Under the Boardwalk: A Dazzling Collection of All New Summertime Love Stories (16 page)

You're acting crazy as a bullbat, Coryell
. He agreed with everything she said—Wild Horse Island wasn't the place to raise a family. But still, hearing it from her rankled a man, rode like a burr beneath the saddle.

Sometimes the truth was a bitter pill to choke down.

He found the first snare empty and headed for the second, grimacing when he stepped on the razor edge of a broken clamshell. He stopped and rubbed his foot and admitted that maybe she had done the proper thing in leaving him all those years ago.

Her father had been right back then. When he married Hannah, Drew's greatest ambition had been to take his wife to his bed and keep her there. He'd had no thought for the future, no dreams or goals or aspirations. Her leaving had changed that. Hannah's desertion had given him a purpose.

Drew had wanted to show her, to prove to her he could be a success. On the day he'd received her annulment papers he'd vowed to make a success of himself and rub the Mayfield family's face in the fact. After watching her sail away from him, he nursed his sorrows by going fishing, and that's when the idea for the Castaway Bait Company had been born.

Drew picked up the clamshell and chucked it at the trunk of a salt cedar tree. He'd worked hard ever since. He'd made some costly mistakes in the beginning, for instance, not knowing to patent his early designs. But he'd learned, and the business had grown. Now he held the patent on thirty-seven baits, and his company manufactured and shipped their products all over the country.

"But damned if I want her to know." He turned his face into the sea breeze and gazed out toward the gulf. In the distant sky, storm clouds billowed and the surf rolled onto the beach rougher than normal for this time of day. Perhaps the wind would blow away the confusion that plagued him. Why was it that now that he'd been handed the perfect opportunity to prove himself, he didn't want to do it? Why was he holding back?

Because you don't want what you do for a living to matter. You want Hannah to love you for yourself.

Wait a minute. Love? Where the hell did that come from? Love had nothing to do with this. His goal was to seduce her, nothing more. What she thought of him didn't matter. It shouldn't matter.

It did matter.

He muttered a curse and picked up his pace along the path leading to the second snare. Ten-year-old doubts and insecurities rolled over him, fresh and new and uncomfortable. Minutes ticked by as her words played over and over in his mind.
It was always you, Drew. You were the attraction
.

Finding this trap empty also, he lost the desire to check the other two he'd set. Tonight's stew must be about ready. He needed to stop running away, return to the cabin, and quit acting the fool. He shouldn't have let her get to him like that. None of what she had said negated the fact that she'd left him, that she'd denied her marriage vows on the very heels of having made them. She owed him a honeymoon. "And I intend to collect."

Not retaliation, he told himself, but simply good business.

Drew had learned how to succeed in business, and that was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? The woman would have no room to complain.

He covered the distance to the cabin in less than five minutes. He found her standing at the stewpot, stirring the mixture with a long wooden spoon. At his approach she looked up. Dismay dimmed her blue eyes. "Drew, I'm sorry if what I said hurt you. I didn't mean to rehash the past. That isn't why I came."

"Oh, I know that. You came for my declaration. But since I don't want to give it up, it seems we have a problem."

She rested the spoon across the top of the kettle. "I can't agree to what you asked."

"My price is too high, hmm?"

"Yes, yes, it is. I'm not willing to prostitute myself for the sake of the Declaration of Independence."

Drew folded his arms and stood with his feet braced wide. "I think prostitution is too harsh a word."

"I don't," she replied, giving him a quelling glance. "Now if you'd care to place a monetary value on the document, we might come to terms."

"Money?" He made a show of rubbing his jaw. "That is an idea. What do you suggest?"

She licked her lips, drawing his attention to her mouth. "I don't know. I hadn't thought about it, actually. I'd hoped an appeal to your patriotism would be enough."

"My patriotism isn't for sale," he said with a shrug. Frustration tightened the corners of her eyes, and Drew started enjoying himself again. "Hmm… how to go about placing a value on my family heirloom."

"It's more than that, Drew. It's a piece of Texas's heritage, too. I remember the conversations we used to have about the heroes of the Republic of Texas. I'm betting if we scratch the surface, we'll find some of that patriotism after all."

"So you are offering to scratch my surface?" He rocked back on his heels, inhaling deeply. The delicious aroma of hoop stew teased his senses. "I do like the sound of that."

"Drew!"

He couldn't help but laugh. "Honey, your bargaining skills could use some work. It is not in your best interests to remind me how valuable that document is."

Sighing, she said, "I know, but I don't want to cheat you. I wouldn't feel right about it."

"Because I so obviously need the money," he replied flatly, his amusement evaporating like steam off the stew.

She hesitated a moment, then looked him in the eyes. "No, because you are right, I did cheat you once before, and I'm sorry for it. It's bothered me ever since. When I leave here this time, I don't want any regrets. For either of us."

No regrets?
Oh, you can count on that, sweetheart
.

Pretty words and apologies couldn't change what went before. Subtle seduction was still in order. That goal hadn't changed. Drew decided the time had come to get down to business. Lifting the spoon from its resting spot across the kettle, he stirred the pot. "I won't sell the Declaration of Independence for any amount of money, Hannah. It wouldn't be right."

"But, Drew—"

He scooped up a spoonful of stew, then tipped it, dribbling the brew back into the pot, testing its thickness. Almost done. "Neither," he announced, "will I insist on the terms I offered you earlier, no matter how great the appeal."

She watched him, a speculative look on her face. So damned beautiful, he thought. He could all but see the wheels turning in her head. "You won't demand I have relations with you."

"That's right."

"But you're not going to give it to me outright."

"No, I'm not." The woman always did have a quick mind. "I can't do that. It's a family heirloom, Hannah. My course of action in this matter must uphold the beliefs of my ancestors. It's a question of Coryell honor."

That one stumped her, obviously. Drew lifted a spoonful of hoop stew to his lips for a taste, as much to hide his smile as to sample the cooking. She must be remembering all the stories he'd told her about the skeletons in the family closet.

"Any onion left? I think it could use a little more." As Hannah added the flavoring, he continued, "In keeping with family tradition, I can't give the declaration to you, nor can I sell it. That brings us to the third possibility— gambling."

"What?" She fumbled the last of the onion, dropping it onto the ground.

"Yep. I come from a long line of gamblers, Hannah. The Coryell family has a distinguished history when it comes to making bets."

"I thought you had pirates in the family tree."

"That's on my mother's side. The Coryells are gamblers from way back."

Her eyes widened as the light dawned. "You want to
bet
the declaration? You won't sell or give it to me, but you'll use it as a wager?"

"Uh-huh."

Aghast, she shook her head. "What game are you playing? For what stakes? And if you say my virtue, Coryell, I'll find another fish to hit you with."

No longer able to hold back his grin, Drew tsked and said, "Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. You wound me. I told you I wouldn't insist on my earlier terms. No, I don't want your virtue, not anymore."

"You don't?" she squeaked, her spine going straight.

Very subtle seduction, Drew reminded himself. "That's right. What I'm referring to at this particular moment are some of your other womanly skills. You probably noticed earlier that I could use some domestic assistance here on Wild Horse Island. My cabin is screaming out for a good cleaning. The pile of dirty laundry in the corner smells worse than the bait bucket, and when I'm not having hoop stew for supper, I live on canned beans. I have the fixings in my cupboard for fresh bread, but I can't bake worth a darn."

"I bake delicious bread," she said suspiciously.

"I remember." He folded his arms and rocked on the balls of his feet. "You see, Hannah, it occurs to me— belatedly, I admit—that wifely duties involve more than sex. I'm thinking perhaps a little cooking and cleaning could be part of our deal for the declaration."

Her eyes narrowed. "Fresh bread and clean sheets? That's putting an awfully high value on my domestic skills. What mischief are you about here?"

"No mischief. A bet. A contest, if you prefer the term." Drew dipped the spoon into the stew for a second taste. "Umm…" he murmured. "That's as fine a fish stew as I've made in years. Did you add something to this when I wasn't looking?"

"No," she said, frustration vibrating in her tone. "Drew, what are you trying to say?"

"I'm challenging you to a contest, Hannah. A fishing competition, live bait versus lures. Me with my artificial bait, you with the real thing. You pick the fish and I'll set a time limit and the greatest total weight gains the victory. If you win, I'll hand over the declaration."

"And if you win?"

"If I win, you play my wife until your sailor comes back for you."

"Play your wife," she repeated. "Drew, don't make me go find a speckled trout."

"I know, I know. I mean cooking, cleaning, and laundry type things. I'm willing to agree that all bets are off when it comes to any possible intimacy between us." Drew was proud of the way he'd worded that. He'd made it sound good without promising a thing.

Anticipation lit her eyes and painted a swash of pink across her cheeks. So beautiful, he thought. Desire for her warmed his blood and hardened his loins. He shifted position, shielding his body's reaction from her possible notice. No sense calling attention to the fact he didn't consider that particular battle done. "So are we on? Do we have a bet, Miss Hannah?"

She pursed her lips. "A contest fair and square? No tricks?"

"No tricks. You have my word. I'll even let you use my Meek reel if you'd like, although I warn you it needs an educated thumb to prevent backlash. We can work out the particulars over our stew."

Hannah looked from him out toward the bay. Her lips moved and he thought he heard her whisper, "Eight-inch Throbbing Bob.

After a moment's thought, she nodded abruptly. "I accept your challenge, Drew Coryell." She held out her hand. "Shall we shake on it?"

Despite his noble intentions, the heat in his blood got the better of Drew. He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, used it to pull her toward him. "Nah," he said, lowering his mouth toward hers. "I prefer to do it this way."