Nighttime Sweethearts

by Cara Colter

  He stared at Merry, dreading her next words.

  "Didn't you say you'd been acquainted with Cynthia Forsythe at one time?"

  He cursed soundly inside his own head. It took considerable strength to keep the word from coming out of his mouth. Cynthia was not meeting that man on their beach.

  "Don't worry," Merry said and touched his arm. "She wasn't interested in him. They had breakfast together this morning, and there was no chemistry. Not on her part anyway."

  How could she possibly know all that? And what would make her think he cared even if she did know?

  "I wasn't worried," he said sharply, doing his best to hide the fact he was relieved that the Adonis down there had struck out over breakfast. Though how the hell would Merry Montrose be privy to that kind of information? If he asked, he would seem way too interested.

  But then the second half of the equation registered with him.

  Cynthia had had breakfast with another man?

  When she'd been kissing him, Rick Barnett, last night?

  Not willingly, he reminded himself.

  Ha. He'd take a bet on it: If that had not been a willing kiss he'd turn into a rock just like that one shaped like a bear.

  Still, Cynthia had eaten breakfast with a baron. Rick could just guess Cyn's mama—good old Emma Bluebell or Bluebonnet, or whatever contrived thing she called her—had been over the moon about that.

  "Her mother seems to like him. The baron," Merry said.

  "Her mother is here?"

  "Yes. Cynthia works for her. A research assistant. They are holidaying together."

  Cynthia, a research assistant? He remembered drawings she had done: sweeping lines and tantalizing colors. Where had that gone?

  And she took holidays with her mother, that antagonistic old bat? What kind of life did the poor girl have, anyway?

  "But Cynthia didn't like him? The baron?" He tried to act casually, inserting an I-couldn't-care-less note in his voice.

  Merry shook her head gravely.

  According to his source, who was standing watching him with quiet and observant interest, over the moon had not been Cynthia's reaction, thank God.

  Still, one part of him said a baron was exactly what she deserved. She had made it clear, back in high school, that Rick was way out of his league, that she expected better things than what a boy from the wrong side of the tracks could ever give her. She hadn't worded it like that of course. No, it had all been so gentle and tasteful that there were even little diamond teardrops in her eyes.

  He'd spent a good deal of his life proving her wrong. As he had conquered the world of architecture, other worlds, once closed to him, had opened. He dated women from those worlds, and with each conquest, he had thumbed his nose at the long-ago Cynthia. He had become a success. Had he fantasized about meeting her one day to rub her nose in the fact that she had passed up a great guy?

  Had he fantasized that she would get together with someone like the baron? Had he hoped she would live in some cold castle in Germany mending lederhosen and eating sauerkraut?

  But this was not fantasy! This was reality, and part of him knew he had to stop her. She might come down to the beach to see him, Rick, and find that other guy there. What if she mistook him for the man who had kissed her last night? The baron looked just like the kind of arrogant ass who might think her arrival at the beach in the night was some kind of invitation.

  Hadn't another arrogant ass arrived at the same conclusion last night?

  It was different, he defended himself. She'd been swimming with not a stitch on. He'd had an old score to settle.

  Not that it had worked. The score felt less settled than ever. In fact, Rick was left with the troubling thought that he had an obligation to rescue her from an unwanted "tryst" with the baron.

  He had to stop her.

  "There are other beaches for romantic trysts," Merry said. "In fact, there is one on the other side of this bluff that is far more private."

  "Really?" he said, trying not to appear too interested.

  "I could have the concierge pack a basket. Chocolate, wine, strawberries, candles."

  "That sounds like a great deal of trouble."

  "Not at all. I love keeping the concierge busy. I could have her pack it and deliver it myself to protect your privacy."

  He didn't feel that he had an ounce of privacy at the moment. This old woman seemed to know him—and his in—inside and out.

  He could tell her she was crazy, that he had no one to share such a basket with, and walk away with his life intact. But what did he want his life intact for? What was he protecting? He might have known a moment ago, but right now he did not.

  "All right," he said. "Go ahead and bring the basket to the beach. I don't mind paying you what it's worth."

  He was not at all pleased with the self-satisfied smile that played across her face.

  "Oh, no, Mr. Barnett, it's on the house. Please."

  Merry watched him go, very satisfied indeed. She was getting better at this matchmaking stuff all the time. Too bad she would be giving it up soon.

  Really, it was astounding how very little magic was required to bring two obviously well-suited human beings together. And it was a good thing that nature was fairly reliable, since her cell phone, such an interesting device in some of her former match-ups, was definitely now on the fritz. Last night she'd tried to get a glimpse of what was going on between Rick and Cynthia and had gotten a fascinating, but X-rated, look at a couple in a cabin in Canada.

  Still, she could tell by the way both Rick and Cynthia were acting that it was in the works.

  "Which means back to your gorgeous self soon," she sang to herself, accompanying the little tune with a twirl and a hug.

  Perhaps magic was overrated. Sometimes all that was needed was an astute reading of human nature, planting a little seed strategically here or there, picking a book out of the trash, moving a bit of clothing from a closet to a bed…

  Maybe putting the rock there hadn't even been necessary.

  She gazed out at it, a rock that only three people in the world would ever see. Cynthia, Rick and herself.

  How very interesting that a Native elder had once told him he had bear energy.

  Perhaps the real magic was not anything she could manufacture. Perhaps real magic was already there, dancing in the air around people all the time, waiting for them to notice, to see. What were these marvelous coincidences that the universe provided so regularly and the average person overlooked just as regularly, if not magic? What was that thing that sparked in the air between a certain man and a woman, if not magic?

  She hadn't done anything to make Cynthia and Rick, old sweethearts, arrive at the resort at the same time. And yet here they were, ready to rediscover each other.

  And she was going to get the world's most fabulous chapel out of the deal as that man began the process of knowing his own heart.

  "The world's a good place," she decided. And then smiled to herself. The old Merry would never have said that. Never noticed it. Not that her well-meaning, wicked godmother Lissa needed to know! Time to put Lissa the concierge to work. It delighted Merry to boss her god-mother around. Mind you, Lissa would like getting that basket ready. Who knew? She might sprinkle in magic of her own.

  "Back to your gorgeous self soon," Merry hummed in defiance of the deeper lessons she was learning. "And the rock is a very nice touch, if I do say so myself."

  Cynthia glanced at the clock. It was only five minutes later than it had been the last time she looked. It was much too early to go to the beach.

  It had been late last night when she had gone there. Midnight.

  It was barely eight.

  Would he be there?

  What would it mean if he was?

  She paced the suite restlessly, picked up Hot Desert Kisses and read just enough to make her groan. A well-meaning housekeeper seemed to have rescued the novel from the trash. Given the nearly new condition of the book, she must have tho
ught it had been put in there by accident. She'd laid it carefully back on the reading desk.

  Cynthia read just one page. The sheik was proud and fierce. But so was Jasmine. Still, Jasmine secretly loved the look of her captor's eyes, his lips…

  Cynthia slammed the book back down. She didn't even know what her captor's eyes and lips looked like! What was she thinking? She didn't even have a captor. She had one kiss. She put the book on top of the fridge where she didn't have to look at it and then made the mistake of glancing once more at the clock.

  Four hours until midnight! A woman could lose her mind in four hours.

  She could not arrange her life on the flimsy excuse that she might meet a man at midnight. An annoying man at that. One who was far too sure of himself and his devilish charm.

  To hell with him, whoever he was. This was enough of living in a pins-and-needles world of waiting for something exciting to happen. She was in charge of her own life!

  She would go dancing! Her mother would be thrilled. Wilhelm would be thrilled. She marched into her bedroom and slid to a halt.

  There on the bed were the items she had purchased at the very swanky resort clothing store today. She blushed and glanced around. She could have sworn she put them away where her mother couldn't possibly see them. And where she couldn't see them herself.

  What had possessed her to buy such things?

  "Parris Hammond," she reminded herself.

  Cynthia had met the newly engaged young woman at one of the resort's exclusive boutiques. Parris had been so full of life, sparkling with romance, so eager to spread around what she was feeling that she had enthusiastically pointed out outfits for both of them.

  Cynthia edged closer to the bed, reached out and touched her new pajamas, which were lying there, right out in the open, beside her new bathing suit.

  She was not even sure if the piece of film and lace she had purchased could be called pajamas.

  More properly it was probably a negligee.

  "Newlywed?" Parris had asked her with wicked delight, looking at her over a display of naughty underwear. "Men can't resist red, can they?"

  Unnerved, since Cynthia had absolutely no idea what men could or couldn't resist, she had smiled in answer. A mistake, since Parris had then taken it as encouragement.

  "Let me show you this bathing suit I just saw, if your guy likes red. I just know it's your size."

  What was the point of telling her there wasn't a guy who belonged to her, as your guy would insinuate? Why not just play along and have fun for once in her life?

  And so beside the red negligee on her bed was a red bathing suit. One piece but not a tank style. No, the back dipped amazingly low and so did the neckline. It was impractical. It would probably be nearly impossible to swim in, and it would leave the most outrageous lines if she sunbathed in it.

  Still, she'd put it on in the privacy of a well-appointed changing room and stared at herself in the mirror. She was transformed. From a bookish author's assistant to a woman whose life held all kinds of possibilities.

  Not the least of which was Hot Tropical Kisses.

  Seeking out her mother and the baron and going dancing suddenly had the appeal of being at a pickled-egg eating contest. Cynthia slid out of her clothes and put the bathing suit on. She knotted the matching pareo around her waist and twirled experimentally in front of the mirror. Her mind was made up, and, before she lost her nerve, she slipped on her sandals, picked up her towel and went out the door.

  She had not gone far down the path when the shrubs crinkled beside her, and she saw a shadow fall over the path. The hair on the back of her neck rose, and then she caught a whiff of a scent she recognized.

  Wine-dipped cigars and aftershave.

  "Keep walking," a voice said, low, as sensuous as the scrape of a rough palm over soft, soft skin. "Now, stop."

  He was behind her. If she timed it just right, she could turn—

  "Don't turn around."

  She wanted to whoop for joy. Instead she said, coldly, "And who are you? A pervert, hanging around in shrubs and on deserted beaches, ready to jump out and demand kisses?"

  "At least I'm fully clothed."

  "How do I know that?"

  He laughed, and it was a low rumble, every bit as sexy as his voice and his scent. "You'll have to take my word for it."

  "I'm counting to three, and then I'm turning around."

  "Don't," he said. "Please." The voice was practically in her ear, warm and sensuous and rough. His hands touched her shoulders, and she felt the hardness of the palms.

  The humor was gone from his voice. He really didn't want her to see him. Why? Could a man who owned such a voice, such a body as she had glimpsed last night, be ugly? Would that be why he didn't want her to see him?

  For some reason she did not want to let him know she had guessed that, perhaps because he might slip away and never come back.

  And something in her heart ached foolishly at the thought of him never coming back.

  "Humph," she said. "You still don't want me to get that description for the authorities."

  "That's true," he said easily, "especially because of what I have planned for you tonight."

  "Planned?" she asked, and ordered herself, sternly, don't swoon. Cynthia, keep your head.

  On the other hand, she had kept her head her entire life and what had that gotten her? A boring existence where the closest thing she had to excitement was a girl named Jasmine who'd had the bloody good fortune to be kidnapped by a sheik.

  "I'm going to kidnap you," he said in her ear.

  Maybe it wasn't the housekeeper who had retrieved the book from the trash. "Have you been in my room?" she demanded.

  "In your room?" he asked with genuine surprise. "What on earth have you got in your room that would make a man want to kidnap you?"

  "Wouldn't you like to know," she said tartly.

  "I would," he agreed. He slid a white strip of cloth around her head and over her eyes. He tied it with exquisite gentleness.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I already told you. Kidnapping you."

  "I could scream," she told him.

  "Mmm-hmm, you could."

  "I could outrun you."

  "No doubt."

  "I could probably give you a black eye."

  "I'm surprised you haven't."

  "It would be insane to go along with this." That was her mother's voice, registering a token protest.

  "Really? Why? We're on a well-populated island. There are people everywhere. There is only one way on and off, so I can't go very far with you against your will. What's so insane about saying yes to a small adventure, to saying yes to something you've never done before?"

  "You don't know that I've never been kidnapped before," she told him.

  "You don't have the look of a woman who has embraced adventure."

  That silenced her. It cut to the quick. Even in her new bathing suit? She would show him she was exactly the kind of woman who embraced adventure.

  Her mother would tell her to regard this whole incident with suspicion. Her mother, had she known what was taking place, would have been flapping around like a chicken who had just caught a whiff of a coyote inside the henhouse.

  But she was not her mother.

  It occurred to her now that she had sometimes trusted her mother's instincts above her own. Just like the young woman in the story she had heard today.

  And look where that got her. Married to a rock.

  "Well, pretty lady, what do you say?"

  For once in her well-ordered life she was saying yes, but that's not what she said to him. To him she said, "If I had a say, it wouldn't very well be a kidnapping, would it?"

  He chuckled and the sound made her world seem right. It was as if she knew him.

  And then his hand found hers, and his arm went over her shoulder.

  "Trust me," he whispered.

  "You aren't supposed to trust kidnappers," she said, but leaned into him n
onetheless, letting herself be guided down a path that she was pretty certain would lead to a brand-new way of looking at life.

  Ready or not.

  Chapter Four

  "Where are we going?" Cynthia asked, even as she became aware that she didn't really care. She was with him. It felt as if that was all that mattered.

  "I have a surprise for you."

  A surprise for her. She felt pathetically eager, like a child who had never had a birthday party and was about to be given one.

  Of course, it wouldn't do for him to know that!

  "What if I don't like surprises?" she asked.

  "You do," he said with supreme confidence, as if he knew her, as if he knew things about her that she did not know about herself.

  "Humph," she said, but it seemed like a weak attempt at showing some spirit, but his solid form behind her, his hand on her elbow, guiding her through a dark world, drained the fight from her. She felt as if her bones were melting; the experience was compelling. Erotic would not have been too strong a word.

  Though admittedly her experience in the erotic department was somewhat limited.

  Make that nil.

  A faint worry pierced her happiness, and she voiced it. "What if someone sees us?"

  "Do you worry very much about what people think?"

  "Yes!" Though it was less true now than it had been ten minutes ago. She was falling in love with his voice. It was so rough and low, raspy. His voice had the effect of a physical touch it was so powerful and distinctive. Apparently he did not care what people thought, and she contemplated how freeing that would be.

  She had cut her eye teeth on the words, Really, Cynthia, what would people think?

  "If anyone was to see us," he told her softly, "which is highly doubtful, they would probably only be charmed. A man enamored, leading a beautiful young woman to a surprise. They might smile and wonder whether we are lovers. Especially if I did this."

  His lips touched the nakedness of her shoulder, lingered there. She gasped, despite herself.

  "Well, I hope you don't think I'm charmed," she said, fighting the wild hammering of her heart. Fighting the feeling that she stood on the very edge of her control, and that she might fall—or leap—over that edge. In her heart she knew she was more than charmed. She was losing herself to him. She had to fight. "And you're not enamored. You don't even know me."