he murmured.
“What?”
“Here, look for yourself.” While handing it to her, the bottle slipped and toppled down a hole in one of the wooden planks.
They both stared down the hole, watching it sift through the air before landing on a patch of sand.
Kathryn made a dismissive gesture. “Like I said, I’ve been meaning to throw it away—”
“I’ll go get it.” Coyote stood. “Tide’s low. It’ll be easy to find.”
“No, really—”
But he was already jogging toward the wooden stairs that led to the beach.
She gathered the rest of the spilled contents, thinking how she’d once pegged Coyote as unapologetically self-centered—most good-looking, charming men were—yet he’d been anything but that today. Loaning her his jacket, doing his best to make her comfortable during that drenched shoot, helping her when her purse took a tumble. And now digging around in the sand for that bogus lust potion.
The guy really did seem to want to take care of her.
Her last relationship, back in Chicago before her life took a nosedive, had been with a good-looking, charming guy who always watched out for number one, himself, with Kathryn a distant second. Or fourth or fifth if she factored in his dog, buddies, career and favorite bar. She wished she could say Steve had been the only guy who behaved that way, but he wasn’t. In hindsight—which was always twenty-twenty, right?—she chalked it up to women’s stereotypical attraction to bad boys, a habit she swore she’d never repeat.
She headed for the stairs, mentally cursing the new, too-tight sandals that were about as practical for shoes as thongs were for undies. At the bottom of the stairs, she stepped onto the sand. Her feet sank like cement.
Screw the shoes.
She slipped them off and left them, along with her purse, on a stair. She hadn’t walked barefoot on the beach in years. Embarrassing, really, to think how close she was to the Pacific, yet the last time she’d been to the ocean had been aeons ago in Jersey.
Underneath the pier, the hazy daylight shifted into layered grays. Wisps of fog hovered in the air and clung to the pilings. More sensed than seen were the shadowy figures of surfers and boogie-boarders bobbing on the distant, swelling waves.
“Found it!” called out Coyote, his tall, dark form emerging through the mist.
Her breath caught at the sight of him. Even in this surreal world, his skin still had that warm, brown glow. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his beige chambray shirt, the color almost stark against his muscled, suntanned forearms. Strands of black hair fell rakishly across his forehead. She’d once heard him say he was half Kumeyaay, the band of Native Americans who’d thrived in the San Diego area centuries ago. The Times had recently run a series of articles on local tribes, and she recalled how, in the late eighteenth century, the invading Spaniards had described the Kumeyaay as fine in stature and affable, but rebellious. They’d refused to be forced laborers and had openly revolted. Eventually, they were punished with expulsion from their ancestral homes.
She understood how it felt to leave one’s home and forced to adapt to a new lifestyle, a new community. For all their differences, she and Coyote shared something profound and fundamental.
The loss of roots.
He walked toward her, sniffing the open bottle. “Smells like…nothing.”
“Told you.”
He gave her a teasing smile. “Not like a woman to carry a bottle of something that’s nothing.”
“It’s a long story.”
“If it’s anything like your taste in books, I bet it’s a very interesting story.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “You read it?”
“Bound in Brasilia? Yes. Well, the first four or so chapters. I bought it on the way home last night and read it after I went to bed.”
A hot wave swept over her as she imagined Coyote lying in bed doing anything.
He touched his finger to the vial opening and tipped the bottle slightly. “Is it a breath freshener?”
“It’s bogus.”
“Bogus?”
No way she was going to tell Coyote about the smarmy little man and his fabricated story of a lust potion and jaguars and sex and sex and…
She curled her toes in the sand as though that helped ground her. “Bogus, nothing, nada. All the same meaning.”
“And you’re carrying around nada because—?”
Oh, sure, she could just hear herself explaining this one. Well, it appears this weird little man dropped a vial of lust potion into Zoe’s purse, which she later discovered and handed over to Ethan who has connections to the police crime lab. It’s rumored unsuspecting tourists in dire need of a sex fix have been plunking down good money for this tap water, so it seemed wise to have the evidence analyzed. How did I end up with some? Oh, I got a wild hair and filched it.
“You’re right, it’s breath freshener,” she lied. “I’ve had it so long, it’s probably lost its minty taste.”
He righted the bottle, a drop of the liquid on his forefinger. “Let’s see. Stick out your tongue.”
She shook her head. “This is ridic—”
“You say that too much. You need to trust more.” He gave her a look. “And play more.”
The way he said play caused a flame of hot, ripe need to sputter to life within her.
She stuck out her tongue.
“Adventurous, I like that,” he teased, touching her tongue, lightly, with his finger.
She paused, tasting it. “Like I said, nothing—”
Her words halted as a subtle tingling started on the very tip of her tongue. Warm, as though she’d tasted a potent spice, or a chili, yet the heat wasn’t painful. On the contrary, it was pleasurable. Intensely so.
The sensation filled her mouth, raced down her throat, flooded her chest. She sucked in a breath, surprised how the chilly air instantly warmed upon entering her body. The tingling spread from her chest to her fingers, down her legs to her toes, until her entire body felt consumed with heat. A cascade of smells followed, crowding her senses—the ocean, fried foods from the pier café, Coyote’s masculine scent.
Oh, yes, his scent.
That was the most powerful. Soap from his morning shower, the natural musk of his skin, a splash of his earthy cologne. The sum total basic, shameless and teasing. Just like the man.
“Kathryn?”
She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes. She had some difficulty opening them, as though awakening from a trance. When she
