Hot Island Nights

He walked through the living room to the front hallway. He could see a silhouette through the glass panel in the door. As he hovered, debating whether or not to answer, the silhouette lifted its hand and knocked again.

“Coming,” he said, aware he sounded more than a little like a grumpy old man.

The door swung open and he found himself facing a tall, slim woman with delicately sculpted features and deep blue eyes, her pale blond hair swept up into the kind of hairstyle that made him think of Grace Kelly and other old-school movie stars.

“Yes?” he said, his tone even more brusque. Probably because he hadn’t expected to find someone so beautiful on his front step.

She opened her mouth then closed it without saying anything as her startled gaze swept from his face to his chest, belly and south, then up to his bare chest again. There was a long, pregnant silence as she stared at his sternum. Then she pinned her gaze on a point just beyond his right shoulder and cleared her throat.

“I’m terribly sorry. I’m looking for Sam Blackwell. I was told this is his place of residence.”

Her voice was clipped and cultured, the kind of cut-glass accent he associated with the royal family and people who maintained a string of polo ponies.

“You’ve got the right place, but Sam’s not around right now,” he said.

“I see. Could you tell me when he’ll be back?” She darted a quick, nervous glance toward his chest before fixing her gaze over his shoulder again. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d never seen a bare chest before, the way she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. Six months ago he would have been amused and intrigued by her flustered reaction—she was a beautiful woman, after all.

But that was six months ago.

“Sam won’t be back until the new year,” he said. “Try him again after the fifth or sixth.”

He started to swing the door closed between them.

“The new year? But that’s nearly a month away.” Her eyes met his properly for the first time, wide with disbelief and maybe a little bit of dismay.

His gut told him to close the door, send her on her way. He had enough on his plate without taking on someone else’s worries.

“Not much I can do about that, sorry,” he said instead.

She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead. The movement made her white linen shirt gape and he caught a glimpse of coffee-colored lace and silk.

“Do you have a number I can contact him at?”

“No offense, but I’m not about to hand Sam’s number out to just anybody.”

She blinked. “But I’m not just anybody, I assure you.”

“If you want to leave your number and a message with me, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

She frowned. “This isn’t the kind of thing you handle with a message.”

Nate shrugged. He’d offered her a solution, but if she wasn’t interested.

“Then maybe you need to wait till Sam’s back in town.”

“I’ve travelled thousands of miles to see him, Mr….?” She paused, waiting for him to supply his name.

“Nate. Nathan Jones.”

“My name’s Elizabeth Mason.”

She held out her hand. After a second’s hesitation he shook it. Her fingers were cool and slender, her skin very soft.

“I really need to make contact with Sam Rockwell,” she said, offering what he guessed was her best social smile.

“Like I said, leave your number with me, and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Her finely arched eyebrows came together in a frown. “Perhaps you could tell me where he is, then, if you won’t give me his number?”

“Look, Ms. Mason, whatever this is about, if Sam owes you money or something else, the best I can do for you is to pass your number on. That’s it, end of story.”

“I’m not a debt collector.” She appeared shocked at the idea.

“Whatever. That’s my best offer, take it or leave it.”

When she simply stared at him, he shrugged. “Fine,” he said, and he started closing the door again.

“He’s my father. Sam Blackwell is my father,” she blurted.

That got his attention.

Sam had never mentioned a daughter, or any other family for that matter. Not that the omission necessarily meant anything, given that Sam wasn’t exactly the talkative type.

Nate frowned. Why would Sam invite his daughter to visit when he knew he was going to be interstate?

“Sam didn’t know you were coming, did he?”

“No, he didn’t.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “In fact, I suspect he doesn’t even know I exist. Which makes me incredibly stupid to have jumped on a plane to come find him like this, but I didn’t even think about the fact that he might not even be here—”

Nate took an instinctive step backward as her voice broke and tears filled her eyes.

Should have shut the door when you had the chance, buddy.

She tilted her head back and blinked rapidly. Nate considered and discarded a number of responses before reluctantly pushing the door wide.

“You’d better come in,” he said.

She gave him a grateful look as she walked past him and into the house. He led her to the kitchen.

“You want some water?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He waved her toward one of the beat-up vinyl upholstered chairs around the kitchen table, then grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the tap.

“Thank you,” she said as he handed her the glass. “I promise I’m not normally like this. It’s just that it’s been a long flight and things have been a little crazy lately. And I really should have thought this through some more—” She shook her head. The hand holding the glass was trembling with emotion. “Sorry. I’m babbling again. I’m not normally a babbler, either.”

She offered him a tremulous smile. She looked so vulnerable sitting there, so lost and confused.