ben say. “That went well, don’t you think?”
And she didn’t see Dylan put his face down on the table, on top of his drawings, and beat his forehead, gently, against the laminate. “I’m doomed.”
“Yah,” Ben agreed sadly, trying to pull the drawings away before they were smudged. “I’m afeared you are.”
Chapter 6
Beth stared at the screen in exasperation. Two weeks, ever since just before the storm, she had been twitchy, distracted and generally short-tempered. And now she had just ruined three hours of hard work with one thoughtless keystroke.
It was all His fault. She was blaming everything on Him, from the delightful weather she wasn’t getting to enjoy to the tension in her own skin, to the fact that she had run out of orange juice and had to go into town if she wanted any, and going to town meant she might run in to Him—or worse, someone who wanted to sing His praises into her I-don’t-care ears.
She knew damn well that she was overreacting, and she didn’t care. Maybe everyone in town wasn’t actually behaving like Yenta, the matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof, but it sure felt like it. The more they pushed him, the more she wanted to push him away. Ben’s and Glory’s comments came back to her—that she would do things on her own schedule.
“Damn right,” she agreed. Nice to know that they, at least, understood her. Also, hello? Still in a relationship. Sort of.
The studio phone rang, and she thought about picking it up but decided against it. Someone might be calling to offer her a million-dollar contract, and she would be snippy with them, at this rate.
“You’ve reached the Havelock Agency. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and we will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you for your interest, and we hope you have a good day.”
A gentle chime, and the message ended.
“Beth? I know you’re there, Beth.” Joyce. Again. “I’m sitting here looking out the window and I can see that the light is on in your studio. Pick up the phone. Beth. Pick up the phone.” A pause, then a heavy, theatrical sigh. “Fine. Whatever. He was asking about you again today. Beth, he’s totally hot. I mean, totally. Okay, a little rough around the edges, sure, but so what? You’re not looking to marry him. I’m not even saying sleep wi
th him, although it’s not like Jake’s doing all that much for you, apparently, and didn’t I say I told you so about that?”
“Bitch,” Beth said, fondly. Joyce had never been one of Jake’s supporters, claiming that he was too bland, too boring and too much a landlubber at heart.
“Anyway, I’m not saying touch—well, I am, but if you don’t want to, then just bask a little in the attentive hotness! Because, Beth? He’s definitely interested in you.”
Another pause, another sigh. “Whatever. I’ll see you next week at the town picnic. You are not allowed to miss that, even if I have to arrange for someone to lure him out of town for the day. Bye!”
A click, and Beth was left alone with her now-even-worse mood. Dylan whatshisname had apparently been sniffing after her ever since they ran in to each other—literally—at the café, and it had only gotten worse since that disaster at the diner. And everyone seemed delighted to tell her what a nice guy Dylan was. Even Jake! Although he at least wasn’t saying what a great guy he was, how friendly, how talented an artist, how hard a worker, etc., ad nauseum, just that the guy had done a good job, for fair money. It was like the entire town had forgotten that they were New Englanders, that by tradition someone had to live here their entire lives to be accepted, and sometimes not even then.
No, Dylan Meridith showed up in town, without any connections or references, and he was embraced like a long-lost child.
And he decidedly, definitely was not a child. Not the way he looked at her. Not that he approached her directly. No, he let other people do that. He just appeared every time she went into town—no doubt alerted by his accomplices—and watched her.
She felt like a deer during hunting season, and she didn’t like the feeling at all. It was one thing to wish for some excitement, something new and different. It was another thing entirely to have a stranger come practically stalking you: having him invading your dreams, and then lurking everywhere during your waking moments, never allowing you a moment’s peace.
