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Her eyelids drifted closed, and the world went somewhere else, as the shape and the pressure of his mouth eclipsed everything. After a long, timeless moment, gripped by some mysterious suspense, she parted her lips and touched her tongue to him, and tasted him. He tasted like fresh air and something else, something that was entirely, uniquely himself.
Then his hand shifted to cradle the back of her head, and he kissed her deeply. His tongue thrust into her mouth and stroked at hers, delving in hard, and she moaned in surprise, in delight.
This is what it all means, this explosion of flavor and intensity of feeling; she kissed him back, eagerly, shakily, falling into this new eroticism and drowning in it.
Chance sucked in a hissing breath, pulling back just long enough to stare at her with eyes that glittered hot like a raptor’s, and then he plunged down again and ravished her mouth.
She clung to his shoulders mindlessly. He had turned her inside out, and all her nerve endings were raw, exposed to the warm summer breeze. When he ran his hand up her back to press her closer against his body, it was like being jolted with a strong electric current.
“…why haven’t you come in yet—hey! Mary? Who the hell are you kissing?”
The young, imperious voice penetrated her heated mind slowly. It.apparently did the same for Chance, who lifted his head. She made the oddest, most shocking sound when his mouth left hers. It sounded so needy, so like a whimper. Through blurred eyes, she saw his nostrils flare, and his hand, at the nape of her neck, spasmed tight in an instinctively possessive grip.
Two observations, then: Tim was at the front door, now sounding offended. And she was clinging to Chance like a limpet. She dropped hold of him fast, they fell away from each other, and she turned to Tim defensively.
“Why—why—are you spying on me, Tim?” She was having trouble getting her breath back. God, she was having trouble getting any kind of presence of mind back.
She turned to look at Chance, who had whipped away, putting his back to the two of them. As she watched, he ran both hands through his hair, pivoted back toward the scene again, and regarded Tim’s lanky frame with narrowed eyes. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
She watched shock go over Tim’s bony face. Then the boy drew himself up very tall—and he was, too, much taller than she was—and he shot back snottily, “I’m her brother, you moron.”
“Tim!” Mary exclaimed in a shocked voice. He stalked over to wrap a skinny, protective arm around her, glaring at the intruder.
“And Victor’s on the phone for you,” Tim added pointedly to her.
Chance put his hands on his hips. He looked composed again, almost remote, except that his eyes were dilated black as sin, and his expression was tight. “Who the hell is Victor?”
“Her fiancé,” snapped Tim defiantly.
Mary sputtered as she ogled her brother. “What has gotten into you?” she demanded. Then she said emphatically to Chance, “He’s just a friend!”
Chance frowned sharply. “I thought you said you were her brother.”
“I am!”
“No, I mean Victor!” she exclaimed.
His eyebrows shot up. Was that an evil gleam in his eye? “Victor is your brother?”
“No, he’s her fiancé!”
“He is not!” She punched Tim in the side. “Timothy, stop it! Victor is just a friend. This little demon is my brother.”
“Your very protective brother, I see.” Chance stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m Chance Armstrong. I gave your sister a ride home from the hospital.”
“Chance?” muttered Tim, his leery gaze sliding sideways to hers. Something undefinable seemed to pass between the man and the boy. Mary couldn’t decipher it. Whatever it was, it was decidedly a male thing, something in Chance’s unwavering, cool gaze that made Tim’s bristling slowly die down. He reached out uncertainly and received a firm, no-nonsense handshake from the older man. “I, er, how d’you do?”
Oh, now he remembers his manners, she thought distractedly. But she noticed Tim still hadn’t let go of her.
Chance looked at Mary and gave her a nod. “I’d better be going,” he said quietly. “See you later?”
“I—yes, see you later.” She held out her hand. He gave her fingers a brief, hard squeeze, and then he strolled down the steps and to his Jeep.
Tim led Mary inside. She watched over her shoulder as the Jeep’s headlights came on and Chance drove away.
“Mary? What are you looking at? You were really kissing that guy. I’ve never seen you do that. Did you forget what I said? Victor’s on the phone—unless he’s hung up by now.”
“Hunh?” Mary murmured dreamily. “Oh, of course.”
Tim was right. She’d never been kissed like that before. What kind of a kiss was that anyway? It was the kind that sucked your soul out of your body.
Hey, she wanted to call out to the man who’d just left. You forgot to give my soul back.
Instead she went in to answer the phone.
Some time later…
“Mary?” Tim’s voice. “I brought you coffee like you asked. Mary, are you awake?”
She fought her way out of a black hole, toward wakefulness and the sound of her brother’s voice. “Mmm, ’s the coffee. Oh, thank you, baby.” She lifted her head off the pillow, eyes still glued shut, and he kissed her face several times.
One thing she cherished about Tim was that they had always shared an uncommonly close bond, and he was unusual for a prickly fourteen-year-old boy, because he’d never become self-conscious about physical displays of affection. If anything, Tim hovered too much.
Look at how he’d barged out onto the porch earlier that evening, for example. The memory boiled out of the mud in her head, and she groaned.
She tried her mouth again, and this time it worked a little better. “I’ve got to shower. I’ll never wake up, Timmy, if I don’t get a shower.”
“I’ll get the shower going, so the water’s nice and hot for you,” he crooned, and her bed bounced as he leaped up to lope away.
He was so excited. Mary sat up, stretched, and yawned so hard it felt like her jaw cracked. Last year Tim had gone to the fireworks celebration with his best friend’s family, but this year the Thompsons were on vacation in Florida, and he had nobody else to go with but her. And he was too young to go by himself.
Tim bounced back into her bedroom. “It’s ready! And Victor’s going to be here in half an hour.”
She winced at his too-loud voice. “Okay, Tim. Thank you. Go on now, let me get ready—and remember, we’re only going to stay until midnight. Victor’s only had a nap, and mine wasn’t long enough—”
“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “A couple of hours’ll be great. Just get moving, or we’ll miss the beginning.”
He left, and Mary shuffled around her large, comfortable bedroom, feeling like an old woman. Rescue workers could go weeks on five-minute naps every three or four hours—she could surely make it through the evening after her hour nap. After several minutes in a refreshing cool shower, she was feeling more like herself again. It wouldn’t be for long, and it was going to be—fun.
As a graduation present from her grandfather, Mary’d had her bathroom and bedroom redecorated. She stepped out of the shower into a pretty collection of greens and peaches. She quickly made up her face, applying blusher, eye shadow and mascara lightly, and then she dithered over which perfume she wanted to use.
Why are you going to so much trouble? she asked herself suddenly. She stared hard at her bright-eyed reflection. Victor’s seen you at your worst many times.
You know why, Mary, and it’s not for Victor.
It was because of that kiss, because of a “maybe see you later” kind of arrangement with a man you hardly know, a man who’s way out of your league, you’ve admitted that much. A man probably just playing around—what if he kisses everybody like that? A man who is just—flirting.
And what’s more, if you’d had your wits about you earlier when you had Victor on the phone, you would have called off the evening with him and gone ahead to the fireworks with Tim. Alone.
Have you gone insane?
The lecture wasn’t working. No matter how sternly she talked to herself, the excited young woman in the mirror didn’t calm down. She selected at random a perfume bottle from her collection on a nearby shelf, and sprayed some on her neck and wrists. Then she waltzed into her bedroom, humming—what to wear? Oh, a soft, flowered linen skirt with a matching rose sleeveless top, delicate sandals and a plain gold necklace. And the hair, oh, leave it loose and fluff it out, all nice and pretty, there.
You should be wearing shorts, fool.
I don’t care, I don’t care.
What if he’s not there? She stopped in midwaltz and her shoulders drooped. Two long hours, and Victor’s going to think you dressed up for him. Oh my. Both hands crept up to her face. And what if he wants to kiss you?
Tim. Tim will be there. Victor wouldn’t want to embarrass him. That’ll be all right.
What if he does show up? She started to dance again, then stopped dead in her tracks.
How are you going to explain Chance to Victor, Mary? How are you going to explain Victor to Chance?
She caught sight of another reflection from the full-length closet mirror, and she scowled. How, in God’s name, did a shy, gawky thing like you find herself in the middle of such a soap opera?
Off in the distance, she heard the front doorbell ring. Victor had arrived.
What are you going to do now, Mary?
CHAPTER THREE
CHERRY Bay’s annual Fourth of July celebration was held at the old lighthouse, which was on a promontory of land that had been established as a local park some years ago. Volunteer firemen were in charge of the fireworks display that was set off from the point. The nearby beach was crowded with both natives and tourists alike, and food and drink vendors dotted the area with striped canvas canopies. Music from a local band blared from the loudspeakers near the whitewashed stone lighthouse, and the smell of hot dogs and the pastry called fried elephant ears filled the air.
Tim appeared not to notice the taut atmosphere that filled the interior of Victor’s Volvo on the trip to the lighthouse, but Mary did. Back at the house, she had met Victor at the door; he was dressed in crisp linen slacks and a white shirt. She’d looked up into his cold eyes and tight features and felt her stomach sink to her shoes.
When Tim had come to the porch to interrupt Chance and Mary, he had left the phone off the hook in the front hall. How much of what had gone on outside had Victor overheard? Could he have heard anything at all? Could his tight expression just possibly be related to seeing her walk out of the hospital earlier that day with a strange man? What did she dare hope for?
With the strong instinct that she was making a mistake, Mary had gone to say goodbye to her grandfather Wallis, who was comfortably ensconced in the library with an old friend of his, drinking brandy and playing a game of chess.
“Good night, Grampa,” she whispered as she kissed him.
A tall, thin man in his eighties with a leonine head of thick, white, wavy hair, Wallis Newman was a gruff man who had a reputation for being terrifying with local politicians and dignitaries. Mary never understood that. Wallis reached up to pat her cheek, his fierce gaze softening into tenderness.
“Have a good time, kiddo. I won’t wait up.”
I want to stay home with you, Grampa, she thought. She glanced toward the hallway and sighed. Victor and Tim were waiting. She threw her arms around her grandfather’s neck, hugged him swiftly, and left.
Now Victor pulled the car into a parking space, and Mary scrambled out thankfully. The parking-lot lamps washed the scene in harsh white illumination and sharp shadows. In the distance, she could see the warmer glow from flickering beach fires and the tiny pinpoints of colored lights strung in the trees and bushes that clustered around the lighthouse.
Tim bounced out happily. Victor locked the car and straightened, his movements slow and deliberate. Mary felt the skin around her eyes tighten as he glanced at her briefly. Then Tim loped around the car, planted a smacking kiss on her forehead so hard he almost knocked her over, and said, “I’m going to get in line for some food. Meet you on the beach?”
“All right,” she sighed, and she forlornly watched him dash away. There goes my chaperon and bodyguard.
Victor curled a hand around her upper arm, and she looked up with a start, then tried to smile. The effort was not returned. “I want to talk to you,” he said tersely.
As if on cue, the first round of fireworks exploded overhead with a rolling boom like thunder, and Victor’s marble-carved features were washed in red and blue.
This was worse than a mistake, she thought, as she glanced again at the crowd on the beach. This was more like disastrous stupidity. There was no way they were going to run into Chance, and Victor was obviously upset, and she didn’t have the energy to explain anything to him. Even if she’d known how to explain it.
Then a small seed of resentment bloomed. She shouldn’t have to explain anything. They may have dated for a few years, but they hadn’t even come to any kind of formal agreement. She never asked Victor what he did when she wasn’t with him. Why was he suddenly treating her like his property?
“Now is not the time, Victor,” she said firmly, and she gave him a no-nonsense nod meant to put him in his place.
Apparently he didn’t get the point. His fingers pressed into her flesh as he said, “When will be the time to talk about it? Tim’s gone for now—we have a few minuets. Who was that man I saw you with earlier? I heard you had dinner with him.”
Mary blinked in surprise. Who’d told him that— Harold Schubert? Another member of the hospital staff? “So I had dinner with him,” she said in an offhand manner. “I was eating—he was eating—we sat at the same table. It happens, Victor.”
“But then you went out the door with him, and your car was still in the parking lot when I left. Did he take you home?”
Boom went another bout of fireworks. The crowd cheered. Mary fumbled for something reasonable and conciliatory to say, but what could that be? He’d taken her home and kissed her, and walked away with her soul in his pocket.
She scowled and said, “So what if he did? Is that a crime? He offered and I was too tired to drive, and anyway—why are you checking up on me like this?”
Suddenly his demeanor changed, became soothing. His grip on her arm loosened, and he rubbed her shoulders. “I’m sorry. That sounded bad, didn’t it? I was just worried about you, darling, that’s all. I didn’t know him and thought you didn’t, either, and if you’d wanted a ride home, all you had to do was ask me. I would have been happy to take you.”
Mary’s bristling smoothed over, and she turned contrite. Poor Victor. He’d had a long, hard day, too. “I knew your shift wasn’t over until eight, and anyway, he was perfectly fine.”
“So who was he anyway?” Victor asked casually, starting to lead her toward the beach.
“He teaches at the university. He was on Harold Schubert’s yacht when the boating accident happened.” And I can still feel his kiss on my mouth. The scorching memory engulfed her; with a shock, she felt the private area between her legs throb gently.
She looked around in confusion, cheeks flaming. She was too tired; the barrier between thought and action was too ephemeral, untrustworthy. She was afraid of what she might inadvertently blurt out if Victor continued his interrogation much longer.
Over the staccato explosions overhead and the noise of the crowd, she could hear the roar of an approaching motorcycle, and absentmindedly glanced in that direction.
The roar subsided into a low engine growl as a Harley-Davidson pulled into an empty parking space. There were two riders, a man driving and a woman riding pillion. They both wore black helmets and protective leather jackets. The man was wearing straight-legged, faded jeans and a white T-shirt, and the woman’s lush, curved legs were bared by a black minidress. She wore, Mary saw with amazement, high-heeled stiletto pumps.
There was something familiar about the man’s large, powerful body. She watched as he lowered the kick-stand with the toe of his boot and they dismounted, removing their helmets.
The man’s overlong blond hair lifted in the breeze. The woman’s hair tumbled out, a long, curling, glorious mass of coppery red. They locked their helmets in the bike’s carrier, chatting together companionably, and turned to the beach.
Mary’s heart emitted one hard, dismayed kick. Chance, his tanned, chiseled features relaxed, the wide breadth of his shoulders a tough, aggressive angle in contrast to slim hips and lithe, muscular legs. The woman, the hourglass shape of her body extravagantly feminine, her leather jacket unzipped to reveal a deep neckline that showcased a lovely, generous cleavage, her long green eyes gleaming like a cat’s.
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