One Wild Night With Her Enemy by Heidi Rice

CHAPTER SEVEN

CASSIESTEPPEDOUTthrough the back door of the housekeeper’s annexe wearing the raincoat she’d borrowed from Mrs Mendoza’s dwindling supply of clean clothing.

Sun shone off the dew clinging to the ferns and rhododendrons lining the path and burned away the last of the morning mist. After a whole day yesterday spent hiding out in her room, in between sneaked trips to the kitchen to heat up food whenever the coast was clear—which had been most of the time, because Luke seemed to be avoiding her with the same dedication with which she was avoiding him—she was going stir crazy.

She zipped up the raincoat, settled the borrowed backpack on her shoulders and set out along the path which, according to the map, led to a trail that circumnavigated the island.

Worrying about her inability to contact her office—or anyone, for that matter—and how long it might be before she got back to San Francisco, not to mention the job of avoiding her reluctant host and any more too revealing heart-to-hearts at all costs, wasn’t helping with her sleep deprivation. Or her stress levels.

She needed to get out of the house. Perhaps she was not the outdoors type, but the only way to take her mind off Luke and the things she’d learned about him two days ago was to fill her time with something else. And a hike was pretty much her only option.

From what she could remember when they’d flown into the bay three nights ago, the island was more than big enough to contain both of them without there being much chance of her bumping into him. She’d managed to find a small guidebook to Oregon’s bird life. She would tour the area, scope out the terrain, and see if she could spot some of the birds indigenous to the Pacific Northwest. Because staying holed up in his house all day yesterday had given her far too much time to mull over the conversation they’d had about his childhood.

‘After she died I was on my own. But that was the way I wanted it.’

Did he really believe that? She frowned. And why did she care whether he did or not? She’d had no business probing, or offering him advice about a relationship with the father he’d never known, when her relationship with her own father could best be described as barely functional. She couldn’t even sort out her own daddy issues, so what made her think she could sort out his?

One thing she did know, though: keeping busy had always kept her sane—especially when she was dealing with a problem outside her control, such as the loneliness she’d fallen into when her father had pushed Ashling and Angela Doyle out of her life without any warning, or the fact that she’d got stranded on a taciturn billionaire’s private island and started to delude herself into believing they had something in common, when they clearly did not.

Avoidance had always been her great go-to strategy. So, having stuffed the backpack with the bird book, some energy bars, a bottle of water, a map and a pair of binoculars, she was all set to make the best of things. Plus, physical exhaustion might help with her sleep issues.

Wisps of moisture still clung to the headland as the path meandered past the dock and into the forest. She breathed in, the air so crisp it hurt her lungs. A bracing walk and some bird-spotting would do her the world of good. Not that she knew the first thing about bird-spotting, but how hard could it be?

Two hours later Cassie wheezed to the top of another steep incline on the cliff path. She bent over to catch her breath, stunned again by the startling natural beauty of Sunrise Island... And by how chronically unfit she was. Who knew two spin classes a year weren’t enough to prepare you for a ten-mile hike?

After drawing in several deep breaths of the clean air, she stood to admire another staggering view.

The outcropping of volcanic rock she stood on formed a natural archway, revealing a hidden cove eighty feet below her. The black sand beach, scattered with driftwood from the recent storm, curved around the headland, edged by the vivid green of the towering redwoods and pines on one side and a sheer rock face on the other. Her breathing slowed and her heart swelled. The scent of salt water carried on the breeze and tempered the heat of the midday sunshine.

She pulled the map out of her pack and located her position.

Pirates’ Cove.

An apt name, given who owned it.

A jolt of awareness took her tired body unawares.

Not thinking about him, remember...?

She pushed the unhelpful thought to one side as she spotted a bird offshore, its large wingspan holding it aloft on the sea air. She scrambled to dig the bird book and the binoculars out of the backpack, then focussed the binoculars on the magnificent creature.

Was that an eagle or a hawk?

She flicked through the book to the pages she’d dog-eared during the many breaks she’d taken, to give her unconditioned legs some downtime in between the more strenuous climbs. She studied the pictures. Then lifted the binoculars again. Surely it was an eagle? Wasn’t it too big to be a hawk?

Her heart beat a giddy tattoo as the bird swooped straight down into the waves, then climbed again with a small silver fish clamped in its beak. As it skimmed above the surface of the water, carrying its prey back to its nest, she followed its progress, marvelling at its speed and dexterity, but then she saw it fly over something in the water.

For one moment she thought it might be a seal, but then the dark shape ploughing through the waves morphed into something sleeker and more defined.

A swimmer in a wetsuit.

Luke.

She focussed the binoculars on him, her gaze fixed on the solitary figure, and all the thoughts she’d been keeping so carefully at bay during her gruelling hike flooded back.

He seemed oblivious to the violent action of the waves as he moved towards the shore, battling against the retreating tide, each tumble of surf dragging him back out to sea. He kept heading in the same direction, unfazed, uncompromising, ruthless, resilient and totally focussed on his goal.

Was he in danger? What if he was drowning and she was just watching?

The visceral fear faded, though, before she had a chance to act on it, as he found his footing and stood in thigh-deep water.

Her heart pulsed hard as she thought of the sixteen-year-old boy, left alone but unafraid. Determined to survive and make a staggering success of his life, despite what must have been impossible odds.

The tide continued to buffet him as he made his way through the rolling waves, but he seemed oblivious to its energy, arriving on the sand moments later undaunted. His dark hair lay plastered to his head, curling slightly around his neck, and his tanned face was burnished by the sun as he stood with his legs apart, his hands fisted on his hips, the clinging suit creating a powerful silhouette. He closed his eyes to tilt his head back and the sun gilded his features once more, making him for one fanciful moment look like a sea god, confident in his ability to command the ocean and win.

Cassie’s breathing slowed, and then accelerated as relief that he was okay, that he was safe, sent a well of emotion through her tired body.

He looked magnificent. Powerful and intimidating in his masculine beauty. The yearning which was never far away flowed through her again. The same giddy exhilaration which had blindsided her in San Francisco was somehow more intense now, and even more overwhelming—despite twenty-four hours of avoidance and several more hours of his disapproval.

He shifted, twisting his arm up his back to grab the strap which dangled down. He tugged the zip tab to peel off the wetsuit.

Look away. Look away now.

She was invading his privacy—and only making the agitation she’d been trying to control the last couple of days worse again. But she couldn’t seem to force herself to lower the binoculars...couldn’t stop looking.

Her gaze was riveted to the taut contours of muscle and sinew as he freed his arms from the suit. She absorbed every inch of exposed skin, her fingers trembling as they tightened on the binoculars. She studied the curls of hair around his nipples that meandered in a line through his abs. She didn’t move—couldn’t move—as he shoved the wetsuit off his hips and down his legs. Her gaze clung to the tensed muscles of his flanks, sprinkled with hair, then honed in on the dark thicket at his groin. The tattoo which curved over his hip pointed her to his sex, which hung limp but still looked remarkably impressive despite his cold swim.

A hot weight sank like a fireball between her tired thighs and made her own sex throb.

But it wasn’t just the memory of their intense physical connection that first night which had her throat thickening.

It was the memories of the man she had met in San Francisco—playful, demanding, flirtatious, so into her before he’d turned against her. The man who had wanted her as desperately as she’d wanted him. Who hadn’t judged her, hadn’t despised her.

Why did her throat hurt so much as she remembered that man now? The man she’d thought she’d glimpsed again when he’d offered to teach her how to make Jambalaya and had shared things she never would have expected him to share with her?

Why should she still be moved by that man when she wasn’t even sure he was real?

Kicking the suit away, Luke picked up a towel resting on a piece of driftwood and began to dry himself. Still Cassie watched, unable to deny herself the pleasure and the pain of those memories and the glorious sight of her first lover.

The fact that Luke Broussard would always be her first lover shouldn’t really have any great significance. That was what she’d told herself at the time. What she still wanted to believe. But how could it not?

She swallowed, aware of raw desire and the sting of tears. She had to stop looking—had to walk away. She had a long trek back to the house and she needed to get there before he did and get a grip on her wayward emotions. Which really made no sense whatsoever. What had happened between them that first night wasn’t going to happen again. He’d made that abundantly clear. And anyway she didn’t want it to happen again.

Did she?

Hadn’t the emotional fallout from that mistake already been devastating enough?

But just as she made the decision to stop looking his head jerked up, his gaze locking on the exact spot where she stood. For a second she stood frozen, still staring back at him through the binoculars. Caught. Trapped. Unable to escape from that hard, magnetic gaze. Then she lowered the binoculars and scrambled back, snapped out of her trance by panic and guilty knowledge.

She hid for a few precious seconds, long enough to get her breath back, before she finally she got up the guts to take another look.

The spurt of terror and guilt—and adrenaline—faded as she watched him head to a pile of clothing and dress himself with slow deliberation. Without the binoculars he was little more than a speck on the landscape... He couldn’t possibly have spotted her all the way up here, unless he had better eyesight than the eagle.

But the relief that he hadn’t caught her spying on him like a besotted schoolgirl didn’t last long as she headed back into the forest.

Why had she stared at him like that? What was wrong with her? Where was Cassie the boring rule-follower when she needed her? Because she did not need that wild woman back again. Not in any shape or form. That woman had caused her more than enough trouble already...

So, Cassandra James is full of...

Luke cursed under his breath.

She’d lied to him. Hadn’t she promised she’d steer clear of him? And here she was spying on him again.

Even before he’d seen the tell-tale glimmer of sunlight reflected on glass giving away her position—probably shining off the lenses of his own binoculars—he’d felt the zap of awareness on his chilled skin.

How long had she been standing there? And what the hell had she been doing? Other than getting an eyeful of him naked...

Luke tugged on his jeans and buttoned his fly—not easy as that prickle of awareness arrowed down.

Pirates’ Cove was his sanctuary, and she’d invaded it. His cold morning swim was the only way he had to contain and control the hunger which was still driving him nuts.

And she’d ruined that too, now.

But alongside the burst of anger and frustration had been the rush of something worse when he’d spotted the flash of light and realised she was watching him. Something giddy and light-headed and kind of demented, which he now recognised as...

Anticipation.

What the hell?

He swore again, viciously. Infuriated with himself as much as her.

He’d caught her spying on him. And instead of being furious, which he had every right to be, for one split second he’d actually been pleased.

Was he some kind of glutton for punishment now? Even when he’d been a teenager, treated like dirt by girls he’d thought liked him, he had never been a sucker. He’d stifled his need to be accepted, to be liked, and got over himself. And over them. They’d never really hurt him because he’d never let them.

No one’s approval was worth losing your dignity over, or your pride. If the girls he made out with at night didn’t want to acknowledge him in the daylight, they could go right to hell. He was in charge of his own destiny now.

He couldn’t even remember their names any more, and their faces were just a hazy memory. He’d never had any trouble moving on from those long-ago betrayals... Even as a sex-starved, untried kid, denied the one thing every kid yearned for in high school: acceptance.

But even as he congratulated himself on his ability to preserve his dignity back then, another voice and another memory beckoned.

His mama, her head high as they walked past those guys who’d always sat in front of Cunningham’s Deli, holding his hand too tightly while the wolf whistles followed them down the sidewalk.

‘If you can put out for a felon, honey, why don’t you put out for me?’

‘How about I give you some sugar, sweet thing? You ain’t going to be getting none from Gino for another five to ten.’

His fingers curled into fists.

How he’d hated those men, and the way they’d spoken to his mama—as if she were a piece of meat instead of a human being. But none of them had been the man he’d hated most of all.

‘He doesn’t give a damn about us, Mama. When are you going to figure that out?’

The memory of the feel of his mother’s open palm slashing across his face made his cheek sting all over again, and his chest tightened with the same impotent, futile rage that had tortured him as a teenager.

‘Don’t you disrespect your papa. He loves us. And when he gets out he’s gonna take care of us again.’

It was the one thing his mama had always been dead wrong about. Gino Leprince hadn’t loved either one of them. If he had he wouldn’t have ended up in the penitentiary, doing time for grand theft auto and aggravated assault—without a thought for the heavily pregnant seventeen-year-old girl he’d left behind.

But Celestine Broussard Dupuis had been too starry-eyed, too sweet and gullible and idealistic to see it.

He shook the memory loose, felt the shudder of long forgotten anger racking his body replaced by irritation.

Jesus, where had that come from?

He wasn’t a sap, like his mom.

He had loved her dearly, but he’d always been aware of Celestine Dupuis’s faults. The most glaring of which had been to mix up sex with emotion—to think that making love with a guy meant he cared about you. That he would protect you and provide for you.

Love had been a trap for her, and ultimately for him, because it had anchored them both in a place where no one had respected them thanks to the crimes of someone else.

It had been the only upside of growing up as the son of the town’s biggest screw-up—learning to be cynical about the starry-eyed hogwash called love that robbed you of your common sense, your dignity and self-respect.

Had his conversation with Cassandra shaken all that loose again? Because if it had, he had even more reason to be mad with her.

He flung his towel and his wetsuit over his shoulder and headed round the point to where he’d anchored his kayak.

He shoved the boat off the rocks and jumped in.

Cassandra James had messed with his head two days ago and now she was doing it again.

Well, that ends now.

He’d given her space and she’d taken advantage of that. Coming out here and spying on him when she’d promised not to. Why was he even surprised she hadn’t stuck to her word? It was just one more example of how he couldn’t trust her.

He sliced the paddle into the water, picking up speed as the kayak rode over the surf and caught the tide.

He could see a new storm gathering, and the sun was starting to sink behind the point. She had a long walk back to the house—and once she got there he would be waiting.