Hot Island Nights

Everything in Nate screamed retreat. He didn’t need this.

“Look, I don’t want to get involved in some kind of family dispute or This Is Your Life situation,” he said.

Her smile disappeared as a deep flush rose up her neck and into her cheeks.

“I don’t believe I asked you to get involved, Mr. Jones. I was simply conveying the facts of my situation to you.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not know even that.”

“By all means.” Chair legs scraped across the linoleum floor as she stood abruptly. “If you’d simply give me my father’s number, I won’t bother you a moment longer.”

Nate reached for the pad and pen beside the phone and pushed them across the counter toward her.

“Give me your number, I’ll make sure Sam gets it,” he repeated.

She might be beautiful, she might even have what he suspected was a great ass under the expensive tailoring of her crumpled linen trousers, but he wasn’t about to sic her on his old friend without some kind of warning.

She stared at him incredulously. “You’re still not going to give me his contact details? Even after everything I’ve just told you?”

“Sam’s my friend.”

Her chest rose and fell as though she was fighting to restrain herself from saying something. Then her mouth firmed and her chin came up.

“Fine. Thank you for the water.”

She turned toward the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said. He tapped the pen against the pad.

Her nostrils flared. Then, holding herself very upright, she strode to the kitchen counter and snatched the pen from his hand, writing her phone number in the elegant, curling strokes of a bygone era. When she was finished she dropped the pen onto the counter and lifted her chin even higher.

“I can see myself out, thank you,” she said with enormous dignity.

“Where are you staying in town?”

“I fail to see how that’s any of your business.”

“In case your phone doesn’t work for some reason, so I can leave a message for you,” he explained patiently. Although he was fast running out of that particular commodity. He hadn’t asked for Ms. Mason and her troubles to walk in the door.

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

The look she gave him was so snooty, the tilt of her head so imperious he decided he’d done his good deed for the day.

“Fair enough. Don’t blame me if I can’t contact you for some reason.”

A small muscle worked in her jaw. He had the distinct impression she was grinding her teeth.

“I’m staying at the Isle of Wight,” she finally said.

“Duly noted.”

She hovered for a second as though she didn’t quite know what to do next, then she strode to the front door. She paused on the verge of exiting, looking back at him across the width of the living room.

“And by the way, Mr. Jones, where I come from it’s good manners to put clothes on before receiving visitors,” she said.

She was so hoity-toity, so on her dignity that Nate couldn’t help himself—he laughed, the sound bursting out of him and echoing loudly off the walls. By the time he’d pulled himself together enough to notice, she was gone.

The smile slowly faded from his lips. It had been a long time since he’d laughed like that. A long time.

For no reason that he was prepared to acknowledge, he walked into the living room and pushed the curtain to one side. Despite her touch-me-not, refined air she had a sexy sway to her walk and he watched her ass the whole way to her car.

She opened the car and slid into the driver’s seat, but didn’t take off immediately. Instead, she simply sat there, her head lowered, her expression unreadable from this distance.

Trying to work out what to do next, he figured.

He told himself that she was none of his business, that he had more than enough shit to shovel in his own life, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he couldn’t stop thinking about the way her hand had trembled when she held the glass of water. And how lost and scared she’d sounded under all that well-educated, well-enunciated hauteur.

“Bloody hell.”

He grabbed a pair of board shorts from the laundry, tugged them on, then exited the house and walked down the hot concrete path toward her car. She didn’t notice him approaching and she started when he rapped on the passenger window. She hesitated a second, then pressed the button to lower the glass.

“Look, Sam’s in Sydney until the start of the race and won’t get into Hobart until New Year’s Eve at the soonest,” he said. “But once he knows you’re here, I’m sure he’ll come straight back.”

“Race? What race?”

“The Sydney to Hobart yacht race.”

She bit her lip. “I’ve heard of that. Isn’t it very dangerous?”

“Sam’s an experienced sailor. One of the best.”

“Is that what he does? Sail, I mean?”

“He hires out as crew mostly, and sometimes he delivers yachts for owners.”

He took a step backward to signal the question-and-answer session was over. It wasn’t his place to fill in the blanks for her. That was between father and daughter. Nothing to do with him.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve spoken to Sam,” he said.

She hesitated, then nodded. The glass slid up between them and she started the car then pulled away from the curb.

Nate watched until she’d turned the corner. Guilt ate at him. He should have helped her more. Reassured her. She’d come a long way looking for a man she knew nothing about. He could have called Sam on the spot, told him—

Nate caught himself before he let the thought go any further. Since when had he made himself Elizabeth Mason’s knight in shining armor?

He smiled grimly, the action more a show of teeth than anything else. Rescuing damsels in distress was hardly his forte, after all. Look what had happened to the last damsel who’d put her faith in him.

Tension banded his shoulders and chest. Pressure pushed at the back of his eyes and nose. His heart started to race as sweat prickled beneath his arms.