That Summer Place: Island Time / Old Things / Private Paradise

“Oh God. Michael…” She sagged back against a tree, staring at the ground. “Did he really do that?”

“Yes.”

“He was upset. I don’t think he would have sent you to jail.”

“Yes. He would have, Catherine.”

There was nothing between them but a lapse of tense silence.

She looked at him again. “Did you really think I could just walk away after that summer together and never have any contact with you again? Didn’t you know me better than that?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You thought I would ignore your letters.”

“Give me a break, here,” she snapped. “I was seventeen.” She straightened and started to walk away.

He dropped the toolbox and touched her shoulder. “I know. And I was twenty, just drafted, and in love with a seventeen-year-old girl.”

She stopped, but she didn’t turn around. He had truly loved her then, all those years ago. Many times over the years she had wondered about that, if he had cared or if she had just wished he had.

His hand was still on her shoulder. She bit her lip because she thought she might do something silly like cry. “I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath and turned around.

His hand fell away.

“When time passes by and you can’t understand why something happened, I guess you make up excuses. You blame others.” She looked at him then. “I was hurt and scared. I blamed you. After a while, when I didn’t hear from you, I believed you were just lying to me about how you had felt so you could—” She stopped because she didn’t need to say anything more.

“Get into your pants?”

“Thank you for sugar-coating it so nicely.” She gave a laugh that wasn’t amused. “But you’re right. That was what I thought.”

He only stared at her, not saying anything.

So she did. “It’s stupid to stand here in the middle of the woods and argue over something that happened so long ago. We’re different people now. It’s 1997 not 1967.” She looked back up into those blue eyes of his and stuck out her hand. “How about a truce?”

His gaze dropped to her outstretched hand.

“Friends,” she said emphatically.

A moment later his hand closed over hers and she almost melted into the ground. It was like she was seventeen all over again. She stared at their hands so she could hide her eyes from him.

Just for good measure she gave his hand a firm shake.

When she looked up he was staring at her face not at their clasped hands.

He pulled her against him, clamped his free hand to the back of her head, and kissed her.

Oh God…She felt like Silly Putty. Her hand fell away from his and moved to his shoulder.

His other hand grabbed her and pulled her against him in one of those hot, eating kind of kisses you see in the movies, all wildness and heat, where an instant later they’ve unbuttoned half their clothes and they’re doing it against a wall.

His hands ran over her back, pressed her closer. There were tools pressed against her belly. A hammer, a flashlight, screwdriver—lots of long, hard things.

One second his tongue was deep inside her mouth.

The next…the damn idiot let her go.

She stood there seeing stars and trying to keep her balance.

“Friends.” He whacked her on the backside with one hand, picked up his toolbox and sauntered on down the path toward her place.

Ten

She caught him from behind, which surprised the hell out of him. The toolbox slipped from his hand and she shoved him back up against a tree with both hands.

“Catherine?”

One palm was flat against his chest; the other slid up to grip the back of his head.

“What the hell are you doing?”

A second later she was kissing him the way he’d just kissed her. Hard and fast and wild.

He bent his knees, hooked his arms under her butt and picked her up. Her hands drove through his hair, gripped his head and tilted it, then she thrust her small tongue into his mouth the same way he had done to her.

He pushed away from the tree, turned and pinned her against it, holding her there with his body so his hands were free. He slid one hand across her shoulder, pushed her sweater aside and tried to pull down her bra strap.

He couldn’t get his finger under it. Damn. It was so tight you’d think it was made of iron.

He slid both hands to her waist and up under her sweater to cup her from beneath. She moaned against his mouth and their tongues switched places.

God, but she tasted so good. She felt so good. Her nipples grew hard from his fingers and her breasts were heavy and soft and felt just about as good as a woman could feel.

He slid his hands around and grabbed the back of her bra to unhook it.

“Harold!”

They both froze.

“Ohmygod! It’s Aly!” Catherine wiggled out from between him and the tree trunk, jerking at her clothes and taking big gulps of air. She looked up at him. “Bend down. Quick!”

He did and she used her fingers to comb back his hair.

“Harrr-old!”

“Hurry!” she whispered, still straightening her clothes which looked fine. “Get your toolbox!”