Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
Welcome back to Sunrise Key—home to billionaire Preston Seaholm and his posh four-star beach resort, and the setting for
I’ve always been a beach person. As a kid, my family vacationed each summer on the Jersey Shore, and I quickly came to love the sound of the surf and the fresh ocean air. A few years back, I discovered Florida’s beautiful Gulf Coast, and now I am fortunate enough to be able to spend half of each year living on a little island off Sarasota, not unlike Sunrise Key.
But back when I wrote my Sunrise Key trilogy, that was just one of my dreams—to live within a bike ride of the sparkling Gulf of Mexico, to feel the fine white sand beneath my feet, to live among palm trees and tropical birds. …
It was a dream I passed along—and granted—to Molly Cassidy, the heroine of
, when she unexpectedly inherits the Kirk Estate, a crumbling old beachfront mansion—a piece of property that is high on Preston Seaholm’s “must acquire” list.
But then Pres meets Molly and her ten-year-old son, and his entire world gets turned upside down as he finally learns that all of his money can’t buy him what he really longs to acquire: true love and happiness.
If you enjoy this visit to Sunrise Key, look for my other books in the Sunrise Key trilogy.
Kiss and Tell
(Leila and Marsh’s story) and
The Kissing Game
(Francine and Simon’s story) are both available, also from Bantam Books, at a bookstore near you!
Welcome back to Sunrise Key! I hope you’ll visit often!
Into the Fire
Dark of Night
All Through the Night
Force of Nature
Into the Storm
The Unsung Hero
The Defiant Hero
Over the Edge
Out of Control
Into the Night
Gone Too Far
Kiss and Tell
The Kissing Game
For my very patient family and friends
My grateful thanks to Jay Gravina for sharing his scuba-diving expertise, and to my son, Jason, for giving me firsthand experience both with unique and wonderful ten-year-old boys and with hearing impairment. Also thanks to my Mission Impossible Team: Jodie, Bill, Deede, Ed, Mel, Jace, Carolee, and especially Patricia.
T WAS GOING
Molly Cassidy knew without a doubt that it was going to pour buckets from the huge dark clouds that were looming over the Gulf of Mexico and moving steadily closer.
Last night it had rained just a little and the roof of this enormous, white stucco Spanish eclectic-style house that she and Zander had inherited had done a fine imitation of a sieve.
Molly had bought tarps first thing that morning, but in this wind, tying the last of them over
the low-pitched, rambling red-tiled roof was proving to be a two-person job.
Lightning cracked in the distance, and the boom of thunder was quick to follow. Instinctively, she flattened herself on the roof, the hair on the back of her neck rising. Was she nuts? On the roof during an electrical storm?
But this decaying, moldy, wonderful old architectural monster was their future. It was their chance at a new beginning, a fresh, clean start.
And it would be much more fresh and clean if there weren’t two inches of water standing in the living room by nightfall.
As another rumble of thunder rolled, Molly lifted her head and peered over the crest of the roof down toward the ground. She could see her ten-year-old son looking up at her, his thin face pinched with concern, his eyes huge behind his glasses. Zander hated thunder and lightning. He always had, even as a baby.
“Get down from there,” he signed up at her, his hands moving swiftly, sharply. “Now.”
“Go inside,” Molly signed back. “I’m almost done.”
“Go inside,” Molly signed again. “Make sure all the windows are closed. Quickly!”
Zander turned and dashed inside, and Molly looked down at the tarp, wondering the best way to untangle it in this wind with only two hands. Maybe she should just tie it down the way it was. It would be better than nothing. …
But then the wind rose and the tarp whipped up and over her, covering her and nearly knocking her off the roof. She slid, cursing and scrambling for a finger- or toehold on the slippery mission tile.
Her foot hit a loose tile and caught just as strong hands grabbed her around the waist and hauled her against a hard body. Who the heck …?
Molly pushed the tarp off her head and found herself nose-to-nose with the Beach Boy.
She’d seen him out on the beach every morning since they’d first arrived on Sunrise Key three days before. He had an artist’s easel and watercolor paints and he always sat quietly in the early-morning light, painting the changing colors of the ocean.
A surprising number of people were on the
beach early in the morning, but there was something about this man that had caught her eye.
It was more than his gleaming, golden-tanned, beach-boy good looks. Even though everything about him seemed to glisten—his sun-bleached, reddish-gold hair, his trim, muscular, tan body—Molly refused to allow herself to be impressed by a handsome face. But this man had a certain air about him. And it was that, she told herself, his calm authority, that had drawn her attention to him. Of course, once her attention had been caught, she couldn’t help but notice that movie-star face and extremely well-maintained body.
Molly had never gotten close enough to see if his paintings were any good.
Or if his eyes were as brilliantly blue as she’d imagined.
They weren’t. They were hazel. How refreshing.
“You all right?” he asked, his voice a raspy baritone flavored with a hint of the South. He was a smoker—the lingering scent of cigarette smoke clung to him.
Molly nodded, wide-eyed, aware that his arms were still around her, aware of his leg thrown
across hers in his attempt to hold her in place, aware of the heat of his skin against hers.
She was anchored.
Up close, he wasn’t as perfectly good-looking as she’d thought. His face was harder, leaner, his nose sharper and slightly crooked, and a small scar marred his left cheekbone, underneath his eye. He hadn’t shaved in a number of days, and his scruffy chin glinted with shades of red and gold, making him look less like a beach boy and more like a pirate. And those eyes …
They were the color of the ocean as the storm clouds approached, green and gray and darkly dangerous.
“Come on,” he said, his voice nearly inaudible over the rising wind. “I’ll help you. You get this side, I’ll take the other.”
Molly nodded again, and just like that, his weight was off her, the intimate warmth of his bare leg against hers was gone.
He was up and over to the other side of the roof as if he were a professional tightrope walker, escaped from the Ringling Circus Museum in Sarasota, several dozens of miles up the Florida coastline. As he went he untangled and smoothed
down the tarp. The muscles in his arms tightened as a big gust tried to whip the blue plastic away from him, and he brought his weight down, holding the tarp with his body against the roof.
His thick, gorgeous hair was pushed forward into his eyes and then quickly dashed back out by the rising wind. He ignored it, lashing the rope at the tarp’s corner securely into place.
Molly did the same on her end. It wasn’t perfect, but it was much better than nothing.
Lightning streaked across the sky and thunder boomed. And the heavens opened, showering them with big, fat raindrops that fell faster and faster until there was only a sheet of water, pouring down from the clouds.
Thunder cracked again, deafeningly loud. Molly could see the Beach Boy crouched by the ladder, chivalrously waiting for her to descend first.
She skidded on the plastic, and he reached for her, his hand around her wrist holding her steady. Their eyes met, and he smiled, a quick, fierce, genuine smile that electrified and heated his gaze.
He was having fun. He actually
being up on the roof in the middle of a thunderstorm, with
the wind and the rain ripping at his clothes and his hair, danger all around him.
Molly scrambled down the ladder and dashed toward the shelter of the house. The Beach Boy was right behind her.
Zander was inside, waiting. The roar of the wind and the rain was quieted as Molly shut the door behind them.
“Welcome to Florida.” The Beach Boy was still grinning at her.
He was dripping wet. His hair was plastered against his head, and his eyelashes were beaded with drops of water. But his smile was infectious, and Molly found herself smiling back at him.
The Beach Boy looked down at the puddle he was making on the marble-tiled floor. His T-shirt and cutoff jeans were soaked, as were the ragged boat sneakers he wore without socks. “So much for keeping the rain outside,” he said ruefully.
Zander was staring, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. “Who is he?” he signed to Molly, using small furtive movements. It was the American Sign Language equivalent of whispering, and it wasn’t very polite.
“Please run and get us a couple of towels,” Molly told her son, signing the word
for emphasis, and the boy dashed away.
who is he?
was a very good question indeed. She turned to the Beach Boy. “Thank you so much,” Molly said to him.
He was staring off after Zander. “Is your boy deaf?” he asked, turning to gaze at her with those odd-colored eyes. “I didn’t realize. …”
Others might have been put off by the bluntness of his question, but Molly liked it. It was so much better than what most people did—staring askance at the boy’s hearing aids and then ignoring both the child and his physical challenge.
“Zander?” One golden eyebrow lifted, and the start of another smile danced on the edges of his lips.