and the sound tickled along his spine.
Good God. Cynthia?
He would know her laugh anywhere. He had heard it, the robust joyousness of it, a long time ago when she had had her cheek pressed hard into the black leather of his jacket, when her arms had been curled tight around him.
For a moment, he could taste the bitterness of her rejection, and it combined with all the other rejections he had received recently.
He squinted at her, her body a pool of light in a sea of darkness. Those unusual, glow-in-the-dark sea creatures lit the water around her so that it looked as though she was swimming in the sky, not the ocean.
That sixth sense, so finely honed, filled in what he could not see. Cynthia-Miss-Snooty-Forsythe was swimming in the buff.
It was childish and vindictive, and Rick Barnett didn’t give a damn. It was payback time. For her snub of him, for all the snubs of beautiful women who now found him unworthy, he was exacting revenge. Nothing major. Small but satisfying.
He made his way off the bluff to the beach. It was even better than he thought. Her clothes were in an untidy bundle on the sand. If he was not mistaken, her bathing suit—black and proper, exactly what the Cynthia he had known would wear—was on the top of the heap.
He propped himself up against a huge piece of driftwood that had washed in and took his time preparing and lighting the cigar.
She noticed him right away, the movement in the water suddenly stilled. Though it was very dark out, he could see the white roundness of her head bobbing as she trod water and tried to think what to do.
He let her think, never letting on that he knew she was there.
He took his time with the cigar, but even so, she said nothing, hoping to outwait him. He laughed to himself at that and put out the cigar. He crossed his arms over his chest. No one could outwait a man who had all the time in the world.
Finally her voice called out, tremulous.
He frowned at the faint tremor. He’d meant to embarrass her, not scare her. On the other hand, maybe she was just cold.
“Excuse me?” she called.
“Yes?” he answered back.
The growl was not what she was expecting, because she was silent for a moment, contemplating. Then she continued.
“You’ve caught me at an awkward moment. Do you think you could leave the beach while I get out of the water?”
“No.” Had he known her own delight in the power of that word only hours before, he might have said it again.
Her attempt at politeness vanished. “A gentleman would.”
“I’m not a gentleman,” Rick assured her, and the rasp of his voice backed him up. In fact these days when he looked in the mirror, a pirate looked back at him, battle-scarred and hard. Miss Snobby would be swimming the other way if she had any idea.
“Look, it would be a shame if I had to report you to the authorities.”
He smiled at that. Authorities on Torchere Key? But the smile faded. She had that same note in her voice that he had always remembered. Blue-blooded. Used to being listened to. Her pronunciation perfect.
“Report me to the authorities?” he said. “I’m enjoying a quiet moment on the beach, perfectly attired, I might add. You’re the one out there with nothing on.”
He heard her gasp.
“How do you know?” she snapped. “It’s dark!”
Despite her combative tone, he heard the plea in her words, and the prayer. She was hoping he hadn’t seen her. Was she every bit the same Miss Priss she had been? Impossible. She was twenty-six years old now. Some man, somewhere, had tasted the honey of her lips, brought all that leashed passion to the surface.
He didn’t want to think about that, so he walked over to the bundle of her clothes and lifted them with his toe. “Your suit is here on the beach. And some sort of shift. And a towel.” He studied the suit more closely than he had the first time, and then the shift underneath it. Cynthia had always had a glorious body, slender, but round in all the right places.
The suit, and the hideous shift, did not look like clothing that belonged to a woman who had come into herself, found her passion.
Had she married? The thought brought unexpected pain, like a knife going through his heart. She might have three children by now, for all he knew.
He told himself the ache in his heart was only because it would be so unfair if she had gone on to find happiness when his life was in such shambles. He would just find out, that was all. He’d find out, and then he’d fade back into the night, where he had become so comfortable.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said.
“I’ll hear what you have to say.”
He found it faintly amusing that she wasn’t giving an inch even though she was in no position to bargain.
“I’ll turn my back while you come out of the water and get wrapped up in a towel.”
“Is that your best offer?”
At least she didn’t sound afraid. Madder than a wet hen, but not afraid.
“Actually, there’s more. I’ll turn my back in exchange for something.”
Her silence was long. “What?” she finally asked.
It was his silence that was long this time, as he contemplated what he was about to ask her. “A kiss,” he finally said.
“Are you insane?” she sputtered.
“Maybe.”
Again the silence was long. “What kind of kiss?” she asked, finally.
“How many kinds are there?” he asked back.
“There’s the gentle, kiss-on-the-cheek kind.” She sounded extremely hopeful.
“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” he said drily.
“There’s the little buss on the lips kind.”
“Getting closer.” This exchange was already revealing an amazing fact to him. She was still the innocent girl she had been, her passion leashed, subdued. If she were married, she’d had plenty of opportunity to tell him she was going to sic her husband on him.
“You are not engaging me in a wet, sloppy kiss! You are a complete stranger. And you’ve been smoking a cigar.”
Cynthia Forsythe was twenty-six years old and she thought kissing was wet and sloppy? And she sounded more concerned about the cigar than the fact he was a stranger.
“Take it or leave it,” he said, and he turned his back. “I’m counting to twenty, and then I’m turning around.”
“Oh!
