Under the Boardwalk: A Dazzling Collection of All New Summertime Love Stories (17 page)

The peck kept Hannah tossing and turning a good portion of the night. She wouldn't go so far as to call it a kiss. She had experienced Drew Coryell's kisses in the past. They were long, passionate, ravenous events that stirred her juices and left her hungering for more. This was nothing like that. This had been brief, passionless, and indifferent. He'd no more than brushed his lips across hers. He hadn't stopped to nibble, hadn't paused to savor. He certainly hadn't coaxed his way inside with that talented tongue of his.

A peck, not even a smooch. He might as well have been kissing his sister.

Hannah couldn't help but feel a bit insulted, especially since The Peck had been but the first of a number of such assaults to her confidence in her feminine charms.

During supper he'd never once made a suggestive remark about the two of them "stewing." He'd talked to her about fishing and the sailing trips he'd taken over the years. He'd even gone so far as to politely ask after her father. Then, claiming the role of gentleman, Drew had given up his bed for the night, stringing up a hammock outside between two trees in which to sleep. He never once suggested he share her bed, never tried to charm his way past her defenses. Never even acted as if the idea had occurred to him.

He should have kept his bed. Hannah might as well have been plopped into the kettle and hung over the fire, so much did she stew. Why didn't he want her? Never mind that she should be glad of the fact. That had nothing to do with her current insecurities.

From eleven until midnight, she fretted about her physical appearance. From midnight until one, she brooded that men found her intelligence off-putting. From one to two, she wept over the loss of her womanly allure. Then, somewhere around three the light dawned in the darkness, and she realized he'd played her for a fool.

Nothing was wrong with her. She wasn't unattractive or unlovable. The man wasn't immune to her. That daunting display at the beach upon her arrival put that particular anxiety to rest.

No, Drew was up to something, and she suspected it involved this contest he'd proposed. A fishing contest for a piece of Texas history. How very bold of him.

"Bold, hah," she grumbled into the darkness. She'd show him bold. He likely thought to lure her into complacency, then net her when she wasn't looking. She'd bet her own favorite fishing pole that Drew Coryell still wanted her in his bed.

If she were smart she would forget about the declaration, appropriate his rowboat, and head for home. But she wouldn't do that. Historical documents aside, she felt the need to discover what motivated the man to make his wicked demand. She refused to believe he'd go to the trouble to scheme if all he wanted was to bed her. The Drew Coryell she'd fallen in love with was not that shallow and callous a person. Surely he hadn't changed that much.

No, Drew was up to some bit of mischief, so she would remain on her guard. He wouldn't catch her unawares. She would make certain of that. She would simply out-angle the angler.

With that pleasant thought uppermost in her mind, Hannah finally drifted off to sleep. She dreamed of mermaids and pirates and treasure chests filled with riches. She awoke to the stink of dead fish.

"Rise and shine, my little Kidney Spoon," Drew said in a sing-song tone. A match scratched and lamplight flared.

Hannah wrenched opened one eye and worked up the energy to glare. In a voice raspy with sleep, she repeated, "Kidney Spoon?"

"It's a bait. Kidney-shaped blade with a treble hook. J. T. Buel out of Whitehall, New York, filed the patent on it originally."

"What time is it?"

"Four A.M. Time to fish. I've already cut your bait." He sent the bait bucket swinging from side to side. "You can thank me later."

"I’ll thank you to leave me alone."

"Leave you alone? Why, Hannah, what's this? Are you trying to welch on our bet?"

She sighed heavily and started to sit up, but remembered just in time she had slept naked after washing out her underclothes before turning in. Clutching the sheet to her chest, she grumbled, "I in not welching on anything. I need privacy to dress."

"Just be quick about it or you'll miss the boat. This contest starts at five A.M. sharp whether you're on the water or not." He sauntered out the door, bucket in hand, whistle on his lips.

"That blasted whistle of his," Hannah muttered, throwing back the sheet and padding across the room to the fireplace where she'd hung her clothing to dry. It was probably the real reason he didn't kiss her. Likely he'd used up all his pucker power on his silly little ditties.

Her pique mellowed when she spied the mug of steaming coffee sitting on the table. She sipped it while she dressed in one of Drew's shirts and a pair of his pants that she appropriated from a trunk placed at the foot of the bed. The clothes all but swallowed her, the shirt-sleeves and pants legs rolled up, the waist gathered and tied with a rope belt, but they served the purpose. The coffee stole through her, chasing the fatigue from her bones. Soon she felt better. Despite the lack of sleep, by the time she donned her shoes she looked forward to the upcoming contest.

"Musky Wrigglers and Throbbing Bobs," she murmured as she quickly made up the bed. No matter what bait he pulled from his tackle box, she intended to win this competition. She had no reason to fear a loss. Hadn't she always been a more successful fisherman than he? Besides, the man intended to fish with artificial lures. Did he honestly think a peculiar-shaped piece of metal would attract more game than a nice, smelly piece of fish flesh? Especially when the woman wielding the rod was as experienced as she? "I sincerely doubt it."

And so, determined to go out and win the priceless Declaration of Independence away from the man so foolish as to put it up as stakes in a scheme, Hannah exited the cabin.

Half an hour later, they were drifting in a rowboat in the middle of the bay. They'd bickered over details of the competition on the trip out, mainly because Hannah had tried to toss out her line and troll while Drew was busy rowing. She hadn't honestly expected to succeed at that gambit, but she had enjoyed needling the man. Now as he stowed the oars and picked up his rod, she waited impatiently to signal the contest's official start. Finally, he nodded toward her and she said, "Begin."

For Hannah, "begin" didn't mean start talking. Drew apparently didn't see it that way. The moment her shrimp-baited line hit the water, he opened his mouth and gave her an unsolicited inventory of the contents of his tackle box.

"In addition to my Musky Wriggler, I've got your Blue-Headed Spinning Squid Bait, the Musky Minnow, the Perfect Plug, the Ball Bearing Trailer, the—"

Hannah interrupted. "Hush, Coryell. You'll scare away the fish."

"Don't be silly. This isn't some calm, quiet lake where every sound echoes." He lifted an artificial lure from his tackle box and held it by its two-pronged hook. "I think I’ll start off with my Texas Doodle Spring Hook. I've always had good luck attracting live ones with it."

Hannah wrinkled her nose, seeing only a long, thin hunk of black metal with a dangling hook. "That's an ugly piece."

''Ugly! Why, I beg to differ. This fella is a beauty. The design is an improvement on the Sockdolager and it works like a charm."

"Uh-huh," she drawled. "If that's the case, then why don't you quit talking and start fishing." At that moment, she felt a tug on her rod and a grin split her face. "You are already behind."

For the next few minutes, Hannah worked to land her fish. He was a fighter, and she enjoyed the battle, but when she brought him to the boat, she had to bite back a groan of dismay.

Drew eyed the small trout and smirked. "Maybe you should keep it for bait."

"Very funny," she replied, tossing the fish back. She only momentarily considered keeping that particular catch. Terms of the contest declared the winner to be the one with the most weight from the combined poundage of five fish caught in a two-hour period. Giving up the two-pounder was a risk Hannah felt compelled to take, a bold declaration to the man seated in front of her. She had no fear of not catching her quota in weights sufficient to beat his socks off.

Her gaze dropped to his feet. Not that the man bothered to wear socks. "What is it you're wearing on your feet?"

Grinning, he held up a sandaled foot. "Like 'em? A friend brought them to me from the South Seas. They're made from the hide of a wild boar, and they're perfect for the beach. Sand slides in, then right back out again. Why, I—" Drew broke off abruptly as the rod in his hand bowed. "Well… well…well. Looks like my Texas Doodle Spring Hook has done its job." Minutes later, he boated a redfish. "What do you think, Hannah? Six pounds? Seven?"

She scowled at him and turned her attention to her line, willing something big to bite. Over the next two hours Hannah pulled in her share of fish, but to her dismay, Drew always managed to bring in one a little bigger, a little heavier. As the dock counted down to the last fifteen minutes, she felt herself growing desperate. While Drew switched out his lures, attaching the Perfect Plug to the end of his line, she baited her hook with an extra big chunk of cut gizzard shad. Five minutes later, she puffed in what she guessed to be a ten-pound snapper. "Hurrah," she shouted. "That'll win it for me. I just know it."

Drew frowned and for the first time that morning looked a little worried. After casting and reeling in four more times, he said, "Hmm… I think I'd better pull out the big guns now."

She mocked. "You mean the eight-inch Throbbing Bob?"

He glanced down, then back up at her, a strange, strangled expression on his face. "No. It's better suited to beach fishing. I think I'll use my Musky Wriggler."

Her stringer weighted down with her catch and the time limit quickly approaching, Hannah indulged in a smug moment. "Go ahead, Coryell. Try to beat me. Show me what that Musky Wriggler can do."

"Honey, that's been my fantasy for years."

Casting his line, he smiled at her, and that, along with the warmth in his eyes, made her feel rather like prey herself. Hannah found the sensation reassuring. He wasn't so indifferent to her. Now that the pressure of the contest was behind her, she had a little time to spare to remind him of the fact.

She lifted her hand to the placket of the shirt she wore and flapped the material briskly. "With the sun up, it's getting hot, don't you think?"

The man was so easy.

Drew dragged his gaze up from her bosom. "Hot. Yeah."

"I'll be glad to get off the water, won't you?" She leaned over and the shirt gaped. Slowly, she rolled up the bulky leg of the pants she had donned, displaying her leg halfway up the calf. He nodded, his attention focused on her, and Hannah reveled in her feminine power.

"My rod is wiggling," he murmured.

Good, she thought wickedly. Then, seeing his fishing pole bow toward the water, immediately exclaimed, "Oh, no!"

The fishing pole bowed toward the water as Drew took it firmly in hand. Hannah watched the fight between man and fish with alarm.
Please let it simply be a fighter like my first one. Please let it be a little one
.

The water bubbled as the fish surfaced, then dove once more. Hannah prayed the brief glimpse she got of it would prove wrong, but as Drew won the battle and lifted his prize from the bay, she saw her prayers had not been answered. The fish assuredly topped twelve pounds.

She'd lost the bet.

Smiles wreathed Drew's face as he held up his fish. "God bless that Musky Wriggler. He never lets me down."

Afternoon sun dappled the rope hammock hung between two live oaks outside the fishing cabin on Wild Horse Island. Drew lay sprawled in the contraption, his fingers laced behind his head, elbows akimbo, one leg dangling, his bare big toe digging into the gritty sand beneath him just often enough to keep him swinging. Having awakened from a nap a few short moments ago, he watched his one-time wife hang wet laundry along a makeshift rope clothesline. He believed he could lie there watching her forever.

Sunlight caught streaks of red in her golden hair, causing it to shine like old gold. Her day outdoors had painted her cheeks pink, and as he watched her profile, he was struck by her appeal. Prettiness had matured into true beauty during the years they'd been apart The woman had good bones. She would age with grace and style and undoubtedly turn men's heads until the day she died.

Drew's gaze drifted down her body, savoring the sight of her full, high bosom, her tiny waist, and the flare of shapely hips as outlined by a dress dampened by contact with wet laundry and clinging to her form. Her shape stirred his lust, but when she turned to look at him, her mouth flattened in a frown and her eyes narrowed into a blue-fire glare.

Drew bit back a groan. The woman's body stirred his lust, but it was her spirit that inflamed his passion.

He wanted desperately to rise from his hammock, march across the yard and sweep her off her feet. He needed to lay her on his bed and strip away her clothes. He ached to bury his body deep within hers and slake the hunger she'd roused within him.

Patience, Coryell
, he told himself.
She's not ready yet
.

So he set about making her so. He set the hammock swaying with a push, then settled into the contraption like a lazy pasha. "Hey, honey?" he called. "Would you bring me a glass of lemonade?"

What he got was a sopping pillow case thrown at his face. He caught it just before it slapped him and he chuckled. It was just the sort of response he'd hoped for. "Now, now, Hannah. Don't be a poor loser. I beat you fair and square."

"I'd like to beat you," she grumbled just loud enough for him to hear.

He watched her struggle to get a sheet hung evenly on the line and figured a gentleman would offer his help. However, since it was in his best interests to keep her temper up, he stayed right where he was. He wanted her own passions aroused, her emotions aflame. He wanted her worked up to the point of explosion because he knew that when Hannah lost control he'd have his opportunity to get her into his bed.

The wedding night due him. The honeymoon stolen from him. Sex. That's what he needed from Hannah Mayfield.
But is that all you need
? asked a little voice in his head.