Brace took one last look around the cottage before locking up and heading down to the boat with her gear. It took four trips to haul it all. Good thing she hadn’t come prepared for an extended stay!
But his conscience still wasn’t quite ready to roll over and play dead. She’d come all the way down here, expecting the standard beach resort, and he’d more or less chased her off. It wasn’t her fault—he blamed the guy who’d given her the key. Easing the small fiberglass boat away from the pier, he decided that instead of just kissing her off and good riddance, he would take the time to suggest she catch the Ocracoke ferry, and then the Cedar Island ferry, and head on down the coast until she struck summer. Jekyll Island, or maybe St. Augustine. Hell, why not go all the way to the Keys? Plenty of sunshine, plenty of company—perfect for a single woman looking for a good time.
But whatever she was looking for, she wasn’t going to find it on Coronoke. Not alone. Not in January. Not while he had anything to say about it!
* * *
Frances watched as the marina receded silently in the distance. After poking and jiggling every appendage on the outboard, she had reached the inevitable conclusion that she was out of fuel. There was a single paddle in the boat, and she was wielding it as fast as she could, but it wasn’t working. The harder she paddled, the faster the current carried her away from the island, and the only sign of life was seven pelicans lumbering past a few feet above the surface of the water.
Was there such a thing as carrier pelicans? Maybe she could drop a note to the Coast Guard in their pouch.
How could she have done anything so stupid! She, the practical member of the Smith family—the practical member of the Jones family, for that matter. The one who had always reminded her younger siblings to take along an umbrella and to keep enough spare change on hand to call home—the one who reminded her husband and her in-laws to take their vitamins every day and cut down on their intake of fat, sodium and refined sugar.
A small green-and-red plane droned overhead, and she stood up and waggled her arms. “Help! Down here! Send help!”
When her leather-soled loafer slipped on a patch of wet aluminum, causing the runabout to lurch, she sat down rather suddenly and gripped the sides. Really, she was beginning to feel a bit discouraged. Beginning to feel, in fact, as if she were the only living human being left on earth.
Which was absurd. She had merely run out of gas. She, who was known throughout her family for advising others never to leap without first looking, and never, ever to start the day without breakfast, had committed both sins, and now look at the fix she was in! Starving to death while she was being swept out to sea.
She was mentally measuring the distance to a low, marshy strip of land some thousand feet away, assessing her chances of making it to shore before she turned into an ice cube, when she became aware of a high-pitched hum, like the drone of a distant swarm of bees.
“Oh, help,” she whimpered. Twisting around, she saw not one, but two boats racing toward her from opposite directions. “Thank you, Lord,” she said devoutly. That water had looked awfully cold and deep and swift. “I owe you big-time for this.”
As for Uncle Seymore, she had a small bone to pick with him if she ever got near a phone again. There were one or two things he’d neglected to mention concerning his precious island hideaway.
Jerry reached her first. The other boat was smaller, slower, but still headed her way at a rapid rate of speed.
“What’ja do, flood ‘er?” the gangly boy called out. His lovely teeth sparkled in the pale shaft of sunlight slanting between layers of dark clouds.
“I haven’t the slightest idea, but it’s occurred to me that I might have run out of gas. Is that likely?”
He shrugged. Pulling alongside, he slung a line onto the runabout and stepped aboard, reaching for the red tank near the stern. Frances had never felt so stupid.
Well...yes, she had. And quite recently. But that was another story. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble. And by the way, aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
Before he could answer, the other boat pulled alongside, and the same tall, scowling man who had tried to run her off the island the night before was there. She hadn’t gotten a good look at his face then, but there was no mistaking that tall, rangy physique.
Embarrassed, she stole a quick glance at him. Forbidding was the first word that came to mind. Mad as the dickens was the next. And yet there was something oddly compelling about the set of his features that had nothing at all to do with his expression.
He was scowling—or maybe it was a permanent condition. It occurred to Frances that it was probably a good thing Jerry had reached her first. She wouldn’t trust Flint-Face not to stuff her into a sack and throw her overboard.
“She ran outta gas,” Jerry said cheerfully.
“If she’d asked before stealing my boat,” Flint-Face retorted, “I would have warned her to check the levels first.”
Frances resented being talked around, as if she weren’t even there. “I’m sure you would,” she snapped. “You warned me about everything else. As for stealing your boat, it was the only one there, and I was told there was a boat for the use of the cottagers.” Without waiting for a response, she turned to the younger man. “Jerry, do you know anything about generators? Could I possibly persuade you to—”
“I’ll take care of it,” Flint-Face cut in. His voice reminded her of the ropes she’d used to tie up at the marina. Hard, rough, showing definite signs of wear, but none of weakness.
“Sure thing. He can check you out, ma’am. Prob’ly won’t need it, though. Power’s been real steady lately.” He switched tanks and offered to fill the spare and leave it at the marina to be collected later, and Frances shrugged and left them to it.
At least she was no longer in danger of drifting out to sea. Jerry had thrown out an anchor, and Flint-Face kept his motor idling against the current. She waited, appreciating the sun’s meager warmth on her cold backside while the two men fiddled with hoses and tanks and stainless steel fittings.
Finally Flint-Face shut off his outboard and tied his smaller boat behind her larger one, which meant, she surmised with an inward groan, that she would have the dubious pleasure of his company for the run back to the island.
Jerry veered off with a cheerful wave, sending a spray of icy water over the bow of the red runabout where Frances huddled. Sighing, she wiped the salt from her eyes. Thanks, Jerry, she thought wryly. I needed that. Having mastered so many new skills in a single morning, never mind that she’d run out of gas, her ego might have been inclined to come creeping out of hiding for the first time since she’d learned that her entire eleven-year marriage had been one giant fiasco.
“By the way, I don’t believe we ever got around to introductions, did we? I’m Frances Smith Jones.” She addressed the lean, rigid back, which was bent over the controls.
Silence.
Fine! If he wanted to remain anonymous, that was just fine with her. If there was one thing she was no longer interested in, it was men. Not under any circumstances. Not in this lifetime!
The outboard sputtered and caught again. As it settled down to a steady roar, the tall, scowling man turned and seated himself in the stern, facing her. It occurred to Frances that his eyes were exactly the color she’d always imagined an iceburg to be. Clear gray, without a glimmer of warmth. Every bit as hard as flint, if not as opaque.
As for the rest of him, it was...interesting, she decided. Jaw far too aggressive, cheekbones far too angular—there was something odd in the angle of them, too, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. As for his mouth, at the moment it looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. She was tempted to smile at him, just for meanness.
His nose was beautiful. Under the pale, watery