Home by the Sea

by JoAnn Ross

  “Anyway, Princeton seemed like a different planet from either world I’d grown up in. The worlds I was comfortable with. Although I had no trouble keeping up with the classwork and made good grades, I felt so out of place I spent the first two years hiding away in the library when I wasn’t in class.”

  Lucas had never considered the benefits of being a librarian. Until now.

  “Then I met Robert.”

  Her right hand was still in Lucas’s. Since it felt strangely right there, Grace ran the fingers of her left around the rim of her wineglass as she thought back to those long-ago days. “He was my English lit professor.”

  “I can see this one coming a mile away.”

  “It is rather a cliché, isn’t it?” she asked dryly, and with a hint of self-disdain. “He was the most sophisticated man I’d ever met. He was witty, urbane, smoked a pipe—”

  “Wore natty tweed sport coats with leather elbow patches,” Lucas guessed.

  “Yes.” Grace smiled, not at the memory, but at her girlish foolishness at mistaking yet another cliché for sophistication.

  “I suppose he was also working on the great American novel.”

  “Actually, he’d already written a historical saga about the Industrial Revolution. It had been making the rounds of publishers for several years without success.”

  Grace recalled the first time she’d read the poorly written manuscript, at Robert’s redbrick home just off campus. Remembered sympathizing with him over glasses of white wine about publishing philistines who were interested more in commercial pap than true literary genius. That had also been the night she’d lost her virginity on his chocolate brown leather sofa.

  “So the New York publishing world didn’t exactly find that a scintillating topic?”

  “Let’s just say that they weren’t enthusiastic about Robert’s version. As it happens, I was working on a novel based on the same time period.”

  “Nice coincidence.”

  “I certainly thought so at the time.” She definitely wasn’t about to reveal she’d romantically mistaken it as a sign of fate that she’d found her literary soul mate. “Of course I was thrilled when he offered to share his research.”

  “Generous guy. Was that before or after he’d read your manuscript?”

  How quickly he’d caught on, Grace thought, wondering yet again how she could have been so naive. So foolish.

  “After.” Although she hated to admit it, even to herself, until she’d submitted her first chapters for a writing exercise, Robert had scarcely noticed she was alive, preferring to bestow his attention on the petite, flirtatious blondes in the first row. She’d been neither petite nor flirtatious. In fact, she’d been frankly overweight and painfully shy.

  “Ransomed Hearts was a romantic romp depicting the adventures of a down-on-his-luck highwayman and his kidnap victim, whose wealthy family didn’t want her back.

  “Since Robert was so eager to help, and it was exciting having someone to talk with about my story, I incorporated into my book a few of the facts he’d compiled.” About two paragraphs, in a 150,000-word book.

  “It was accepted for publication by Penbrook Press the week I graduated. Since Robert thought I should save my real name for later, serious work, and he’d been so supportive, I agreed that his idea of using Roberta Grace as a pseudonym was a sensible solution.”

  “But you said earlier that he didn’t actually do any writing.”

  “No. Not really.” Sometimes Grace wondered how any woman could have been so gullible. Let alone one who’d graduated from an Ivy League university summa cum laude. “Neither of us expected the book to be such a success. Suddenly, I felt as if I were on a runaway train racing downhill….

  “There were interviews, media tours, reader parties.” She saw no need to mention throwing up before nearly every one. “As I said, I’m not very extroverted.” That was undoubtedly the understatement of the millennium. “And as Robert pointed out, I didn’t exactly fit the image of a romance writer.”

  It still hurt, Grace realized. Embarrassed at sharing that humiliating part of her life with a man she’d just met, especially one who looked as if he could have stepped out of the pages of one of her books, she dragged her gaze back out the window and wished she could suddenly beam herself aboard one of those sleek white boats cruising across the bay.

  She remembered her father taking her sailing on the Chesapeake when she’d been a girl. Even now, her memories of those halcyon days remained so strong and appealing she didn’t need a psychologist to point out that she’d based all her heroes on the bold, larger-than-life man she’d adored.

  “I’ll have to agree with the Rat on that point.” Lucas skimmed a look over her. “You’re definitely no dowager swathed in pink chiffon ruffles and dripping with diamonds.”

  She laughed, feeling the little cloud of depression that had been threatening to settle over her lift. “That’s one unfortunate stereotype. But actually, I was thinking more along the lines of the character Morgan Fairchild plays on “Friends.” A size-two blond glamour queen poured into sequined spandex?” she added when he appeared not to recognize the role.

  “Never watched the show. But I’ve always found sequined spandex to be overkill. And though I’m admittedly clueless about women’s sizes, as far as I’m concerned, you look pretty perfect.”

  It was ridiculous, Grace thought, to receive such pleasure from a glib compliment the man undoubtedly handed out often and indiscriminately. Ridiculous and foolish, and dangerous. “That’s very flattering.”

  “It’s the truth,” he said simply. Then he lifted her fingers to his lips. “Radcliffe’s a fool, Gracie. He didn’t deserve you then, and he damn well doesn’t deserve you now.”

  The touch of his lips on her skin was warming her blood, but Grace kept her eyes on his. “I know.”

  The awareness was there, humming between them, impossible to resist. “It’d probably cause a scene if I kissed you right here in front of everyone.”

  “Absolutely,” she insisted. She drew in a breath. Released it. But did not back away.

  He cupped her cheek and felt the heat rise, like a candle flame burning beneath white satin. “And you’re not a woman who likes to make scenes.”

  “No.” Her foolish heart had begun to flutter like a wild bird in her chest. “I’m not.”

  His smile was slow. Sensual. Devastating. “Too bad. Because I have a feeling that’s going to be inevitable, before this conference ends.”

  He lowered his head, watching the way her huge wary eyes turned to the jeweled hue of emeralds. “Fascinating,” he murmured.

  “What?” The whisper escaped on a soft, stuttering breath.

  “Your eyes.” He skimmed his thumb in the shadowed hollow between her lower lashes and cheek. “I’ve been trying to decide what color they are.”

  “Hazel.” She swallowed. Licked her lips and realized her error when hunger flashed in his watchful, midnight eyes. “They’re hazel.”

  “Technically, perhaps.” The enticing touch trailed down her cheek, brushed against lips that had already gone dry again. “But they change. Like when we were downstairs in the oyster bar, they seemed blue. But in the elevator, on the way up here, I decided they were turquoise.”

  His fingers were callused, like the finest grade of sandpaper. Although she’d never considered herself a very physical woman, they were making her ache to feel them all over her body.

  “And now they’re as green as emeralds.” His mouth hovered a whisper away from hers. “As deep as the sea.”

  “We can’t…I can’t…You c-c-can’t.” Grace had thought she’d outgrown her childhood stutter.

  “Yes.” Her lips parted beneath his thumb, silently inviting the kiss she was trying to insist she did not want. “I can.” He watched her eyes darken. “You can.” His tantalizing touch journeyed to the corner of her mouth. “And we will.”

  “Lucas…please.”

  “Please yes? Or please no?�
��

  He suspected she meant the latter. But she was wrong. This had been inevitable from the minute he’d walked into Neptune’s Table. No, Lucas decided, before that. When he’d stayed at the office that extra five minutes, strangely unwilling to leave, which had him there to take Samantha’s call. He’d never been a man who believed in destiny. Never trusted in fate. Until now.

  When she didn’t immediately answer, he made the decision for her, for both of them. “Later,” he decided. “It’s probably best without the audience.” Unwilling to give up contact, he skimmed his thumb over her lips one last time. Then sighed. “Besides, you still have to change before this evening’s festivities. And although you look gorgeous just the way you are, you’ll undoubtedly want time to primp.”

  Once again his compliment sent a rush of unbidden pleasure through her. Lord, Grace thought, she was hopeless. A single look, or touch, or word from this man was all it took to turn her into Silly Putty. She was going to have to work on that. Really she was. Beginning now.

  “You’re right.” She reminded herself that she was a strong, independent woman. A woman who had gained control over her life. Because her pulse was still jittery, she forced herself to look straight into his dark, devilish eyes. “This conference is important to me, Mr. Kincaid. I have a great deal riding on it, along with responsibilities I can’t put aside to play games with you.”

  “For the record, sugar, I don’t play games.”

  The flirtatious tone was gone from his voice. It was rough, and edged with a frustration that had darkened his eyes to almost black. Once again her system jolted; once again she managed to steady it. Just barely.

  “My point was,” she said, her voice cool, her eyes frost, “I do not have time for a dalliance, an affair, or a quick roll in the hay—”

  “Believe me, Grade, when I do take you to bed, there’ll be nothing quick about it.”

  Oh, she did. Absolutely. And that, of course, was part of the problem. “As I was saying,” she said, forging on, “you’re a distraction I can’t afford. If you keep talking to me like this, I’m going to have to call S. J. Slade and request another bodyguard.”

  Lucas was not at all wild about being called a distraction. But he also wasn’t one to blow a job. Even one he hadn’t wanted in the first place.

  “Better watch what buttons you push, Gracie,” he advised mildly. “Unless you want to discover exactly how much of a distraction I can be.” He pushed back from the table, rose, folded his arms and looked down at her. “Ready to go?”

  Heaven help her, her rebellious body, which seemed to have taken on a mind of its own, was actually responding to that veiled threat. What on earth was wrong with her? Hadn’t she learned anything after her debacle of a marriage? The last time she’d been so charmed by a man had turned out disastrously.

  But she was no longer an insecure, foolhardy young girl. She was a grown woman, successful beyond her wildest childhood dreams. Surely she was capable of handling Lucas Kincaid. It was, after all, only three days. Three days during which she was going to be incredibly busy. So busy she’d hardly even notice Lucas was with her.

  As she pushed herself to her feet, stifling the oath that was dancing on the tip of her tongue, it occurred to Grace that ignoring Lucas would undoubtedly be a great deal easier said than done.

  Paying scant heed to her earlier admonition, Lucas put a blatantly proprietary hand on her waist as he ushered her past the tables of romance writers, all of whom eyed the couple with open speculation.

  Neither spoke as they waited for the elevator. But the tension hovered between them like a live wire. Grace breathed a sigh of relief when, after what seemed an eternity, it finally reached their floor and opened with a hiss of the doors. They entered, and as the doors closed again, Lucas pushed the button.

  “You can’t tell me you haven’t been wondering,” he said as he watched the numbers flash above the door.

  “Wondering about what?”

  “What it would be like. Me kissing you.” His gaze drifted to her face, skimmed down to her lips. “You kissing me back.”

  “Lucas—” she warned, holding up a hand like a traffic cop “—don’t you dare….”

  “Too late.” He gathered her close, covered her mouth with his and took what he wanted.

  Lucas had kissed other women before. More than he cared to count. But none of them had ever instantly fogged his brain, as was happening now. He’d suspected she’d be sweet. And she was. Sweet and succulent and delicious. But he hadn’t been prepared for the punch that followed the initial taste.

  Uncharacteristically unsure of his footing, like a man backing away from the jagged edge of a steep precipice, he drew away, just far enough to see her eyes, which blinked open at the sudden separation. They were dark and dazed and revealed both shock and a wariness he could identify with.

  He wanted her. Wildly. Worse yet, he needed her. Desperately. Both were something he was going to have to think about later, when his thoughts had cleared and his body stopped feeling as if cluster bombs were exploding inside it.

  “Well.” Unwilling to give up complete contact, he trailed a fingertip along the edge of her top lip and was rewarded by her slight tremor. “That was certainly a surprise.”

  “Not a pleasant one.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, Grace assured herself. Pleasant didn’t begin to describe his kiss. Mind blinding, perhaps. Earth-shattering. But pleasant? No way.

  “Should I apologize?” With her blood still pounding in her ears, his steady voice—how dare he be calm, when she was so shaken!—sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of the sea.

  Grace knew she could have stopped the kiss. Should have stopped it. But as his head had lowered slowly, inexorably toward hers, she’d told herself it was only a test. Of course she was curious. What female wouldn’t be? Lucas Kincaid was the kind of man women dreamed about, the kind romance writers wrote stories about. The problem was, she’d come to the conclusion that such dashing heroes that populated the pages of her books didn’t exist in real life.

  “No.” Her voice was ragged. Shaky. Grace hated it. She drew in a breath meant to calm, then tried again. “But there’s one thing we need to get straight.”

  “All right.”

  “I realize that men think that because a woman writes romance novels, she’s always in the mood for research, but—”

  “Is that what you think that kiss was about?” Anger steamrolled over any lingering desire. Since it kept him from groveling, Lucas welcomed it.

  The cold fury in his eyes affected her far more strongly than Robert’s earlier hot glare. Lucas’s words fell between them like chips of ice, belying the earlier warmth of his mouth.

  “Wasn’t it?”

  Reminding himself that his assignment was to keep her alive, which he could hardly do if he ran her off the first night of the conference, Lucas managed, just barely, to control another wave of temper. “Hell, no.”

  “I’m sorry if I jumped to the wrong conclusion. It’s just that some men—”

  “Now there you go,” he drawled. “Shooting those little barbs at my ego again by lumping me in with a bunch of cretins who might hit on a lady just because of the mistaken idea she has sex on her mind.”

  There was no way Grace was going to admit that she knew very few women who could be in such dose proximity to Lucas Kincaid and not harbor sexual thoughts.

  “Then why did you kiss me?”

  “Because you’re gorgeous, sexy, spunky as hell beneath that Princess Grace composure, and because you smell pretty dam good, too. But most of all, I did it to please myself. And hopefully, to please you.”

  Oh, it had certainly done that. But it had also shaken her to her toes. “Well, it can’t happen again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’ve both come here with a job to do. A job that doesn’t involve fooling around.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of mixing work and play?”

  “Yes. It’s ju
st that I’ve never believed in it.”

  He shook his head. “That is, without a doubt, the most pitiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

  The deep drawl took the sting out of the accusation, and the renewed teasing glint in his eyes drew a faint smile of her own.

  “I can’t picture you being in the navy…following orders,” she elaborated, when he lifted a questioning dark brow.

  “Sometimes my commanding officers couldn’t see it, either. When I wasn’t real good about following orders.” He didn’t add that in the world of covert operations, where the men sent into dangerous locales in the middle of the night often had to make up the plan on the spot, things were a lot looser. Which was the only reason he’d managed to last as long as he had. “That’s one of the reasons I left.”

  “To become a bodyguard.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t mention that he’d been planning to quit the bodyguard gig until he walked into the oyster bar and met her.

  She angled her head, studying him. “From my conversation with Samantha Slade, I have the distinct impression that you may have jumped out of that proverbial frying pan into the fire. She sounded like a very formidable woman.”

  “She is that,” Lucas agreed. “And speaking of fires, I have to warn you, Gracie, that I’m suddenly struck with another urge to kiss you.”

  “Resist it,” she advised as she exited the elevator, ignoring the interested glances of writers she thankfully didn’t personally know.

  When Lucas started walking down the hallway with her, she stopped and looked up at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Walking you to your suite.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Of course it is.” He put a hand on her waist again. “My daddy always taught me to treat a lady with manners. Which, in my book, means walking her home after stealing a kiss.”

  “If you have to steal that kiss, perhaps your manners need a little work in the first place,” Grace suggested dryly.

  “Now there’s a thought,” Lucas agreed. “But since I can’t ever recall a time when the lady didn’t honestly want to be kissed, I’m not quite certain it fits the circumstances.”