Moondance Beach (12 page)

“I hear you.”

“If it’s going to happen, it will happen because he suddenly wakes up, sees that I’m standing right in front of him, and is intrigued enough to do something about it.”

Rowan froze, her eyes jumping to the back of the kitchen. Duncan stood framed in the staircase doorway, his face stoic, unreadable. In his hand he held a colorfully
painted shell, no doubt Lena’s latest present. He advanced silently toward the table.

Rowan said, “Uh, Lena—”

“What I really don’t want is your family inviting us both to dinner one night as a setup and then saying to me, ‘Oops! We forgot to mention that Duncan would be here!’”

“Lena—”

“I don’t think Duncan would appreciate that, either.”

“You’re right—I hate being played.”

Rowan moved faster than she ever had in her life, sliding from her chair, sweeping around the end of the table, and taking the baby from Lena before she dropped her. Rowan took Serena and retreated toward the dining room door, giving the two lovebirds room to . . . rumble?

This was going to be interesting. Rowan hadn’t seen her brother interact with a woman since back in high school, when girls threw themselves at him. Back then, he used them and swatted them away when he was done. Rowan had no idea if his attitude about women had changed over the years. In fact, she’d never even heard her brother mention a woman’s name. The truth was, Duncan was a complete mystery to her.

Rowan knew she shouldn’t stick around. Whatever was about to happen here was a private matter between two adults. But then she thought,
Well, maybe for just one minute.

*   *   *

Duncan’s entire life had been about proving to himself—and others—that he could endure any hardship and rebound from any setback. He could swim miles in rough seas, walk days through burning deserts, climb seventeen-thousand-foot mountain peaks, and trudge through
swamps. Duncan could fly a plane, sail a forty-two-foot sloop by himself, rappel out of a Black Hawk helicopter, and in a pinch, drive a tank. He spoke five languages. He could do a hundred push-ups in ninety-eight seconds and tie a bowline twenty-five feet underwater. Yet nothing in his tool kit prepared him for the instant Adelena Silva turned toward him in that kitchen chair and looked up into his eyes.

He was flooded with everything at once—a rush of memory and emotion that pistol-whipped rational thought. There she was. She was the girl from his childhood, the seductress from his dreams, and the woman from the beach. His reaction made no sense whatsoever, but he felt something inside him uncoil and go perfectly still. It was her, his woman of the waves.

Lena stood to greet him. As she moved, her scent slammed into Duncan’s brain. It was the same elixir he smelled in the dream—delicate but earthy, like a garden after it rained.

A sly smile curled up the corners of her mouth, and at that moment Duncan truly believed that not touching Lena Silva would be the one thing he could never endure, a loss he could never recover from.

And yet, at the same time, anger welled up from somewhere deep inside him, and as much as he wanted to devour her, he wanted to send her packing for messing with him the way she had. She’d invaded his privacy, for fuck’s sake! Just walked through his door in the middle of the night. Over and over again.

“You look great, Duncan.”

Good God, she was a foot shorter than him and her waist was as big around as his thigh.

“If it isn’t the famous Lena Silva, painter of
mermaids.” Duncan displayed what he held in his right hand. “And decorator of clamshells, I presume?”

Her gaze flashed to the shell and then back to Duncan’s face. “Busted,” she said.

Oh, shit, this was all wrong. He needed to get in the shower, shave, dress, and be on the seven a.m. ferry to the mainland. His flight to Richmond left Logan Airport at noon. His appointment with Captain Sinclair was at zero eight hundred tomorrow. This was one hell of a time to get distracted. It was one hell of a time to suddenly decide he wanted a woman—
this
woman.

The sound of someone clearing her throat came from the dining room. Both Duncan and Lena turned to see Rowan swaying with the baby in her arms. Duncan had forgotten she was there.

“I guess I’ll say good night, then.”

“’Night, Row,” he said.

“Thank you for the coffee, Rowan.”

They listened to his sister’s footfalls on the main staircase, and the sound reminded Duncan of a ticking clock.

“Look, Lena. I don’t know what to say. Thank you for thinking of me, I guess. For the stuff when I was a kid and for now. But—”

“You’re welcome.”

Just then he remembered all those interviews he’d watched online. Lena could hold her own, and she was doing it again with him. “You really had me going. I was convinced it was my mother.”

Lena allowed her smile to spread. She looked sweet, but even before she said a word, Duncan knew she was about to put an end to their chat. “Sometimes we don’t see the whole picture,” she said, touching his forearm
with the barest brush of her fingertips. “It was good to see you again. I wish you the best.”

She turned to go.

And he did it. Dammit, he knew it was a boneheaded move. He wanted a clean break from Bayberry when he went back to active duty, no messy apologies or explanations or promises to make—or break. Not to anyone in his family. And certainly not to a woman he hadn’t seen since high school.

Yet none of that mattered.

Duncan set the shell on the table, placed his hand on her shoulder, gently turned her around to face him, and Jesus, he did it. He cupped her face in both palms and slowly, slowly, lowered his mouth to hers. He didn’t have the words for the feelings that hit him. He had no frame of reference. Except for one—the dream. It was the same sweet mouth and the same loving response. It was the same swell of emotion inside of him. It was the same damn woman.

Duncan had planned for the kiss to be what the Navy might call a small-scale contingency—using the least amount of pressure required to stabilize a situation. In other words, he wasn’t planning something overtly sexual, but he didn’t want a dry peck, either. He wanted to give her a respectable kiss.

As it turned out, the universe didn’t give a damn what he had planned. The instant his lips touched hers, Lena moaned, melted under his touch, and molded her body to his. Before he knew it, Duncan had gathered her up, set her on the edge of the kitchen table, and proceeded to make a meal of her.

This wasn’t even remotely his style. He never let
himself go with women. His three-pronged approach was always the same: remain detached, stay in control, and keep the exit strategy in mind at all times.

So what the hell was this? What was happening to him? How had a female half his size managed to hijack his body and soul with a single kiss?

It wasn’t a normal kiss; that much was obvious. It was as if a dam had busted inside of him, and there was no stopping the unleashed energy, as if there was no limit to what he wanted from her, what he had to have, and the lengths he would go to get it.

When she arched up beneath him, he could feel every curve and sweep of her body, where her firm flesh pressed against him, where it became soft and yielding, and how much this warm and sensual creature wanted him, too.

Suddenly, she pulled away, pressing her palms against his chest to create distance between them.

“Wait. Stop.” Her plea was whispered into his ear. “This is not the way.”

And just like that, the spell was broken. Duncan quickly separated from her, looking down on the sexy, panting, disheveled mess Lena had become. He recognized those lips, the heavy-lidded eyes, the wild fan of dark hair. And on the table near her shoulder, right where Duncan had placed it, was the intricately designed clamshell, with those trademark swirls of light and color. He had been an idiot not to see that it had been Lena all along.

She was absolutely correct—what just happened between them was not right. In fact, Duncan didn’t know what the fuck he had been thinking.

He offered his hand, and Lena placed her impossibly
soft and small one in his. He gently pulled her from the table.

“I don’t know what that outburst was all about, and I apologize.” Duncan realized he sounded like a robot, but maybe that was a good way to balance out the insanity of the situation. He’d just lost his fucking mind. He’d just acted on pure instinct and animal lust. “My behavior was unacceptable. I hope you can forgive me.”

Lena shook her head and smoothed down her hair. By the time she looked up at him, her eyes had filled with tears. “I’m sorry, too.” He watched her straighten her shirt and he nearly laughed at his own ridiculousness. He’d had the presence of mind to throw her down and devour her, but he hadn’t even noticed how adorable she looked in those clothes—a Red Sox T-shirt and a pair of white jeans, her feet bare.

Suddenly, an image flashed in his head—the way Clancy was lost in Evie, the way he had kissed his wife that day at the police station. What had just happened with Lena wasn’t that different. There were similarities, weren’t there? But then Duncan decided such a comparison was absurd.

He couldn’t get off this island fast enough.

“I heard you’re headed to Little Creek,” she said, still standing right in front of him. Her voice wobbled, but she pressed on. “I wish you the best getting back to active duty. I know that’s what you want. Please take good care of yourself, Duncan.”

With that, she rose up on her tiptoes and delivered a quick kiss to his cheek. Without another word or glance his way, she left out the back door.

Duncan touched the spot where she had just kissed
him, puzzled by how foreign his own cheek felt. He examined his lips and had the same bizarre reaction.

Enough already. He’d had enough of pretty shells and heart-shaped rocks and decorated feathers and Lena Silva . . .
and this whole crazy damn island
. Duncan wished he were already on the plane to Richmond, one step closer to getting out of here and back where he belonged.

Twenty-two years ago . . .

L
ena loved the sensation of skipping over the water. Duncan controlled the rudder of his little Sunfish sailboat, carefully aligning the sail so that it drew tight with the wind. She took a quick look at him—she didn’t want to stare—but these days Duncan looked like a different person.

He was healthy. He was better. He hadn’t used an inhaler for four months and hadn’t had an episode of bronchitis for six. He had just turned twelve, and Duncan’s skin was golden from the sun and he smiled and laughed all the time.

The doctors said it was because of puberty. Lena knew what that was, but she didn’t want to think about it.

Duncan anchored off Haven Cove so that they could go swimming, and then they ate cheese sandwiches on the boat. Later that afternoon, they went on a hike through the nature preserve and Lena showed him the fallen osprey nest she’d found.

They both bent down to get a closer look.

“Don’t touch it,” she said.

“Do I look like I’m touching it?” Duncan asked. “You’re such a bossy know-it-all, Lena.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why did you just spend the whole day with me?”

Duncan chased her all the way out to Shoreline Road.

As they walked back to the Safe Haven, Lena looked over at him. She noticed how one black curl from his head had curved perfectly around his ear. It was beautiful.

He turned his head. “What?”

“You’ll still be my friend, right?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, now that you’re all better, you’ll still be my friend?”

Duncan picked up a rock and threw it down the road. “Sure. We’re still friends. Don’t make such a big deal about stuff, Lena.”

T
he Joint Expeditionary Base at Little Creek–Fort Story, Virginia, was home to the largest naval amphibious training facility in the world. Duncan had first placed his boots on its red clay soil nine years before, and he remembered that day in detail. It was the day he discovered why he was put on this earth.

More than a year had passed since he’d been on base, and his return had a surreal quality to it. The man who had shipped out for another six-month tour in Afghanistan was not the man who made his way down the sidewalks of the base today. Duncan carried a hollow sensation in his gut—Justin and the rest of his insertion team would never walk here again. He figured he was experiencing firsthand something he’d heard other injured comrades talk about: one day you discover that what seemed like the end of the world to you had no discernible effect on a command, a base, or a nation. You might be privately doing battle with pain and surgeries and rehab, but life in the U.S. Navy had been going on, and would continue to go on, without you.

It was a standard-issue August day in the Virginia
swamplands, which meant that the humidity was thick and the air was hot and heavy. It was much cooler on Bayberry Island, no doubt, thanks to a steady ocean breeze. Duncan almost stopped walking.

How had such a random thought breeched the wall of his mind? Why was he thinking about Bayberry Island when his entire career was on the line today? And worse yet, it bugged the hell out of him that he couldn’t get Lena out of his head. . . the way she tasted, her scent, the sound of her husky laugh. This kind of pointless distraction was the absolute last thing Duncan needed, and he told himself there would be no more of it. Besides, he’d already wasted enough time thinking of that kiss while on the ferry and on the plane.

The question was, why? Why was he allowing some silly woman who brought him rocks and feathers—and who basically
stalked him,
for God’s sake—into his thought process? She didn’t belong there. She would never belong there.

He kept walking. Duncan was wearing his service khaki uniform for the meeting, but found that it felt foreign to him. Recently, his wardrobe had consisted of hospital gowns and rehab shorts, and before that it was a combat suit, pants, and brain bucket with all the Navy SEAL trimmings: night-vision goggles, bolt cutters, breaching charges, his HK M4 assault rifle, a grenade launcher and a grenade or two, and his favorite fixed-blade knife and Gerber pliers and everything else. Justin had once remarked that he looked and felt like a walking hardware store, and that was how he got his nickname: Ace.

Duncan was saluted by two masters-at-arms on duty in the lobby of Training Command Building, passed through security, and headed down the long hallway to
the office of his commanding officer. Every breath he had taken since the ambush, every time he’d stared down the pain and won, every push-up, every run and every swim and every time he did more than what was required of him—it was all for this meeting. Duncan was certain that once he opened this door, his life would find its true north once more, and he could once again serve his country.

He would do it in honor of Justin, Jax, Terry, Paul, Mike, Simon, and Scotty.

*   *   *

“You’re not hearing what I’m telling you. This is not an exaggeration. It was a complete disaster.” Lena heard Sanders sigh into the phone. He was about to say something, but she cut him off. “It could not have gone any worse.”

“Do you want me to cut my Paris stay short? All the paintings will be cataloged and stored by tomorrow, and anyway, this show will basically put itself together, the way it always does. I can fly out of de Gaulle tomorrow night.”

“No.” Lena paced back and forth in her studio. She hadn’t been able to paint for the last two days. She hadn’t been able to sleep or eat or concentrate. All she had done was walk the beach, swim, and beat herself up with abandon. “I just need you to listen. There’s no one else who will understand.”

She suddenly heard the sound of a siren, car horns, and traffic noise. “Where are you?”

“Well, I’m about to get a taxi to meet someone for dinner.”

Lena stopped pacing. “Oh. I’m sorry, Sanders. Really. Just go.”

“It’s all right. Hold on a sec, love.” Lena heard him give directions in French to the driver. She knew the place he was going and bet the “someone” he was meeting was someone special. “Okay. I’m all ears. Now tell me what happened.”

Suddenly, Lena felt ridiculous. It hit her—how absurd had it been for her to profess she loved a man she didn’t even know? How delusional? How flat-out nuts? And here she had been whining and mooning over Duncan to poor Sanders for as long as she had known him. Like a broken record.

“I’m crazy-pants, aren’t I?”

“What?” Sanders laughed. “Why do you say that?”

“No. I’m serious—I’m whacked. Running around my entire adult life claiming to be in love with a stranger. If I had a friend like me, I would take her to the nearest hospital and make sure they strapped her down. Why haven’t you ever done that?”

Sanders groaned. “Lena, you are not crazy. Are you one in a million? Absolutely. You embrace the world with passion and you believe in magic, and that’s what makes you such a great painter. Now, back up and tell me what happened.”

She did, and when she got to part where Duncan picked her up and lay her on the kitchen table, Sanders told her to stop.

“I’ve got to roll down the window for some fresh air.”

“Sandy!”

“All right, but am I missing something? I thought you were going to tell me he was a complete asshole to you or didn’t remember you or told you he was going to have you arrested for breaking and entering.”

Lena gasped. “Oh, my God. You did? No, no . . . I never even imagined something like that could happen.”

“Clearly.” Sanders mumbled something to the driver Lena couldn’t hear, then came back to the conversation. “But instead he kisses the hell out of you and you get so turned on you nearly pass out. This is bad, how?”

Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut in indignation. “Well, because it was a little scary. You know, unexpected. I felt . . . I don’t know . . . I felt like I was having a sexual meltdown, like I was out of control, and if I didn’t put an end to it, there wouldn’t be an end. And that’s not how I pictured it happening.”

“Okay. And how did you picture it?”

“You know, the two of us slowly getting to know each other again. Having deep conversations and opening up to each other . . . and maybe then we could segue into a really good kiss or two.”

She heard Sanders chuckling. “Lena, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about relationships, it’s that you have to work with what you’ve got. So if what you’ve got is that your childhood crush has grown into a sexy hunk of burning love who can’t keep his hands off you when he sees you for the first time in a couple decades, then don’t knock it.”

Lena collapsed on the old chaise. “But I want him to know me. I want Duncan Flynn to open his eyes and see me, not just
do
me.”

“Honey, I get it. Your first encounter didn’t go the way you’d fantasized about it all these years. But you’ve finally had that real first encounter. It actually happened. There was chemistry to spare. The next time you see him, maybe calmer heads will prevail.”

She sighed. “He’s back on the mainland right now, interviewing with his commanding officer. He’s going to leave again soon.”

“Lena, just be yourself and do your thing, and if he comes around again, don’t try to control the outcome. Leave room to be surprised. Who knows? Maybe he’s been out there his whole life being in love with you, too.”

She hissed. “Yeah. Right.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Of course.” She sighed. “Festival week is starting and I’m doing the parade thing I told you about, and then the annual Island Day arts-and-crafts-show appearance.”

“Sorry I’m not there this year.”

“It’s fine, Sandy. They always have a nice tent set up for me, and the police department keeps an eye on the crowd. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m glad. Well, I’m here. I better go.”

“Have a good time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Once Sanders had finished laughing and said good-bye, Lena remained there on the chaise, stretched out, enjoying the feel of the afternoon light spilling down on her. She closed her eyes, felt the heat on her face, and for the hundredth time in two days, she replayed in her mind the delicious moment she’d turned around and was face-to-face with him again.

Though she’d caught a glimpse of him at the market, it hadn’t prepared her for being in the swirling vortex of his personal space. Duncan Flynn was tall and scruffy, broad in the shoulder and more muscled than any man she’d ever seen in person. Those eyes were the ones that had lived in that scrawny little boy so long ago—burning blue and alive—and still looking for a fight. Eyes that intense on an asthmatic kid were one thing, but on a
Navy SEAL they nearly knocked her over. Maybe that’s why she could offer no resistance when he’d lifted her up and laid her on her back.

“Holy crap!” Lena rubbed her hands all over her face, as if she could erase the images stuck in her head.

The truth was, Duncan was the polar opposite of every male she’d ever had in her life. Her lovers had been artists like herself, men whom some would classify as hipsters and metrosexuals, sexy in their own right, but certainly not a force of male nature. Of course she knew Duncan had become a Navy SEAL, but she had no idea that his physical presence would be so powerful it could suck the air out of a room—and her lungs. Masculine strength and sexuality rolled off him in waves.

Damn straight he was a hunk of burning love.

Lena grabbed the sketchpad and charcoal she’d left on the floor near the chaise. She began to draw. As the image revealed itself, she had to laugh.

Every muscle, bone, and tendon came to life from strokes of the charcoal. His black hair was cut close, the bridge of his nose high and strong. His eyes smoldered, and his wide mouth stood out from the rough beard, its edges curled in teasing sensuality. As Lena continued to work, it became clear that this would be a nude study, and her usually dependable fingers trembled as they released the details . . . the hard line of his hip, the swell of his quadriceps, the muscled calf and elegant ankle and foot. Her breath caught as she executed the perfectly sculpted upper arm and powerful forearm. And what was it that dangled from his large fingers? It was a single osprey feather, sleek with black and white stripes.

She felt her breath hitch as she finished the sketch, shading the muscles of his abdomen, his ribs, adding the
dusting of dark hair on his chest and the distinct line that led to . . .

Lena stopped. She blew across the sketchpad, and a cloud of charcoal dust rose, hovered in the sunshine for an instant, then trailed away.

She decided that some of Duncan Flynn should remain in her fantasies, at least for now. Like Sanders said, she should leave enough room to be surprised.

*   *   *

Duncan had never felt so ridiculous in his life. As threatened, Assistant Chief Chip Bradford had found him a pair of Bayberry Island Police Department navy blue cotton shorts, along with an official baseball cap and a white polo shirt embroidered with the department logo. The problem was, the shirt was too small. Chip apologized, explaining that Deon Ware, one of Clancy’s annual moonlighters, had already claimed the largest size they had.

Chip looked him over. “It’s not that bad. Really.”

Duncan looked down at how the cotton blend hugged his abs like a wet T-shirt. “If you’re a male stripper maybe,” he replied.

So looking like he was the main attraction at a bachelorette party, Duncan set out to do what he hadn’t done since high school—help out his family during the Mermaid Festival.

“Mandatory fun”—that was what they called this sort of quasi-recreation in the U.S. Navy.

“I appreciate your help, man. Seriously.” Clancy had acknowledged Duncan as he rushed from the station’s back door. “Remember—one p.m. at the parade staging area in the museum’s west parking lot. I’ve got my cell if you need me, or use your radio to call dispatch.”

“Hooya, Chief.”

As Duncan watched his brother drive off in his department-issued Jeep, he realized that an unexpected benefit of being home had been getting to know Clancy. He was a good man, and good at his job. Everyone on the island genuinely liked him, and the tourists respected him. Like Da, Clancy had an easygoing way with people, and he made friends wherever he went.

Duncan had missed out on that genetic trait. He’d had only a handful of friends outside of the Navy, and within the ranks of his SEAL team, he’d had only one true confidant. Duncan had no idea what it would be like to go through life as laid-back and content as Clancy was. He couldn’t be that mellow if his life depended on it.

Clancy was similar to Duncan in one respect—he’d escaped Bayberry Island after high school and had graduated from college on the mainland. His life had led him to serve four years as a Boston cop, and then, when old Chief Pollard was getting ready to retire, he’d asked Clancy if he would consider coming back and taking over the Bayberry Police Department. Duncan had warned him it was a bad move, that he could get stuck here forever with the falling-down bed-and-breakfast, the elderly parents, and the burden of being a Flynn. Clancy did it anyway.