Michael couldn’t help but stroke her arm, soft and sleek from a peach-scented lotion that wafted and swirled around him. “Are you okay?” he asked, senses reeling from the feel of her, the sensation of lying next to her.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice husky and velvety, unlike the lighthearted tone he’d found attractive before but far more mesmerizing.
Waves crashed upon the shore, and their hearts pounded in unison. His eyes caught hers and locked in a soul-piercing stare, a gaze that communicated something they both felt but couldn’t voice. A tingle of awareness, a jolt of hunger.
Afraid he could remain locked in her arms forever, Michael rose up on an elbow, unwrapped the leash from around his legs, then stood. “Let me help you up.”
Her hand gripped his, and he pulled her to her feet. Brushing sand from herself, she chuckled softly. When she glanced at him, eyes crinkling in mirth, he spotted a dried piece of seaweed dangling from her hair.
He removed it, slowly and gently, allowing himself to touch the soft, springy curls that intrigued him. Her breath caught, and he knew she felt the undercurrents of desire as he had, but she quickly laughed it off. In an effort to break the tension, he supposed.
He’d be wise to do the same, to let the awkward moment pass. “Your dog ran down the beach. Should we chase after him?”
“No,” she said. “He’ll come back home. He always does.”
She bent to retrieve the Frisbee she’d dropped in the melee, giving him another glimpse of a shapely backside. He raked a hand through his tangled, windswept hair and blew out the breath he’d been holding.
“Let’s play,” Kara said, taking the toy and loping down the sand. So unlike any of the socialites Michael had known, her playful spirit taunted him.
She sent the Frisbee flying toward him.
Michael snagged the circular toy and sent it back.
“Hey, not bad,” she said, flicking her wrist and shooting the blue disc in a wide arc.
For the first time since the scandal had disrupted his orderly world, Michael found himself laughing. Bertha had been right. What he needed was a vacation, something to take his mind off his troubles.
As Kara leaped to snag the blue plastic plate, her sweatshirt lifted, giving him a glimpse of a small, ivory-skinned waist. A waist his hands could easily encircle and his fingers ached to caress.
He’d never been one to take sexual relationships lightly, yet he couldn’t help but wonder whether a brief affair might help him shake the rejection he still felt after his ex-wife’s betrayal. It seemed like a logical prescription to him. And certainly more pleasant than allowing his emotional side to weigh him down.
“Hey,” he called to the bright-eyed pixie. “How about having dinner with me tonight. I’ll pick up a couple of swordfish fillets we can grill.” And a bottle of wine, he reminded himself.
“That sounds like fun,” she said. “I have to help Lizzie put the kids to bed. It’s kind of an evening ritual. Can we make it about eight?”
“Sure,” Michael said. That would give him time to run to the drugstore and purchase some condoms. Just in case.
It had been a long, long time since he’d tried to romance a woman. He wondered whether he still had the touch.
Kara stood before Michael’s door, her fist raised, ready to knock. She watched a moth frantically try to penetrate the yellow globe of the porch light.
Was the glow a welcome or warning? She couldn’t be sure. What was she doing here? Why had she agreed to have dinner with him? To be neighborly, she reminded herself. But good grief, Lizzie was a neighbor. Mr. Radcliff was a neighbor. Michael was a stranger.
Oh, sure, he had a warm smile and a gentle touch, but that was all the more reason she had no business having dinner with him. Just the two of them.
Alone.
Get a grip, she told herself. It’s only a friendly dinner. And certainly not a date, for goodness sake. Dates had always made her uneasy, but when the last one ended in humiliation and tears, she’d vowed to steer clear of men and romantic notions.
Her stomach knotted at the memory of the family dinner party Jason Baker had taken her to. When he’d first asked her, she’d declined, not wanting him to think she was serious about him. But he’d prodded her until she agreed. I want you to meet my family, he’d told her. You’ll like them.
But he’d been wrong.
When she arrived at the house, she’d been unprepared for the formality, the suspicious evaluations, the snide remarks.
You remember Kara, don’t you, Mom?
Oh, yes. The cocktail waitress.
At first, the accusations had been silent—a haughty grin, rolled eyes. Then a few heartless comments and innuendoes were made about Kara and her cunning attempt to snag a wealthy husband.
Marriage? To Jason Baker? She hadn’t given it any thought at all. And after she’d met his family, particularly his snobbish, sharp-tongued mother, she knew she’d rather die than have anything to do with the man or his family again.
The dinner had turned into a social inquisition, and Kara, nails clawing her palms, had excused herself and slipped out before dessert was served. No, she would never put herself in that position again. Nor would she date someone whose parents considered themselves socially and financially superior to her.
She’d probably date again. Someday. When she had Ashley and Eric living in her own home. Those precious children were her priority, not romance and glitter.
She placed a hand on the doorjamb of Michael’s cottage and closed her eyes, reminding herself of the precious good-night kisses she’d just given and received. The gentle sway of the old oak rocking chair, the scent of baby powder, a dribble of milk on baby Ashley’s tiny chin. A sleepy-eyed grin that sported two little white teeth had filled Kara’s heart with enough love to last a lifetime.
After laying the baby in the crib, Kara had sat on the edge of Eric’s bed and read him another chapter of Charlotte’s Web. She’d listened to his prayers, cupped his cheek and kissed him good-night. The ritual was as pleasant and restful for her as it was for the brave little boy she had come to love.
Kara slowly opened her eyes, then scanned Michael’s porch. Two lawn chairs flanked a small outdoor table. A beer can and a magazine rested upon the glass tabletop.
The Aviator. Why would Michael be reading that? Was he an aspiring pilot? She’d never been one to judge a man by the car he drove, but an old Ford didn’t seem like the kind of vehicle a pilot would drive. But what did she know about pilots? And what did she know about Michael?
She struggled with the urge to turn and go home, to call him with an excuse as to why she couldn’t come to his house tonight, but she’d agreed to join him for dinner. She couldn’t back out now. He was expecting her.
Once again, she reminded herself this wasn’t a date. And it certainly wouldn’t turn out like the dinner party at Jason Baker’s house. Garnering her courage, she knocked on the door.
Michael answered, wearing a pair of jeans, a crisply pressed white shirt and a smile that reached the golden hue of his eyes. He’d showered. And shaved.
She rather missed that salty, sea dog air he’d worn before.
His eyes swept her body in an appreciative caress. “Come in.”
He appeared genuinely glad to see her, and it both pleased and unnerved her. Impulsively, she turned and snatched the magazine and empty can from the table and thrust them toward him in an effort to put some distance between them, between him and her thoughts. “You left these outside.”
“Thanks.” He took them from her and stepped aside, holding