The man stepped off the biweekly mail boat onto the dock at Halos Island. A pelican dived for a fish behind him, flapping away across the rippling clear ocean after scooping up its prey. The man’s eyes were deep-set and shadowed beneath his brows. Angel couldn’t determine their color.
“I’m Stuart Adams,” he said, his husky voice cutting through her last-minute doubts. “I’m ready to make a baby if you are.”
Angel lifted a trembling hand and brushed a gossamer strand of pale yellow hair out of her eyes.
“I think we’d better go up to the house and talk,” she said.
The man, looking determined and not the least bit wary, hoisted a battered sailor’s duffel over his shoulder and followed her up the dock, the silvery old boards creaking beneath his feet.
Angel had never seen this man before in her life, but she already knew that she’d marry him—if he’d agree to her terms.
She wanted him to father her child, and then she never wanted to see him again as long as she lived.