Born to be Wild

She was your fantasy.

Yes, indeed. She had been his fantasy. At an age when a young man was particularly impressionable, Celia had been lithe, warm, adoring and pliable. If he’d suggested it, she’d rarely opposed him. She truly had been every man’s dream. But that was all she’d been, he assured himself. A dream.

A dream that had evaporated like the morning mist over the harbor once she’d heard the false rumor about him and that girl from Boston.

An old wave of bitterness welled up. He didn’t often allow himself to think about the last words he and his father had exchanged all those years ago. To people who asked, he merely said he had no family.

And he didn’t. He’d never opened nor answered the letters from his mother or his brothers and sisters, mostly because there was nothing to say. He hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, and he had nothing to apologize for. Nick had been the most persistent. Reese bet he’d gotten fifteen letters from his big brother in those first five years or so. There were probably more out there floating around. He’d sailed from place to place so much there would have been no way to predict his movements or the places he might have chosen to dock.

On the other hand, he’d never received so much as a single line from his father. That was all it would have taken, too. One line. I’m sorry.

He exhaled heavily. Why in the hell was he thinking about that tonight? It was ancient history. He had a family of his own now, was a very different person than he’d been more than a decade ago.

The thought brought Amalie to mind and he smiled to himself. He’d never pictured himself as a father, and he certainly wouldn’t recommend acquiring a child the way she’d come into his life, but he loved her dearly. If he could love a child who wasn’t even biologically his so much, what would it be like to have a child of his own?

As if she’d been waiting for the chance, Celia sprang into his head again. He was more than mildly shocked when he realized that, subconsciously, he’d always pictured her in the role of his imaginary child’s mother. Dammit! He was not going to waste any more time thinking about that faithless woman.

Throwing his legs over the side of his bunk, he yanked on a pair of ragged jeans and a sweatshirt and stomped through the rest of his living space to the stairs. On deck, he idly picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon. Nothing interesting, only one small fishing boat. A careless captain, too, he observed, running without lights.

Casually he swung the binoculars around to the shoreline. The area had been developed considerably since he’d been gone, as had the whole Cape and the rest of the Eastern seaboard. A lot of new houses, some right on the water. The only place that would still be undisturbed completely would be the Cape Cod National Seashore on the Outer Cape, but here along the Lower Cape he couldn’t see that.

The quiet sound of a small, well-tuned motor reached his ears and he glanced back toward the south. The little boat he’d seen was coming in, still without lights. Then the motor cut out and he saw the flash of oars. Why would the guy kill his power before he reached the dock?

The quiet plish of the oars came nearer. The boat was close enough that he could now see it easily without the binoculars, then closer still, and he realized the guy intended to put in right here at the marina.

There appeared to be only one sailor aboard, and a small one at that. Probably a teenager flouting the rules, which would explain his cutting the motor early and trying to sneak in. The boy tied up his boat and caught a ladder one-handed, nimbly climbing to the dock while carrying a fishing cooler in his other hand.

Reese grasped the smooth mahogany rail of his boat and vaulted over the edge onto the dock. He walked toward the boy, intending to give him a rough education in proper night lighting, but just then the boy walked beneath one of the floodlights that illuminated the marina.

The “boy” was Celia daSilva. No, not daSilva. Papaleo.

“Celia!” He didn’t even stop to think. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Of all the irresponsible, un—”

“Shh!” He’d clearly startled her, but she recovered quickly. She ran toward him, making next to no noise in her practical dockside slip-ons. Before he could utter another syllable, she clapped one small hand over his mouth.

Reese wasn’t a giant but he was a lot bigger than Celia, and the action brought her body perilously close to his. He could feel the heat of her, was enveloped in a smell so familiar it catapulted him instantly back in time to a day when he’d had the right to pull that small, lithe figure against him. His palms itched with the urge to do exactly that and he rubbed them against the sides of his jeans, trying to master the images that flooded his mind.

Her eyes were wide and dark, bled of any color in the deep shadow thrown by the angle at which she was standing. But he could see that she recognized the familiarity of their proximity almost as fast as he did.

“I can explain,” she whispered, her voice a breath of sound. “Just don’t make any more noise.”

The words had barely left her mouth when a light snapped on aboard a nearby yacht. “Mrs. Papaleo? Is that you?”

It was a deep, slightly accented male voice. Reese felt the vibration as the man leaped onto the dock, much as he had a moment before, and walked toward them.

“Don’t say anything,” Celia warned. To his astonishment, her hand cupped his jaw, sliding along it so that her thumb almost grazed the corner of his lips. At the same time he felt her bump his hip with the cooler she still carried. He lifted his own hands automatically, curling his fingers around the handle, over hers and putting his other hand at her waist. A part of him registered the fact that the cooler felt a lot lighter than it should if it was full of fish. But a larger part of him was much more attentive to Celia’s proximity, the way her soft hand felt curled under his and the way her palm cupped his jaw. Her hands were warm and he knew the slender body concealed beneath the wind shirt and jeans would be even warmer. Even softer.

She waited the barest instant until the man walking toward them couldn’t help but see the intimate pose, then she slowly stepped away a pace, letting her hands slide off him as if reluctant to let him go despite the interruption.

“Hello, Mr. Tiello,” she said. “It’s me. This is, uh, an old friend. Reese Barone. Reese, Ernesto Tiello.”

Reese stepped forward and extended his hand automatically, trying to ignore his racing pulse. What was she up to? She’d deliberately made it sound as if he were a very good old friend. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you, sir.” Tiello was a bulky fellow, probably ten years older than Reese himself, with a heavy accent that might indicate nonnative roots. The man looked from one to the other of them. “Were you out on the water?”

“Yes.” Celia turned to face Tiello. Her free hand reached for and found Reese’s and she intertwined their fingers. “A little night fishing. We used to do it all the time when we were young.”

A gleam of amusement lit the dark eyes and Tiello smiled. “I see.”

Reese felt his own lips twitch as he fought not to chuckle. Celia was going to be sorry she started this.

Another boat light along the dock snapped on. “I thought I heard your voice, Ernesto.” The voice was feminine, smoky and suggestive. It instantly made a man wonder if the woman attached to it lived up to its promise.

Tiello’s tanned features creased into what Reese assumed was a seductive smile. “It is, indeed, and I’m flattered that you thought of me, Claudette.”

A form leaped from the deck of the yacht from which the light shone. Backlit by the brightness, the woman appeared tall and slender. Then she drew closer. She had blond hair caught in a thick braid that trailed over one shoulder so far that Reese knew if it was unbound her hair would reach her hips. Big blue eyes, a heart-shaped face and a slight cleft in her chin added even more interest to her pretty face, but the mouth changed it all. “Pretty” became “sexy as hell” at the first glimpse of those lips.

“Hello,” she purred, extending her hand and favoring him with a brilliant smile that revealed small, perfect white teeth. “I’m Claudette Mason.”

“Reese Barone.” He repeated the ritual he’d just completed with Tiello, who was wearing a distinctly sulky look on his face.

“Did you just arrive?” Her gaze drifted over him. “I’m sure I would have noticed if you’d been here earlier.”

“I docked a few hours ago.” Celia’s fingers had gone stiff and uncooperative in his; he glanced down at her but she was wearing an absolutely expressionless mask that would have served her well in a poker game.

“I hope you’ll be here for a while. We could get to know each other.” Claudette had yet to acknowledge Celia’s presence, let alone the fact that he was holding her hand.

“Er, thanks,” he said, “but I’ll be occupied while I’m here.” He dragged Celia’s hand up with his to display their entwined fingers. “Celia and I haven’t seen each other in a while and we have a lot to catch up on.”

“Ah. I see.” Claudette Mason made a moue of regret. Without even a pause, she turned back to Tiello. “Could I interest you in a drink, Ernesto? Mr. Brevery has gone to Boston for the night.”

The man’s face brightened as if she’d brought him a gift. “I would be delighted,” he said. He turned to Celia and Reese. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Barone. Have a lovely evening, Mrs. Papaleo.”

“Thank you. You do the same.” Celia tugged discreetly at the hand he’d lowered, but he kept her fingers imprisoned in his. “Are you ready to go, Reese?”

As the other pair walked back down the dock toward the woman’s yacht—the Golden Glow, he noted—he lifted a brow and looked down at Celia. “Sure.” In a lower voice, he added, “But it might be nice if I knew where I was supposed to be going.”

“You’ll have to walk home with me.” Celia sounded grumpy and grudging as they moved out of range of the other couple, and he felt his own surly mood creeping back over him. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

Reese nodded. “I guess.” Sarcasm colored his tone as he allowed her to tow him along the dock toward the street.

“Thank you,” she said curtly. “I appreciate you going along with my…my…”

“Deception?” he offered pleasantly. “Fabrication? How about lie?”

They were walking along the edge of the harbor now and as she turned onto a street away from the marina, Celia yanked her hand free. “There’s a good reason.” Her voice sounded defensive.

“I imagine so,” he said, allowing the cutting edge in his voice to slice, “since I can’t think of any reason you’d want to hold my hand after dumping me thirteen years ago.”