Summer on the Cape (3 page)

* * *

Zach heard the plane’s engine as it taxied down the runway, coming to a stop not far from the terminal building. He opened his eyes and watched as Sonny Boardman, the mechanic, ran out to the plane and opened its little door, letting down the attached steps. A couple of passengers got out but neither of them could be Adam’s “guest.” He recognized the first person out of the plane, Jim Sargent’s girl, Molly, back from school for the summer. The second was a businessman, carrying a briefcase and two tennis rackets, probably coming up to the Cape for a long weekend.

A few moments passed and through the plane’s windows, Zach could see that only one passenger remained. At last she came through the door and down the steps. As he watched her from across the field, she stopped and shifted her bag on her shoulder. There was a sudden break in the cloud cover, and a shaft of light fell on her as she lifted her arm and brushed her hair back from her eyes.

Zach Eliot stopped dead in his tracks.

He had the extraordinary sensation that the sunshine had come with her, breaking across the field just as she’d stepped from the plane, bathing the tarmac and the trees and the terminal building, and yes, Zach himself, with its warmth. As though it were for his benefit alone, the wind lifted her hair, and she brought up a hand to hold the strands away from her face, displaying, with that simple gesture, a lithe femininity that sent a tightening quiver through Zach’s body. She was looking away from him, toward the trees that surrounded the field, and she seemed to be savoring the light and the sweet summer scents that filled the air.

The late afternoon sun, glowing behind her, lit the thick waves of her honey-gold hair, and the light breeze moved it gently away from her shoulders. In her slim figure, clad in white pants and jacket, poised against the breeze, with one arm raised, Zach saw gentle grace and quick energy combined in one lovely form.

He was totally stunned. It wrenched his gut to admit it, but damn it, Adam Talmadge had found himself an absolute knockout! With an effort, Zach forced himself into motion. He straightened up and walked across the field to meet her.

* * *

Allie looked around the airfield, made a quick study of her new surroundings, and understood immediately why artists liked to work here. The light across the field was flat and clear, as if it came up from the ground instead of down from the sky. She liked the way it lit up the undersides of the low trees that surrounded the field. She liked the way the wind blew in from the ocean and lifted the hair away from her face.

And she had seen something else she liked right away. He was tall and slim and had a comfortable way of leaning against the wall of the terminal building. Allie had sketched hundreds of gorgeous male bodies in her art classes and her professional eye saw immediately that the body inside those tight jeans and that blue denim work shirt was as lean and hard and healthy as any of them. He had strong, hard-working muscles and a kind of easy, masculine grace that, even at a distance, had a surprisingly stirring effect on her.

He was walking across the field now, and she had a chance to get a good look at him in the bright sunlight.
Now that
, she said to herself,
is an astoundingly good-looking man!
She let her eyes run over his body as he walked toward her, liking the look of his legs in the smooth jeans, the easy strength of his well-formed forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt. With the experienced eye of a first-rate portrait artist, Allie did a quick inventory of his face. He had blue eyes set deep under strong black eyebrows, and black hair, cut short, trimmed close at the temples, where the gray was beginning to show. His mouth was wide and full, humorous, between deep furrows in a face so darkly tanned she knew he must spend most of his time outdoors.

She was especially attracted to that mouth. It was a mouth that would be quick to smile, quick to laugh. She recognized strength and poise reflected there. But there was something else, something she could not clearly identify. It was Allie’s business to be especially sensitive to the emotions that were revealed—or concealed—by faces, and in this one there was evidence of a deep sorrow. But she saw also the self-control in this handsome, mature face, and she knew he’d be slow to reveal to anyone what lay behind that sorrow.

Her examination of him was brought to a sudden halt. To her surprise, he stopped in front of her and spoke her name: “Ms. Randall?”

“Yes. I’m Allie Randall.” How did he know her name? Then, abruptly, she realized that this very good looking, sexy man must be the one Adam had said would meet her. She’d been expecting a much older man. Certainly no one who looked like this! “You must be Mr. Eliot. Mr. Talmadge told me you’d be meeting my plane. I do appreciate your picking me up.”

His response puzzled her. Some men had a way of undressing a woman with their eyes. Allie knew what that felt like and she knew how to handle it. This was different. This man was almost caressing her with his gaze, and yet at the same time there was something angry in his expression. And his words, though polite, were just barely so, his tone unnecessarily brusque.

“No problem, Ms. Randall,” he said curtly. He took Allie’s carry-on bag out of her hand and, with a quick gesture, slung it over his shoulder. “As soon as your things are off the plane, I’ll get them out to the truck. I’ll be able to drive you to the house but I can’t take any more time to show you around.” The irritation in his voice was unmistakable. “The harbor master’s waiting for me down at the dock.”

What’s the matter with the man?
she wondered.
And what’s the matter with me? If I’d known he was going to be so rude, I wouldn’t have given that handsome face a second look, much less such a thoughtful analysis. A “deep sorrow” indeed!
Allie could feel her own defensiveness spring up protectively around her. She’d barely arrived on Cape Cod, and already the natives were hostile.

“I realize you must have a very busy schedule, Mr. Eliot,” she said, as coolly as she could.

“Well, as a matter of fact, ma’am, at this time of the year, what with setting the moorings in the harbor and getting the boats in the water and all, we do get a little pressed for time.” His tone matched hers for coolness. They both waited silently while her luggage was unloaded from the plane’s wing lockers and set down next to where they were standing at the terminal door.

“It’s all mine,” Allie said, pointing to the suitcase of clothes and the several boxes of art supplies and easels. “I’m going to be working while I’m here.”

“Working for Mr. Talmadge?” He bent to pick up her suitcase and Allie tried to keep her gaze away from the strong muscles of his back and arms, apparent even through the soft denim shirt.

“In a way. I’ll be doing some work in connection with a project he’s interested in.” The words were barely out of her mouth when she remembered that Adam had said not to talk about it.

She was startled by the intense look Zach gave her, peering darkly at her from under those black brows, as though something she’d said had angered him. “Adam’s project, hm?” He paused momentarily, and then said curtly, “I’ll show you where the truck is out in front, and then I’ll come back and get the rest of your things.”

She followed him through the little terminal building, aware that, although she’d been infuriated by this irritating man, she felt a powerful impulse as she walked behind him to reach out and touch his back, to stroke that shoulder, to run her fingers down that strong arm and along the tanned skin that was exposed by the rolled-up sleeve.

If I were a sculptor, what a great model he’d be!

Embarrassed by her sudden, confused feelings, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket.

Zach opened the door of the terminal and walked over to a heavy-duty green Ford pickup that was parked at the curb. He dropped her suitcase into the bed of the truck and then opened the door for her. Allie’s breath caught momentarily as she took his hand, needing his help to step up to the passenger seat. His grip was firm and the touch of his rough skin, warm against the palm of her hand, sent a hot current running through her. She could feel the flush rising in her cheeks and, as she sat back on the seat, she turned her face away from him, afraid that he’d see her reaction. But he had already left, gone back to the field to get her boxes.

Allie needed a minute to regain her composure. She took a couple of deep breaths, letting the breeze that was blowing in from the ocean cool her off, bringing back her usual self-control. And while she waited for Zach to return with the rest of her things, she studied the interior of his truck, comparing it with the elegant, dark gray leather interior of Adam Talmadge’s sleek town car. On the seat next to her, there was a large flashlight and a short coil of rope. A couple of screwdrivers and a long wrench had been tossed on top of the dashboard, along with a yellow paperback volume that had
Eldridge’s Tide and Pilot Book
printed on its cover. She riffled through the book, but its contents, full of tables and charts, were a mystery to her, and she returned it to the dashboard.

She ran her hand lightly over the screwdriver, the wrench, the tide book.

So that’s Zachariah Eliot. Not at all what I expected. Much younger, of course, and extraordinarily handsome. Ruggedly handsome. With that amazing, craggy face, like something out of an old Marlboro ad.

But something’s making him mad, and it seems to be me.

Chapter Two

A
llie was still poking around in Zach’s things when she heard her boxes being dropped into the truck bed behind her. A moment later, Zach opened the door on the driver’s side and hoisted his long frame onto the seat beside her. With a quick, efficient gesture, he started the motor and swung the truck away from the curb.

He drove silently, his eyes on the road ahead of him, his lips tightened against the anger that he was barely controlling. Allie tried to ignore him, willing to let him be silent and just get this drive over with as quickly as possible. The sooner he got her to Adam’s house, the better.

But her artist’s eyes kept sliding over to examine those hard-working hands that rested lightly on the steering wheel, the long, muscular legs stretched forward to the pedals, and the arms, extended comfortably to the wheel, powerful under the rolled-up sleeves of his soft shirt. She made a note of the lift of his head as he watched the road ahead of him, the strong profile—held firmly away from her—against a moving background of trees and shrubbery, green and silver in the afternoon sunlight. He had his window open, and the wind was ruffling his hair back from his forehead, and she struggled against the unaccustomed, intimate stimulation of her senses. It had been astonishing; the merest touch of Zach Eliot’s hand, and she had experienced arousal as though for the first time.

It wasn’t, of course, the first time. There had been men in Allie’s life before and a couple of them had been fairly serious, for a while at least. She smiled as she recalled the first one, a wild and passionate young art student who shared a Soho loft with two other young artists and who swore he would be the greatest since Van Gogh. She was seventeen and he was nineteen and he introduced her to sex. It had not been a bad experience—as it so easily might have been—but then he went to Paris and she never heard from him again. Just as well, she thought.

And two years ago, there had been William H. Morrison III. She had come to think of him as the Narrow Escape. He should have been perfect, with his blond good looks and his brand-new partnership in his dad’s law firm—Morrison, McKenney and White—and his ever-so-correct upbringing in that ever-so-correct town up in Westchester County. Billy was of course too perfect. He kept her checkbook balanced, and he always insisted that the dishes be washed immediately after they’d had dinner at her apartment and he never forgot to check whether she’d been taking her birth control pills. When he decided that there would be no reason for her to continue “this painting stuff” once they were married—after all, his income was plenty for both of them—Allie knew it was over. He’d been a gently efficient lover, but his lovemaking had a kind of cool propriety to it that left Allie wondering if she could live such a quietly modulated life, devoid of any real passion.

Fortunately, she had realized in time that, although she’d thought they were in love, Billy had just been trying to round off his résumé, looking to add the requisite wife and two point three children necessary to the career of an up-and-coming young attorney. She had cried a few tears after the break-up but she knew that marriage with William Morrison would have been a disaster, and in only a few weeks, she was glad she’d maintained her unattached status.

She glanced covertly at Zach. What a pity, she thought, that this man was giving off such angry vibes. She had never responded so immediately to any man; there was a kind of energy that came from him that, in other circumstances, would have been irresistible. But his manner was absolutely intolerable, so she’d be glad to see the last of him. She turned away and, in order to avoid her driver altogether, she chose to examine the scenery to her right, through the passenger window. She hoped the drive wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.

The truck left the wooded road that ran from the airport and turned out onto the highway, heading south. Way off to the right, in the far distance, above the scrubby terrain of sere, low-lying trees and brush, rising out of the sandy, grayish soil, she spotted a very tall, very skinny tower that rose into the sky, high above the hazy horizon. Curious, she decided to try a bit of “safe” conversation.

“I see some sort of tall tower out there. Way out in the distance. Is it a lighthouse?”

Before he answered, Allie saw his lips compress and the muscles of his neck tense, as though the question angered him. He seemed to concentrate on the road ahead with special attention, keeping his eyes averted from her.

“That’s the Pilgrim’s Monument,” he said at last. “I’d have thought you’d already have all that information, about the first English to arrive here.” His response puzzled her and she could make no sense of his words, but the hostility of his tone was unmistakable.