Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel (17 page)

He caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, pulling it away from her lips. “You okay?” His voice was husky.

Her cheeks were pink, all of her pink and sticky and delicious. “Fine. You?”

“I’m good.”
Great. Never better.

“Your, um . . .” She tried to sit up. Winced. “Your elbow’s on my hair.”

“Sorry.” He moved his arm, helped her sit up and slide off the table.

She wobbled and he had to catch her, which was nice, her body pressed against his.

He ought to say something. Something smooth and sincere that would convince her that sex with him wasn’t a terrible mistake. Something besides
Thank you, God
, or
How soon can we do this again?

But looking at Jane drove all the words from Gabe’s head. She was so . . . pretty.

She tugged at her apron, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Thanks for dessert,” he said abruptly.

Her blush flared. “You’re welcome.”

God, he was such an asshole.

He had to do better. She deserved more. Some praise or reassurance, maybe.

“Your cake was really pretty.” He fastened his pants and took her hand, her small, warm, capable hand, in his. “Sorry I messed it up.”

“That’s okay.” Her head was still bent, watching his thumb stroke over her knuckles. “I liked it.”

With his free hand, he picked chocolate icing from her hair. “I kind of messed you up, too.”

Her mouth curved in that small, secret Jane-smile before she met his eyes. “I liked it,” she repeated.

His chest expanded. He grinned at her like a fool, holding her hand. “Guess you want to go clean up.”
Or we could do it again
, he almost said.

He didn’t want to let go of her hand. He didn’t want to let go of her, period. Not now, not ev—

Ah, hell. He was doing it again. Over-committing. Jumping in too fast, too deep. All he had to offer—all she said she wanted from him—was sex. What was he hoping? That she’d be so impressed by his technique that she’d keep him around long enough to act out all his fantasies? The one with her bending over the counter, for example. Or straddling him in the chair. Or . . . He shook his head, disgusted with the direction of his thoughts.

But maybe she’d consider coming back with him to his motel room.

“I . . . Yes, I should,” she said.

His heart stopped. Had she read his mind?

She reached for her neatly folded jeans on the counter, and he shook his head to clear it.
Dickhead
. She was replying to his comment about washing up.

“Right,” he said. “You do that. I’ll wait.”

And maybe that was the right thing to say after all, because she smiled at him as she gathered up her clothes and disappeared in the direction of the women’s restroom.

Nice ass.

Not that he was going to see it again tonight.

His T-shirt was hopeless. He balled it up and put it with his jacket in the other room. The candle still glowed on the table, its light flickering over the remains of dinner.

He had never in his life had a meal like that before. Steak and potatoes, sure, but not a five-star gourmet restaurant meal with candlelight. And cake.

He blew out the candle. The smoke curled up in the quiet room.

She’d done this, all of it, for him.

His throat tightened, a funny pressure in his chest. This went way beyond a sandwich and a cookie in a brown paper bag.

It is what it is. I don’t need anything else.

Then why go to this much trouble? Not out of charity or just to say thank you. Not only for sex. Hell, if she wanted him for sex, all she had to do was ask.

Which meant . . . Damned if he knew what it meant. But he was smiling as he stacked the plates and carried them into the kitchen.

*   *   *

O
H
. D
EAR
.

The mirror in the women’s room provided a clearer reflection than the door of the walk-in. Jane winced. Much clearer.

Puffy lips, raccoon eyes, beard burn on her throat, chocolate icing in her hair . . . and in other places that were much harder to wash in the tiny room’s only sink. She looked like she’d been to a rave at Willy Wonka’s.

She retrieved her panties from the pile of folded clothes. Still clean. She spared a guilty thought for Gabe’s T-shirt.

Seriously?
demanded her inner Sunday school teacher.
You had sexy times with a near stranger on the kitchen prep table and you feel guilty about some chocolate smears on his shirt?

She hushed the voice. She was a capable, fully grown woman. She’d even bought condoms. Yes, okay, she’d gone shopping at the Piggly Wiggly on the mainland where no one
would see her and talk, but she took responsibility for her actions. She could have sex with a man she wanted.

Fabulous sex, her seldom-used girl parts reminded her. Her reflection blushed and smiled in agreement.

Jane gave herself a mental shake. The point was, she was almost thirty years old. She’d read those books Lauren loaned her. She knew about the rush of chemicals released in the brain during sex. She was old enough not to mistake sex for love. Smart enough not to look for something that wasn’t there. She could handle a no-strings hookup with Gabe Murphy.

He’d warned her.
I don’t want to hurt you.

It is what it is
. Thrilling. Tender. Fabulous.

She tugged her shirt on over her head, sneaking another glance in the mirror. Her eyes were soft and dreamy. A sappy, satisfied smile curved her lips.

But she was realistic. She was not going to romanticize a onetime kitchen encounter intended to relieve her sexual drought. She yanked her hair into a ponytail, fastening it with the band around her wrist. Chemistry be damned. Everything would be fine as long as she didn’t lose her head.

Or her heart.

She returned to the kitchen. And gaped.

Holy chore-gasm.

There he was, standing shirtless at the wash sink, scrubbing baked-on crust from a casserole dish. No doubt about it, he looked . . . Well, he looked amazing, okay? Male perfection, all bare muscled back and chiseled arms and testosterone. And a tattoo on his left shoulder blade—helmet, rifle, and boots. The battlefield cross.

Her heart contracted painfully, like it was trying to squeeze its way out between her ribs. All the lies she’d been telling herself about being practical and sensible went flying out the window.

Here was a man caring enough to protect her back with his shirt and wash her dishes. To take care of a stray dog. To
take time with her son. To carry his losses with him, inked into his skin.

He wasn’t a stupid chemistry experiment or a handy way to reawaken her sleeping inner slut.

He was himself. Gabe. And beneath his tough-guy façade, he was vulnerable, too.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught her staring, and, oh, the look in those eyes . . .

A quirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, making her insides quiver. “What’s the matter? Never seen a guy doing dishes before?”

She stuck out her chin. “I worked in a restaurant kitchen. I’ve seen lots of guys wash dishes.”

His smile deepened. “Should I be jealous?”

Up close and personal, he looked even more like a seductive fantasy brought to life, from the bad-boy stubble and the glint in his eye to the happy trail that ran down his ridged stomach and under the waistband of his jeans. Unbuttoned, she noticed. Well, she couldn’t help looking, could she? Bubbles slid down his corded forearms into the water.

She rolled her eyes. “Like you have anything to worry about. You must know you’re perfect.”

He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “No. Don’t make me into something I’m not.”

“I won’t. I can’t. I did that with my ex,” she explained. She had believed she loved Travis. She’d really thought he loved her. She had wanted so desperately to make them a family that she’d lied to her father. Worse, she’d fooled herself. “I meant, perfect physically.”

“Right.” A flicker of something in his eyes, gone before she had a chance to identify it. “And you’re beautiful.”

A puff of disbelief escaped her. “You don’t have to say that.”

“It’s true.”

Pleasure warmed her from the inside out. A blush washed up her face. Unable to hold his gaze, she ducked her head and grabbed a dish towel. “Here, let me dry.”

They stood side by side in front of the triple sink, close enough that she could smell his skin overlaid by the clean scent of soap. He smelled delicious. Jane could feel her resolve and her dignity dissolving. She wanted to bury her face in his neck and just inhale him.

And those muscles . . . The lovely way they slid under his skin as he reached for a pot . . .

She cleared her throat. “I guess you had to stay in good shape in the Marines.”

Gabe slanted a look at her, a wry twist to his mouth. “I got out of the Corps almost three years ago. I used to work out in my cell. There’s not much else to do in jail except read. Or watch TV in the common room, but that gets old fast.”

“I like to read,” she offered. “Not that I have much time for it.”

“What do you read?”

“Whatever Lauren gives me. Self-help books, mostly. Cookbooks.” Her blush deepened. “Romance novels.”

But Gabe, to her surprise, nodded. “They had those in the jail library.” A pause. “Some of them were pretty good.”

She goggled. “You read romance?”

He shrugged. “I told you, not a lot to do. There was this series about Navy SEALS, Troubleshooters or something, that I liked a lot.”

She nodded eagerly. “Suzanne Brockmann. I like those, too.”

Because whatever struggles the characters endured, whatever mistakes they made, the heroines were strong women who fought back, who found their happy ending.

It almost gave Jane hope.

Huh. Maybe that’s why Lauren gave them to her.

Standing beside Gabe with the sound of the rain on the roof was almost unbearably domestic. The brush of his wet arm against hers made her knees wobble.

She held her breath, afraid to say anything and spoil the moment.

Gabe voiced what she was thinking. “This is nice.”

She turned to him, driven by desperation, the words rising from deep inside, spilling out. “Gabe . . . why are you still here? What do you want?”

He met her gaze, his eyes dark and steady. His body tightened. Her heart pounded to the rhythm of the rain. So serious, that look. What was he thinking?

He exhaled, the tension leaving him suddenly, or maybe it was still there, transformed. His mouth gentled, smiled. “Got any more cake?”

T
HE
RAIN
DRUMMED
on the porch roof of Marta Lopez’s little bungalow, almost drowning out the noise from the television inside.

Marta’s gaze lifted from the cellophane-wrapped bouquet in Hank’s hands to his face. “Very nice.” Her lips curved in a warm smile. “Maybe there is hope for you after all.”

Hank cleared his throat, pleased with his forethought in stopping by the grocery store. His ex-wife used to complain he wasn’t the flower-buying kind. But when a woman invited you over for dinner and—what had Marta called it?—adult companionship . . . well, he figured he shouldn’t show up empty-handed, that was all.

Should he kiss her?

But she stepped back out of the doorway, and the moment—if it was a moment—was gone.

“Come in.” She took the flowers. “You know my sons.”

Hank stopped in the act of wiping his feet.
Her sons?

“Tomás, Miguel, say hello to Officer Clark.”

Well, hell.

Two young men sprawled in front of the television in the living room. The one on the couch got reluctantly to his feet and kicked the sole of the younger one’s shoe until he got up, too. From their expressions, they were about as glad to see Hank as he was to see them.

He nodded. “Boys.”

“Hi, Officer Clark,” said the shorter one. Miguel, still in high school.

The older one, Tomás, jerked his chin in greeting.

“I’ll put these in water,” Marta said, disappearing through a big archway. He could see a table, already set for dinner, on the other side.

The boys shifted uncomfortably.

Hank glanced at the TV. The anchors on
SportsCenter
were bantering about Louisville’s chances in the Sweet Sixteen this weekend. So the evening wasn’t a total loss.

He dropped into a chair.

“They don’t know shit,” Tomás said, settling back on the couch.

Hank slid him a look. “Brackets busted already, huh?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. But I’m doing better than Miguel.”

“Hey, all my Elite Eight are still in the tournament,” Miguel said.

“Who’s your Final Four?” Hank asked, and they talked about Duke and whether Michigan State had a shot this year until Marta came back with the flowers.

There was already a vase on the table, but she replaced those flowers with the bouquet Hank had brought. He was relieved to see his was bigger.

Marta looked from Hank to the television, a smile twitching her lips. “Do you want to help me in the kitchen or watch ESPN?”

“Is this a test?” Hank asked warily.

Her smile broadened. “I prefer to think of it as an opportunity.”

Miguel rolled his eyes. Tomás said something in Spanish, and Marta laughed and answered in the same language.

Damn it. Hank didn’t understand what they were saying. Didn’t know what he was doing here. He hauled himself to his feet.

“You always have a chaperone?” he asked after he had followed Marta into the kitchen.

“On a first date?” Marta widened her eyes at him. “Of course. Mami would insist.”

So this was a date. Some of the tension left his shoulders. “Bet the boys couldn’t keep their hands off you when you were young.”

Marta raised her brows. “As opposed to now, when I am so old?”

Hell. “I didn’t mean . . .”

Her smile reached right inside him and twisted him up. “Hank, relax. I am teasing you.” She turned to adjust the heat on the stove. “The truth is, I do not entertain very much. It is always the boys’ friends who come over. I am a single parent. You know how that is.”

Hank nodded. After Denise left him, he didn’t have the time to chase after another woman. Or the heart.

“Jane didn’t have many friends over. Couldn’t,” he said. “I was working most of the time.”

Even when he wasn’t, she had always been a quiet kid. Solitary, like him. He remembered with a queer tug of his heart the way she used to sit for hours at the edge of his vision while he watched TV. He’d never known how to talk to her. And she never said much. Never asked for much of anything, except when she was little and begged him to let her stay home alone.

You can trust me, Daddy
, she’d said.

And he had. Until Tillett.

“I was lucky,” Marta was saying, stirring a pot. “Alex and Mateo were in high school—old enough to watch the younger boys. They were company for one another. But they had their
own activities. Football—soccer—cross-country, after-school jobs . . . It seemed like all I did was drive them places. At that age, everything is work and your children.”

And sometimes work was an escape from your only child, from the reminder of how badly you’d screwed up your life at home.

“I should have done more with Jane,” Hank said. “Been around more. I wish . . .” He shut up. It was all water under the bridge anyway.

Marta’s eyes were shrewd and kind. “You are doing more now, yes? With your grandson.”

“I guess.” Hank stopped himself, barely, from shuffling his feet. “What are you making?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Green mole chicken.”

Green
chicken? “Smells good,” he said.

Marta smiled. “It tastes even better.” She lifted a lid, releasing a cloud of steam and unfamiliar aromas, and dipped in a spoon. She stood close, almost between Hank’s feet, and lifted the spoon to his mouth. “Taste.”

He accepted the spoon cautiously between his lips.

“Well?” she demanded. She was usually so bossy, he forgot what a little thing she was, short and curvy. She smelled spicy and unfamiliar, like her chicken.

He swallowed. “Not bad.”

Her eyes sparked. Her lips parted. “‘Not
bad
’? Not—”

He put his hands on her waist and kissed her, which shut her up. Her mouth was soft and warm as she kissed him back, her body round and firm. He tightened his hold on her waist.

She made a little noise in her throat and stepped back. He released her instantly. They stared at each other. His heart pounded. Seemed her breathing was faster, too.

She licked her lips. “Needs salt.”

He bit down on a grin. “Seemed pretty perfect to me.”

Her smile was something to see.

She turned away and grabbed a napkin-covered basket off the counter. “Here.” She thrust it at him. “Take this to the table. It’s time for dinner.”

There was one of those Catholic crosses hanging on the wall of the dining nook. Hank didn’t see how staring at Jesus crucified was supposed to aid a man’s appetite, but he bowed his head as Marta and the boys said some kind of grace and crossed themselves.

Marta banned cell phones and television at the dinner table, but there wasn’t a lot of yapping. Her sons shoveled in their food with the healthy appetite of young males, leaving Hank free to do the same. The rice was red, the chicken was green, and there were oranges and olives in the salad. Garlic in everything. But it all tasted fine. Good. He said so. Marta thanked him.

Miguel finished eating first, carrying his empty plate into the kitchen and wandering back toward the television.

“All done with your homework?” Marta asked.

“Yep.”

“What about your chemistry test on Friday?”

“I’ll study tomorrow.”

“You are working tomorrow night. You’ll study now.”

“Ma . . .”

Marta arched an eyebrow. Hank knew that look from the station. The most whiny-ass, entitled tourist in the world had been known to fold when faced with the power of Marta’s raised eyebrow.

With a heavy sigh, Miguel fetched his backpack from under the end table by the front door. “What about dessert?”

“Ice cream,” Marta said. “I’ll call you.”

“Next time, you should bring dessert,” Miguel said to Hank. “You know, instead of flowers?”

Hank met Marta’s eyes, heat creeping under his collar. Was there going to be a next time?

She shrugged, a smile playing around her mouth.

“I’ll think about it,” he said gruffly.

“Jane, she makes great desserts. She did this Key lime pie for the restaurant last week? It was really good.”

Hank felt a glow of pride at this praise of his daughter. “You work at the Brunswick,” he said.

“Yeah. Twelve hours a week.”

“As long as you keep up your grades,” Marta said. “Go study.”

“My grades are good enough,” Miguel said, letting his book bag slide, trying to put off the inevitable. Like a prisoner squaring off with a guard to delay the long walk to the electric chair. “We can’t all be lawyers like Alex.”

“She’s not saying be a lawyer, stupid,” his older brother said. “But maybe you want to go to college.”

“Papi didn’t go to college. You didn’t go to college.”

“Because I got a good job now. But Gabe says you got to plan for the future. To think beyond the next paycheck.”

“Your friend Gabe is very wise,” Marta said. She narrowed her eyes at Hank. “Did you just growl?”

“No,” he growl— That is, he grumbled. Maybe his voice was pitched a little lower than usual. So sue him. “You talking about Gabe Murphy?”

“Yeah. We work together,” Tomás said. “More than a week now. Sam hired—”

“I know who he is.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“He’s trouble. I don’t trust him.”

Marta’s brows rose. “And yet he’s working at your daughter’s bakery.”

He wouldn’t be if Hank had any say. But he’d lost that argument. His jaw set. “Jane’s her own woman. She makes her own decisions.”

“You don’t believe that,” Marta said.

Hell, no.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hank said.

Marta’s eyes were deep and soft. “I understand. It’s hard when your children grow up.”

She turned the conversation to other things while Tomás
cleared the table and Miguel went upstairs to do his despised chemistry homework. Later, there was ice cream.

But some of the shine had been rubbed off the evening, and Hank knew why.

It was that Gabe Murphy’s fault.