Half Moon Harbor (12 page)

She opened her mouth under his, lips parting, accepting, taking. She tasted sweet, her lips even softer than he'd have thought. The hunger for more grew fast and fierce.

He groaned a little as she moved fully against him, so easily, so naturally. Her palms smoothed over his chest and pressed against his shoulders. Rather than push him away, it was as if she was steadying herself. He teased his tongue into her mouth, and she groaned, giving herself over to the moment, over to him. Her hands moved to the back of his neck, her fingertips teasing up his nape, and into his hair as he took the kiss deeper. His response was a growl as she kissed him back, dueled with his tongue, incited him, excited him, matching him thrust for thrust.

Lost completely, pulse thrumming, he moved his mouth from hers, kissing, nipping along her jaw. She tipped her head back, gasping as he found the softest of spots beneath her ear, kissing the pulse point there, teasing her earlobe with his teeth. She moaned when he shifted his thumb from tracing the curve of her chin to brushing it along her bottom lip, tugging, pressing at the softest, fullest part.

She nipped at it, making him twitch hard and pull her into the frame of his hips. With a little growl of her own, she pressed against him as he slid one finger into her mouth, his hips jerking when she sucked on it. Nipping down the curve of her neck, he slid his hand down, cupping the soft curve of her, pressing her against the rigid length of him as he nudged aside her camp shirt and left a string of kisses along the open V neckline of her T-shirt.

She moved into him easily, sinuously, arching in, letting her head fall to the side, the soft gasps, the twitch of her hips, slowly killing him in the most exquisite way possible. He slid his finger from her mouth, then slid two back in, pushed himself right to the edge when she took them almost greedily. He didn't know where her moans ended and his began as he slid his hand under the edge of her tee and slid his palm up along her spine, finding the hooks of her bra. Her fingers curled into his hair, holding, pulling, demanding. Growling yet again, he slid his fingers free and turned her head, taking her mouth hungrily, greedy for more. She met him, dueled with him, taking his tongue, possessing it, then giving him hers and demanding he do the same.

He slid damp fingers along her jaw, down her neck and onward over the front of her shirt. She moaned, writhed a little as he ran his fingertips over her nipples, so hard and full he could feel them through the layers of shirt, tee, and bra. He wanted his tongue on them, wanted to taste, to tease, to wring more from her, for her.

He hiked her up on his body, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist, mindlessly wondering if there was something, anything to push her up against, or lay her down upon.

A sudden clearing of a throat instantly paralyzed them. Then a gruff voice said, “Well, if this is how you conduct interviews, I'm surprised there isn't a line around the harbor, begging to be hired on.”

A
bucket of frigid seawater tossed directly on her couldn't have had a more bracing effect.

Grace unwrapped herself from Brodie, all but springing backward in fact, one hand flying to her mouth, the other to the front of her shirt. She stumbled, her knees like jelly, and would have probably fallen if Brodie hadn't moved immediately toward her. He took her gently by the elbows, pulling her to him, then shifted her behind him as he turned toward their surprise visitor.

That his instincts had been immediately to assist and protect, to shield her from this sudden intrusion, did absolutely nothing to help her regain her equilibrium. Every one of her X chromosomes all but quivered in response to his XY alpha display. As if she hadn't gotten enough alpha from him already. That was the single most carnal thing she'd ever experienced. And that included actual sex.
Holy . . . wow.

“Langston,” she finally managed to rasp out. Putting her hand on Brodie's shoulder, she moved next to him. “It's okay. He's a friend.”

Still feeling wildly out of sync with the sudden change of events, she took a short, steadying breath and turned to look at her dear friend, mentor, and architect. “I . . . didn't know you were coming up. I thought you were at some conference thing in Prague.”

Brodie kept his hand bracing the small of her back and didn't move away. Nor did he seem the least bit embarrassed or abashed by the sudden intrusion. Or that they'd been caught about a breath away from getting naked.

The rightful way he stood by her side even after their intruder had been identified should have annoyed her or . . . something. It didn't.

“My favorite person went and bought herself a two-hundred-year-old boathouse that I get to play with and you thought I wouldn't come see my new toy in person?”

My new toy.
Grace's mind went immediately to the man at her side. She specifically didn't look at him for fear he might see something of her thought on her face and grin.
Lord help me,
she thought, because she'd have grinned right back.

She dragged her mind from those thoughts and back to Langston. “Marnie sent me your sketches and told me you'd be away through next week. I told her to let you know I wouldn't be ready to go through them until after you got back.”

“Yes, she told me how excited you were about them.”

“I told her not to mention that. I couldn't help saying something, they really are amazing . . . but I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

“Last I checked, she works for me, not for you, so of course she told me.”

With a dry smile aimed at Langston, she then turned to Brodie. “This is Langston deVry, an old friend and also my architect for the inn. Langston, this is Brodie Monaghan. The shipyard property has been in his family since the town was founded in the mid-eighteenth century.”

“Earlier—1715, actually,” Brodie said, glancing down at her. “Although Blueberry Cove wasn't properly recognized until 1734, the McCraes and Monaghans were already well in business by then. This yard was originally built in 1765. Big storm destroyed the two main piers in the early 1800s and did its fair share of damage to this place, as well. Half of the north wall and most of the east one were all she left behind. Rebuilt it, though. Shakes on both the exterior walls and roof have likely been replaced more times than you can count since then, of course.” He tapped his heel on the floorboards. “These are original cypress, dating back to before the turn of the nineteenth century for sure, if not original to this building. Same with the interior wood on the rear wall.”

Grace met his gaze, wishing she knew what was going through his mind as he talked about the provenance of the building, its place in his family's history. When he wanted to be inscrutable, he did a good job of it.

Langston shifted a shrewd look from one to the other, but Brodie took a half step forward and reached out his hand before Langston could give voice to whatever was on his mind. Grace was sure he'd be certain to share it with her later, however. Whether she wanted to hear it or not.

“Pleasure to make the acquaintance, Mr. deVry. I've seen photos of your work. Always appreciate someone who is unafraid to build on old tradition with new vision. Grace is fortunate indeed to have such a talented friend.”

Langston's surprised expression likely matched her own. With a delighted smile, he gave Brodie's proffered hand a quick, firm shake. “Langston, please. I'm glad to hear it. I think you'll approve of what our girl here has in mind for the place.”

Grace winced a bit at the “our girl” reference. It didn't go unnoticed when Brodie didn't directly respond to the comment, but after a noncommittal nod and a polite smile, he turned to face her, moving just enough between her and Langston so that whatever he planned to say would remain private between them. “You're okay?”

That he was still putting concern for her first, especially given the fact that her role in the hijacking of part of his heritage had just been thrust between them again, took all those hot and heavy moments and added something decent and thoughtful. Making them—and him—a hundred times more dangerous to her general well-being. She wasn't sure if she should be encouraged and take his consideration as a sign of détente . . . or be wary of being led into some kind of seduction. She knew better than to think that what had just happened between them—exploded between them—automatically changed anything.

“I am,” she said, wishing he'd grin or wink or do something Brodie-like to indicate what was going on behind that searching gaze of his. “Thank you,” she added sincerely. “For asking. I appreciate that.”

His lips curved a bit then, and she made the unfortunate discovery that his being Brodie-like was a hundred times more lethal now that she knew exactly what kind of havoc that mouth of his could really wreak.

“If you're certain of that, then I'll leave you two to your business. I've work of my own needing some attention.” He sounded casual and natural, as if conferring on their schedules was something they did routinely. “I'll be back 'round later.”

“Wait. I—that is, what we were just—I mean, I don't know what you—”

“Stop your stammering, luv. I won't be coming by to collect on some imagined promise I thought ye just made. It was a moment. And a mighty damn fine one.” He lowered his voice to a rough whisper that put every nerve bundle in her erogenous zones right back on red alert. “I'm no' expecting anything. Hopeful maybe,” he added, dimples flashing as the grin deepened, “but I'd be lying if I said otherwise.”

“I don't know what you—”

“Shh.” He placed a quick finger to her lips.

Just that brief touch, along with the vivid memories it evoked, not to mention her twitchy nerve bundles, made her knees tremble and all points north and south put the welcome mat right back out again.

“Maybe I'm simply interested in finding out what deVry has in mind for the auld place.”

“Is that why you came by?”

“I didn't know he was on board, but yes, I was curious to find out how you were going to get from big, empty cavern to inn. Having seen his work, I'll admit my curiosity has grown. Are ye willing to share?”

Am I ever.
“Um . . .” She had to clear her throat and put some starch back in her knees. “They're rough sketches, and everything might change once he's looked at the place in person, but—”

“Go talk with your friend, Grace. I'll be by when my work is done. And we'll see what we see.” He leaned in, stole a quick kiss, then looked as surprised that he'd done so as she. Turned out that brief flash of vulnerability was far more devastating to her equilibrium than any sexy whisper or impulsive kiss.

“Seemed the natural thing to do,” he said, although she wondered if the explanation might have been more for his benefit than hers.

He turned around, giving Langston a nod. “Good to meet you.” And startled her again when he gave his thigh a hearty slap. “Where are ye, laddie?” he called out.

Scuffling sounds erupted in the corner behind an old stack of lobster traps. Whomper came trotting out with a half-chewed pot buoy proudly clenched in his teeth, tail wagging hopefully. He paused as he took in the newcomer and shrank back a step.

“Come on, Mischief,” Brodie said. “Keep me company. Bring your new friend there with ye.”

Whomper took another long, baleful look at Langston, but his adoration for Brodie was stronger, and another thigh pat had him bounding gleefully to Brodie's side. Not so much as a glance in her direction, Grace noted with a roll of her eyes.
Men
.

She laughed when Brodie shot her a wink and a shrug and watched the two incorrigible males depart, shaking her head as she realized they had a similar confident swagger. She briefly wondered if she would look back and realize that was the moment she'd lost complete control of her life.

“Well, I see you've fit right in with the local population.”

Grace flushed straight to her roots. “Langston, I—”

He walked into the middle of the big, open space, the light of amusement making his sky blue eyes that much bluer. “Now, now, don't go blustering and blushing. I was beginning to worry that you'd chucked your old life so you could come up here and hide out forever. Good to see that's not the case.” After a quick but thorough study of her face, he turned his astute eye to the boathouse interior. “Caught you a bit off guard, too, if I do say.”

“You're the one person who knows I came up here to reconnect with Ford, to build . . . well, to build a life, a future. Hopefully one that includes him. Then I'll figure out what comes next. I wasn't—I'm not—looking for anything else at the moment.” She sighed. That had been the truth. Now . . . now she didn't know what she wanted. Or didn't want.

“The truth is I was hiding before, in my old life. Now . . . I feel like I've finally really come out, joined the world at large. I can no longer hide behind the comfort of knowing I can always predict what will happen next. That's exciting. And scary as hell. I need to take it one step at a time.”

He glanced her way, a bit of the devil in his eyes. “You didn't look all that scared a moment ago.” He waved off her visible mortification at being caught doing something so completely out of character. “I'm saying that's a good thing. You stay too closed off. I understand why. I haven't forgotten what you've told me about your childhood, growing up being moved from distant relative to distant relative after your mother passed. You were barely school age.”

“Relative is probably a . . . relative term. When I said distant, I was being . . . kind. To myself.”

Langston reached out, took her arm and squeezed it gently, then let it go. “I knew what you meant. Something equivalent to off-the-books foster care.”

“At best.”

“I know you had to feel abandoned, by your mom, by Ford.”

“He's thirteen years older than I am. He enlisted when Mom died, so it—”

“Hurt you all the same. I know as an adult you understand why he made the choices he did. Then, anyway. It's easy to say that you don't take those choices personally. Much harder to actually do. Especially when you're a five-year-old little girl who pretty much lost her entire family in the span of a few short weeks.”

“Ford wasn't really in my life much before that, at least, not from his perspective.” From Grace's perspective, she'd worshiped her older brother. He'd been everything to her. In fact, she had stronger memories of him than she did of her own mother. Her mother hadn't been well before she'd had Grace, and afterward her condition had only worsened. Grace hadn't known then, but her mother had battled severe depression as well as prescription addiction. She was thankful neither of those had been part of her own life and, as far as she knew, not Ford's life, either. At least up through his time in the military, anyway.

She'd never known her father. As far as she knew he'd taken off before she was born and might have been nothing more than a one-night stand. No one ever talked about him. By the time she was old enough to ask more specific questions, she'd been shuttled so many times she wasn't living with anyone who'd even directly known her mom, much less known who had knocked her up. Grace wasn't even sure if she and Ford had the same father, though she knew they resembled each other pretty strongly . . . or had as children.

Her direct memories of her mother were mostly of her being closed away in a dark room, always needing rest and for the house to be quiet. There were occasional trips to the hospital, some stays longer than others. Through it all, there had been other adults in and out of the house who had helped out, but it had been Ford who had mostly taken care of her, though he'd made it clear he didn't appreciate the responsibility.

Not that that had mattered to Grace. He might have thought she was a drag and a burden, but he'd been there for her, gotten her dressed, brushed her hair, made her meals, and when she'd told him she was afraid of the dark, he'd sat in her room and told her silly stories until he was sure she was asleep before he left her room at night. He'd even made a nightlight out of a battery-operated camping lantern he'd found in the garage. Then, right before her fifth birthday, their mom had gone into the hospital again and hadn't come out.

Ford had just turned eighteen. He'd told Grace he'd joined the Army and had to go fight for their country in some desert far, far away. She'd be proud of him. He'd promised he'd be back to see her. Except he hadn't come back. Well, he had in body, but in spirit, he'd been a stranger to her. To everyone, really. He'd found out where she was living and had stuck around long enough to make sure she was okay. She'd convinced him she was, praying he'd realize that she was anything but—then he was gone again, back overseas. She'd been nine then. And so the routine went.