Carolina Man (A Dare Island Novel)

by Virginia Kantra

  “I shouldn’t have to be.” The spurt of anger was warm and welcome. “I’m a smart, strong, capable woman. I’ve spent my entire adult life using the law to protect women and children from violence. And then some abusive thug in the parking lot decides I’m responsible for breaking up his family, and I’m dependent on some man to save me.”

  Luke shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  “It’s not right,” she burst out, frustrated.

  “No, it’s not,” he agreed unexpectedly. “But it’s not on you that this guy is an asshole. Any man who hits a woman is no kind of man.”

  “I should have been able to handle it.”

  “You did. You kept your head, you called for backup.” He dropped to a crouch in front of her chair. She felt the heat of his body through his uniform shirt, his breath warm against her face, his muscled thighs caging her knees. A little flame licked through her. “Nothing wrong with somebody having your six.”

  He raised his hand—to touch her hair? To cup her cheek?—and she flinched from the contact like a startled rabbit.

  His eyes fired like gas burners, blue and hot. “You said Brown didn’t hit you.”

  Mute, she shook her head.

  Gently, his fingers feathered through her hair. Softly, his thumb brushed her scar. She could see him assembling the evidence, weighing, judging. “Then . . . who did?”

  Shame clogged her throat.

  Whatever horrors he’d witnessed as a Marine, Luke was his parents’ son. His family’s patterns of behavior were part of his psyche, imprinted in his DNA. He was a product of his upbringing, decent, normal, upright.

  And she, God help her, was a product of hers.

  She swallowed without saying anything.

  Those brilliant eyes narrowed. “Your father?”

  Don’t exaggerate, Katie. It was one of her mother’s favorite sayings. Along with, He doesn’t really mean it. And, It’s only when he’s been drinking. It’s just his way.

  She lifted her chin. “He hardly ever . . . He only hit me a handful of times. Well, six. Less than two handfuls,” she said, forcing a smile. Luke didn’t smile back. “But that once—the first time—he was wearing his Naval Academy ring.”

  Fourteen stitches and a trip to the ER.

  After that, he could reduce her to terror simply by taking off his ring and laying it on the table.

  Sometimes she thought she’d imagined it. Mistaken things somehow. Walked into a door, the way her mother always claimed she was doing, or bumped into a cabinet or tripped on a rug or the stairs.

  She was his daughter.

  She could still taste the surprise blooming in her mouth, sharp and metallic as blood.

  Luke still hadn’t said anything. Kate closed her eyes, unwilling to accept the vision of herself she would see reflected in his eyes. Weak. Diminished.

  This was the cost of breaking the silence, the danger of letting someone in. If he rejected her now, he would be rejecting her true self, the real Kate.

  “You said he died,” Luke said.

  She nodded.

  “Two years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “So I can’t dig him up and beat the crap out of him for you.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “The solution to violence is not more violence.”

  “Sometimes it is. Not in this case, though.”

  “Because he’s dead?” Outrage wrestled with humor.

  “Yeah. Plus, he was your father. I’m not saying that would stop me, but—”

  “I would stop you,” she said. “I grew up and got away a long time ago. Sure, my childhood sucked, but it’s over. I won’t let myself be defined as a victim.”

  “I don’t see you as a victim.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “You’re a warrior. A survivor.” He held her gaze. “Like me.”

  He took her breath away. Nothing he could have said could be better calculated to restore her to herself.

  A muscle tightened in his jaw. “It just eats me that you were hurt and I can’t do jack shit about it.”

  She understood his frustration. Isn’t that what she hated, too? To be helpless. Powerless. But he was wrong. “There is one thing you could do,” she said.

  “Sure.”

  His response was direct and generous. Like the man himself. Her lips curved. “Something that would make me feel a lot better.”

  “Name it.”

  Confidence unfurled inside her, like a line of pink along the bud of a rose. He knew, and he had not rejected her. He knew, and he still wanted her.

  “Well . . .” She rested her arms on his shoulders, laced her fingers together behind his neck. “You could kiss me.”

  An answering smile started deep in his eyes. “I can manage that.”

  Their faces were almost on a level. He leaned forward slightly, still smiling, and touched her lips with his gently, softly, the way he’d touched her hair. She sighed and kissed him back, the bloom opening in her chest, her kiss warm and openmouthed. Luke surged to his feet, bringing her with him, pulling her flush against him, and she raised on tiptoe, finding their fit. He was tall and strong and hard against her, already aroused, the feel of him unexpectedly familiar, shockingly right. Sensation spilled inside her.

  “Do you have time?” she whispered between kisses.

  “Got five minutes?”

  She jolted. “Um . . .”

  He grinned. “It was a joke.”

  “Oh. Ha-ha.”

  He drew back his head, regarding her with half-closed eyes, all that beautiful blue smoldering behind straight, thick lashes. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.” Well, sort of. She didn’t let herself rely on anyone. But she liked and admired him very much.

  He kissed the tip of her nose and then her cheek and then her lips. “You can trust me.” Another slow, melting grin. “I’ve never left a woman behind.”

  She flushed. Did he mean sexually? Or was he trying to tell her he didn’t have a woman in every port? They’d already disclosed their sexual histories. She wasn’t expecting him to make a commitment after one night.

  His mouth came down on hers, harder, more insistent, and her thoughts were smothered, blanketed by heat. He picked her up, holding her butt in his big hands, and she wrapped her legs around his waist because, really, where else could they go? He carried her into the bedroom—he knew the way this time—while she held on to his shoulders, appreciating his strength and the lovely play of muscles in his arms and back and neck. Their bodies rubbed together lower down, and that was lovely, too. He set her down by the bed and unbuttoned her skirt. She helped, pulling her blouse over her head, shivering a little in her lacy bra and panties.

  He hooked one warm, callused finger into the string over her hip and smiled into her eyes. “Very pretty.”

  Her heart beat faster. “I wore the good stuff.” For you.

  His smile deepened. “I wasn’t talking about your underwear, babe,” he said and tugged it down.

  He laid her down across her bed. Her knees fell apart, her feet barely touching the floor. She felt exposed. Naked. Well, of course she was naked. He was undressing, too. She watched him take off his clothes, savoring the sight of him, his solid chest, his washboard abs, the trail of coarse hair that led from just below his navel to his dusky, rigid sex. She had seen his tattoos before. Now, in the light, she studied his scars: the pale puckered slash like a sickle along his ribs; the constellation of small, dark, pitted scars under his arm; a half-dozen lines, nicks, and dents she’d only felt with her fingertips before.

  You’re a warrior. A survivor. Like me.

  The thought of what he had endured, had survived, pressed like a weight on her heart.

  He stood over her, damaged and beautiful, and her insides squeezed together with longing, as if she could pull him inside her. She held out her arms.

  But he only pushed her legs wide, kneeling on the floor beside her bed. A quiver tensed her stomach. She didn’t want
. . . She didn’t need . . . They didn’t have time for . . .

  That.

  “Um, Luke?” She raised her head from the mattress.

  His big hands slid down her thighs, lifting her legs over his broad, smooth shoulders. Her heels touched his back.

  He smiled at her, his eyes gleaming. “Do you trust me, babe?”

  The question took on a whole other meaning with his head between her thighs. She squirmed a little. “It’s not a question of trust,” she said with as much dignity as she could manage flat on her back with her knees apart, all of her on display. What was she supposed to do with herself while he was . . . down there?

  “It’s just not necessary,” she assured him. “What we did before was fine.”

  His warm laugh gusted over her flesh, danced along her nerve endings.

  “Let’s see if we can do better than fine,” he suggested and lowered his head.

  Oh, goodness. He lavished her with sensation, making her body jolt and yearn, hitching closer, jerking away. He hunted her response, wringing it from her flesh, his hands and mouth relentless. Thorough. She raised her arm, shielding her eyes from the unbearable intimacy, but that only intensified the press of sensations, the sounds, animal, embarrassing, the rasp of her breathing and her moans, the wet, rich, intimate smells of sex. All her senses sharpened, focused, spiraling down, and she closed her eyes behind her arm and went into the heat and the dark, consenting and consumed. She gave herself up to the edge of his teeth, the play of his tongue, the searching, searing pressure of his mouth, and the tension inside her coiled tighter and tighter until it broke like spring, like a fever, drenching her in heat. So much, she couldn’t bear it.

  She lay in a kind of fever dream as he crawled over her, sheathing himself in a condom before he settled between her legs. His erection prodded her thigh, rubbed and slid against her sex. She was all soft, soft and wet and open under him. And empty. She felt so empty. She tilted her hips to meet his, wrapping her arms and legs around him, taking him for herself, all that muscle, all that strength and heat and determination, taking him inside her, hot and thick inside her. He filled her, stretched her, thrusting in a heavy rhythm that made her pant, and incredibly the tension was back, making her strain and twist against him as he pounded inside her.

  “Oh, God, Kate,” he said, and she opened her eyes and saw his face, taut and sweaty above her, his eyes dark and hot. Seeing her. Wanting her. She broke again in silky spasms, and this time he drove deep and shuddered with her into the dark.

  • • •

  KATE WENT OUT like a light after sex.

  She didn’t cuddle, Luke thought, regarding the curve of her spine, the inky black scales of justice rising like wings above her shoulder blade. She didn’t want to talk about her feelings or go on about their relationship. She basically rolled over and conked out like a guy. Thanks for the sex, down and done.

  He wasn’t sure if he should take her reaction as a tribute to his awesome sex god skills or not.

  She’d said she wanted to feel better. From the noises she’d made, he figured he’d done that for her, at least. Anyway, he sure felt good.

  He raised himself on one elbow, tracing a finger along her shoulder. Not trying to wake her, just wanting to touch her. She was so pretty, her coppery hair bright against the pillow, her face relaxed in sleep. Freckles dusted her creamy skin like the body glitter girls used to wear back in high school, but soft. He rubbed his thumb over her arm, sniffed her neck. Everything about her was soft and smooth and warm. He could lay like this beside her forever.

  Whoa. Where had that come from?

  But he knew. The thing was, he’d always assumed that one day he would find what his parents had. That unspoken communication, that unquestioning trust, that rock-solid foundation.

  He was twenty-nine years old, older than his dad when Matt was born, older than most of the guys in his unit who were married. Now that Matt and Allison had set a date, and Meg had dumped that loser in New York and looked to be settling down with Sam Grady, Luke figured he was next in line. Not that he felt any pressure to measure up to their example, to follow their lead, the way he had all through childhood.

  He loved the island, but he wasn’t at home there anymore the way that Matt was. Couldn’t reconnect with his high school peers the way that Meg had. Islanders shared the same experiences, growing up with the easy rhythms of the coastal seasons, going to school or to sea, pairing up, having kids.

  His ten years of service had set him apart.

  The raucous cries of the seabirds made him flinch now. A whiff of diesel from the boats in the harbor could plunge him back into the streets of Afghanistan.

  This last tour had changed something inside him. Or maybe he only felt that way now that he was back.

  He wanted to be . . . normal. To have an ordinary life, a house and kids.

  Well, he had the kid part down already. He had Taylor now.

  And a house, if you could call his parents’ rental cottage that. And a dog. And a cat.

  All of them waiting for him.

  He sighed and kissed Kate’s shoulder. He wasn’t making the mistake of rushing out on her again.

  She made a little snuffling sound, too cute to be called a snore.

  He grinned. “Babe.”

  “Mm.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “’kay.”

  She did not wake up like a Marine, alert and ready to fight. He tried again. “I’ll see you.”

  She nodded, her head still firmly planted on her pillow. If he left now, she could claim with perfect truth that she didn’t remember him saying good-bye.

  “I thought Christmas,” he said.

  Her eyes opened.

  Yeah, he thought, amused. That got your attention.

  “I can’t come for Christmas.” She sounded almost panicked. She rolled on her back to face him, so that her breasts moved in interesting ways under the sheet. “That’s family time.”

  He lifted his gaze from her breasts. The best defense, he decided, was a good offense. “You don’t like my family?”

  “Of course I . . .” She glared at him. “That’s not the point.”

  He knew that. Kate had spent so many years running away from family. He would have to work hard to make her accept being part of a family again.

  “Just think about it,” he said.

  Once she got used to the idea . . . Everybody liked his family. If she’d just give them a chance, give him a chance, she’d see.

  Sixteen

  “I DON’T SEE why I have to clean up the yard.”

  Taylor’s voice carried from the kitchen in the Pirates’ Rest to the laundry room, where Luke was attempting to sort their clothes. Did he wash his daughter’s red sweater with his khakis or with jeans? And what about her leggings?

  “It’s not like anybody’s coming to stay,” Taylor continued, sounding snotty.

  “We don’t just clean for guests,” Tess said in an admirably patient voice. “And you promised your dad that you would take care of the puppy.”

  “I am taking care of him. I took him out twice today. He hasn’t gone in the house hardly at all.”

  Luke had heard enough. He dumped detergent into the washing machine and stalked into the kitchen, delighted to have an excuse to take a break from laundry. “You’re responsible for your own messes. And your dog’s.”

  Taylor and his mother turned to him with nearly identical expressions of surprise. Tess didn’t say anything.

  Taylor’s face turned tragic. “But I’m going to Madison’s this afternoon. Her mom got the new Wii dance game. She’s expecting me.”

  He was glad his daughter was making friends. But that didn’t excuse her from her responsibilities. “So you’ll dance after you pick up the dog poop.”

  “Fine. I’ll pick up JD’s. But I don’t see why I should pick up after Fezzik. Let Josh do it.”

  Josh would do it. Probably without treating them all to some big dram
a.

  “Taylor,” Luke said warningly.

  She heaved a sigh. “All right. I’ll do it when I get back.”

  Luke gave his daughter his best deadeye stare, the one that sent his men scrambling.

  Her chin stuck out mulishly. “What? I said I’d do it.”

  “Now.”

  “Fine.” She grabbed a plastic grocery bag from under the sink, slamming the cabinet with a crack like a gunshot.

  Luke flinched. He tried to think of what Matt would say. Or Kate. But what came out of his mouth was, “And apologize to your grandmother.”

  “Sorry,” Taylor muttered.

  She banged out the back door.

  Luke exhaled through his teeth. “Sorry,” he said to his mother in almost the same tone Taylor had used.

  Tess smiled. “For what?”

  “I could’ve handled that better.” Should have handled that better. What would Matt have done?

  “You handled that fine.” Tess patted his cheek. “I think it’s wonderful that Taylor feels secure enough with you to act like a normal ten-year-old.”

  “Mouthing off like that is normal?”

  “At her age? Yes. She’s a preteen girl. Her hormones are just starting to kick in.”

  Luke felt the blood drain from his head. He was just getting used to the idea that he was a father. He didn’t want to think about his baby girl with . . . hormones.

  Tess laughed, taking pity on him. “You’ll be fine. I expect she’s still adjusting to having you home. Testing, the way you all used to whenever your father returned from a deployment.” She smiled, a little ruefully. “It takes a while to establish the appropriate chain of command.”

  Luke thought of Corporal Danny Hill and his wife. Stephanie’s been handling everything on her own for eleven months . . . Have you told her how proud you are of her?

  He looked at his mom, her strong hands and frail frame, her face lined with humor and pain, her brave new hair color blazing like a battle standard.

  Her cane, resting against the kitchen counter.

  He’d accepted that his coming home would be an adjustment for Taylor. But until this moment, he had still regarded his own mother with the eyes and habits of a child. Matt had tried to tell him. But Luke hadn’t fully appreciated what his going . . . and coming . . . and going again would mean for Mom. For both his parents. They would soldier on, without question or complaint. Back to back, the way they had taught their children. But after so many tours of duty, they must be getting tired.