Two Hearts, Slightly Used

At least she was no longer in danger of drifting out to sea. Jerry had thrown out an anchor, and Flint-Face kept his motor idling against the current. She waited, appreciating the sun’s meager warmth on her cold backside while the two men fiddled with hoses and tanks and stainless steel fittings.

Finally Flint-Face shut off his outboard and tied his smaller boat behind her larger one, which meant, she surmised with an inward groan, that she would have the dubious pleasure of his company for the run back to the island.

Jerry veered off with a cheerful wave, sending a spray of icy water over the bow of the red runabout where Frances huddled. Sighing, she wiped the salt from her eyes. Thanks, Jerry, she thought wryly. I needed that. Having mastered so many new skills in a single morning, never mind that she’d run out of gas, her ego might have been inclined to come creeping out of hiding for the first time since she’d learned that her entire eleven-year marriage had been one giant fiasco.

“By the way, I don’t believe we ever got around to introductions, did we? I’m Frances Smith Jones.” She addressed the lean, rigid back, which was bent over the controls.

Silence.

Fine! If he wanted to remain anonymous, that was just fine with her. If there was one thing she was no longer interested in, it was men. Not under any circumstances. Not in this lifetime!

The outboard sputtered and caught again. As it settled down to a steady roar, the tall, scowling man turned and seated himself in the stern, facing her. It occurred to Frances that his eyes were exactly the color she’d always imagined an iceburg to be. Clear gray, without a glimmer of warmth. Every bit as hard as flint, if not as opaque.

As for the rest of him, it was...interesting, she decided. Jaw far too aggressive, cheekbones far too angular—there was something odd in the angle of them, too, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. As for his mouth, at the moment it looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. She was tempted to smile at him, just for meanness.

His nose was beautiful. Under the pale, watery sunlight, she could see a fine network of scars on the left side of his face, but before she could even wonder about it, he said, “Ridgeway. What the hell did you think you were doing, stealing a boat when you don’t even have sense enough to check the levels?”

Quite suddenly the headache she’d been ignoring all morning clamped down like a hat that was three sizes too small. Through clenched teeth, she said, “I didn’t steal your boat, Mr. Ridgeway. I borrowed it. I was told on good authority that the boats were for the use of the cottage owners and renters. As for checking levels—I assume you mean the gas tank—you’re right. I should have checked. Next time I will. I seldom make the same mistake twice.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again and looked away. Fortunately the roar of the outboard precluded any further conversation, which gave Frances plenty of time to wonder what the luggage she had left back at the cottage was doing in the boat they were towing.

And then they swerved sharply and headed toward the marina. “Wait!” she yelled above the noise. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“The marina!”

“But I’ve already been there! I want to go back to the cottage!”

“No way, lady. Come back in a few months.”

It was impossible to argue over a roaring outboard. Irked beyond bearing, her head pounding furiously, Frances crawled back to where she could make herself heard. She jammed her face as close as she dared and yelled, “Listen, I don’t know what your position on Coronoke is—head jackass, at a guess—but my uncle owns that cottage, and he gave me the key and told me I could stay there until I’m good and ready to leave! It’s not my fault that this Maudie person I was supposed to check in with is in Utah, but Maudie or no Maudie, I’m here to stay! So you can just damned well take me back to Coronoke right now, or I’ll have you brought up on charges of—of— Well, I’ll think of something!”

If he weren’t so damned ticked off, Brace might have found her amusing. She wasn’t as old as he’d first thought. Nor as unattractive. Although, at the moment she looked as if she’d been drawn through a keyhole backward. Opinionated women were not his favorite species, not even when they had eyes the color of bruised violets and a mouth that looked naked and vulnerable and—

Brace swore silently. Maybe he hadn’t recovered as fully as he’d thought from having his broken carcass plowed into a cornfield along with several million dollars’ worth of twisted metal.

Abruptly he changed direction. The woman, who’d been kneeling at his feet, yelped and would have fallen hard against the gunwale if he hadn’t caught her with one arm.

Against a background of salt water and exhaust, she smelled like cut grass and flowers—sort of spicy and green. She felt like a bag of bones, even in a down-filled parka.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pushing her away. He checked the boat he was towing, more as an excuse to look away from her face, which was entirely too close, than for any other reason.

Even over the roar of the outboard, he could hear the ragged intake of her breath. It occurred to him that his own was none too steady. It was a crazy reaction. He put it down to being celibate too long.

What the bloody hell had happened to all the peace and quiet he’d been promised? This place was supposed to be so far off the beaten track, nobody but duck hunters came near it between January and March. Maudie had warned him he’d be talking to Regina, the resident raccoon, before he’d been there a week. It had sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

And now, thanks to his eagerness to get rid of Ms. Smith Jones, she had about half a dozen loads of gear to haul back up to her cottage, and with his newfound conscience dogging his heels like a blasted shadow, he was going to have to offer to help her haul it.

The only bright spot on the horizon was that she obviously hated like the very devil to accept his help. Pride stuck out all over her, like quills on a porcupine. It nearly killed her to let him carry the biggest box and her overnight bag. Watching her stiff backside as she marched primly up the path before him, he almost smiled.

But not quite.

Brace knew almost as much about women as he knew about planes. During his stunt pilot days he’d been considered something of an expert. On both. It went with the territory. At the time, he’d been young enough to find studhood amusing. Without even trying, he’d collected more groupies than the star of whatever low-budget epic he happened to be stunting for, and as often as not the film’s female lead headed the pack.

It had been during that period in his career that he’d met Pete and Sharon Bing, a brother-sister team who were just getting started as builders and designers of small specialty aircraft. They’d designed those special choppers for the night-fighting scene in Killing Territory. Sharon had let him know then she was interested, but at the time Brace had been too busy sampling what Hollywood had to offer.

After he’d left Hollywood, finished his engineering degree and started testing for a major government contractor, he’d found somewhat to his amusement that neither his bank balance nor his sex appeal had suffered to any great degree. But by then he’d been older and a lot more selective. By then, too, the world had become a more dangerous place.

That was about the time when Sharon Bing had reentered his life. They’d started going out together. After three months he’d asked her to marry him. Or she’d asked him. Later he was never sure which one of them had brought it up. But the sex had been good, which made two vital interests they’d shared.

It wouldn’t have lasted past the honeymoon. They’d already had that. Some men were husband material—some weren’t. Now, thanks to his recently remodeled physiognomy, he no longer had to worry about it. Most women were turned off by his scars, but a few were turned on in a way that made him angry and uncomfortable. It never seemed to occur to either type that in spite of some extensive reconstruction, he was still the same man inside. Not that he’d ever pretended to be any great bargain.

“One more trip,” the tall brunette announced as she set the first load down on the screened front deck. “I can handle the rest, thanks.”

He hadn’t offered. Now, perversely, he insisted. “I’ll get the rest,” he growled. “Go inside and get warm.”

“First, I’m afraid you’ll have to show me how the generator works. I don’t want to risk another disaster so soon. I usually try to hold it down to one a day.”

The generator. “Look, lady—ma’am—Ms. Jones—”

“Frances. Frances Smith Jones.”

“Right. Look, about the generator, you don’t need to bother. The power’s working now.” Actually, there hadn’t been a full power outage since he’d arrived on the island. A few blinks and a brownout or two when the wind kicked up. Tough on compressors, but as everything on the island was rigged with trip-out switches, it was no major deal. “All you have to do, Ms. Jones, is throw the breaker. The box is behind that door. You want me to do it for you?”

His arms were crossed over his chest, and so were hers. It occurred to Brace to wonder if she was as skilled at reading body language as he was, and for some reason the notion amused him.

She stood her ground like a veteran, though. He’d give her full marks for guts.

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with a switch box, Mr. um... But perhaps you’d better show me about the generator just in case.”

“They’re only used for backup. You won’t be here long enough to need it.”

An arc welder couldn’t have thrown off any more sparks than her eyes did. Blue fire. Lavender blue fire. Unfortunately, to a man who’d made a career of living dangerously, it was a sure turn-on.

Brace took two steps back, his own eyes growing wary. Oh, no. No way was this woman going to get to him, lavender blue eyes, long legs, wide, soft, vulnerable mouth or not. He needed a woman right now like he needed another hole in his head.

Or another plate in his skull.

“Let me know when you’re ready to pack it in, Ms. Jones. I’ll run you over to the marina. That way we’ll both be sure you get there in one piece,” he said, one hand on the doorknob.

Frances smiled sweetly. “You’re too kind,” she said through clenched teeth as he quietly closed the door.

Kind. Yeah. Sure he was.

Three

By evening the clouds had moved in again. The wind howled like a roomful of tomcats, but at least the rain held off. Frances gulped down two more aspirin, eyed the sacks of staples still waiting to be put away and decided that if her sinuses didn’t stop giving her fits, she was going to trade them in on a new set. Evidently, salt air and ocean breezes weren’t quite the panacea they were cracked up to be.

And another thing—she’d always heard that being on the water was a terrific appetizer. One more old wives’ tale shot to blazes. Her stomach kept telling her it was hungry, but when she offered to feed it, it rebelled on her. Nice going for a professional dietician. She couldn’t even tempt her own palate.