The Men of Thorne Island

by Cynthia Thomason

  Squinting into the darkness, she saw a large red-and-white paper sack a few yards from the back porch. An animal was rummaging through it.

  Thinking it a raccoon or possum, Sara whispered loudly, “Scat! Go away.”

  Her command was answered by a loud meow. A gray cat backed out of the sack, freeing the thing to roll in the wind until it hit the porch steps and stopped. That was when Sara saw the words on the side. A grin spread across her face. “I knew there had to be a logical explanation. So that’s what you meant by planning, Bass. Delivery from the Boston Market.”

  A tremor of delight rippled through her. The man was sinfully clever, devilishly dishonest. She absolutely couldn’t be falling in love with him, could she?

  Sara walked away from the screen door. She wouldn’t tell him she’d discovered his secret.

  “Sara, you coming?” he hollered from the parlor.

  “On my way,” she called back. “By the way, how long have we had a cat?”

  His voice grew louder as she approached the parlor. “Oh, so you’ve finally seen End Run. He belongs to Dexter. Stowed away in Winkie’s boat one time. Dex wouldn’t let Winkie take the cat off the island. He thought Winkie’d make a cement collar for him and toss him in the lake.”

  She entered the parlor and watched as Nick poked a flaming newspaper roll under the logs. He looked up at her as she came close. “Dex is something, isn’t he? Steel on the outside, but cotton on the inside. Some men are funny that way. You just can’t tell about them.”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling down at him. “Some men are full of surprises.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NICK DROPPED the newspaper into the fire and sat back to watch the flames curl around the glowing stack of logs. “Now that’s a fine blaze,” he boasted as though he’d just invented fire, instead of coaxing it to life in the Cozy Cove hearth.

  Sara sat beside him. “Do you use the fireplace often?”

  He picked up the tongs and turned one of the logs so it would catch faster. “Maybe a couple dozen times in the six years I’ve been here.”

  She hugged her knees to her chest. “I love it. During the winters in Brewster Falls, Dad always lit the logs first thing when he came in from work. That’s something I miss living in Florida.”

  Nick leaned back on his elbows and stretched his legs in front of him on the thick hearth rug. His shoulder touched Sara’s. “Yeah, they’re nice. Always seemed kind of silly, though, to light one when it was just me down here—me and all those sheets I kept over everything.”

  Sheets Sara had washed and put away in the linen cupboard. She gazed around the room at all the things she’d dusted and polished. A feeling of such contentment washed over her that she hesitated to speak for fear of breaking the spell cast by the crackling flames and the beauty of the old furnishings. She couldn’t remember when she’d ever known such peace, or such anticipation. “It was a shame to hide all this grace and elegance under sheets,” she said after several minutes had passed.

  “Not if you wanted to keep it graceful and elegant, it wasn’t.”

  Sara tipped her head until her cheek rested against Nick’s shoulder. “Speaking of elegance…”

  He turned his face toward her. “Yeah?”

  “You did it, Nick.”

  “Did what?”

  “You actually made a date happen on Thorne Island, even when both of us know just about every inch of it and thought we’d seen it all. I’ve cleaned off years of its dust, brought sunshine into its dreary rooms, buried my hands in tons of its soil…”

  “And I’ve dug holes in all the places you missed.”

  She laughed softly. “That’s right. And still you created something new and exciting. It was as fine a date as I’ve ever had, and I feel like going upstairs and pressing those flowers you brought me into a big, thick book so I’ll always remember it.”

  He snickered. “I can guarantee you this, Sara. There aren’t many women out there who’ve ever had flowers from Nick Bass to press in a book.”

  “Then I’m honored.”

  He slipped his arm around her, and Sara nestled deeper against him. “Are you tired?” he asked.

  “A little. But mostly just content.”

  He reached to the wing chair beside them and pulled down a fringed, velvet pillow. Then he bent one leg and tucked his foot under his body. Laying the pillow on his bended knee, he coaxed Sara to lay her head on it. She sighed deeply.

  “I don’t want you too content,” he said.

  She wrapped her hand around his arm. “Too late. I feel like hot syrup and you’re the pancake.”

  “I can live with that image.”

  And so could Sara. She knew what was going to happen. She wanted it almost desperately. But a slow burn could be more satisfying than a quick sizzle. “Nick, tell me about your parents,” she said after a moment.

  He tensed slightly. “What’s to tell? Mom went her way and Dad went his.”

  “Nick…that is something to tell.”

  He paused, obviously considering whether to take her into his confidence. “Okay. Did you ever hear of the Westerling family?”

  Like lights on a marquee, the famous name flashed in Sara’s mind. She arched her neck to see into Nick’s eyes. “The giants of the tire industry?”

  “The very ones.”

  “They live on that huge estate in Akron. The one with gates so high you can’t see over them.”

  He nodded. “My mother was Vivian Westerling. Raised in wealth, schooled in the arts and destined for social prominence.”

  “I’m impressed. And your father?”

  “Carlo…the Italian gardener who trimmed their hedges.”

  “No kidding?” Sara was immediately intrigued. “They fell in love despite their social differences?”

  “It was more like they fell in lust.” He leaned over her and she could see his eyes twinkling in the fire-light. “In case you haven’t noticed, Italian males are hot-blooded, passionate people. Most women can’t resist their charms.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed,” she answered.

  “That’s how it was for my mother. As I understand it, there were a few clandestine meetings in the greenhouse, followed by illicit rendezvous in my mother’s lavender boudoir. And as fortune would have it, a determined little seed was planted in my mother’s blue-blooded belly.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, and so did Grandmama after the first trimester. A family meeting took place, during which a suitable mate for Mother was discussed, and appropriate financial rewards for the groom suggested.”

  Sara leaned up on one elbow. “You mean they were going to buy a husband for your mother?”

  “They tried, but she wouldn’t have it. She wanted her Carlo, so she married the gardener in a private ceremony in the drawing room. She had the baby, and all was well—for the year they stayed together.”

  “But if they were so in love, why did they break up?”

  “Very simple. My mother found out she couldn’t buy Gucci purses on a gardener’s salary. And my father discovered that in all the fine lineage of the Westerling clan, not a female among them could make a good marinara sauce.”

  “That’s so sad,” Sara said.

  Nick took her shoulders and guided her back to the pillow. “Not so sad really. My mother travels the world and enjoys her wealth and privilege. And my father lives in Euclid with the same lady friend he’s had for twenty-five years. Her ravioli is out of this galaxy, by the way.”

  Sara thought of the phone call from Nick’s father and the package from his mother. “They both care about you.” she said.

  “Ah, yes, the stubborn, reclusive son is the burden they both must bear.”

  “Do you ever see them?”

  “That is the burden I must bear. They come to visit—at different times of course—at least twice a year.”

  “Really?” For some reason the information both surprised and pleased Sara. “I’m glad.”

&n
bsp; He laughed softly, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger. “I figured you’d like that part. I told you once that you care too much.”

  “And I told you—”

  “I know, I know. I also said you were trying to change me.” He smoothed the hair from her brow, repeating the gesture several times until finally he said, “And it half scares me to think that perhaps you have.”

  She smiled. “Nick Bass, admitting to being scared?”

  “Half-scared, Sara. I said half.”

  She stilled his hand by clasping it with hers. “Nick, a person cannot change anyone who does not wish to be changed.”

  His lips curved upward, but in the dim light, she couldn’t tell what the smile meant. Was it contentment? Or a mask to hide his fear at the realization that she’d become important to him?

  “Sara Crawford,” he said softly, “when I’m alone and I think of you, and believe me, I do think of you, I don’t know what I wish. But when I’m with you, like now, I know damn well what I want. Every inch of my body coils into one tight spring ready to pounce.”

  She released his hand, and his palm came to rest on her cheek. “Then for once, Nick, we want the same thing.”

  He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “You realize that we’ve been on a course to this point since the first day you arrived on the island. I know you tried to fight it, but I must admit, I didn’t try very hard.” He traced the bow of her lip with his index finger. “Hell, Sara, I didn’t try at all.”

  She watched his lips form the words that confessed he’d wanted her from the beginning, just as she’d wanted him. They’d been playing a game for days. Cat and mouse. Attack and withdraw. And now the game was over.

  “Nick?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Now who’s talking too much?”

  His gave her a heart-stopping grin. “I guess that would be me.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  He stretched out beside her. His shadowy gaze wandered slowly over every inch of her face as if he could read her desire there. Sara wrapped her hand around his neck at the same time their mouths joined. There was no hesitation in that first hungry kiss. With his tongue he let her know what he wanted, and she gave it freely. The kiss lasted for an exquisite eternity as Nick’s head moved over hers.

  He outlined her jaw with his finger, following the journey with soft, teasing nips from his mouth. Her eyelids trembled when he kissed her there. He swept the hair away from her ears and continued his assault with his mouth. She sighed his name, and it seemed her own voice floated somewhere above and beyond their bodies.

  “Sara, you taste wonderful.” He breathed the words into her ear. When he leaned up on his elbow and looked at her, his eyes seemed veiled by a fine, damp mist. Surely what he saw in her eyes was the same impassioned glaze of a woman whose mind has gone numb to all but the most primeval urges of the body.

  “I’m going to love every minute of loving you, Sara,” he said. His fingers curled around the band of her elastic top. The heel of his palm pressed against the swell of her breast. Sara covered his hand with hers, brazenly coaxing him to pull the fabric down her chest. At that moment nothing seemed more vital to her existence than to have his hand on her bare flesh. He slipped the top to her waist and cupped her. Sara drew in a sharp breath.

  She heard the soft rasp of a zipper before the waistband of her skirt fell against her hip. His mouth captured hers again for a brief, shattering kiss before his voice came low and intimate in her ear. “I don’t know about you, Crawford, but I’ve about had it with all these clothes.”

  He worked the silky material down her legs. A flip of his wrist sent the garment fluttering beside the hearth. With equally eager hands, Sara pulled his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and slipped it over his head. She put her hands on his shoulders, massaging bunched muscles that flexed at her touch.

  After quickly untying the knot at her waist and sending her blouse to join the skirt, he slid her panties down her legs and she kicked them free.

  Her breath hitched in her lungs and her body tensed with expectation. When she lay naked to his gaze, he spread his hands on her hips and moved his fingers to find her most intimate part. That one tingling speck in the universe sent spirals of warmth through Sara’s body. She raked her fingers over his back. His muscles rippled against her palm. Ribbons of pleasure coursed through her as he entered her, driving her upward until her body shuddered and she cried his name.

  LATER, DESPITE LYING in the shelter of Nick’s arm, Sara shivered in the breeze coming through an open window. He stopped the lazy pathway his thumb was making down her arm. “You’re cold,” he said.

  “A little.”

  He reached for a quilted throw lying over the arm of the wing chair. He covered them, then slid his hand under it to trail his fingers softly over her breast. She nestled more closely against him. “Mmm, this is much better,” she whispered.

  Nick would have remained locked with Sara in front of a cozy fire forever. He liked feeling her steady heartbeat against his hand and listening to her soft murmurs of contentment. Unfortunately most of his body had other ideas. For several minutes his lower back had been sending signals of distress to his shoulders and neck. The calves of his legs reminded him that he’d only been walking without a cane for a few months.

  He shifted to his side, felt another stabbing pain and couldn’t stop a hiss of discomfort from whistling through his teeth. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, rotating his shoulders. “Just gotta move a little.”

  Sara sat up, taking a corner of the blanket with her. “Oh, Nick, I’m sorry. I should have thought about your injury. Of course it isn’t good for you to lie on a hard floor.”

  He grinned up at her, though it took some effort to do so. “I thought a soft body would make up for it.”

  She grabbed her skirt, stood up and slipped it on. He wished she hadn’t. “I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s exchange this cold, hard floor for a nice, soft mattress.”

  She gathered the rest of her clothes in her arms. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  He grinned wickedly and lifted the blanket. “Do you need proof?”

  “Okay, I believe you.”

  “Good. Then you go ahead of me, and I’ll just grab a couple of sodas and meet you upstairs.”

  She ran up to her room and threw on an oversized shirt that covered her hips. She only fastened the three middle buttons in anticipation of Nick removing it. “Sara Crawford, what has come over you?” she asked the rosy-cheeked woman in her mirror.

  Nick’s door was partly open when she went down the hall. Still, she knocked.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  He was sitting on the side of his bed popping the top on a can of diet soda. A pair of boxer shorts covered his lower half.

  She took the soda he offered and noticed the long, narrow package from South Africa leaning against his footboard. She stared at it.

  Nick settled back into his pillows and was silent for a few moments. Finally he said, “Go ahead, open it.”

  Sara’s face flushed. “You should open it, Nick.”

  “I already know what it is. So if you want to know, you open it. It’s not like it can stay in that box forever.”

  She was only human, after all. Who wouldn’t want to know what an extremely wealthy, well-traveled woman had sent her only son for his birthday? She took two steps closer to the package. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “For God’s sake, Sara…”

  “Okay, okay.” She tore off the outside packaging to reveal a colorfully designed box with a ribbon around it. She looked to Nick for approval before going on. He just rolled his eyes.

  Sara untied the ribbon and opened the box. The next barrier was a layer of tissue paper. She parted it and uncovered a magnificent walking cane, unlike anything she’d ever seen. The stick was made of intricately carved ebony. The handle was a shiny metal tiger’s head with sparkling stones for its eyes. Reverently Sar
a lifted the cane from the box. She studied its components in the light from Nick’s desk lamp. The metal couldn’t be…could it?

  “Hey, it’s a nice one,” Nick said blandly.

  “Nick, this tiger—it’s not… I mean it’s too large, so it couldn’t be…”

  “Gold?” he finished for her. “Mother would never send anything less.”

  “And the eyes?”

  He took the cane and examined the glittering jewels. “Let’s see, she’s in South Africa. They’re diamonds.”

  Sara slumped into a chair. “Oh, my God, diamonds. I’ve never even seen rhinestones that huge!”

  Nick slid off the bed and carried the cane to his closet. “Yep, it’s pretty sweet.”

  “That’s all you can say, ‘It’s pretty sweet’?”

  “I don’t know that it’s my favorite.” He opened the closet door, and hanging from hooks on the inside were four other equally grand walking sticks. “All of these are sweet,” he said.

  Sara could only stare. Outside of a museum, she’d never seen such magnificence. Each cane was unique in design and obviously exorbitant in quality and value. She looked at the newest offering as he hung it next to its companions. “I can’t believe you left this lying on the counter downstairs. These pieces should be in a vault.”

  He gave her a look that she found extremely smug. “Why? Who’s going to steal them? It’s not like anybody knows they’re here—except the guys and now you.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “And I’m beginning to trust you.”

  “You know what I mean, Bass. These are priceless treasures from your mother.”

  “Yes, and I appreciate the thought, but the truth is, she sends me these canes because she can’t think of anything else to give me.” He turned away from Sara and walked across the room. “My mother has always had a hard time dealing with my injury. She had a hard time accepting the occupation that resulted in it, too.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Sara countered. “What an insensitive woman not to support the son who robs banks for a living.”