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About the Author
As a child SARAH MORGAN dreamed of being a writer and, although she took a few interesting detours on the way, she is now living that dream. With her writing career she has successfully combined business with pleasure, and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available. Her stories are unashamedly optimistic, and she is always pleased when she receives letters from readers saying that her books have helped them through hard times.
Sarah lives near London with her husband and two children, who innocently provide an endless supply of authentic dialogue. When she isn’t writing or reading Sarah enjoys music, movies, and any activity that takes her outdoors.
Readers can find out more about Sarah and her books from her website: www.sarahmorgan.com. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.
Summer Kisses
Flora
Jenna
Sarah Morgan
MILLS & BOON
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Flora
Sarah Morgan
prologue
THEY were all staring.
He could feel them staring even though he stood with his back to them, his legs braced against the slight roll of the ferry, his eyes fixed firmly on the ragged coastline of the approaching island.
The whispers and speculation had started from the moment he’d ridden his motorbike onto the ferry. From the moment he’d removed his helmet and allowed them to see his face.
Some of the passengers were tourists, using the ferry as a means to spend a few days or weeks on the wild Scottish island of Glenmore, but many were locals, taking advantage of their only transport link with the mainland.
And the locals knew him. Even after an absence of twelve years, they recognised him.
They remembered him for all the same reasons that he remembered them.
Their faces were filed away in his subconscious; deep scars on his soul.
He probably should have greeted them; islanders were sociable people and a smile and a ‘hello’ might have begun to bridge the gulf that stretched between them. But his firm mouth didn’t shift and the chill in his ice blue eyes didn’t thaw.
And that was the root of the problem, he brooded silently as he studied the deadly rocks that had protected this part of the coastline for centuries. He wasn’t sociable. He didn’t care what they thought of him. He’d never been interested in courting the good opinion of others and he’d never considered himself an islander, even though he’d been born on Glenmore and had spent the first eighteen years of his life trapped within the confines of its rocky shores.
He had no wish to exchange small talk or make friends. Neither did he intend to explain his presence. They’d find out what he was doing here soon enough. It was inevitable. But, for now, he dismissed their shocked glances as inconsequential and enjoyed his last moments of self-imposed isolation.
The first drops of rain sent the other passengers scuttling inside for protection but he didn’t move. Instead he stood still, staring bleakly at the ragged shores of the island, just visible through the rain-lashed mist. The land was steeped in lore and legend, with a long, bloody history of Viking invasion.
Locals believed that the island had a soul and a personality. They believed that the unpredictable weather was Glenmore expressing her many moods.
He glanced up at the angry sky with a cynical smile. If that was the case then today she was definitely menopausal.
Or maybe, like the islanders, she’d seen his return and was crying.
The island loomed out of the mist and he stared ahead, seeing dark memories waiting on the shore. Memories of wild teenage years; of anger and defiance. His past was a stormy canvas of rules broken, boundaries exploded, vices explored, girls seduced—far too many girls seduced—and all against an atmosphere of intense disapproval from the locals who’d thought his parents should have had more control.
Remembering the vicious, violent atmosphere of his home, he gave a humourless laugh. His father hadn’t been capable of controlling himself, let alone him. After his mother had left, he’d spent as little time in the house as possible.
The rain was falling heavily as the ferry docked and he turned up the collar of his leather jacket and moved purposefully towards his motorbike.
He could have replaced his helmet and assured himself a degree of privacy from the hostile stares, but instead he paused for a moment, the wicked streak inside him making sure that they had more than enough time to take one more good look at his face. He didn’t want there to be any doubt in their minds. He wanted them to know that he was back.
Let them stare and speculate. It would save him the bother of announcing his return.
With a smooth, athletic movement, he settled his powerful body onto the motorbike and caught the eye of the ferryman, acknowledging his disbelieving stare with a slight inclination of his head. He knew exactly what old Jim was thinking—that the morning ferry had brought trouble to Glenmore. And news of trouble spread fast on this island. As if to confirm his instincts, he caught a few words from the crush of people preparing to leave the ferry. Arrogant, wild, unstable, volatile, handsome as the devil …
He pushed the helmet down onto his head with his gloved hands. Luckily for him, plenty of women were attracted to arrogant, wild, unstable, volatile men, or his life would have been considerably more boring than it had been.
From behind the privacy of his helmet, he smiled, knowing exactly what would happen next. The rumours would spread like ripples in a pond. Within minutes, news of his arrival would have spread across the island. Ferryman to fisherman, fisherman to shopkeeper, shopkeeper to customer—it would take no time at all for the entire population of the island to be informed of the latest news—that Conner
