“Well, anyway, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities. When the time comes.”
He had opportunities now, but he felt uncomfortable telling her. How did you mention that the Pentagon needed analysts with your skills without sounding like a pompous ass?
“When the time comes,” he agreed instead. “Right now I need to focus on Nikolas.”
“He’s having problems in school, right?”
This was a moment for a decision. A line he shouldn’t cross. Things were getting personal here, and he should slam on the breaks, hit reverse and hightail it back to the house—without her—before they shared any more intimacies. They had already learned way too much about each other.
And yet, he could no more walk away from her now than he could reach past the horizon and hang the sun back in the sky.
“He’s having problems adjusting to me being back and the primary parent,” he admitted. “And his mother relocating to San Francisco, which was a move he didn’t want to make because of his friends. And being a teenage boy. And all of that trickles over into his schoolwork, so, yeah. He’s having problems in school.”
“Do you speak to her often? His mother?”
Her tone was light and casual, but she fidgeted a little, twiddling with her earring. He felt a shameful but delicious swoop of delight at her interest in his personal life. Was she jealous?
“Only about Nikolas,” he told her.
“You don’t miss her?”
He hesitated, because the end of a marriage that had lasted fifteen years required a little thought, and he didn’t want to sound like a callous bastard. On the other hand, his overseas deployments had strained a relationship that was never as rock solid as it should have been, and a military marriage was always tricky, especially when both parties had a career.
And they’d been divorced for several years.
“No. I don’t miss her.”
That seemed to satisfy Skylar. For now, at least.
She nodded and stared up at the sky, watching a pelican dive for fish just off the shoreline.
He stared at her.
“How did you stand it?” she asked at last. Her gaze swept down the beach now, encompassing every dune and grass, every tiny crab that might scuttle across her line of sight. “When you were in Afghanistan, how could you stand to be so far away from here? I think I would’ve taken a vial of sand with me or something.”
Ah, man, he thought, looking up to the cloud-scattered sky for help. How was he supposed to manage his feelings when she never gave him a second to catch his breath? When would this woman stop reaching inside him and touching his soul?
“I did take sand with me.” Among other precious mementos from home, but he couldn’t tell her that.
Her mouth curved in that gentle smile of hers, as though nothing he said surprised her because she knew him so much better than he knew himself.
“Did that help get you through?”
“A lot of things helped me get through.”
Now, for the first time, she looked at him, and there was no room in her searching expression for a smile. She was all sweet vulnerability now, with the same sort of urgency he felt every time he looked at her.
He waited, his breath coming short, knowing both that this was another decision point and that he’d make the wrong choice—the one that led him closer to her.
Her voice dropped until it was barely audible over the waves.
“Did you ever think of me?”
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to lie; it was that he couldn’t.
Not here. Not now. Never with her.
“Yes.”
She hesitated. In the pause, he felt her gathering the courage to press her advantage, because she had to know—it had to be written all over his face—that he couldn’t deny her anything right now.
“Did you ever think about coming home to me?”
Don’t answer that, Davies. Don’t answer, don’t—
Every day. Every minute. Every second.
“Yes.”
She edged closer, her eyes taking up his entire field of vision and forcing the sunset and the ocean to drop away because they were insignificant.
“Were you ever going to do anything about it?”
He hesitated.
“It’s not that easy.”
“It could be.”
“Not for me, Sky.”
“Why not?”
The want and the frustration both swelled in his chest, making the words hard to find and almost impossible to get out.
“Because I’m a single dad. Because I’m trying to find my way back to my son. Because I’m a useless former soldier with no job. Because you’re my brother’s woman.”
“Sandro,” she said gently, “your brother’s dead.”
“I get that. He got killed in the war and I didn’t. That guilt is hard enough. How do you expect me to look myself in the mirror knowing I’m alive and I’m touching his woman?”
“Sandro—”
“Huh? You got that figured out?”
Tears made her eyes shimmer in the dying light.
“Have you figured out how we’re going to say goodbye to each other?”
As if he could. The mere thought of her departure created a black hole so enormous he couldn’t see his way around it. She had to know that. She had to know how unhappy this situation made him.
He shook his head, unable to answer.
“Sandro, please—”
“Don’t.”
“I’m desperate,” she said helplessly. “I’ll do anything.”
His heartbeat screeched to a stop, but there was more, and it was worse.
Without warning, she dropped the ends of the throw and cupped his jaws in her gentle hands, pressing that amazing body all up against his.
He made a strangled sound, agonized by the firm swell of her breasts against his chest, the stroke of her thumbs across his lips and the husky urgency in her voice.
“Did you ever think that you’re not the only one who feels guilty, Sandro? Did you ever wonder why I agreed to marry him in the first place, and why I broke up with him? Did you?”
Yeah, he’d wondered, but right now the only questions in his mind were how her mouth tasted and how it’d feel to be buried to the hilt inside her with her legs locked around his waist.
She did that to him. Made him forget what was important.
His face twisted with the excruciating effort of exercising self-control. He couldn’t roar with frustration, and he couldn’t take her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Everything was trapped inside him, crowding him, and he couldn’t figure out how to break free.
Where did that leave him? Probably well on the road to insanity.
“I don’t need to know the answers to those questions,” he said roughly. “I don’t want to know.” Grabbing her wrists, he yanked down her hands and tried not to see the hurt welling in her eyes. “If you feel guilty, too, then you get what I’ve been saying. You get why we can’t do this.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t get it,” she said. “We haven’t done anything wrong. We didn’t ask to feel this way, but we do. We’re human. It’s complicated. Why can’t you understand that something amazing can come out of this complicated situation?”
He looked away, trying to get his heaving lungs under control. “You’re wasting your breath.”
“I’m not giving up on you,” she warned.
Chapter Ten
Tears prickled the backs of Skylar’s eyes as she hobbled back toward the house, and they were the worst kind: hot and bitter, with a whole lot of anger thrown in. She didn’t waste time being angry with Sandro, though. Why bother? He hadn’t done anything other than be himself and display the sense of honor that she apparently lacked. She couldn’t very well fault him for being the kind of man who attracted her so strongly in the first place.
No. Despite what she’d told him, she was the problem here, not him. She was the one who’d saddl
ed up and left Boston to come here, armed only with the lies that she could never quite believe.
What lies were those?
That her reasons for wanting to see him again weren’t personal.
That she needed to give him the paperwork relinquishing her share of the estate.
That she needed closure.
That she needed to make sure he didn’t blame her for Tony’s death.
All of it was wall-to-wall lies.
Oh, she’d given it her best, sure. Who didn’t embrace a little self-delusion from time to time? But the denial was played out, and she’d never been that good at it anyway.
Now was the time to face facts, whether she wanted to or not.
She’d come here because she needed to see Sandro again and determine, once and for all, whether she’d imagined or exaggerated the connection they’d felt the night they met. She’d needed to yank Sandro out from under her skin one way or the other, expel his face from her thoughts and rinse away the longing for him that thrummed in her blood.
How hard could it be, right? What man, upon closer examination, was that fascinating? Surely spending a little more time with him would be the psychological equivalent of roach spray: he’d act like an idiot, maybe, or reveal himself to be a complete jerk, her bubble would burst, she’d get him out of her system and she’d return home to Boston free of his haunting shadow once and for all.
Except that that was more bullshit, wasn’t it, Skylar?
Bullshit at a deeper, subtler level, true, but still bullshit.
There was only one truth here, and she’d known it since the night she arrived.
She was in love with him.
Utterly, desperately and unhappily in love with him.
It didn’t make sense, and it wasn’t neat and pretty, but there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. If she had any success diverting her feelings, Lord knew she wouldn’t be here in the Hamptons right now.
What was it about him that touched her so deeply? Was it his quiet strength? His sense of humor? His streak of tenderness that he tried so hard to hide?
She stumbled down the boardwalk, the escalating wind making her eyes stream harder and her leg ache. Was she actually this stupid? Had she actually told him that she wouldn’t give up on him?
Way to surrender the keys to the kingdom, girl. Nice job.
But…
On the beach with him just now… She’d thought… She’d seen…
Lust, yeah. Of course. What man alive didn’t get turned on when a woman threw herself at him?
Those flashing eyes hid more than desire, though. She’d stake her life on it. She’d seen his longing, felt his stark loneliness and sensed his frustration.
Not that any of that mattered.
That was the kicker. Maybe he loved her, too. Maybe, in another life, they’d already be well on their way to living happily ever after and making babies.
Unfortunately, in this life, Sandro’s moral code wouldn’t allow him to touch her, and that was the only thing that mattered.
Her biggest fear was that she could talk, plead or beg until her tongue shriveled up and died from overuse, and he would listen to her. He might even yearn for her.
But would he ever change his mind?
God. What if he never changed his mind?
Swiping at her wet face, she cleared the swaying grasses and headed for the house, which loomed in front of her in the darkness.
Except that it wasn’t entirely dark. Bright yellow light blazed in several of the windows. She frowned, wondering what was wrong with this picture, and then it hit her: the power was back on.
The realization set off another wave of hopelessness, which was just the thing she needed. Even in her advanced state of denial, she couldn’t fool herself about the significance of the power being back on.
Today, the power was back on, and tomorrow, for certain, the road would be clear. There would be no more delays.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, she was the genius who’d volunteered to cook dinner tonight. Brilliant.
“There you are, Skylar.” Just ahead, the shadows shifted and Nikolas emerged on the path cradling something against his chest. His voice was nearly drowned out by a series of high-pitched mewls. “Guess what I’ve got here?”
“Oh!”
Reaching out, she took one of the squirming kittens by its scruff and put her other hand under its bottom. This cute little bag of bones and fur was exactly what she needed to pull herself out of the despair she’d been headed for.
She rubbed her cheek against the soft little white patch on his black forehead, grateful to have something accept her love, even if it couldn’t be Sandro. The kitten nuzzled happily, and she felt the rough swipe of its tongue.
“Aren’t you precious?” she cooed.
“The tuna worked,” Nikolas said. “They were out here inhaling it.”
“Good job.” Rearranging the kitten so that she had a free hand, she gave Nikolas a high five. “Let’s get these little guys in the house so I can check them out and make sure they’re healthy.”
Taking his elbow, she resumed her slow hobble up the path, but he stopped, a worried crease developing between his brows.
“So…” he began.
“What?”
“Dad’s not going to be happy about more animals in the house,” he said grimly. “We might be putting our lives at risk.”
Since she’d had more than enough of the high-and-mighty Sandro and the lengthy list of the things he would or wouldn’t allow, she didn’t bother keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Oh, really?”
She thought of the kittens, who needed shelter. She thought of her heart, which was hurting, perhaps broken. She thought of Sandro with his cool-eyed gaze and reinforced walls designed to keep her out. Most of all, she thought of the hints of passion she’d seen beneath his surface layer of ice.
Maybe she’d never change his mind, but she could damn sure be a thorn in his side every second of every minute until she went home. Hell, at this point, she felt like she was entitled to whatever perverse pleasure she could get.
“You leave your father to me, Nikolas.”
* * *
After she left, Sandro spent a good hour or more on the dark beach with his face to the wind, the better to feel the icy prickle of the ocean’s spray. The pound of the surf did not provide peace. The salty air did not clear his mind. Even when his entire frame had turned to a block of ice, he felt no relief from the heat of his frustrated longing for Skylar, a woman he couldn’t (or was it wouldn’t?) give himself permission to have.
His body felt tight-wired and frayed, like elevator cables that could no longer support an overloaded car and had begun to unravel. His heart was a boulder inside his chest and its beat was a dull thud.
Never in his life had he been this lost. If he’d been dropped into an Amazonian rain forest at midnight, armed with only a compass, a flashlight and a granola bar, he’d have an easier time figuring things out than he did now.
Eventually, it occurred to him that, appealing as the idea might be, he couldn’t spend the night on the beach. So, in a fog of his own making, he trudged back to the house, slipped into the kitchen, and confronted a Norman Rockwell-esque scene that further tilted his earth on its axis.
This isn’t my house, he thought.
His house was cold, dark and empty, even when the power was up and running. His house was indifferent to its inhabitants, gathering dust and gloom wherever it could and blocking any light or life that may want to seep in through the windows. His house smelled of emptiness and neglect, except when the occasional scorch of burned microwave popcorn livened things up a bit.
This was no longer that house.
This house was alive with a blaze of overhead lights, the flicker of candles on the table and the crackle of a fire in the hearth. This house had toasty warmth and the inviting smells of well-cooked steaks and something chocolaty to draw him closer. P
eople were allowed to be relaxed and cheerful in this house, as evidenced by the laughing faces of Skylar as she stirred something on the stove, Mickey as he jabbed at the logs with the brass poker and Nikolas as he thumped out an upbeat African rhythm on his drum.
Sandro stared, riveted with disbelief.
Three goblets filled with red wine sat on the table, which meant that drinking could now be done for pleasure here, as a social activity rather than as the furtive and desperate attempts of a man to wash bitter memories out of his head.
Food was plentiful for once, and he saw broccoli, yeast rolls, baked potatoes and some kind of appetizer—were those cheese straws? —laid out for their enjoyment.
Even the damn bird was happy, chattering and bobbing along his perch atop the mantel.
And then, as though they’d all been zapped with some invisible signal, they saw Sandro, gave a nasty start and froze, looking caught and guilty. Clearly, any feelings of joy could not survive for long in Sandro’s presence.
The party, as far as they were concerned, was now over.
Sandro also froze.
He had the humbling and unwelcome thought that if the three of them had a choice between sharing their dinner with him or with a group of terrorist extremists, they’d take the extremists, no question.
Abrupt silence engulfed the kitchen.
Sandro’s coiled nerves unraveled a bit more, because he just couldn’t get his world figured out. The whole time he was in Afghanistan, he’d dreamed of coming home. Lived for it. And for what? So he could brood, wallow in his survivor’s guilt and bring gloom with him wherever he went? So he could turn away from a woman so amazing she made the breath catch in his throat? So his son could flinch when he saw him walk into the room?
Was that what he wanted from his life?
Or was this?
Could it be as simple as making a choice?
Could he make it?
How, in just a few short days, had Skylar been able to pry open his eyes and show him what he was missing? What additional vistas could she open up for him if he let her?
What could his life be like if she was in it?
His head spun with the questions—and with the possibilities.
Sinful Seduction Page 10
