Escape To Sunset: One Night Stand Romance-Hiding From The Mob (Sunset SEALs Book 4)

by Sharon Hamilton

  Okay, so much for not being seen.

  He allowed himself a chuckle and really didn’t care whether she believed him or not. The whole situation was beginning to annoy him. “I’ve tried just about every way I know how to convince you I mean you absolutely no harm. But if you want to be that way, fine. I don’t know what fox got in your hen house but, lady, there’s no problem on this end. Now if you don’t mind I’m going to get as far away from you, your hat, your blanket, and this beach as possible.”

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through,” she spat. It stopped his intention to run away.

  “How could I? You won’t listen to a damn thing I have to say.” He let his shoulders fall as he sighed, trying to relax the muscles at the base of his neck. “Look. Let’s just call a truce and go our separate ways. Does that meet with your approval, or is there something you don’t like about that comment?”

  His night vision must have kicked in, because he saw her hand flash through the air a millisecond before her open palm slapped him across the cheek. Memories flooded his brain of growing up on the island. Two nasty Samoan sisters in his school who outweighed him by at least three times had bullied him all through grammar school and into Junior High. Until that fateful day he hit one of them back and got expelled.

  Reflex made him grab her forearms and yank her into him.

  “Stop it, you Haole tart. I won’t hurt you but I’ll defend myself.”

  She was wiggling in front of him, trying to keep air space between them. Then she was kicking his shins with her bare feet, hooking herself around his thick legs and trying to get him off balance. Her fingers reached for his face to scratch him, but he could hold both her wrists in one of his hands, the other arm around her waist, immobilizing her the more she tried to struggle.

  He stood like granite, gripping her tighter. He gave her absolutely no room to move as he pressed her up against his chest.

  “Stop it. You’re being a child. I’m not hurting you so just quit.”

  “I don’t quit. I will never quit. I won’t quit until you let go of me. I’m going to scream rape if you don’t let me go!”

  That really pissed him off. He squeezed her wrists together, holding them with just one hand. It made her cry out so he placed his other hand over her mouth. Pressing his nose to her face, he whispered, “Stop it. Dammit. Quit this.”

  For several long seconds with their noses pressed against each other, he matched her deep breathing with his own. He assessed her willingness to be reasonable, felt her weakness, and was thankful as she finally stopped fighting him. Her flowery scent made his ears buzz as he allowed her hot breath to wash over his face.

  She was strong and determined. Angry and not afraid to fight against an impossible opponent, no matter the danger. She was right. She was not a quitter.

  It took another few seconds before she must have determined that there was no real danger present, because just as soon as her fear left, she was shuddering in a series of sobs racking her body. He relaxed his grip on her forearms and folded her into his chest and let her cry against him.

  He felt like his hands were too big and clumsy for her delicate neck and shoulders as he brushed up and down her spine, squeezing the top vertebrae until she relaxed further, her shaking now subsiding.

  He shielded her from the wind coming from the South, brushed her hair from her face and placed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. I only want to help. Please do not be afraid. I’m here now. Nothing is going to harm you.”

  Her arm wrapped around his waist, not reaching very far, as she snuggled in the safe space he’d created for her. Jason felt a twinge of regret that he’d been so harsh with her. Her head rested on his chest just below his chin. He ran his fingers through her hair, sifting, whispering things he’d heard as a child when he’d jump into bed at night with his mother after he had nightmares.

  Whatever horror movie that had been playing in her head must have been something frightening. He knew what fear smelled like. He’d seen women panic and faint in the path of danger, unable to defend themselves or their loved ones. He’d seen it all too often, and all too often he’d not been able to save them either.

  She leaned back, trying to see his face. “What language is that?”

  Language?

  He must have been chanting, or speaking the circular rhymes they’d sing as kids. It came as second nature, and he couldn’t even remember what he’d said.

  “Hawaiian. Something my grandmother taught me.”

  His right palm brushed tentatively against the side of her face, and then he released her all at once and stepped back. His arms fell to his sides.

  “I’m sorry. It was a panic attack,” she mumbled.

  “No, not exactly. The attack was when you passed out. You are scared of something, little one. That was pure, cold fear.” He sighed again, wanting to hold her once more, but resisted.

  She wrapped the blanket around her.

  “Are you in danger?” he asked, suddenly wishing he’d not been so forward.

  “A little. But I’m far enough away from all that. Thank you, and I apologize how ridiculous I was.”

  “No apology necessary. Fear does strange things to people sometimes. But you were brave. You fought well.”

  “No I didn’t. I was pathetic.”

  “You were difficult to stop. That speaks to your courage, not your skill.”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  Jason let her fingers reach for his cheek which had now turned warm and was probably swollen. She’d packed a good swing and the sting surprised him. He did not back away, allowing the touch. His heart was pounding, beating like the drums of his ancestors as she gracefully twisted her wrist and brushed the backsides of her fingers across the side of his face all the way to his ear.

  He could have easily taken her in his arms, and he knew perhaps she’d let him kiss her, but he stood like a statue, feet planted in the sand, like the surfboards standing guard at Hanalei Bay. The wash of waves lapping on the shore stilled his restless and troubled soul, while the distance between their bodies remained. She had the touch of his grandmother and some of the older women of his community—the way she used to bless his cuts and bruises, especially the ones left by the two Samoan sisters.

  This stranger was a healer, and yet Jason knew she didn’t understand yet what her true capacity was.

  As he drove to his motel room, he knew that, if the Gods of his ancestors wanted him to meet her again, they’d create the opportunity. The empty urn sat next to him on the front seat of his rental Hummer, as if Thomas was witness to this magical connection he felt to her. Maybe Thomas was laughing at him.

  He glanced down at the seat.

  “We won’t speak of it.”

  The urn obeyed.

  But all the way back, he couldn’t forget the feel of her shaking body against him, the scent of her hair, the tiny beads of sweat at the sides of her cool forehead, and her probing but gentle fingers.

  He thought about her while he showered and then watched moonlight glisten on the water of the Gulf. He thought about her as he lay naked in his bed, his head propped against his forearm.

  Jason had left the sliding glass door open a few inches so he could inhale the ocean air all night long, which was always his custom wherever in the world he traveled, if it was safe. He dreamt of the beaches back home, lush and full of the scent of flowers floating all around him. He thought about the tanned Polynesian girls he’d dated and made love to on the beach, their modest nakedness a thing of beauty and grace. He felt their full lips, and the smooth flat of their noses as they cuddled, giggled, and whispered things to him. In those days, drunk on the discovery of sex, he didn’t realize how the ocean, the beach and a woman’s body could heal all those broken parts he could not.

  He thought about the girls he met in Coronado who were a bit too fast for his tastes. They wanted everything now, hard and deep, leaving him aching for a s
imple touch of kindness or a word of wonder.

  Like a metronome, the constant rhythm of the ocean sang him to sleep in stanzas stitched together by the calling of sea birds.

  The last thought he had before he drifted off was that Thomas had brought him here to Sunset Beach. It was a bigger purpose than the final goodbyes to his friend. Thomas wanted him to see the place where he’d grown up, to see the beauty and treasure buried here. In time, he’d find out just what that treasure was.

  As one door closed, another one was waiting to be discovered. Whatever was on the other side of that door was his destiny.

  Tomorrow would be a new adventure.

  Chapter 4

  Kiley’s numbness continued all night long.

  She couldn’t get warm, even when she put on flannel pajamas—a rarity in Florida. She believed her heart had slowed down so much, all the blood had rushed into her lower body. She shivered in bed, getting up in the middle of the night to take a hot shower. Her body temperature held long enough so she could fall asleep for a few hours. But then she woke up again in the blue light after midnight.

  Her dreams were smoky, bright orange and powerful like the campfires they’d made during college. In Oregon, you could make a beach bonfire if you wanted to. It was considered a form of eco-cleanup, since there were so many pieces of driftwood washing up from the tall trees that had been harvested over centuries all along the coast. She could feel the spirits of the indigenous peoples, the First Nation, dwelling in the tall trees, looking down on them, waiting.

  She hoped it was still the same today, because those trips with friends were the highlight of her college days. They’d sit in circles, gathered like Native Americans, telling stories by campfire, playing music, and drinking beer while the fire crackled and sent sparks up to the sky. Oregon was always damp. Even on bright summer days and early fall afternoons, there was moisture in the air.

  Unlike today, she didn’t worry then about who might be lurking in the forest or around the barn. Not that it had been safer. Her perception of life had totally changed. She recognized it as a form of PTSD, something her editor teased her about.

  She rolled on her side and watched the waves in the moonlight, grateful whomever had designed this little bungalow had thought to put a small window at sleeping-eye level in the bedroom.

  She pulled the blanket up to her ears and detected the stranger’s manly scent. Kiley remembered the heat of his enormous chest and how his shoulders rose up like mountains of muscle. Nobody looked like that in Oregon, she thought. Not even the football players in college.

  She had no idea there were so many evil men and women who preyed on the weak and vulnerable for their own advantage, who had no conscience and would hurt others until someone stopped them. That awareness had taken a long time to fester and grow. It came later, after her parents were both gone, when she experienced what it was like to be truly alone. She was free to go about her life and explore what she wanted to. It was a fair trade to the other darker feelings of loneliness as she pursued her quest for relevance.

  It all started one day when Corbin Newman III, her editor, had given a lecture in her English class about writing for the Columbia Passage, Oregon’s largest paper. He told the story of its long history of righting wrongs, speaking the truth, and searching out knowledge that lay buried, either intentionally or unintentionally. His salt and pepper hair, worn a little too long, curled up at the ends. He also wore round, silver glasses like John Lennon. She never saw him in anything but faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved, button-down shirt, usually rolled up to mid forearms. He had delicate, expressive fingers and hands he liked to use when he spoke. But his eyes were as blue as the water in the Gulf. That was the most shocking thing about him.

  He mesmerized the entire class with his stories. He wore suede Birqs with striped socks and wore his wristwatch backwards with the clasp on top of his arm, the dial close to his body. Although married, he never wore a wedding ring, which had been the topic of conversation for several days after he spoke.

  Like a moth to the flame, it was rumored that he usually picked two or three young Lewis & Clark girls to do his bidding, calling them interns, but they were much more. Everyone knew he cheated on his wife, and everyone wanted to be one of those girls anyway.

  That had been off-putting to Kiley. Maybe that’s why Newman fawned so much over her, agreeing to start her out at the paper before she graduated. She talked her way out of impromptu dinners and tried not to be alone with him in the car. Her roommate thought she was completely nuts.

  But there was no denying that Corbin Newman III could tell a good story with the reverence and skill of a world-class yarn-teller. He taught them that, if they were going to report the news, they had to make the reader care about the people in the story. Not telling a lie. He wanted them to throw a heavy dose of imagination and fiction, supposition, and mystery into their pieces so someone would look for their byline.

  And it worked. Kiley’s byline was elevated to the editorial page. Her research on child abuse and women’s shelters drew lots of comments on the digital version of the Passage. She had a social media following and presence, and she’d been asked to speak at women’s conferences and for graduate studies courses.

  Kiley wondered why she was even thinking about her editor this evening as she adjusted her body, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. She was as far away from that culture and climate as she could be, except for the fact that she was beside a large body of water, the Gulf. In the Pacific Northwest the ocean was angry and churning all the time. So strange that it was called Pacific, meaning peaceful. There was nothing peaceful about that ocean or the rugged people who haunted the forests and tolerated the mist and the cold.

  She shuddered again, pulled up her covers, and, after battling her racing mind, she finally fell asleep again.

  In the morning, her phone rang, waking her up. The room was bright. With no job to get to, she’d actually slept in until nine o’clock.

  Amazing!

  “Kiley. You were supposed to call me yesterday. I start wondering when I don’t hear from you.” Newman sounded slightly annoyed, maybe a little urgency to his voice.

  “It got to be late, and—”

  “Fuck sake, Kiley. It’s three hours earlier there. If it was midnight, and I know you go to bed early, it would only be nine o’clock here. That’s acceptable for a phone call.”

  So she’d gotten caught. “Sorry, Corbin. I was exhausted and nearly passed out.”

  That part of the excuse was correct.

  “You going to get me that story for next Friday? I’m saving a big spot for it, and I have nothing to fill that hole if you don’t come through.”

  “I’ll make it. I always do.”

  “You make me nervous. All this sneaking around.”

  “We live in a digital age. I can write from anywhere,” she informed him. That wasn’t the real reason, of course, but it was logical.

  “Well, I still think you should check in with the police there, and have them touch base with Portland’s finest. You’re alone, unprotected.”

  “What makes you think I’m all alone? I do have certain social skills.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You were a serial dater in Portland. Forgot about that.”

  The comment hurt. He used to tease her about never getting out of the house, chiding her that there was more life than in the romance books she read every waking second she could. It was of no use trying to explain it to him. She’d rather crawl into a book and live there and would do it in a heartbeat if given the opportunity.

  “You worry too much.”

  “Well, when my lead investigative reporter runs clear across the country because she thinks someone is after her, I do worry. I’ve got a paper to run. Everything you do in Florida you could do here.”

  “Except I don’t think it’s safe.”

  “Don’t you think your imagination is getting the better of you? I mean, we did that story
last year about the chief of police in Vancouver. He was related to half the town, and nothing happened when he got fired and then went to prison. Then you write about a women’s shelter and supposedly get all sorts of calls…”

  “They were real calls, not supposed calls, Corbin.”

  “Honey, ex-husbands are a dangerous lot, I’ll grant you, especially when their wives take off in the middle of the night with their kids. I’m not condoning any of that, but just consider you are over-reacting, won’t you? And if not, why don’t you get the authorities involved?”

  “Because then they’d want my sources, Corbin. You taught me that.”

  “They might even help your story, give you information about some of these Joes. They could do drive-bys and keep you safe. You know they do that.”

  “I’m safer here.”

  “In Florida?” Corbin sighed. “You sure you’re not just running off with some beach bum, taking a little vacay in the sun?”

  “No, the threats were real. My dead cat was real. My slashed tire was real.”

  “But you’ve never been physically accosted. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “I won’t dignify that comment. Corbin, you know a woman has the right to protect herself, and I’m feeling I need protection. Not in Portland. I need some distance for a while.”

  Whether or not there was anyone after her, she didn’t want to tell him she’d had a meltdown at the hands of a stranger, on whose enormous chest she’d unloaded her tears. Finally, she added, “Besides, a couple of goons in leisure suits would stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “You’re blowing smoke up my ass, Kiley. Haven’t you ever been to Miami?”

  “So what’s gotten you so irritable, Svengali?” It was the name all the girls in the dorm had given him. Kiley knew he liked having women throw themselves at him every day. She imagined he would feel virtuous if he didn’t partake, and got off on it occasionally.

  “We have another missing girl. I would have put you on that case. It could just be an immigration issue or mix up. But this time, she’s not fifteen. She’s twenty-five.”