Under the Boardwalk: A Dazzling Collection of All New Summertime Love Stories (12 page)

Long and blowing loose, her golden hair obscured his view of her face. Hoping for a better angle, he climbed to the top of a dune. "Turn this way, sweetheart," he willed.

Minutes ticked by as Drew observed the sailboat's approach. A subtle, unusual tension filled him as he acted the Peeping Tom and spied upon the woman. He wanted to see her face. Badly.

She pointed toward the beach, and the sailboat veered in that direction. Drew realized she'd gestured toward the mouth of the path intersecting the island between his bayside fishing cabin and the gulfside beach. "Curious," he murmured, taking his eye from the spyglass to glance toward the trail through the brush-covered dunes. Was it just coincidence, or had this woman been here before? He'd seen a sign or two of intruders when he'd returned for his annual visit to the small log structure where he had spent his youth. Had this woman been one of them? Was his fishing camp being used as a trysting place, perhaps?

He peered intently through the glass and saw her reach for something. A moment later, she'd brought a pair of field glasses to her eyes. He watched her scan his beach, then he held his breath as her glasses drifted his way. He knew the moment she spotted him because her mouth dropped open. Then the binoculars fell away and he got his first good glimpse of her face.

Drew froze. "Hannah?"

All the breath seemed to whoosh from his lungs. All the blood seemed to rush to his loins. Hannah. It
was
her. Here. Why?

Hannah.

His mouth went dry as she once again blocked his view of her face by bringing up her field glasses. He felt her gaze as the optical instrument shifted slowly downward.

That was when Drew remembered he was naked. Glancing around for a fig leaf, he settled for a clump of grass. Then, while reaching to pluck the clump of concealment from the ground, he had second thoughts. He tossed away the grass, braced his hands on his hips, and played the peacock, displaying himself in all his natural glory. "Let her see what she gave up, by God."

Drew stood facing the gulf, dripping wet, naked, and aroused.

Hannah dropped the field glasses overboard.

Years ago, they had been married.

Never once had they made love.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, speaking to the sandpiper scurrying along the water's edge. "This isn't shaping up to be just another day at the beach."

Hannah Mayfield considered following her binoculars into the water, but when she looked off the sailboat's starboard bow and saw the sandy bottom only a few feet below the surface, she realized drowning would take some work. "Might as well die of embarrassment," she muttered.

Since the moment she'd decided to make this trip, she'd pictured her reunion with Drew in a hundred different variations. Never once had she imagined anything like this. Maybe one of her fantasies did include a certain amount of bare skin, but never
that
much bare skin. Of course, considering her untouched state, Hannah hadn't known a man could be that… naked.

Were she not so busy being mortified at the moment, she might have been downright intrigued.

"I reckon you won't be making the return trip to Galveston after all, Missy," observed the sailor whom she'd hired to sail her down to this isolated beach.

"Looks like your husband's home, at that, and plenty happy to see you."

Happy? Hannah sincerely doubted Drew Coryell was the least bit pleased to see her. Hadn't he been mad enough to chew bullets the day she left him? Hadn't he bellowed after her, thundering bitterness and hostility as her father hoisted sail and headed out into the bay? No, Drew wouldn't be happy to see her.

"He probably walks around in that condition all the time," she muttered beneath her breath, tempted to take another peek. She didn't do it, though. If he caught her at it again she'd never be brave enough to leave the boat.

So as the small craft approached the beach, Hannah kept her gaze fastened securely on her hands, fingers laced and resting in her lap. Idly, she thought the contrast between her white knuckles and her suntanned hands a fascinating study in color.

Moments later, momentum sent her swaying forward as the rudder dragged the bottom. "This is as close as I can get," said the sailor. "Looks like you'll be getting your feet wet."

"I’ll carry her," came the voice that had haunted her for a decade.

Hannah held her breath, waiting to wake from the dream. Then a hand reached into the sailboat and touched her, grabbed her by one wrist. She knew that touch. Drew. This wasn't a dream. He really was here and not a figment of an overactive imagination.

For the first time, she admitted to herself she truly had not expected to find him on Wild Horse Island. After all, it had been ten years. The doubts planted in her mind by her father's accusations and predictions on the day of their wedding had lasted no longer than the sail home. In her heart, Hannah always believed Drew Coryell would prove her father wrong. She had believed he'd leave the beach life behind and make something of himself.

Apparently not.

Drew was here. Now, this minute. Beside the boat. Touching her.
He's touching me
. Her embarrassment evaporated beneath the wonder of the moment, and her pulse pounded like the surf during a blow.

She wouldn't look at him, not even when he tugged her toward him and into his arms. Cradling her against his body, holding her high and dry, he stepped away from the sailboat.

I'm in Drew's arms again
. Instinct had her snuggling against him. Sensation assaulted her. The solid, steely strength of the muscles that held her. The soft rasp of his breathing and the familiar sunshine-and-sea scent of the man who once had been her husband. I'm home, she thought. "Drew," she said with a soft, breathy sigh.

"Hannah." He spoke her name without emphasis or inflection.

"Drew," she repeated, her mouth lifting in a smile.

"Hannah?"

The question in his voice pulled at her. She wanted to ignore it, to savor this moment, but finally, she braved a glance at his face. He stared not at her, but toward the departing sailboat. She vaguely heard the sailor call, "I'll be back in three days."

The question burst from her lips. "Are you married?"

"No, I'm not. Are you?"

"No."

"Hannah?"

Her fingers itched to reach up and trace the strong line of his jaw. "Yes?"

"This is a dream come true for me."

"It is?" Her mouth went dry as a dune.

"It is." One corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked grin. "The hours I've spent over the past ten years imagining this moment… and now it is actually happening… why, it all but takes my breath away."

"Oh, mine too, Drew. Mine, too."

"It does? Well, that could be a problem. You're gonna need your breath, Hannah. I'm a fisherman, and you know what fishermen do with a catch they don't want." He looked down at her then, and the gleeful heat in his green-eyed gaze warned her even before he spoke. "They throw it back."

Then he dropped her, tossed her, actually. Like a dead red snapper. Sne opened her mouth to scream, but got out only a squeak-before she had to shut it when the cool gulf water closed over her head.

Almost immediately, her behind hit the bottom. Salt stung her eyes and bubbles burst from her mouth as she blew a frustrated breath before climbing angrily to her feet. Humiliation drenched her.

The confounded man was strolling…
strolling
… from the water. Whistling!

Hannah spat saltwater from her mouth, wiped it from her eyes, and wrung it from her hair. She swished sand from her skirt and washed it from her hands. All the while, her gaze never left the retreating rogue. She searched within herself for her backbone, found it, and muttered, "Fisherman, is he? Well, I'm no catch to throw back. He never caught me. That's the problem, isn't it? I'm the one that got away."

As if he'd heard her, he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. Standing on the beach, the surf lapping gently at his ankles, rivulets of water trickling down his back and over his bare, sculpted buttocks, and with a wickedly satisfied grin slashed across his face, the man could have been one of God's own fallen angels. Hannah shivered.

Oh, the temptations of sin.

And he's not married.

"Oh, hush," she scolded her own conscience. She hadn't made this trip to discern his marital status or lust after his manly physique. She dare not forget it. She was on a truly important mission, and the only man who could ensure its success was Drew Coryell.

Hannah sighed, gathered up her skirt, and started to slog her way forward. Dismay at the inauspicious start to her endeavor added to the weight of her steps. Unfortunately, the sight of all that skin had distracted her and temporarily scrambled her brains. She would need to do a better job of keeping her wits together if she expected to achieve her goal.

His reaction had done more than cool her off. It had tipped her to the fact that he held a grudge or two against her even after all these years. Well, she'd known when she decided to make this trip that might be the case. She'd known she'd set a difficult task for herself.

But now she knew what to expect; she'd be on her guard. She could deal with Drew Coryell. Besides, what could possibly be more shocking than what had already occurred? What more could the man bare? His soul?

"That's about as likely as snow in Texas in August," she murmured.

Drew never had been one to reveal his innermost feelings. Maybe if he'd been more forthcoming, she would have found it easier to fight her father and stay.

Reaching water's edge, Hannah paused to wring her skirts again and gather her composure. Personal considerations came a distant second to the noble quest that had brought her here today, and she needed to remember that. Hannah had come to Drew representing not herself, but the people of Texas. Her former husband had the opportunity to make a grand contribution to this great state, and she intended to do anything and everything within her power to ensure that he granted the request she had traveled here to make.

To that end, she was well prepared to rock Drew Coryell's boat. "So button up your hatches or your breeches or both, fisherman. There's a hurricane blowing ashore and its name is Hannah."

Hannah.

Drew was lost in a fog as he buttoned the placket of his lightweight cotton trousers, then reached for a shirt. Hannah Mayfield. When he went to slip his arms through the shirt sleeves and couldn't, he finally saw he'd lifted a second pair of pants from his trunk instead of a shirt. The woman had him even more confused than he'd realized.

Questions whirled like a waterspout in his brain. Why had she come? What did she want? Where had she been living the last ten years? Not Galveston, he knew. The Mayfield family had sold their home and moved away the very day she secured her damned annulment.

Having followed her to Galveston, Drew had hidden on the pier and watched the ferry take her away, then he'd washed his hands of the entire affair. He'd been full of anger and hurt pride, not to mention the broken ribs and assorted bruises Roger Mayfield's hired thugs had bestowed upon him. Still, young fool that he was, for months afterward he had expected her to come to her senses and return to him.

He had loved Hannah, truly, deeply loved her. He had honestly believed she loved him in return. That proved how stupid young men can be. It had taken her ten long years to come back.

Anger surged through him as Drew found a shirt and yanked it on.
Well, you are too damned late, darlin'
. Any tenderness he'd felt for her had died long ago.

Hadn't it?

He grimaced and tugged his shirt collar away from his neck. Damned thing wasn't even buttoned and it still felt like a noose. Hannah Mayfield. Hell.

"Why?" he muttered aloud. Why was she here? How had she found him? Only two people at the Castaway Bait Company knew where he intended to spend his holiday. Neither of them would have shared his business with a stranger.

And Hannah Mayfield was a stranger, he told himself as he slowly buttoned his shirt. Nothing more than that. He hadn't thought of the woman in years. Well, in months, anyway. He'd put that part of his past behind him. He was a successful businessman now. A wealthy man. Hannah Mayfield was nothing more than a bad memory.

A bad memory who had sailed up to his beach today. She was all grown up, a woman, not a girl, and more beautiful than sunrise over the gulf.
A bad memory who isn't wearing a wedding ring
—
not mine or anybody else's
.

Drew made a grunting noise. No wedding ring. Why had he even noticed? "It doesn't matter to me," he told himself. He certainly didn't want her now.

His gaze drifted toward the corner of the cabin where a decade ago the bed had sat, before he'd moved it to the other side of the room. Back then he had wanted her desperately, and Hannah had returned his desire. As if it were yesterday, he recalled the passion in her eyes, the heat in her touch, the little mewling sound of need she'd made when he'd laid her upon their bed. And he had no sooner gotten her naked when the door burst open and her father stole Drew's bride away, then sicced his goons on the distraught groom. It had taken his body weeks to mend. His heart, a month of Sundays.

He'd had a hard time accepting that she'd actually left him. He couldn't believe she hadn't stood up to her father. She should have resisted. She had married Drew.

But in the end, that hadn't meant a damn thing.

Now Hannah Mayfield was back. Why? Why had she sought him out after all this time?

Drew gazed out the cabin's window and spied the woman in question marching purposefully his way. "Well," he said softly, "I guess it's time I asked her."

Having taken the path from the beach, Hannah stood gazing at Drew's home, trying to work up the nerve to knock. In the end, she didn't need to because Drew stormed from the cabin, slamming the door behind him. She frowned, not liking the look in her former husband's eyes as he approached. The words
hard, deliberate
, and
ruthless
came to mind at the sight of him. Add an earring and a cutlass and go back in time two hundred years and the man could have passed for a pirate—a furious pirate. Temper radiated off him in waves.