Into the Heat

by Tamara Lush

  INTO THE HEAT

  Tamara Lush

  ¶

  PRONOUN

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  INTO THE HEAT

  INTO THE HEATCHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALSO BY TAMARA LUSH

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  INTO THE HEAT

  A veteran and his first love meet again. Can they help each other heal under the Florida sun?

  Leo Villeneuve joined the Marines and shipped off to Afghanistan because that’s what the men in his family do. And, if he’s honest, he was running from the family upheaval caused by his teen summer love’s pregnancy scare. Hard to say who was angrier, his father or her mother. He spent months in an earthly hell of heat, dust and battle before being wounded both physically and emotionally.

  Now the Marine is back on Palmira Island to open a new bakery for his family’s business. But even if his first love is still here, Leo’s not sure she’ll want anything to do with a veteran suffering from PTSD so bad that he walks in his sleep—and possibly worse. If only he could remember the night the local recruiting office burned down … and whether he had anything to do with it.

  Jessica Clarke was the girl left behind when her young lover was whisked away by his wealthy family. She put her life back together, and helped run their Florida bed-and-breakfast. She still loves The Beacon, but now she must make it a success on her own, and against opposition from her sister, who wants to sell. Still reeling from their mother’s death, Jess discovered her fiancé was cheating on her.

  And just when Jess thinks her life can’t get any worse, Leo is back on Palmira Island. An older, more manly, more secretive Leo. The flame between them burns brighter than ever, but why does Leo coax her close, only to pull away? And will he still want her when he learns her secret anguish?

  INTO THE HEAT

  TAMARA LUSH

  Copyright © 2016 Tamara Lush

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  To my father, my favorite veteran of all.

  INTO THE HEAT

  CHAPTER ONE

  He’d never seen anyplace so brown.

  The tents. The uniforms. The vehicles. Everything was covered in a fine, tan dust. On most days even the sky took on a haze from the microscopic particles, leaving the heavens above a swirly, near-colorless blue. The guys at Camp Leatherneck called the sandy substance moon dust, and Leo Villeneuve thought that was appropriate. Because Afghanistan was as far from his lush New Orleans as the moon.

  He hated moon dust.

  Muscles aching from a beast of a workout at the on-base gym, he stood outside his tent and stretched. The early evening sun was still hot, and he was sweating like a whore in church. The IDF alarm went off, but after two weeks on base as a private first class rifleman he no longer flinched inside when the loud wail echoed through camp. Surely this was another raid siren test, so he waited for the surreal, computerized voice to come over the camp loudspeaker and tell everyone that it was just that. A test.

  The pitch of the alarm rose and fell, rose and fell. The sound pierced his ears and left him dizzy, made him feel disembodied. Then the robotic, recorded female voice giving the all clear bounced off the dusty earth, sounding almost warped with her formal, stiff English accent.

  “This is a test of the all-clear alarm… This is a test of the all-clear alarm…”

  “Yo, V!”

  He looked up to see his buddy Steve from North Carolina. As usual, Steve was grinning. Guy couldn’t stop, even in a damn war zone.

  “What’s up, bro?” Leo grabbed the towel hooked into his waistband and wiped his face. Damn, it was hotter than anything he’d ever felt in the swamps of Louisiana.

  “She’s kinda got a sexy voice, that British chick. Or do you Cajuns not understand what she’s sayin’? ‘Who dat’ and all?”

  Leo chuckled. “Bro, you know I like a sweet southern accent on my girls.”

  Well, one girl in particular.

  He kicked a rock on the ground, thinking about the girl he’d left behind. He should’ve gone to college near Jessica in Florida, not joined the Marines like all the other men in his family. God, he missed her so much. Now she was probably pissed at him, after he’d followed his dad’s order to stay away. That pregnancy scare had just about caused World War III the way his dad and her mom carried on.

  Well, he might have lost Jess for now, but dammit, he was going to try to win her back once he got out of this hellhole.

  If he got out of this hellhole.

  Kicking the rock had caused a cloud of dust to swirl up from the toe of his boot, and Leo stared, captivated. His stomach churned, and his brain felt as hazy as the sky. Then came the explosion.

  It came from the direction of Camp Bastion, the nearby British military base. The blast was like a punch into the air. It drowned out the IDF alarm, and Leo swore loudly when he spotted thick clouds of dirt bursting upwards not too far away. Then there was a flash and another sickening pang in his stomach…and suddenly he found himself in another part of the desert.

  He was still in Afghanistan, but in Farah. He was in the back of a Humvee, holding Steve’s bloody head in his lap and yelling at the top of his lungs while weeping from the pain shooting through his ripped-apart arm.

  Don’t die, bro. Don’t die on me, you motherfucker….

  His whole body tense, he held his breath, waiting. For the next explosion. For chaos. For death?

  Silence. Blackness. Empty space. All of which were more terrifying than bombs and blood. Then, a symphony of crickets. The familiar feeling of humidity coating his skin. The sweet smell of night jasmine.

  Leo’s eyes snapped open. For a moment he was confused, on edge, listening, waiting for something awful to happen. But he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore. He wasn’t next to the compound attacked by insurgents and not in the Humvee two years later when he and Steve were hit by an IED. Where he almost lost his arm. Where he just about lost his mind. No, tonight he was on a bench in the New Orleans City Park. It was dark, but moonlight danced across the nearby slow-moving stream and shone against the stones of an arched bridge. The air felt soupy and moist, not dry and thin.

  Shaking, sweating, scared now about something else, Leo struggled to sit up.

  It’s happened. The night terrors. I’ve fucking blacked out again.

  He had taken the sleeping pill, and these were the consequences. He hated taking the damn things. This wasn’t the first time the pills had put him in a fugue state and led him to wander out of bed. Wasn’t the first time he’d experienced this out-of-control uncertainty about where he was and what he’d done.

  He gulped in several breaths then heard sirens in the distance, wails similar to the ones he’d heard when stationed in Afghanistan. But these were ordinary American
fire trucks. A lot of them, it seemed, whizzing past on City Park Drive; he spotted their red flashing lights through the Spanish moss drooping off the branches of the live oaks.

  A hard swallow, and his hand went to his beard. He hadn’t shaved or cut his hair since his honorable discharge, mostly because it annoyed his father. The several months’ growth made him look like a hipster, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass because the dark, scruffy look matched his mood most days.

  What was this in his beard? Something chalky. He looked down at his hand and rubbed his fingers together. Because it was dark, he couldn’t see much, but it felt like ash. Had he bought a pack of cigarettes or…?

  He touched his beard again then sniffed his fingers. All he could smell was moon dust. That happened a lot, which his therapist said was because of the PTSD. His brain wires were crossed.

  Hunh. Where have I been?

  Pricks of perspiration tickled his arms. They were damp, as if he’d run a marathon. Actually, his whole body was moist, rivers of sweat pooling between the ridges of his stomach muscles and down to the waistband of his cargo shorts.

  His teeth chattering even though it wasn’t cold, he ran his fingers up his left forearm, over the scars. Without looking, he knew exactly where the tattoo of a mermaid was on his bicep. He traced her, something he did when anxious. Her tail, her curvy hips, her tiny waist and her big breasts. Then the five points of the starfish on his shoulder.

  With a quick motion, he flicked off the sweat that had nestled near his collarbone. Why the hell was he wearing only a pair of cargo shorts while sitting on a park bench in the middle of the night? He looked down. And he was barefoot?

  How did I get here?

  Heart pounding, he wiped the sweat off his chest with his palm, his hand smearing across the hard planes of his pecs. More sirens ripped through the night, and Leo tilted his head and inhaled deeply through his nose. Was that…smoke?

  Yes, fire. Squinting into the distance, he saw an orange flicker coming from the strip mall near the park. That’s where the Marine recruiting center was, the one that he had walked into five years earlier, changing his life forever. The one that he’d wished a thousand times had never existed.

  Leo launched to his feet as fear settled in his chest.

  What the hell have I done?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two weeks later

  Jessica Clarke marched past the tall royal palm trees that graced the entrance to Palmira Island’s most gorgeous stretch of sugar-white sand. Eighty degrees and a cloudless sky—perfect winter weather, at least for a Florida girl like herself. The sight of those green trees against that impossibly blue Florida sky in February was enough to make her heart sing.

  Scratch that. It’s what had used to make her heart sing. Now she concentrated on surviving each day, each week, without losing her dignity, her temper or her sanity.

  Grimacing, Jessica walked past a speaker disguised as a faux rock piping bubbly pop music for beach-bound tourists. She passed under a banner hanging between two palm trees and lightly swung her oversized bucket filled with shovels, small rakes and other tools as she walked.

  Winterfest Sand Sculpture Contest, the words read on the banner above. This was her third time competing in the contest held for the island’s business owners. Everyone had ten days to create a sculpture, and it could be as elaborate or as simple as the entrant wished. The first few days were usually for practice, then the competition was on. She always created beautiful, detailed sculptures. Because of this, she’d won all three years and was determined to win again. Because of everything that had happened over the past several months. In spite of everything that had happened.

  She strode across the boardwalk that connected the parking lot to the beach. When her feet landed on the fine, sugary grains, she kicked off her flip-flops and tossed them in her bucket.

  The beach was warm and comforting on her bare soles as she trekked toward the huge mounds of sand a short ways off. The chamber of commerce had trucked in some two million pounds for the festival, and the piles were as tall as her.

  Perspiration accumulated at her temples and chin. It was way too hot for sculpting today. She would just check the sand mound, get a feel for what to sculpt, then return after sunset. Her fingers itched to work the soft sand, but she’d do so in the cooler hours. She’d create something beautiful that tourists would ooh and ahh over. More than anything she loved beautiful things. Life was so ugly.

  Last year she had carved an elaborate replica of The Beacon, her family’s art deco hotel. The year before, a sailboat. The year before that, a pod of dolphins. This year she felt like sculpting a big hand with a middle finger pointing skyward, her message to the world. Of course, she didn’t dare do that. If anything, she was always polite. Too polite, and too much of a pushover, her friends claimed.

  Well, this was the year that would change.

  The entire sculpture zone was cordoned off from the public near the lifeguard shack, which meant it was monitored during the day. At night the beach patrol kept an eye on it so drunk partygoers didn’t wreck the sculptures. Waving at a lifeguard in the distance, Jessica ducked under a rope. Scanning the piles of sand, she spotted little flags with numbers next to each mound. Hers was station number four, and she ticked off the numbers as her legs ate up the distance. There was station seven…. That sculptor hadn’t started yet. Neither had the person assigned to pile six.

  Her thoughts skidded to a halt as she approached station five. There was a guy kneeling in front of the mound, and the sight of his bare muscular back, broad at the shoulders and tapered at the waist, made her grin a little. She’d sworn off men since breaking up with her jerk of an ex, but that didn’t prevent her from admiring a beautiful thing from afar.

  Hm. He was right next to where she’d be sculpting.

  She moved lightly, never taking her eyes off the guy. His skin was a warm bronze hue and his muscular thighs had sunk into the sand. He wore only blue surf shorts, and while she had grown up on the beach, it was rare that such a stunning specimen of manhood graced the sleepy Palmira shores. If only she could remain invisible while sculpting her creation, free to admire this guy’s beauty without having to make small talk, then life would be perfect.

  She stopped swinging her bucket, so the tools wouldn’t make a sound.

  A sketchbook sat in front of the guy on the sand, and he held a pencil in one large, masculine hand, drawing with broad strokes. Jessica took a few more steps toward her sand pile, which also conveniently allowed her to get a better look at the guy’s profile. What she saw turned her grin into an open-mouthed gape.

  No. It can’t be.

  Leo Villeneuve? Inhaling a long, thin breath, she narrowed her eyes. Was it possible?

  Her first kiss.

  Her first love.

  Her first heartbreak.

  She took off her sunglasses. Was it really him? Yep, it was. She could tell by the shape of his long, straight nose. And by the way his full lips pushed out slightly as he concentrated on the sketchbook. Those lips had kissed her, and the memory of all the places they’d touched—her neck, her nipples, in between her legs—made her shiver in the hot sun as if a single ice cube had been dropped down the back of her shirt.

  “Jess, you’re my first. And I’m your first and I don’t want there ever to be anyone else.”

  It made her unsteady to recall his lazy New Orleans accent and how he’d whispered honey-sweet promises and dirty declarations in her ear all while he did wicked things to her body. Things that she’d allowed no one to do in the five years since.

  Leo and his father had vacationed on Palmira and stayed at the hotel for two weeks. Her mom and his dad were old friends. Old good friends, apparently, because the minute they arrived Jess’s mom had become less strict. Jess and Leo had taken to each other quickly, talking about music and video games and movies. He’d been surprised that she liked the Iron Man franchise as much as he did.

  They’d kissed on Chr
istmas Eve, the second night they knew each other, and spent the next several days doing everything but sex. She’d been wary but so excited. Leo never once tried to push her to do more than she wanted, and soon she was ready to try it all with him.

  A week later, it happened. Leo slipped into her room after the adults were asleep. They’d lost their virginity to each other—awkwardly. She remembered how she hadn’t had an orgasm from sex like she had with his hands and tongue, but it was pretty wonderful nonetheless. They’d kept having sex over the rest of the vacation, seemingly every moment they could steal away. Things had quickly stopped being awkward. More like explosive.

  “All of you, from your head to your toes and everything in between, is mine. You’re mine, Jess. And I’m yours. Always will be, babe. Forever. I love you.”

  Jessica straightened. It had been five years, and she’d heard nary a word. So, why the hell was her heart pounding like this? It was as if she had sprinted from her car to the beach. This was not what she wanted.

  How unfair. She hadn’t felt this kind of adrenaline rush around any guy in years. Not with the couple of dudes she’d gone out with in college, and not with Jacob, her douche bag of an ex-boyfriend. No, there was only one man who’d ever made her feel this crazy, and he was the one who’d disappeared after what felt like a soul mate connection. And now he was kneeling on the beach in front of her, looking hotter than any man had a right to.

  Oh. My. God. Turn around and run. Fast.

  She couldn’t move. The sight of him riveted her in place. Instead of the cute, sinewy boy who’d stolen her teenage heart that winter five years ago, this was a man kneeling before her. He looked like he’d been sculpted from fire—and sin. What the heck was he doing here?

  Her eyes scanned the beach. There was no one around except for her and this newer, hotter version of her first love. He definitely hadn’t had biceps like that five years ago. Or all those tattoos. His dark hair was short and severe now, no longer curly. His skin looked lickable and smooth, with only a slight sheen of sweat that made her want to glide her hands over his body and linger on every ridge and valley. Like she used to. When she knew him before, he had looked like a sweet lead singer in a boy band. Now those high cheekbones made him look a little feline and a lot arrogant. Hard and sexy, like he was used to taking what he wanted and to hell with everything else.