Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel

by Virginia Kantra

  “What’s he doing here?” Lauren asked.

  Jane’s heart hammered. Really, she had terrible taste in men. “I have no idea. I didn’t invite him.”

  No, you just fed him, her conscience mocked. Don’t you ever learn? You don’t get rid of strays by feeding them.

  Lauren’s dark eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “You know, sometimes people can do bad things for good reasons.”

  “You mean me,” Jane said flatly.

  “Actually, I was talking about Gabe Murphy. Jack says he was charged with killing a man in a bar fight. I Googled him. According to the local paper, some oil workers attacked a local waitress and he intervened.”

  He’d been careful not to crowd her, Jane remembered.

  Make sure you lock up behind me.

  She moistened her lips. “Are you saying he’s innocent?”

  Lauren might feel that way. She was pen pals or something, wasn’t she, with a guy in prison? Living proof, if Jane was looking for it, that one experience of violence didn’t have to leave you scarred for life.

  On the other hand, nobody blamed Lauren for anything worse than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lauren seemed to bring out the best in people.

  Unlike Jane, who attracted the worst.

  “Not guilty,” Lauren said. “Not the same. I mean, it’s good that he saved that woman. But he still killed a man. Maybe he could have handled the situation differently. I don’t know him well enough to say. But I know you.” Her gaze met Jane’s. “I care about you.”

  Jane flushed, hearing the worry—and the warning—in Lauren’s voice. She didn’t know Gabe, either.

  Living with Travis had systematically eroded her faith in her own judgment. But she wasn’t stupid. You didn’t have to be a psychologist to understand that a woman who had been beaten and broken should stay far away from a man who solved problems with his fists.

  Four

  THE SUN SANK into Gabe, warming his muscles. The steady, repetitive scrape of the rake loosened the knots in his shoulders.

  After his first continuance, his jail guards had decided he wasn’t a violent threat and put him to work in the sunless kitchens. Gabe had been grateful to get out of his cell. But he had hated the stink of the rising steam, the smells of rancid grease and garbage and the chemicals used to clean the cooking pots.

  He lifted his head, breathing in the scent of pines and sea, a whiff of baking bread. A bird piped from the trees.

  Since leaving Detroit for Parris Island, he had never lived in any one spot long enough to develop an attachment to a place. But he liked it here. It would have been nice, this time, to stay. To have a reason to stay.

  But not if his being here fucked things up for Luke.

  Florida, that was the plan.

  An early morning jogger crunched up the drive, huffing a greeting. “How’s it going?” The masculine equivalent of have-a-nice-day, no response required.

  Gabe nodded without speaking.

  A pretty brunette came out of the bakery carrying a big pastry box. He’d noticed her going in. Hard not to, with those piercings. She gave him a long look and a quick smile as she passed. “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” Gabe said carefully.

  He wasn’t used to all this friendliness from strangers. He’d been living on the street, in the shadows, where passersby averted their gaze, where no one noticed him but the cops.

  A few more customers came and went, an old man with a much younger one, a couple of moms with strollers, an older woman with a laptop. Coming or going, they all said hi. It was weird. In a good way. Gabe finished with the front yard and moved around back.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” A woman’s voice, torn between amusement and annoyance. “Get away from there.”

  Now that was more what he was used to.

  He turned.

  Jane Clark stood framed by the kitchen door, her hands on her curvy hips under a wide, white apron, her blond hair slipping its braid. Like the St. Pauli Girl on a long-neck bottle of beer. His throat went dry. A surge of lust tightened his stomach muscles.

  But she wasn’t talking to him.

  “That food is for the cats,” she told the dog gobbling kibble from a metal pan a few yards away.

  The big, dirty, familiar-looking dog.

  Gabe’s mouth relaxed. “Guess he didn’t read the sign.”

  At the sound of his voice, the dog raised its head. Abandoning the food, it bounded over and flopped onto its back, waggling its privates in the air. Dumb mutt.

  He hunkered down to rub its belly.

  “Is that your dog?” Jane asked. Unlike the dog, she didn’t appear especially overjoyed to see him.

  “Nope.” Gabe gave the mutt a final scratch and straightened. The dog scrambled up, trying to lick his face.

  “Down,” Gabe ordered.

  Its butt dropped. Huh. That was a surprise.

  A corner of Jane’s mouth tucked in. “Are you sure?”

  Her smile softened her severe expression, making her look approachable. Touchable. She really should stop doing that. Smiling at him. Feeding him. Because every time she did, she only made him hungry for more.

  Her mouth compressed. Frowning again.

  What? he thought.

  Oh, right. She had asked him a question. About the dog. They were talking about the dog that was now pressing against his leg.

  He scratched its head so he wouldn’t reach out and pet her instead. “It’s a stray,” he said. “It only likes me because I fed it.”

  “You fed it.” He couldn’t read the tone of her voice. Another question?

  “Stupid bastard ate half my sandwich.”

  She was looking at him oddly. Because, yeah, what kind of idiot fed his dinner to a dog? She was probably insulted he’d wasted her handout.

  He didn’t want her thinking he didn’t appreciate her generosity, so he said, “It was a really good sandwich. The cookies, too. Thanks.”

  She stared at him a moment longer, as if she expected him to jump on her like the stupid dog. Lick her face. Hump her leg.

  Gabe clamped his jaw against disappointment. Right. What did he expect? That she was going to invite him in for a cup of coffee?

  She crossed her arms over her mighty rack. “What are you doing here?”

  I wanted to see you again. But he wasn’t admitting that. Not even to himself.

  He rested a forearm on the rake, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. “Just passing through.” She continued to regard him doubtfully. “Luke Fletcher can vouch for me. I’m having dinner at his place tonight.”

  * * *

  JANE CROSSED HER arms a little tighter over her wildly beating heart. She appreciated his attempt at reassurance. But she wasn’t that easily frightened. Or that dumb.

  He needed to go.

  “I don’t mean here on Dare Island. I meant . . .” She flapped her hand. “Here.” At my bakery. In my space.

  He glanced around the yard, making her see everything he had done with fresh eyes. A winter’s worth of debris had been raked away from the foundation, the leaves neatly piled, the trash bagged.

  Her cheeks ignited. She bit back the urge to apologize.

  “I thought . . .” he said slowly. He shook his head. “I brought back your thermos.”

  He . . . Well. Wow. She wasn’t expecting that. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He shrugged. “It’s out front. On one of the tables.”

  “You can keep it.”

  His jaw set. “I don’t take charity. And I pay my debts.”

  Oh. Understanding surged inside her, a liquid tug at her heart and her knees.

  Oh, crap. She’d misjudged him.

  When she was starting over, it had been so hard for her to ask for her father’s help. To accept anyone’s help, especially when it meant admitting her own mistakes. Even yesterday, with Sam, she had balked at accepting charity.

  Sometimes, when you didn’t have much else
, all you had to hold on to was your pride.

  And sometimes that was just foolishness.

  “Well . . .” She twisted her hands in her apron, embarrassed by her own bias. “Thank you.”

  Gabe nodded shortly.

  She stood there a moment, her heart knocking at her ribs, before she ducked her head awkwardly in reply and retreated to her kitchen.

  Running away.

  Crap. She leaned against the stainless steel counter, pressing her hands to her hot face. What was the matter with her?

  Gabe Murphy hadn’t been anything but helpful and respectful. Yes, he did bear a distressing resemblance to Travis. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine Travis doing yard work. Or feeding a stray. Or wasting time or energy on anyone but himself.

  So her discomfort around Gabe wasn’t his problem. It was hers.

  The oven timer went off. Jane bent to pull out a half sheet of strata, her mind churning like a blender. Was she really still so controlled by her ex, by her past, that she couldn’t recognize the goodness in a fellow human being? That she would let her fear dictate how she treated a stranger?

  She set the baking sheet on the counter, her cheeks still flushed from the heat of the oven. Being smart was not the same as being afraid. Being strong didn’t mean she had to be unkind.

  She cut a slab of strata and nestled it in a take-out tray. When she looked outside again, the backyard was clear of leaves.

  And Gabe was gone.

  She hurried through the rows of tables to the front door, noting in passing that the sugar dispenser needed refilling and the crumbs around the highchair in the corner, where the moms were having coffee, needed to be swept. But those things could wait.

  She burst onto the porch.

  The rake was propped neatly in its customary place against the outside wall. And Gabe . . .

  “There you are,” she said. Her voice was too loud. She clutched the cardboard tray a little tighter. “I was afraid you’d left.”

  He straightened, his seabag at his feet, as she came down two shallow steps to the yard. Watching her with the same alert look, the same stiffened posture as the dog. As if he were just waiting for a scrap of encouragement or a sign of weakness to pounce.

  “Just finished up.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she protested.

  “Yeah.” A long look. “I did.”

  She swallowed and glanced away. “You did a lot of work this morning. You must have worked up an appetite.”

  “Some,” he admitted.

  Her gaze met his. His eyes were the color of the sun striking through the trees, brown and green and gold. He smelled of sun and leaves and potent male, a vaguely erotic combination. Her breath went short. But he didn’t touch her. Didn’t make any gesture toward her at all.

  Why did that make her want so desperately to be touched, to wonder how it would feel?

  “I brought you something,” she said.

  His gaze dropped briefly to the tray before focusing on her face. “You fed me already.”

  “A sandwich. Yesterday. Which you gave to the dog.”

  “Only half,” he said.

  He sounded defensive, grumpy, like Aidan did sometimes when he kissed her goodnight, as if his sweetness were something to be ashamed of.

  She took a cautious step closer.

  “I won’t bite,” he said. “Unless you want me to.”

  Her gaze flew to his face. His tone was mocking, challenging, almost, but those eyes . . . His eyes were kind. His jaw was hard and stubbled, his lower lip full and soft. Vulnerable. The contrasts of him intrigued her. She wanted to test his textures with the tips of her fingers, wanted to . . .

  Oh, no. Nope. Not going there.

  Her cheeks burned. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Boys had been teasing her since she developed boobs in seventh grade. Because of her father, it never went beyond teasing. But she sucked at snappy comebacks. She wouldn’t think of a good putdown until three days from now when she was kneading dough or folding socks. And yet . . .

  She held his gaze, and something ignited inside her like a spark. “Bite this,” she said and set down the tray.

  Laughter leaped in his eyes, warming them, warming her. “What is it?”

  “Strata. Basically a breakfast bread pudding with sausage and Gruyère.”

  He picked it up, poking at it with the plastic fork. “Never had it before.” His mouth quirked. “Never even heard of it before.”

  Her own smile escaped. “You mean they didn’t serve strata in . . .” Her breath caught.

  In jail. The unspoken words pulsed in the silence.

  “In the Marines?” she finished in a weak voice.

  “No, ma’am,” he said quietly. Evenly. “They sure didn’t.”

  He ate. The dog wriggled closer, its eyes fixed on every forkful that went into his mouth.

  Tentatively, she reached out to pet it. The dog shied away, moving closer to Gabe.

  “He doesn’t like me,” she said, oddly hurt by the stray’s rejection.

  Gabe glanced up. “Are you kidding? You’re the giver of the goodies. The mutt likes you fine. It’s head shy, that’s all.”

  “Head shy?”

  “Flinches when you go for its head,” Gabe explained. “It’s used to being chased off. It expects you’re going to hit it. Probably been abused, poor bastard.”

  Her breath caught. He doesn’t mean anything by it, she told herself. He doesn’t know anything about me.

  The dog nudged against Gabe’s leg. He ruffled the fur at its neck. She watched his hands, strong and long and lean, as he dug in. The dog pressed closer, panting slightly, its eyes half closed in ecstasy.

  An inconvenient sizzle kindled in the pit of her stomach, in the tips of her fingers.

  “He lets you pet him,” Jane said. Good heavens, she sounded as sulky as Aidan.

  “He trusts me.”

  Her heart beat faster. “Why?” Why should he? Why should I?

  “I’m kind to animals. Plus . . .” Gabe met her gaze, that half smirk tugging the corner of his mouth. “We slept together. It makes a bond.”

  That was true.

  If Travis hadn’t been the first boy she’d ever slept with, would she have loved him? Stayed with him? At nineteen, she’d believed that her skipping heart and sweaty palms were the signs of some deep, eternal love. That being close to someone, that feeling desired, were worth risking everything for.

  She knew better now.

  “I need to get back to work. You can, um, just throw out the tray when you’re done.”

  Gabe watched her closely, the smirk fading. “Sure. You do what you have to do.”

  I always do, she thought bleakly.

  She turned and marched inside, leaving the danger outside. Putting temptation behind her.

  Five

  HENRY LEE CLARK propped his feet on his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair. The sight of his size twelves on the furniture usually got a rise out of Marta Lopez, the police department’s administrative assistant. But today she ignored him, her bright coral nails tapping briskly on her computer keyboard.

  Damn it.

  Luke Fletcher was out on patrol, Jack Rossi behind the closed door with its cheap metal POLICE CHIEF sign. Hank wanted to annoy somebody.

  Being at work usually relaxed him—the familiar file cabinets, the wanted posters, the rack of locked-up rifles in the gun closet, even the smell of coffee sitting until it turned to sludge. He’d always been more comfortable with men than women, always better suited to the job than things at home. Which was why—even after his retirement from the county sheriff’s office, even after he’d supported the hiring of outsider Jack Rossi as Dare Island’s police chief—Hank had hired on as backup relief officer. Let the younger man worry about writing grants and kissing the town council’s asses. As long as Hank could report to work every day, he wasn’t dead yet.

  Most of the calls that came in were parking or noise complaints
, reports of vandalism and petty theft, a little drugs, an occasional domestic, negotiating disputes between neighbors. Not even much of that in the off-season. Islanders were an independent lot, used to settling their own problems. After years of big busts, gang-related crime, and high-speed car chases, working for a small police department sometimes made Hank feel like a meter maid with a gun.

  And that suited him, too. He was fifty-goddamn-nine years old. Too old for excitement. Or a change.

  But today he couldn’t get comfortable in his chair or in his skin.

  Hank dropped his feet, prowling restlessly between the three desks to the coffeepot.

  “You don’t need more coffee,” Marta said without pausing a beat in her typing. “You’re like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs as it is.”

  He set down his mug, happy to have someone to vent his frustrations on. “It’s that Murphy fellow. I don’t like having some transient on the island, sponging off the Fletchers.”

  “The Fletchers are very capable of looking after themselves. You worry too much. And you drink too much coffee. No wonder your blood pressure is so high.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “I have four boys already. I don’t need another one.”

  “Wife, then.”

  Their eyes met. For no reason at all, Hank’s heart started pounding.

  “If I were your wife, you would take better care of yourself.”

  “Or kill myself.”

  Marta pursed bright lips. “Either way, your blood pressure wouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

  A laugh escaped him. Hank did his best to turn it into a cough.

  Marta turned slightly from her computer screen. “Tell me what is bothering you.”

  “Gary Wilson took his grandson Ethan fishing this morning. He saw that Murphy fellow at Jane’s.”

  “And this worries you because . . . ?”

  “He was raking her yard,” Hank growled.

  Marta raised dark, arched brows. “I am sure her grass will recover.”

  “People are talking.”

  “People always talk. He’s new in town. And handsome.”