Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  It’s not over until you’re dead, and you’re not dead.

  Never surrender.

  She paddled, and she kept paddling. She saw Amber reach the shallows, be pulled in by a dozen willing hands. Safe. And then the man in the tie, his trousers soaked and his shirt just as bad, was wading out, reaching Willow’s board and pulling it backwards, running through the dragging surf with it.

  Fit, she thought dimly. Bloody good-looking. Dark hair cropped close, with silver at the temples. Broad shoulders, muscular build. He didn’t fit the clothes. That is, the clothes fit him perfectly, but there was something wrong about them, too.

  One part of her mind knew she was concentrating on him because she couldn’t bear to think about the shark, about the moment when she’d seen it coming for the girl, the sound of her scream. The other part of her mind stayed where it was safer. She looked at the strength of the arm beneath that rolled-up shirt sleeve, at the muscles bunching with effort. At the hands that helped her off her board, and the solidity and warmth of his body against hers as she finally slid off and staggered in the water. He had his arm around her, and she was dragging her board along by the leash, its weight like lead.

  Words. He was saying words. “Are you all right?” He’d said that before. It sounded American.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah. Fine. I’m fine.” Up the sand, where knots of people stood, looked out to sea, looked at her, and talked excitedly. She didn’t want to look at them. She was shivering, and then she was shaking, her teeth chattering.

  She got the leash unfastened somehow, and the man pulled her straight down to the sand in front of him, his legs on either side of hers and her body sprawled over his, and held her. This should be scary, she thought dimly. I don’t know you. His arms were so solid, though, around her, her head was on his shoulder, and his legs scissored over hers so he was holding her there, too. And she felt safe.

  Brett held her and thought, Whoa. Whoa. She was shaking, cold and fear and adrenaline, and she wasn’t crying. He might be shaking a little himself.

  “I hate the ocean,” he said, when he could say anything.

  She laughed, just a huff of breath, and said, “Yeah? I’m not too fond of it myself just now. Here’s a tip for next time. Most people don’t wear suits to the beach.”

  Feisty as hell. He smiled. “Where’s your towel? You’d be better off dry, surely.”

  “Yeah. It’s . . .” She waved a hand. “Somewhere. Over there. I don’t know.”

  A shadow fell over them, and Brett looked up. A blond woman stood there, a toddler on her hip, her arm tight around the girl at her side like she could hold her safe. The girl who’d been on the board.

  The woman told the redhead, “Thank you. Thanks for . . . for saving my baby.” She choked up on the last words, and the hands that clutched the girl shook. “Thank you,” she said again.

  The redhead started to scramble to her feet, and Brett helped her up. “No worries,” she told the mother. “Anybody would’ve done the same.”

  “No,” the woman said. “I don’t think so. When I looked up and saw the board half gone, and the water churning, when I realized it was Melody on there, and then, when I saw what it was . . .” She was shaking for real now. More than the girl, but then, the girl hadn’t seen those teeth. She’d been turned the other way. Brett had seen them, though, and Melody’s mother was right. Not many people would have faced down a great white, because that was surely what it was.

  More people had come over now. One of them, the man who’d towed in the little boy, asked nobody in particular, “How many times have we said we need shark nets? This isn’t happening in Sydney, because they got smart and got proactive. We need those nets now. What’s it going to take? When a shark has a kid’s leg off, will that do it? When she bleeds out in the water?”

  Melody’s mother stiffened in shock, and beside Brett, the redhead did the same. He held up a hand and said, “Stop,” in his calmest, most authoritative tone. The man opened his mouth again, and Brett talked right over him. “Good thoughts for later, I’m sure. For the meeting somebody’s bound to set up to talk about those nets. But the kids don’t need to hear it right now. Everybody’s safe. Look, they’re putting up signs already. Closing the beach. That’ll do for now. Could you help me find this lady’s towel? She needs to get warm and dry."

  “Uh . . .” the redhead said. “It’s blue, has a rainbow on it. And my bag. Cloth bag. Blue and yellow stripes. I think . . .” She put a hand to her forehead. “Up the beach a bit, toward the Cape.”

  “No worries,” the man said. “I’m on it. Come on, Andy.”

  The little crowd moved off, finally, and the redhead held it together. She pulled the zipper on her wetsuit, struggled some getting it off, and made a noise in her throat, so Brett gave her a hand yanking the stubborn material down. Black bikini, long, slim arms and legs, and subtle, pretty curves. None of her was what you’d call bodacious, but somehow, it all worked just fine. Surfer girl, brave and strong. Surfer body.

  He shouldn’t be noticing. He couldn’t help noticing. He asked again, “All right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thanks for getting rid of him. I don’t . . . I can’t think about that now, and I can’t help it. It keeps playing in my head.”

  She got her bag and towel back at last, and the man and boy moved off. Brett said, “You need a hot drink. Food. I’d like to take you to get it.”

  “I rode my bike down.”

  He raised his brows. “Carrying a surfboard?”

  “Yeah. That’s Byron, hey. It straps on the side.” She was getting some composure back. A spine of steel, and no mistake. “I’m honestly not sure I’m up to riding home, though I hate to admit it.”

  “Breakfast, then,” he suggested. He had calls to make, preparation to do, figures to double-check. But right now, all he wanted was to take this woman to breakfast. Her eyes were a deep sea-green, her mouth was wide, her cheekbones were high, and her skin was so translucent, he could see the blue veins at her temples. Of course, her face might be that white from shock and fear, everywhere except the faint freckles that dotted her nose and forehead. She was scared, yes, but she hadn’t hesitated for a second before going after that shark.

  “I have breakfast things at home,” she said. “Ready to go.”

  “Surely it would be better to let somebody cook for you.”

  She shook her head. “It makes me feel better to cook. That’s my comfort zone.” Some hesitation, and she said, “You could come with me, though. There’s enough for three. Flatmate.”

  “Yes,” he said, and she smiled.

  He hoped the flatmate wasn’t a man.

  Willow stuffed her wetsuit into her bag and handed the towel to her new friend. “Here,” she told him. “You’re soaked yourself.” She had a million questions, suddenly, probably because she wanted anyplace to rest her mind besides that cold black eye. She wanted to know what an American who hated the sea was doing on an Australian beach in business attire. What his name was, and who he was besides confident and muscular. Not to mention dark and handsome. Broad shoulders, big hands, big feet, and plenty of strength under the suit when he’d held her. Long toes, and high arches. Really good feet.

  Was it a fetish if you noticed a man’s hands and feet? Probably not, because she’d noticed his shoulders, too, and his abs. He might have a bit of silver at his temples, but his body was just bloody fine.

  There was that bigger question, too. Whether he was married. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t always mean what it ought to.

  She didn’t ask any of it. Too much work, and she was knackered. She wanted a cup of tea.

  When she headed up the beach, he took her surfboard from her, which was nice. Her muscles, somehow, felt wobbly. He made a detour for his socks and shoes—black and leather, respectively, and looking as expensive as the rest of him—and she walked the track through the dunes ahead of him and didn’t stop at the outdoor showers. There was a queue
there, as you’d expect when everybody left the beach at the same time, and she wasn’t up for questions and congratulations and arguments. About drumlines and nets, bycatch of dolphins and sea turtles, and the sharks’ right to live unmolested in their own sea. They’d already be talking about all of it, their passion needing an outlet, and she didn’t need to be battered by all those words.

  The man was quiet, which she appreciated. He’d talked when he’d needed to, when the overexcited dad had been going on about kids bleeding out. He’d shut that down fast, but other than that, he’d held her tight and hadn’t said much of anything. Also, why did American accents always sound so . . . well, commanding? In a good way.

  Her overprotective cousins, Rafe and Jace, would have told her not to get into a strange man’s car, but she didn’t need that argument, either. She needed to get home, she needed to cook, and for whatever reason, she wanted this man with her while she did it. Like a shark would be looking in her kitchen window otherwise. Hopping on its tail, coming after her like Moby Dick. It was an image that made her smile, even though she’d never read Moby Dick. She’d tried. It was boring. She’d seen the movie, though. She’d also seen Jaws. Right now, she wished she’d never seen either.

  Never mind. It would pass. She’d get back into the sea again. Just not today.

  When they reached the bike racks, she unlocked her own, a sturdy cruiser in sunny yellow, and said, “I wasn’t thinking. I can’t leave my surfboard here, and surely you can’t fit it in your car, or my bike, either. I’ll make it home OK, but you can still come to breakfast. Everybody called me the hero out there, but I’d never have seen the shark if you hadn’t warned me, and neither would anybody else. That little girl could be dead right now. Instead, she’s going home. Surely you deserve breakfast.”

  “I wasn’t the one hitting it in the nose,” he said. “Or going out again, knowing it was probably still out there. Was it as big as I think it was?”

  “Yeah. Great white. About four meters, I’m guessing. Female, I’d say, unless it’s the fear exaggerating. Females are bigger, but none of them are exactly cuddly. And you were the one who hated the sea and waded out in it to drag us in anyway.”

  “Right,” he said. “We’re both extremely brave, although I reserve the right to call you braver.”

  “Practically superheroes.” She was getting some of her lightness back, although maybe that was him. He was so solid, you could come to rest against him until you’d caught your breath, then bounce off again when you were ready. That was nice. “I’m Ocean Warrior, and you’re, uh . . . Ready Man.”

  “Ready Man?”

  “I was going to say Steady Man,” she said, “but it sounded a bit dull. All right. Batman. No superpowers, just clever, on the spot, and dressed in black. Also rich, but I can’t quite tell about that one. Could just be the suit. Is Batman better?”

  He looked too staid to find that funny, except that she knew that wasn’t all of him, like he did have an alternate persona. She could tell by the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  “Much better,” he said gravely. “And I think you’ll find that my car has amazing powers when it comes to fitting things inside. We’ll give it a try.”

  He was driving an SUV. And, yes, it was a big black one with tinted windows. She gave it some side-eye and said, “You’re either in the Secret Service, or you learned two colors as a baby and figured it would be more efficient to stop there. Also, you don’t mind paying twelve dollars an hour to park at the beach. Wait. Maybe you are Batman. Or you’re in the Mafia, except that we don’t have it here. Our organized crime is mostly things like outlaw bikie gangs, and you’re not tattooed enough. You could be the advance team, of course.”

  “Getting your personality back, I see,” he said. “Along with your rainbows.” He’d already folded down the car’s black leather rear seats with a few quick motions, and now, he was lifting her bike into the car as if it weighed nothing, then setting the surfboard carefully to one side of it.

  “You’re wondering why rainbows and unicorns.” She set her bag down with the rest of her gear, but kept out her towel. Whatever he said, she wasn’t sitting on his beautiful leather seats with salt and sand all over her. “You’re wondering whether I’m seventeen, or just a general idiot.”

  He smiled, the first time she’d seen him do it, and it was full-on charm. Gray eyes showing heaps of warmth, a firm mouth, and all that calm certainty. Strength practically radiated out of this man. “I know you’re not seventeen,” he said. “I wouldn’t be putting you into my car if you were.” Which he was, opening the door for her, waiting for her to get settled, then closing it after her. A gentleman. Gordy could take lessons, except that she didn’t care if Gordy took lessons.

  “When you get to the main road,” she said, “take a left. The rainbows and so forth started as a joke, or as a pushback, maybe. I got tired of people saying the world isn’t all rainbows and unicorns, when I’d try to bring some light into the situation. Like it’s better to be angry and hostile than to make a joke and look for the best. I don’t want to see the world that way.”

  “Your affirmation,” he said. No ridicule in his voice.

  “Could be. I thought about fluffy bunnies, too, but there’s only so far you can take it. The glitter could have been over the top, except that it makes me laugh. Take a right at the next crossing. You drive decently for an American on the left side of the road. Or are you Canadian? Do you come here often? And no, I’m not picking you up.”

  “First time, on the driving,” he said, waiting for the Byron-heavy traffic to clear and then zipping across the intersection. “Though I’ve been here before. It hasn’t been too bad. Just takes focus.” He glanced at her, then back at the road again. “Like most things.”

  “Next left,” she said. “Are you ever not calm?”

  He lost the smile and got thoughtful. “Not often, no. People tend to think the loudest voice wins. Not true. Generally, the prepared mind wins, and the mind that reads the room, holds onto its strategy, and keeps ego out of the picture.”

  “In business.”

  “Oh,” he said, “I’d say anywhere. You have to know your goal, what you’ll compromise on, and what you won’t. You have to know what matters most. When to deal, and when to walk away. You can’t do that if your mind is clouded by emotion and ego. You could say I’ve worked on that for a while, but every habit starts with a day when you decide to do things differently.”

  “Huh,” she said. “But then, I’m a redhead with bad habits, and my mind generally is clouded by emotion. Emotion’s where the big ideas come from, if you can call food a big idea. For a chef, it is, and that’s me. What’s fun, what’s pretty, and what’s delicious. What will make people happier, and how much trouble they want to go to. Emotions all the way.”

  “What trouble?” he asked. “Is eating trouble?”

  “When you cater a funeral,” she explained, “you make eating easy, because people feel like they can’t handle one more hard thing. They can’t make a decision. They want things bite-sized, and not too different or spicy or scary. When you cater a wedding, you make the food fun, like a beautiful adventure. It’s all about feelings in my world.”

  “Good thing everybody doesn’t have to be the same,” he said—yes, calmly. “Where to now?”

  “Slightly shonky big white building on the corner,” she said. “Park around the back.” And told herself, Slow down.

  Except that she didn’t want to slow down. And that he was glancing across at her, not looking at her body, but so aware of it. She could feel it, and she wanted it.

  Yeah. It was all about emotion.

  Brett followed the redhead through the door and into the living room of an apartment that was short on size and elegance, but long on visual stimulation. The square table against the wall, dining and work table both, was painted pale green, and the legs were painted with flowers, yellow and red and purple and orange. A silk scarf in green and burgundy wa
s draped across the back of a scruffy-looking couch, and another one, purple and blue, covered an easy chair. Magazines and books were piled on a coffee table that had been painted black and then covered with an image of an enormous pink rose, with tiny rosebuds on long stems trailing down the four legs, before the whole thing had been lacquered to within an inch of its life. Books lay scattered on the table as if the reader had stepped away for a minute, and a magazine called Delicious lay open over the arm of a chair.

  And then there were the photos on every wall. They were all birds, caught up close, blown up to different sizes and all presented the same: white mats, thin black frame. Three rainbow-colored parrots on a tree branch, looking like they were having a conference. A tiny brown and gray bird, its tail feathers fanned out in a wedge, its head cocked jauntily. A white heron, wings spread, standing still and proud. A little round bird with an iridescent head and breast patterned in navy and deep sky blue, looking puffy and perky, with its blue tail sticking up behind. How did he know it was little? He just did. That one was cute, like you could hold it in your hand, and making you want to. And so many more birds, it would have taken a while to study them all.

  “Nice,” he said. “Somebody stood still for a while to get these shots.” The mat around the little round bird’s photo had a title and what might be a signature. Superb Fairy Wren, he read on the left side, and on the right, Willow. What, or who, was Willow?

  “Is that your favorite?” the redhead asked. “You’d be unusual, then. He’s tiny, smaller than your palm. Men usually go for the powerful birds. Birds of prey. Killers. Size matters, you know. Or so they say.”

  Spoken like a woman who’s never known the difference, he thought, and did not say. Or maybe like a woman who’s been with a man who thinks all he has to do is bring himself to the party, job done. If your only tool was a hammer, everything looked like a nail. He preferred using the whole toolbox.