then, Glenna had been too naive to realize that it was just a parlor trick. Mark could dip into a little pop psychology, a superficial understanding of human nature, and the girls believed that he had read their minds. Other boys pretended to pull pennies out of the girls’ ears—Mark Connelly pretended to pull secrets from their hearts. Same game, different props.
But now, at twenty-two, she saw through him all too clearly. He played the flirtation game even better today, and she had dealt him the perfect card. You meet vulnerable woman weeping on the beach. Advance three spaces. Skip past small talk, enter premature intimacy.
But he had the wrong sister this time.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said crisply, “but honestly I’m fine. Actually I’d better be getting back to my car.” She brushed her palms together briskly, removing as much of the sand as possible, and held out her right hand. “Thanks again.”
He narrowed his eyes as if her attitude, or perhaps her tone, somehow sparked his curiosity. Taking her hand, he cocked his head and let his gaze slowly rake her face. “You seem so familiar.” He lifted one corner of his lips. “This is an old one, but I have this feeling... Have we met before?”
Not a very imaginative line, but she knew that, for once, it was spoken sincerely. She felt her heart do a two-step and fought to keep her face neutral. She had always known this would be the trickiest part of coming back.
“My name is Glenna McBride,” she said politely. She wouldn’t lie outright—but she could pray that he didn’t remember her real name. Why should he? The teenagers had always simply called her Mouse, Cindy’s pet name for her tiny, timid little sister. “Hey, Mouse, here’s a dollar. Go buy me a Coke, would you? And hurry—I’m dying in this heat.”
Her last name was different now, too. Her parents’ marriage hadn’t survived the trauma of Cindy’s death—they had divorced within two years. Both remarried quickly, as if eager to make fresh starts. Keg McBride, her mother’s new husband, was a good man and he had adopted Glenna right away.
Mark was shaking his head. “Glenna McBride,” he repeated, the name soft on his lips. “No, I guess I’m imagining things.”
He hadn’t let go of her hand. Glenna shifted it subtly, but he ignored the signal to release her. Glenna suspected that Mark Connelly ignored a lot of the signposts in his life.
“Did you say your car? You aren’t leaving, are you? I had hoped you were staying at the Moonbird.”
She took a deep breath. He didn’t recognize her name. First hurdle cleared.
“Well, I am, actually,” she said, plunging ahead. “I’ll be working with Purcell Jennings. The photographer. He’s going to take some pictures of the hotel for a book on old Florida inns.”
Slow down...no babbling, for heaven’s sake. As a member of the Connelly family, Mark would already know about Purcell.
But she plowed on, her confidence growing with every coherent sentence she managed to produce. “Purcell arrives tonight, but I came early to scout around a bit. He’s not as mobile as he once was and he likes me to narrow down the locations for him first.”
Yes, that was better. The half lie sounded fully authentic. She was finding her stride, regaining control.
“But that’s perfect,” he said, obviously pleased, as if complimenting fate for doing such a good job arranging things to his satisfaction. “I’ll show you around.”
Irked, she removed her hand from his with one firm tug. He looked slightly surprised—as if few women ever struggled to make their way out of his grasp.
Well, good, she thought, lifting her chin. An ego like that could use a couple of knocks. And he might as well learn right now that the drooping damsel he’d found weeping on the shore was not the real Glenna McBride.
“I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible. I concentrate better if I’m alone.”
His mouth quirked. He was clearly prepared either to speak or to grin, but she didn’t have time to discover which. Just behind his shoulder, she saw movement along the beach, and a strong voice carried toward them on the clear morning air.
“Mark!” The tones were deep, authoritative. With a jolt of recognition, Glenna knew immediately that the voice belonged to Edgerton Connelly. The oldest Connelly boy, the leader of the pack. Self-important, slightly bossy. How perfect, she had thought when she heard he was running for the legislature. “Mark,” he said now, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Edge.” Mark turned toward his cousin, who looked impressively elegant but completely out of place here on the beach in his expensive suit. “I’m glad you’re here. I’d like you to meet Glenna McBride.”
Edgerton flashed a smile toward her, a good politician’s smile that warned her he was much too busy to chat but at the same time suggested that he was awfully sorry about it. He also diplomatically refrained from noticing her disheveled state. Apparently even wet, sandy beach-weepers had been known to vote.
“Ms. McBride,” he said with a smooth nod of his well-coiffed blond head. “I’m sorry to have to pull my cousin away, but he’s needed rather urgently up at the hotel.” He angled toward Mark. “The senator’s wife will be here soon, old buddy, and you know she’ll be crushed if you’re not there to meet her.”
Glenna couldn’t see Edgerton’s face, but she thought she heard real irritation lurking under his nicely oiled tones. What the hell, the tone asked, was Mark doing wasting time with a nobody on the beach when The Senator’s Wife was waiting?
Snob, she thought, addressing his Armani jacket.
But Mark either didn’t notice his cousin’s anger or didn’t care. “Sorry, Edge,” he said cheerfully. “Tell Philip to cut the biggest scarlet hibiscus he can find, stick it in a pitcher of sangria and take it to her room. Believe me, in half an hour she won’t even notice I’m not there.”
The Armani jacket stiffened. “Not there?”
Mark patted his shoulder. “Sorry. I can’t. You see, I had just offered Glenna my services as a tour guide.”
Edgerton made a small choking sound, but Glenna broke in quickly. “And I,” she said, “had just refused them. I appreciate the offer, Mr. Connelly, but as I said, I work best alone.” She met Mark’s quizzical gaze steadily. “Besides, I wouldn’t dream of letting you disappoint—” she lowered her tone “—The Senator’s Wife.”
Surprisingly he didn’t try to persuade her. He didn’t even look disappointed. Instead, he looked curious. He lifted one black brow. “Did you say Mr. Connelly?”
“Mark,” she amended indifferently. If he wanted to rush to a first-name basis, she could handle that. She brushed at her skirt one last time. “Well, it was nice to have met you both—”
“But you didn’t.”
She looked up, perplexed. “Didn’t what?”
“Meet me.” He was studying her hard. “And yet you already knew my name.”
She kicked herself mentally, realizing how close she had come to giving herself away. What a stupid move! Honestly, she
