yes.”
“Listen, Mike, I’m only going to be on the island for a short time and I’m not looking for...”
He assumed she was about to let him down easy and he put a hand up, palm out, heading her off at the rejection. Not that he’d tried to, er, lift himself up. “Say no more. I said the gossipers are pairing us up, not that I wanted them to. You are perfectly safe from me.”
Her spine might have stiffened the tiniest bit. Hard to tell beneath her coat, and he realized he might have insulted her. Damn, he was so not used to this, though he should be. When it came to matchmaking, the entire population of Wild Boar Island had nothing on the Santori family. Whenever he was between relationships, his mother, aunts and cousins were always pushing females in his direction—blond, brunette, divorcées, partying singles—if she had a pulse but not a ring, they sent her his way.
But he couldn’t recall them ever introducing him to one with hair that vivid shade of red or eyes that brilliant, glittering green, or one with such luscious—if blue-tinged—lips.
He tried to explain himself. “Look, I didn’t mean anything. It’s just, you’re...”
“It’s okay,” she said with a shrug and an understanding nod. “You’re gay, no problem.”
His mouth unhinged. “I’m what?”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. “Uh, you’re not gay?”
“Definitely not,” he said, torn between amusement and horror. “And if you tell me I give off a gay vibe, I might go ahead and leap, new boots be damned.”
Then he frowned. Worrying about his boots... That was a pretty metrosexual thing to do, wasn’t it? Shit. How was a guy to know?
“You don’t give off a vibe,” she insisted. “I just made an assumption based on what you said.”
“You think just because a guy’s not interested in you, he likes dudes?” He was baiting her; she didn’t come across as the vain type, but then one never knew.
“That did sound conceited, didn’t it?” she asked, visibly embarrassed. “I’m really sorry. I’m not thinking straight. It’s just that you said I was ‘safe’ from you, that you were single, completely available and that every unattached woman in town has come on to you. I just figured...”
“You figured wrong. I’m simply not in the market. New job, new town, new home. No privacy on this postage stamp of an island. There’s just too much on my plate right now and I can’t afford any distractions while I try to negotiate myself through this new life I’ve chosen for myself.”
Although, if he did have an empty plate, he could picture this woman sitting right in the middle of it, all sweet and succulent, just waiting to be devoured.
Forget it. Not happening. He was burned out on romance these days. Well, he’d had it burned out of him, and by a woman he’d believed he could get serious with. She’d chosen her big-league banking job over him even before he’d decided to leave Chicago. She had made it pretty clear that her ritzy cocktail parties and corporate events weren’t the place for a guy who carried a gun and had a fresh razor-blade scar across his neck. Nice news for somebody lying in a hospital bed.
He was also not in the market for a new girlfriend because he lived under a microscope. “Hate to break it to you, Red, but if you and I so much as went out on an ice-cream date, the word would be all over the Wild Boar grapevine before I got in one good lick of my Rocky Road.”
Or your Cookies ’n Cream.
He didn’t add that, wishing the more flirtatious voice in his head would back off and leave the driving to his more reasonable side.
“I understand. And ditto. Definitely not in the market for any complications.”
“Good. Then there’s no problem.”
They understood each other. Which was fine. Perfect. They’d be neighborly, friendly. Nothing else.
Something deep inside him tried to throw up a penalty flag at that prospect, but he shoved it away and focused on doing what was smart, not what was desirable.
They were close to the island now, and, as he’d expected, the rickety old ferry suddenly got caught in the surging current that swirled around it. The craft lunged up, and then slammed back down. Despite the steadying presence of his hand on her shoulder, Lindsey couldn’t keep her feet totally grounded. She stumbled forward, falling against him with a startled cry.
Thank heaven he was there, or she might actually have tumbled over the railing into the drink. Instead, Mike caught her in his arms, holding her close, not content with a hand on her shoulder while the chop was this rough.
They both gasped, startled by the close call, the crazy weather, the sway of the boat. And, for Mike, by her nearness.
This wasn’t just the lining-up of certain body parts, he was actually holding her in his arms. One was wrapped around her waist, a hand cupping her hip, the other encircling her shoulders. Every inch of her touched every inch of him. Each cell in his body reacted, parts of him awakening that he’d thought would remain in hibernation at least until he’d made a place for himself on Wild Boar Island.
Uh-uh. Despite the cold air and the colder water, the rocking of the boat and the rolling of his stomach, he looked down into those big green eyes, felt the press of that soft, female form, and realized something.
This red-haired beauty was indeed going to be a complication. A very serious complication.
FOR THE PAST few years, ever since her best friend, Callie, had gotten married and moved to an island in the Great Lakes, Lindsey had promised to visit. More than once, she’d made plans to come for a week between semesters, or even a long weekend.
But something had always come up—schoolwork, research, her job. Once, there’d been a fellowship opportunity, another time she’d been offered a prestigious study abroad. For the past two summers, Lindsey had been asked to work seventy hours a week, rather than her usual fifty, to cover for one of the partners’ vacations. As much as she loved Callie, and wanted to get to know her husband, Billy, she’d just never been able to make it work, because of work.
Now, though, she was going, and nothing would stop her. Her friend needed her, and Lindsey wasn’t going to let Callie down. She hadn’t had many friends during her childhood; hell, she didn’t really have many now. Callie had always been the best of them, and still was.
The two of them had gravitated to each other in kindergarten, both poor kids who wore secondhand clothes and had firsthand chips on their shoulders. They’d dared anyone to look down on them. Of course, Callie’s parents had been loving and hardworking, and had done the best they could for their daughter.
Lindsey’s? Well, not so much. Neglectful would probably be the nicest way to refer to their parenting style. Emotionally abusive wouldn’t be too far off the mark.
She’d never seen much in the way of love in her own house, and hadn’t been entirely sure she recognized it when she later spotted it in Callie’s. Still, the two of them had been
