“Which ones?” She asked again.
“Vic, but that makes me itch. Perc, which makes me sick.” He shrugged.
“I would have thought they’d give you oxy.”
He shook his head. “Too addicting. We sound like dealers.” He grinned.
The full treatment. Wide smile all the way to his sparkling blue-black eyes, lit with amusement, laugh lines, teeth whiter than the Pacific’s white caps, inviting her to dive in and swim.
Hollis stared at her tea as if it contained answers. Only pale liquid gleamed at her. No leaves pointing the way to her future. The words she’d wanted to say to him so many years ago were all gone.
Good riddance.
They would be like strangers.
He leaned back against the black, cushioned headboard, eyes closed, tea cradled in one large, perfectly sculpted hand. God, it hurt to look at him. Still. All these years later, and it was like she was fourteen again, doodling his name in her school spiral-bound notebooks. Sixteen, spying on him every morning when he would surf with her twin brother, making them both late to school. Eighteen, wearing ridiculously short skirts or shorts and tiny tanks ‘Just happening to walk by him’ back and forth, back and forth.
“Tell me you’re taking something for the pain,” she whispered into the silence, knowing that it had to hurt like hell.
He shook his head.
“I’ve tried.”
She winced.
“Can’t keep it down. But you know that.”
“Just one surgery?”
“Three.”
Her breath seeped out and her body sank in on itself as if the years of ballet as a child and teen and the years of yoga now had never happened.
“We could get you a drip.”
“Not worth it.
“If I’d known that, I would have spiked your tea with—” She broke off. What did one spike tea with? Tequila was all she’d brought because she loved margaritas, and staying alone at the beach trying to figure out the rest of her life after she’d dropped out of her surgery residency and tanked on her two other career attempts definitely required margaritas. Maybe even shots. A lot of shots. And limes and salt.
But she wasn’t alone. Hollis swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the sorrow permanently lodged in her throat.
“Planning to stay awhile, duchess?” He challenged.
Chapter Two
“Don’t call me that.”
“Duchess?”
Hollis stood up and went outside. She had to get away from him. She could smell his masculine scent. He’d always smelled so potent to her—warm wind, the ocean, hot sand, citrus, and something fresh and green like juniper or pine. He literally made her mouth water. Even when she’d hated him, she’d ached to touch him, to breathe him in, to lick him, taste him, meld him into her bones.
She shut the front door behind her. Her feet were already bare. She walked a bit in the sand. It was cool, the warmth of the April day long gone. The sound of the waves rolling over the sand, one after the other, as the high tide finally neared its peak was soothing yet ominous. Hollis loved the ocean but it terrified her. She hadn’t swam in it for years. But it called to her in a language she could no longer speak. Haunting. Compelling.
She backtracked. Sat on the edge of the wooden planter that enclosed the front patio and dangled her feet over the edge. She couldn’t see the water, just the jagged lines of white rising and crashing, reforming. The Earth’s heartbeat.
Kadan used to say that. Why did she still remember all the things he used to say? All the stupid, phony things he said that had made her feel so special, so different from all the others. She leaned back and stared at the sky, the glittering gems that looked flung across the endless canvas of the universe in a fit of temper, but yet did have an inherent order, a pattern discernible to those who looked.
Hollis hadn’t really seen stars in years. Seattle was so often cloudy. And the city lights reduced the stars to a pale, gauzy pinprick light. What could she find tonight? Okay, there was the North Star, so the Big and Little Dipper, Orion’s Belt....
She barely heard the click of the door and the thump of the rubber trimmed crutch was muted. Even injured and groggy from pain, Kadan was stealthy. Her heart kicked up and she feared he would hear it.
“You’re wasted as a world champion surf god,” she said going for breezy. “You’d have been an excellent spy.”
“I never thought of that.”
He lowered himself next to her. He’d pulled on Burton board shorts. They rode low so she could see the indent of his hips and because he’d left the tie undone, she could imagine the dark arrow of hair below his navel angling down to what she’d considered Nirvana.
Hollis could see the flex of muscle in his thigh as he bent down to sit. She resisted the urge to jump up and help. Her days of helping the injured were over. Done. Besides she could barely breathe just with him starting to sit so close. Imagine if she touched him? Held him as he fully sat down on the planter? She’d pass out.
“Do you really think I could follow someone around and remain unnoticed?”
Her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow. She grimaced. Of course not. Who wouldn’t notice six foot three inches of broad shoulders, long, graceful, muscular limbs, shaggy black hair, softly curling around the face of a devil with high cheekbones, strong jaw, full lips, complete with a dimple when he really smiled. And his eyes. Twin deep, blue oceans to drown in.
“Sure.” She deadpanned. “You totally blend in. Maybe too timid to be a spy.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that more than once before.”
She’d forgotten he had a sense of humor. Never missed a beat no matter what happened. What anyone dished his way. The press. Jealous boyfriends. Rivals. Her. Damn. Damn. Damn.
What to say now? Where to go? Anywhere but here. This was her safe place. Hers. But no. She could feel the heat radiating from his bare legs. His chest.
“Do you have a fever?”
“Maybe you should check my temperature.”
His voice was pure sex.
“Maybe I will.” She flipped her ponytail so it hit her other shoulder like a dare. “I still have a lot of my medical equipment, but I think”—she furrowed her brow like she was deep in thought—“I only have my rectal thermometer with me.”
“I’d like to see you try, duchess.” He leaned back, his teeth gleaming white in the night. “I’d enjoy some of the experience.”
“I think...”
“Don’t think,” he said. “Overrated.”
“Thinking’s my specialty.” She jumped up, completely flustered by his presence, by his...his everything. “And now I think I’ll go—” She broke off. She couldn’t go to bed. He would be in the bed. “Ummmm.”
“Duchess.” He caught her hand. “I never imagined you’d be shy still.” He allowed the last syllable to slowly roll off his tongue, linger in the space between them.
She stared down at his hands. The long lean fingers, graceful, strong and dark from years in the sun, brushed along her pale fingertips, but she felt the burn all the way to her soul. His arms were totally inked, except one oval spot on his left inside forearm, but the tats stopped at his wrists, which had always made his hands stand out, strong and able to bring her such pleasure. She squirmed just thinking about it.
“I could be a gentleman and offer to take the couch if I had even one gentlemanly tendency,” he finally said when she thought her brain would burst trying to think of something to say to dissipate the tension stretching between them.
She pulled her hand away and made a hiss of annoyance. She’d driven twenty hours over the past couple of days, stopping only to refuel and pee. She so could not cope with him on her best day. And her best days were so far in her past she could barely remember them.
“I’ll take the couch,” she said.
For tonight. After tonight she’d have to figure something else out. He had to go. Somewhere. There had to be so many women who would
be eager to take him in and nurse him back to his terrifying, risk-taking, attention-basking self.
She turned to go back inside but realized that he hadn’t quite let go of her fingers.
“Duchess.”
She ignored him. Breathed shallowly so she couldn’t breathe him in. His thumb stroked circles on her fingertips and chills raced up her arms.
“I’m...” He paused.
She braced herself and looked at him, at his chiseled features that she could still trace with her eyes closed, that she still found herself sketching when she allowed her mind to wander, at his eyes that were so deeply blue and discerning that they should be illegal. He gazed at her moodily. She swallowed hard, wondering what he was going to say.
Her lips parted. “What?” She could barely breathe.
“Going to bed.”
She pulled away. “Yeah. Good idea,” she said quickly and turned toward her car.
Yes, she could bring in her weekender bag that had enough for a few days. And her duvet with the quilted cover that her grandmother had made for her many years ago. By that time he’d be asleep, and she could lay on the couch and figure out her life.
Only he wasn’t sleeping.
And she couldn’t figure out her life. She’d turned so many corners, dead end after dead end, and her feet couldn’t move as if her mind and feet had lost their will, their way.
Wrapped in her duvet, Hollis stared blankly up at the skylight, eyes cruelly wide and dry and sleepless. Where could she go tomorrow? She only had a maybe a thousand left in her bank account. She’d hoped it would last long enough for her to find a part-time job. She couldn’t pay rent. She couldn’t drive too much. The gas prices would drain her dry in a few months. Plus her Jetta needed an oil change and tune up. What was she going to do?
“Duchess?”
“Don’t call me that.”
But it was a relief to hear him speak. Somehow it made the situation of lying in the dark, knowing he was close, yet separate, less surreal.
“Are you thirsty?”
She sat up. Huffed a laugh and was surprised that she was almost amused. “You peeked in my grocery tote.”
“You did threaten to spike my tea. I was a good boy and drank it in hopes.”
She rolled out of her duvet and padded on her bare feet to the kitchen.
“I’m not making it for you,” she emphasized. “It’s for me actually. Me.”
Not everything was about him. Arrogant bastard. She pulled the ingredients out of her tote. Six limes, rose water, prickly pear blossoms, salt and, of course, tequila. She’d just add a splash of that. Nothing too crazy. She wanted to sleep, not dance on tables, and tonight she definitely wanted to cling to every single inhibition she’d ever possessed.
Hollis crushed two prickly pear blossoms and put them in the shaker with the other ingredients. She could feel him watching her. The calculated stare that made women want to undress because he’d noticed them. At first, she tried to ignore him, but screw that. She wasn’t a young girl anymore. She’d banished those dreams years ago. And this was her house. Well, not technically, but she had a standing invitation from her grandmother for whenever. She was family. He wasn’t. Not that that had stopped him from totally making himself at home. Or her grandmother treating him like family, sometimes more than she had Hollis.
So she leaned against the counter, to prop her weak-kneed self up, but he didn’t need to know that, and stared back at him, wielding the shaker like it was a weapon.
“This might be perverse because you look angry, but you are turning me on.”
She stopped. “You’re always turned on.” She forced the words out so she could hear them. “By anything.”
“Not just anything,” he drawled.
He sounded like warm honey drizzled on a heavily buttered, toasted baguette. He should have been from New Orleans or somewhere in the true Deep South. Faraway from here. She never would have met him. Would never have had him to compare with other men.
“Anyone,” she corrected, “female.”
She swirled two glasses in her sea salt and lime sugar mix and turned them over to add the ice.
“No, not anyone,” he said, getting up and moving toward her.
He was directly behind her, trapping her against the countertop, his long lean body hard and warm against her chilled exposed skin. She caught her breath, dropped one of the glasses. He caught it. Of course he did. Pain and injury and exhaustion not affecting his coordination where as hers was shot to hell.
He put the deep blue, handblown glass next to its twin. His fingers brushed against hers and every nerve in her body woke up, clamoring hello and more please. Right now. She bit her lower lip. Refused to say thank you. It was his fault she’d dropped it. His fault for getting injured. His fault for being here. His fault for being unable to love her longer than a few months and more deeply than the next girl and the one after that.
She closed her eyes tightly, willed the tears to go back. Stay away.
“Thank you.” His warm breath tickled her ear.
“What?” She couldn’t think what he’d possibly thank her for since every thought she’d had since she’d arrived involved him being far, far away from here forever.
She heard the splash of liquid and a husky huff of a laugh.
“I knew you’d make me one.”
He’d poured out two, evenly, and handed her a glass.
“Cheers.” He clinked her glass. “Welcome home.”
The words resonated all the way to her toes. She held the glass to her lips, but had to swallow several times before she could sip.
She was so predictable, she felt her heart crack open all over again, deeper and in new places, as if the healing had never happened.
“Practically a virgin.” He grinned at her.
The slap was loud in the room. It seemed to echo. The margarita spilled over her toes, spread on the throw rug and the glass clunked on the carpet and rolled across the wood.
“Just keep your mouth shut,” she hissed.
He laughed and lifted his drink as if approving of her move. Her palm had turned his cheek white then red spread across those cheekbones sharp enough to cut like diamonds.
Hollis stared at the dark bedroom with no bed. The small cottage that offered no place to hide, no reprieve from him.
“Defensive much, duchess?” His voice was low in her ear, his body so close to hers she could feel the heat, the electric pulse of his soul. “I meant the drink.”
She practically jumped away to keep from slapping him again. He was the most arrogant, irritating man ever to ride the Pacific, and that was saying a lot. He completely unnerved her.
He staggered. She spun and caught him, her hands gripped his biceps, and she held tightly, ensuring that he was steady, even though her fingers barely spanned a third around his highly chiseled arms.
“Thank you,” he said, his smile taunting her. “Always the good Samaritan, duchess. But I’m good.”
She wasn’t. She was a wreck. His eyes were sharp with pain, but he barely winced. And his gaze held her prisoner.
“I’m tired,” she said, and it felt like defeat.
“Come to bed.”
“You are such a slut, Kadan. Not even in your dreams. I’m done with that.”
She stalked across the room and grabbed up her quilt and held it in front of her as if that would ward off his evil, sexed-up spirit.
“That being sex?” His blue eyes traveled down her body like he owned it, and honestly, he still did. “For Lent or more permanently?”
“Go to hell, Kadan. I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“How Victorian.” He finished his margarita. “And uncomfortable.”
“I said go to hell.” She plunked down on the couch and began to fuss with her quilt.
“At least there I wouldn’t be cold, alone, or bored. Good night, duchess. Good to see you, too.”
She grit her teeth then covered her ears so she wouldn’t have
to hear him hobble back to bed when she should not be acting so childishly and instead help him.
Hollis wrapped her quilt tightly around herself and stared at the ceiling. The couch was comfortable. It wasn’t that. It was everything else. Kadan. She definitely hadn’t planned on him being in her grandmother’s beach guest house. She’d thought she’d have at least a month to sulk and feel sorry for herself all alone before she had to figure out what would be next. In the dark, her eyes prickled, and she felt like she was strangling with panic and defeat. She needed a new life plan. What the hell letter was she on now? She’d passed plan B a long, long time ago. She sat up, gripped her quilt, and tried to breathe. The room seemed to swing crazily around her. She pressed her forehead hard against her knees, mouth open to drag in a breath that just wouldn’t come.
“Duchess?”
Didn’t he ever sleep?
She scrunched her eyes closed like she was four again, and if she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her.
“Duchess, you good?”
She squeezed out a sarcastic laugh that was smothered by the tightness in her throat.
She was so far from good it was in another country.
“Duchess.”
The silence stretched between them like a guitar string strung too tightly, about to break and cut her on the chin.
“Hollis?”
“Fine,” she said, feeling strangled because if she didn’t speak, he’d come over here.
He never let anything go. He never had. Push. Push. Push. Until she had nothing left to give. Empty. Then he would grin his cocky grin, curl her hair behind her ear, and whisper something meaningless and swagger off. Another wave to catch. Or a plane. Or a deal to make. An autograph to sign.
She heard the bed creak and her heart pounded. He was getting up. Oh, God. He had to stay there.
“Just tired,” she said. “I’m cool.”
She could feel him calculating her words. Her tone. Every nuance. For a man who’d only managed to graduate high school with a ton of help from her relentless grandmother, who’d tutored, encouraged, and bullied him, Kadan Carson was the smartest man she’d ever met. And she’d graduated from Stanford before heading to UCLA Medical School.
Wrecked (Sons of San Clemente Book 2) Page 2
