Wicked Nights

“Sitting,” he muttered, before he could stop himself. “And what you did was definitely cheating.”

“Did I distract you?”

“Piper.” He leaned over her to reach the elevator buttons first. “You showed me the goods. In a business meeting.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Mission accomplished. I’m going to win our bet, Cal. Maybe you should prepare yourself.”

She brushed past him into the elevator, and there was no way she mistook his attraction to her. He, on the other hand, decided to take the stairs. Followed by a ten-mile run.

4 (#ulink_14220707-6a04-5b06-98bd-87c40710412f)

PIPER HAD DISCOVERED her love of jumping when she was two. That was the story her mother told, at any rate. Toddler Piper had climbed up onto the back of the couch and then jumped off, both chubby fists raised in the air over her head. After achieving a remarkable amount of air for someone who’d weighed a mere twenty pounds, she’d crash-landed on the family dog, who’d proved to be both a good sport and an ally, letting her repeat her jump move twice more before her mother had been alerted by the noise and intervened.

When she was five, she’d discovered the springboard at the community pool. Then, at ten, she’d joined the local swim team. Racing was fun, but diving was better. When she’d dived, she’d flown. Performing gymnastics midair was an adrenaline rush better than any jump, and she’d ripped through the water leaving almost no trace of her entry. She’d won every meet and moved on to college and the NCAA championships. A berth on the national team headed to the world championships? No problem. She’d earned that, too. She’d been the golden child, the star diver—right up until she wasn’t. It had turned out the one thing Piper’s diving career hadn’t prepared her for was losing.

The Accident—and she always thought of the day in capital letters—had been just that. An accident. And it hadn’t happened at the pool, either. She hadn’t made a misstep on her vault or misjudged her somersault or twist. She simply hadn’t known Lance Peterson had started drinking at eight o’clock in the morning and stopped approximately twenty minutes before he’d invited her to take a spin on a Jet Ski with him. He’d seemed fine, but no, in the absence of an open container in his hand, she hadn’t insisted on a Breathalyzer or quizzed him on his drinking. Hindsight, however, was everything.

Being naively oblivious, she’d hopped on the Jet Ski when Lance had invited her to ride, because it had been that kind of afternoon: a group of casual friends hanging on the beach and enjoying ice cream and the sunshine. In the middle of the harbor, she’d realized Lance was impaired when her close proximity to him had made misinterpreting the alcoholic fumes wafting from him impossible. Of course she’d promptly snapped, “Go back,” in his ear, digging her arms tighter around his waist. Driving drunk was horrifically stupid, and she’d already been measuring the distance to shore. The swim hadn’t looked too bad, although even she had preferred not to take a chance with all the boat traffic zipping through the harbor. Unfortunately, Lance had made an easy dismount impossible, cutting in and out, whooping as he’d driven the Jet Ski left and then right. She’d have to pick her moment or convince him to head back.

“Lance—” She’d gotten his name out, Cal’s motorboat had come around the breakwater and Lance had cut it too close. So close that she’d seen Cal’s face, the look of fierce, calm concentration as he’d thrown the wheel right, ramming the boat into the breakwater as he’d tried to avoid the smashup. They’d hit anyhow. The Jet Ski had smashed into her leg as they’d flipped, and the whole world had narrowed to the pain radiating through her knee as she’d sunk down, eyes open. She didn’t have too many memories after the initial impact, which doctors had assured her was her body’s way of coping with the trauma. She did, however, remember Cal ripping through the surface of the water, swimming hard and fast to get to her.

Now, for the first time since the accident, she was standing on her own two feet. She had a loving, protective, competitive family back on the mainland. Her family had suggested medical school and then law school, before all but begging her to join the family business. She didn’t want that.

Her family was a ranch family. Her great-grandfather had started a small almond farm in midstate California, and the rest of the family had stuck close. Moneywise, there was more than enough in the good years—but they’d never made get-rich money. Other than summers on Discovery Island, her childhood had been full of tractors, ATVs, horses and trails. She’d spent more time outdoors than in, excelling in 4H competitions, winning blue ribbons and awards. Sure, she could have gone home, and they’d have made room for her in the family business, but...she wanted to create one of her own.

She didn’t want anything handed to her. Her three brothers had all happily settled down to ranch, competing amiably to see who could claim the most rodeo buckles, grow the biggest crop or innovate the most. Diving had made sense to them when she’d been diving for a berth on a national team, but owning a dive shop on a vacation island wasn’t aspirational enough for them. None of them had accepted that her new dream included four walls, a sometimes temperamental dive boat and racks of tanks.

Dream Big and Dive’s name came from the heart. Piper had learned firsthand that you had to let go of some dreams, but this time she was holding on. She wasn’t letting Cal Brennan beat her, not when her shot at owning the dive shop was on the line. Her soon-to-be place had a prime location, right off the boardwalk fronting the water, with plenty of foot traffic and easy access to both the marina and the beach where she loaded the dive boats.

Standing there in the front of the shop, she could just read the chalkboard outside, announcing the week’s dive sites and inviting newbies to come on in and sign up for a baptismal dive.

Her cell phone rang, blaring the Jaws theme song. Right now, the ringtone was all too appropriate. Her partner, Del Rogers, was the shark circling in her waters. Her former coach had franchised a string of dive shops in California and Hawaii, including Dream Big and Dive. Del had won dozens of gold medals and multiple U.S. championships, and photos of him caught in midair as he dived off the platform covered the wall in his San Diego office. He was a force to be reckoned with, and unfortunately for her, he was entertaining an offer on the shop. An all-cash, superattractive and almost-impossible-to-beat offer. The offer worried her, but she’d made a career of winning, and she’d overcome the odds this time, too.

“Piper,” he barked in the same voice that had demanded more of her fifteen-year-old self. More sit-ups, more push-ups, more air or more rotations. She’d always given it to him, and he’d coached her to be the very best.

“Good to hear your voice.” Not.

No chitchat. Del went straight to business. “Have you made a decision on the Discovery Island site?”

“I still want to buy out your interest,” she said, playing for time. Her desires weren’t the problem. Finding the cash was.

“Good.” There was a brief pause—she’d spent more time hanging in the air over the pool—followed by, “When?”

“I’ve got a meeting with the bank in two weeks.” Of course, talk was cheap. All she’d had to do to get the meeting was pick up the phone and dial. Unless she changed her cash flow, however, the outcome would be the same as the past two meetings. The banking professional would listen—professionally—and then recommend her application be denied.

“I’m going to take that offer for my share.” And...with nine words, Del benched her. She fought the urge to fling the phone because she couldn’t afford to replace her phone and she definitely couldn’t afford to buy the dive shop. “Money talks and cash sounds mighty good to me.”

“Del—”

He talked over her. “You’ve had a month to meet my asking price. I need to unload the place. It’s not cash flowing, and I’m overextended as it is.”

“I’m closing the Fiesta contract. Give me two weeks.” She was convinced she could turn the shop around and bring in enough business to make the place viable. Del, however, remained unconvinced.

“This is business.”

Her business.

Del had never accepted excuses. He’d always said, “Show me.” She scrambled for something to sway him. “Have I ever not won? You know how I perform in crunch situations.”

The brief pause on the other end lasted a year. Possibly three. Piper wasn’t entirely sure, but time slowed down in a very Matrix-like way.

Del exhaled roughly. “Two weeks. I won’t accept any offers for two weeks. If your offer isn’t in my hands, it’s game over.”

“Got it.”

She had her time. Now all she had to do was deliver. She was used to crunch situations and performing under pressure. Just pretend you’re climbing the dive tower, mere points out of the lead. One perfect dive. That was all it would take.

5 (#ulink_c5be3151-6ca4-5409-bc6b-6b64a8543edf)

PIPER RODE HER Harley down to the Pleasure Pier. A little sugar, a little fun. That was what she needed after her unwelcome call with Del had torpedoed her afternoon, and the Pleasure Pier was perfect.

Built more than a hundred years ago by one of Cal’s enterprising island ancestors, a man who’d decided to combine beer sales with fish sales (pure genius, in Piper’s opinion), the pier stretched out into the bay, living up to its name. The piles were painted the green of Doublemint gum and winked with white lights. The place stayed true to its roots, selling fishing licenses and fresh fish. The occasional angler parked on the edge, trying his luck in the water below before hauling the catch over to the weighing stations and a dusty wall of old photos of oversized, prizewinning marlin and swordfish, and successful fishermen. For the less fish-inclined, the pier sold saltwater taffy, ice cream and churros. An old-fashioned lemon-yellow swing ride lit up the far end by the beer kiosk.

A beer and candy sounded perfect, followed by a half-dozen, gut-churning rides on the swings. She wanted to fly through the air, leaving the day’s problems behind her. Ten minutes later, she traded in five bucks she should have been saving and acquired a fistful of paper tickets and a bonus bag of taffy. She’d passed on the beer, after all—she had the Harley, and some chances she wouldn’t take.

The swings slowed, riders stumbling away, laughing. Kids shrieked while their parents snapped photos, creating a scene that was loudly happy and all chaos. Perfect.

“Hey, Lenny.” She greeted the ticket taker, offering him the bag of taffy. Lenny had worked on the pier for as long as she could remember. Like the ride itself, he looked a little older each year.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.” Lenny poked through the bag, looking for the red-and-white taffy, like he always did. “Got your favorite swing all ready for you.”

“Perfect.” She laughed. Her feet flew to the bright red double swing she always rode. Deliciously garish, with over-the-top gold trim covering every edge, and faux rubies hot-glued to the sides, her swing winked at her just as enticingly now as it had twenty years ago. It also had the most lift of all the swings on the ride, or so she and her brothers had concluded after a summer of experimenting. She’d ridden it ever since.

She settled in, waiting for the ride to fill up. The sky was dark now, with plenty of stars peeking through the clouds. She’d always meant to buy one of those charts and learn their names. She tracked one glowing blob and debated if the slowly moving light was a comet or a shooting star. Her knowledge of astronomy was sadly lacking. She’d seen a shooting star once, a bright flare and a quick descent. The flash of red was her first clue that celestial milestones weren’t in her future tonight. Her “star” was a plane. Nope. She’d better not count on a career as an astronomer.

And...darn it. Despite her careful planning to not think about Cal or the bet she had impulsively proposed to him, Mr. Tall, Dark and Glum himself stood there on the pier, dogging her from the shadows. The Pleasure Pier wasn’t his kind of scene. She had a hard time imagining him fisting a bag of taffy and riding the swings until he was deliciously seasick. Cal was too responsible, too...something else. On the other hand, if she accidentally fell over the pier because she was too dizzy, he’d be the first one in to save her.

He watched from a distance, giving the impression there was an invisible space bubble or do-not-cross police tape surrounding him. The pier’s usual evening crowd flowed around him obediently. He’d changed out of his suit, looking more familiar in his usual faded blue jeans, T-shirt and work boots. His long, lean legs were stretched out slightly in front of him as he leaned against the pier’s railing, the ocean at his back. And, God, his eyes...she liked his watchful, heated gaze far too much for comfort. She had no idea why he was here, but as long as he stared, she was staring back.

So screw it.

Flip him the bird or crook her finger? Oh, the choices... Grinning, she flipped him the bird. He tipped his head in silent acknowledgment and then slipped away into the shadows.

She pushed down the strange pang of disappointment. She might not like Cal, but baiting him was almost as much fun as eating taffy and riding the swings. He had better things to do than stand there and watch her. Of course.

She’d been kissing distance from him that night at Big Petey’s, and the closeness had made an impression. That was all these residual feelings were. Because kissing Cal—or doing anything else with the man—would be a recipe for disaster. His hot body came with an arrogant, take-charge attitude she didn’t need in her life. She’d win their bet and thumb her nose at him. So what if she’d imagined the man doing a Chippendales routine at her own personal direction? Just because he’d have to take orders from her didn’t mean she had to give him any orders. She certainly hadn’t planned on actually getting into bed with him.

Lenny bellowed for last-takers, and she tightened her fingers on the chains connecting her swing to the ride. The anticipation of waiting to start was almost as good as the ride itself. As the music swirled and blared, the swing dipped and swayed as someone else sat down beside her. Nope. No way. She always rode alone.