For His Son's Sake

Growling, he set the computer aside and crossed to the glass doors opening onto the back deck of the house. Why not phone in? Ask Delia if she would—

His thoughts skidded to a halt. No way. Delia had reminded him emphatically just before he left Friday afternoon that she wasn’t going to take a single one of his calls until Thursday at least. That she would not return his e-mails, no matter how much he hounded her to respond. And she’d instructed everybody else on staff to do the same.

“It’s for your own good, Ross,” she’d said in her sweetly maternal way—the old busybody. “I insist you take at least five full days to unwind. Naturally I’d rather you didn’t pester us for the entire fortnight you’ll be gone, but I’m well aware it’s the only way to reach a compromise. Please, Ross. It’s the first vacation you’ve taken in six years.”

Her voice had softened and she’d laid her hand on his arm, ignoring his scowl and the rigid muscles beneath her fingers. She’d been his business manager for more than five years now and had stayed with him when he’d left his old firm. And she was as adamant about overseeing his mental health and well-being as she was the running of his office. “You need to have some time with your son.”

Sliding back the glass door, Ross wandered onto the deck. Propping his hands on the railing, he stared out across the ocean. Delia was right. He had his son to think of now.

His son. As usual, the words caused an icy chill to settle around his heart. As usual, they brought to mind other, scornful words not intended to hurt but doing so anyway: “What on earth makes you think you know how to raise a seven-year-old?”

“I can figure it out,” Ross had responded stubbornly.

“How?” his brother, Alex, had shot back, furious. “Using who as a role model? Not our father, I hope!”

Ross deliberately pushed his brother’s words to the dimmest recesses of his mind, back where all the memories of his father were stored and rarely, if ever, taken out. Poor Alex was six years older than he was, which was why he had a lot more memories of the father who had abandoned them and their mother when Ross was only three. Ross’s memories were vague and few in number. And unlike Alex’s, they didn’t have the power to wound.

His thoughts turned again to Angus, the boy Alex so adamantly insisted he wasn’t qualified to raise. Angus was the one who had begged Ross to take him on this trip, the one who’d chosen to come here to Hatteras Island before the new school year started.

Not Hatteras Island, specifically. Anywhere on the Atlantic seaboard would have been fine with the boy. Born in England, a country literally surrounded by water, he’d never even seen the ocean before.

Or his father, for that matter, until April of this year.

There was that rock-hard lump in Ross’s chest again. A knot of frustration and worry—okay, maybe downright fear—whenever he thought of his new responsibility. This boy he had inherited upon his ex-wife’s death only four short months ago—a boy he hadn’t known existed until just a few, short months before. Penelope had been killed in a plane crash. Once again his throat tightened with the guilt and anger he hadn’t quite come to terms with yet. The anger he’d felt at Penelope for keeping Angus a secret from him—and his guilt for having been a complete stranger to the boy until now.

Ross’s eyes blazed. Not a boy, damn it, his son. They’d been together for weeks now—why couldn’t he learn to think of Angus as his?

And you didn’t inherit a kid, for crying out loud. He’d had a darned important part in Angus’s creation, after all, even though he hadn’t played a single role in the boy’s life afterward. The important thing to remember was that he was now Angus Calder’s legal guardian. His father.

Ross unclenched his jaw. Forced himself to let go of the knot in his chest. Over the dunes he could hear the breakers crashing. Angus was down there somewhere flying his kite.

Maybe he should join him. Suggest a walk on the beach or something. Only, Ross wasn’t fond of the beach. Born and raised in upstate New York, he preferred the freshwater streams and lakes of New England to the salty sea.

But Angus was another story when it came to the ocean. From the moment he’d seen the Atlantic from the airplane window on his way to America he’d wanted nothing more than to set foot in it.

But a weekend trip to Long Island or the Jersey shore wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Instead he’d fetched the atlas from Ross’s library and traced his finger down the coast south along Delaware, Maryland and Virginia, sounding out the different names of seaside towns until he hit Norfolk.

“Look! That’s where I’m from!” he’d said excitedly, as if Ross didn’t know. Then, in the next moment, the North Carolina town of Nags Head had caught his eye.

“Why d’you suppose they call it that?”

It was the first unsolicited question he’d ever directed at his father.

The explanation Ross had uncovered for him had lit the boy’s eyes with excitement. Not for a minute did Ross himself believe the tale of North Carolina pirates hanging a lantern around the neck of a nag and walking the dunes in the dark trying to make ships run aground so they could plunder them.

But Angus did. And of course he wanted to see the place for himself. Fortunately for him, he’d made the request in Delia’s presence—they’d stopped by the office after eating lunch together—and an hour later a ream of colorful pages, downloaded and printed from the Internet, had appeared on Ross’s desk.

One look at the points of local interest had convinced Ross that Nags Head, North Carolina, was too crammed with mini-golf, pizza parlors and outlet malls for his tastes. Undaunted, Delia had gone back to her computer and brought him another set of downloaded images, this time of Cape Hatteras National Seashore on Hatteras Island, with its miles of empty beaches and dark green water.

Angus and Ross had arrived the day before yesterday, flying into Norfolk, Virginia, and renting a car for the two-hour drive south to Avon. Angus had been on the beach practically every waking moment since.

And Ross couldn’t deny that it was doing the boy—his son—a world of good.

Where the heck was the kid anyway? Ross checked his watch. Quarter to ten. He’d told Angus to stay no longer than twenty minutes, and he’d left the house at nine. Scowling, he descended the steps and headed for the boardwalk that crossed the dunes.

At least Angus had kept his word about staying out of the water. Relieved, Ross spotted him right away sitting in the sand on the other side of the boardwalk steps, looking up at the sky and laughing.

Ross tipped back his head. The kite they’d bought yesterday was dipping and curving in the deep blue of the sky above.

But Angus didn’t have hold of the strings. Who did?

“Here you go, sport. Your turn.”

A woman was walking toward his son, reeling in the kite string. She was wearing sunglasses and a navy-blue one-piece bathing suit. Shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that swung below her sun-browned shoulders.

Ross stopped in his tracks. He’d made a point of shying away from serious relationships since he and his former wife, Penelope, had parted ways—and not on the best of terms. Heck, he’d made a point of shying away from women altogether, but this woman wasn’t the kind any red-blooded male could ignore. With tanned legs that seemed to go on forever and curves in just the right places, she had the knockout good looks that could set any man’s pulses racing. But it was more than sex appeal. There was something about her, in the way she was smiling at Angus, in the way she tossed her head and set her ponytail dancing, that seemed sweet and natural and irresistible—even to him.

“Here, hold them like this.”

The kite was controlled by a pair of strings attached to bright red handles, and the woman was showing Angus how to hold one in each hand, then change the kite’s movement by slowly raising and lowering them.

“Look at me! Look at me!”

Angus was crowing with excitement as the kite responded. Ross had never once seen the boy look animated since first laying eyes on him at Penelope’s parents’ house in London.

It shamed Ross to remember that he and Angus had shaken hands at that meeting, Ross feeling truly out of depth for the first time in his life. He remembered wondering awkwardly whether he was supposed to hug the kid or not. Scared that if he did, Angus might burst into embarrassed tears or, worse, push him away.

And Angus had seemed equally ready to do either—or both.

There was that pain in his chest again.

He left the boardwalk, frowning. “Angus! You were only supposed to stay twenty minutes!”

Startled, Angus and the woman turned. Ross had been standing up in the dunes where neither could see him. Now he stalked across the sand toward them, brows drawn together.

“Is that your dad?” Kenzie whispered to Angus. “He looks mad.”

“He hates when I’m late.” There was a thread of panic in Angus’s voice. “Kenzie, I don’t even know when twenty minutes is.”

And why should he? He didn’t even have a watch.

Kenzie turned, steeling herself to take the offensive. There was no doubt the man striding toward her was Angus’s father. Those blue eyes and untidy black hair were definitely the same. But Angus’s sweet, smiling expression was infinitely preferable to that rugged, unpleasant look. He was wearing jeans, expensive boat shoes and a worn T-shirt, the kind you bought from Eddie Bauer or J. Crew to make you look outdoorsy.

Only, this man didn’t need to invent an image for himself. He already had a style of his own—in spades. He exuded the aggressive maleness of a man in control of his world, a man not used to being ignored. Kenzie made the conscious effort to keep her mouth closed so her jaw wouldn’t drop as she stared.

“Where have you been?” Ross demanded.

Angus lowered his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know I was late.”