Hot Island Nights (3 page)

And then he woke fully and it was all there: the memories, the anxiety, the guilt and shame and fear. Heavy and relentless and undeniable.

He stared at the ceiling for a long beat, wondering at the fact that he kept forcing himself to jump through the flaming hoop of this shit, day in, day out. There was precious little joy in it and plenty of pain.

Then he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. It wasn’t like he had a choice, after all. He wasn’t a quitter. Even though there were times when it seemed damned appealing.

His head started throbbing the moment he was upright. He breathed deeply. It would pass soon enough. God knew he’d chalked up enough experience dealing with hangovers over the past four months to know.

The important thing was that he hadn’t woken once that he could remember. If the price he had to pay this morning for oblivion last night was a hangover, then so be it.

He stood and ran a hand over his hair, then grabbed the towel flung over the end of the bed and wrapped it around his waist. He worked his tongue around his mouth as he headed for the door. Water was called for. And maybe some food. Although he wasn’t certain about the food part just yet.

The full glare of the midmorning sun hit him the moment he stepped out of the studio into the yard. He grunted and shielded his eyes with his forearm. Looked like it was going to be another stinker.

He crossed to the main house and entered the kitchen. The kitchen floor was gritty with sand beneath his feet and he smiled to himself. Sam would have a cow when he came home, no doubt. Nate had never met a guy more anal about keeping things shipshape and perfect. A regular Mr. Clean, was Sammy.

The fridge yielded a bottle of water and he closed his eyes, dropped his head back and tipped it down his throat. He swallowed and swallowed until his teeth ached from the cold, then put the nearly empty bottle onto the kitchen counter. He was about to head to the shower when a knock sounded at the front door.

Nate frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Didn’t particularly want to see anyone, either. That was the whole point of being on the island—privacy. Peace and quiet. Space.

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.

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.