ANDREA CLENCHED HER hand around Tyler’s thigh.
Dazzling, almost magical sensations bounced along her pulse points like a pinball machine after a tilt.
How was it possible that the reality was even better than over a decade of fantasies? That she could change the mistakes and regrets of the past with one touch?
And as suddenly as those realizations crashed over her, she also knew something was wrong. There should be feelings, not just urges. She should want him for more than just to prove he shouldn’t have rejected her before. They should talk or date or—
His tongue tangled with hers, and her desire soared up in yet another thrilling spike.
Okay, maybe not completely wrong.
He trailed his lips down her neck. “This is crazy.”
“Yeah.” She gasped as his tongue flicked against her ear. “Do that again.”
He did. He also wrapped his arm around her waist and molded her against him. Her heart thundered along with his. How different this was from the first, and only, kiss they’d shared. When she’d felt awkward, and he’d been uncomfortable.
They fit together now like puzzle pieces always meant to link.
His hand moved up her body to cup her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple, which pushed tautly against the dress’s thick silken fabric.
Her stomach clenched. Heat flooded her body. “We can’t do this here,” she gasped.
“You’re right. I—” He kissed her again, firmly, then pulled back. “We have to stop.”
“Stop?” She wrapped her hand around his neck and urged him toward her. “Who said anything about stopping? We just have to go somewhere else.”
Her breathing was coming in pants; she didn’t want to move away from him, give either of them a chance to question the maddening need that had overtaken them.
But neither did she want an audience.
“Come with me,” she whispered against his lips.
She slid her hand down his arm, feeling the ripple of muscles beneath his formal wear. Hang on, girl. Try to think. While reciting the periodic table in her head, she linked their hands and led him out of the gazebo and into the house. They darted up the back staircase from the kitchen to her room on the second floor.
After finding condoms in the bedside table—thank you, Sloan—they shed their clothes with fevered haste. His body seemed to consist of endless miles of lean, masculine muscle just begging for her to explore, and the way his lustful gaze raced over her body, she was grateful she’d taken up morning beach runs as exercise.
She left the mask on; he didn’t seem to mind. It wasn’t until they fell naked and kissing onto the bed that Andrea’s overstimulated mind acknowledged her fantasy was really coming true.
Tyler Landry was looking at her as if she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. He was touching her, kissing her. He wanted her.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered against her throat as if he knew her thoughts. “There are fifty people having a party downstairs.”
She closed her eyes and arched her back, absorbing the delicious sensation of his lips on her flushed skin. “I don’t like crowds.”
His hand cupped her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple. “At this moment, neither do I.”
Her hips jerked as need raced down her spine. She gripped his shoulders, her fingernails digging into the muscles. She wanted to say things, to tell him how amazing she felt, but she feared giving too much of herself away. Instead, she absorbed the pleasure in silence, her heart’s frantic hammering the only betrayal of how special the moment really was.
When he slid his hand between her legs, she gasped. Her body clenched around his exploring fingers. She had a vague thought about stroking him, feeling the evidence of his desire, but she couldn’t seem to put the idea into action.
He stopped the incredible, deliberately stimulating movements only long enough to put on protection, then his body was between her legs, his erection poised at the entrance to her body. “Hey,” he said quietly, his hand gliding across her cheek, “open your eyes.”
When she did, she found his lovely blue eyes focused intimately and tenderly on hers, and for some ridiculous reason, tears gathered in her throat.
Something like recognition jumped into his eyes briefly, but it was gone before she was sure she’d seen it at all. He said nothing. He simply slid the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip, then, as he kissed her, he pushed inside her. His hardness filled her, and she moaned with satisfaction.
Though that sensation didn’t last long.
As he began to move, and their hips found a synchronized rhythm, the tension of desire tightened. Satisfaction spiraled away, replaced by a desperate hunger for completion. A need for more. Faster, harder, stronger.
The jerk of her climax, when it finally broke, made her cry out in surprise. The pulsing sparks that followed and spread outward to affect every inch of her body were extraordinary, something she’d never before experienced with any lover.
Suddenly, she knew she was in trouble. That once wouldn’t be enough. One night couldn’t be all they ever had.
And she wasn’t, in any way, shape or form, over him.
TYLER HAD NO IDEA how long his phone had been ringing when he finally emerged from his comalike sleep and groped along the nightstand to silence the irritating sound.
“Tyler, it’s Sheriff Caldwell.”
“Yeah?” He yawned. The sheriff’s normally commanding voice sounded far away. “Y-yes, sir.”
“You’re not still in bed, are ya? It’s eight o’clock.”
“Uh, I—Uh…”
“No more cushy hours for you, boy! This is law enforcement. We don’t sleep.”
Eyes still closed, Tyler rubbed his temple. “I know what dawn looks like, Sheriff. I was in the Navy.”
The sheriff snorted. “Sissies.”
“The Marines.”
“Cocky sissies.”
“Are you serious, or is that a ploy to get me up faster?”
“I don’t do ploys, son.”
With a sudden image of the sheriff—six feet six inches, even without the Stetson, shoulders as broad as an aircraft carrier and piercing blue eyes—Tyler blinked. He tried to remember where he was and recalled immediately he was naked in an unfamiliar bed. But a somehow familiar scent lingered in the air. Her scent.
He bolted upright.
She was gone. Hell.
Memories of the impulsive, carnal night flooded him, bringing a physical reaction to various parts of his body. He recalled his mystery lady’s slim, athletic body, her inviting smile, her moans of pleasure mingling with his.
At one point, he’d finally convinced her to take off the mask, but only with the lights off. He’d wondered if she had a scar on her cheek or near her eye that she was self-conscious about, but he’d been pretty intimate with her skin throughout the night, and he hadn’t felt one.
So why the mystery? Did she have anonymous sex with strangers often?
No, wait. Not strangers. She’d said they’d met before. How? When?
“I need your help,” the sheriff said, yanking Tyler back to reality—and the job he was supposed to be focusing on. “Dwayne just called me in a panic.”
“Burris?” Other than his fear of gunfire, Dwayne was a pretty easygoing, if not incredibly experienced, fellow deputy. “Is he okay?”
“Besides having to breathe in a paper bag to deal with his anxiety attack, I expect so. He’s over at old Mrs. Jackson’s house. Seems her silver tea set is missing. Stolen, according to her.”
Tyler had an immediate recollection of a tiny, gray-haired woman who lived alone in an enormous beach house with half a dozen fluffy show dogs and was notorious for flirting like a teenager with every man on the island. “You mean that old lady at the south end of Beach Road with the dogs? She’s got to be a hundred by now.”
“Ninety-three last June,” the sheriff confirmed. “If you remember her, I’m guessin’ you also know she claims to be a descendant of President Andrew Jackson.”
“Claims? I thought she was.”
“I expect she is. Don’t know for sure. But when you’ve got that much money, son, very few people argue with you.”
“I guess so.”
“I’m makin’ this distinction because you should never take anything on word only in an investigation. Legends on this island are as plentiful as gossip. Retold so often, it’s hard to pry apart truth and fiction.”
Recognizing the admonition was Buddy’s way of imparting advice, Tyler responded with a polite, “Yes, sir.”
“The missing or stolen tea service was apparently the president’s favorite. He even took it with him during his years in Washington. She’s pretty insistent about gettin’ it back.”
“I imagine it’s valuable.”
“To her and the rest of the island.” He cleared his throat. “My daughter will be bending my ear about the historical significance as soon as she hears—and you can bet Mrs. Jackson is already on the phone to her. Dwayne is okay and all—once he stops hyperventilatin’—but he’s not exactly Perry Mason. And I’m in Bermuda. What am I supposed to do about any of it?”
“Nothing, Sheriff. That’s what I’m here for, right?”
“You bet your ass you are. Hang on.” Even though the sheriff must have covered the phone receiver, Tyler could hear muffled voices—one of them distinctly female. “Sorry about that,” Buddy said when he returned. “It sure couldn’t hurt your campaign to solve a sentimental problem like this one so close to the election.”
“I’ll alert the papers.” And despite the issues of the night before still yet to deal with, Tyler found himself intrigued by the case. It had to be more interesting than rosebush vandalism. “You said missing or stolen. You doubt the theft?”
There was a brief pause. “See there, knew you’d make a good sheriff. And, yeah, I got plenty of doubt about the theft. With the owner’s advanced age and general dottiness, who knows where the tea set really is. The old lady could even have her mind on insurance fraud.”
“But she’s loaded.”
“She’s also a troublemaker. Walk careful with her, you hear?”
“I will. And don’t worry about any of this. I can handle it.”
“As long as you get plenty of rest.”
Tyler wasn’t about to admit he’d slept in because he hadn’t slept during the night. “As long as,” he said, though he knew he’d never live down the assumed laziness. “How’s Mabel?” It was common, but as yet unconfirmed knowledge that the sheriff was vacationing with the local café owner, whom he’d been dating the last several months.
Clearly annoyed, the sheriff snorted. “How should I know? I’m on a fishin’ trip. Solve this case, Lieutenant. And quickly. Or your Navy rank may be the last title you ever have.”
He hung up.
Tyler flopped back on the pillows, staring at the room’s high ceiling. Yesterday, he was going through the motions of the election and, really, his life as a whole. He’d retired from active duty as advised by his commander. He’d reconnected with his family. He’d come home to the island to begin a new career. To remember what he’d gone off to fight for in the first place.
But he hadn’t felt more than a glimmer of satisfaction from any of the changes. He’d questioned his decision over and over. He’d loved his life in the military. Did he really belong back home? Could he adapt to civilian life again?
And now, barely twenty-four hours later, he had a case to fill his days and a woman who could fill his nights.
If he could find her.
Flinging the sheets aside, he let his feet drop to the floor beside the bed. He vaguely remembered taking off his watch and setting it on the bedside table near his phone. Glancing in that direction, he saw the gold-and-platinum watch given to him by his grandfather lying there. As he snatched it up, he noticed a white business card beneath.
Andrea Hastings, Appraiser.
Just like when the sheriff mentioned Mrs. Jackson’s name, a mental picture flooded Tyler’s mind. Dark blond hair, braces, glasses with a thick black rim, math genius, shy smile.
No. No way. She couldn’t be.
Another memory zipped into focus. This scene had taken place on the beach, late at night just before he’d left for basic training, in the shadows of a palmetto bush.
His shy math tutor’s unusual, pale green, fairylike eyes, somewhat blurry behind her glasses, had focused on his face as she’d told him about the crush she’d cherished for years. How she’d known he’d recently broken off his two-year relationship with his girlfriend, who was angry about him joining the Navy instead of him taking any of the walk-on offers from several universities to join their football team.
Then she—Andrea, the smartest, kindest person he’d ever known—had kissed him.
He’d been kind in return, explaining his need to serve his country, as everyone in his family had done before him. And, maybe, as he really concentrated on the memory, he’d been tempted to find out what might happen between them if school, future plans and social barriers hadn’t been in the way.
But he’d said nothing of this brief spark of interest to her at the time. He’d smiled and set her aside, all but patted her head as he set off to bigger and better glories.
Fast forward to last night.
The moment he’d fitted his body between the welcoming hips of his mystery woman, when he’d asked her to open her eyes and he’d seen the familiar—though he hadn’t recognized them at the time—fairy eyes.
He braced his arms on his thighs, still holding the business card between his fingers. What have I done?
It all made sense—having met her before, her knowing Sloan, her intelligent, witty comments, even her reluctance to remove her mask.
Regret clenched his gut as he forced himself to flip the card over, knowing, just knowing, there would be a note.
Second time’s the charm.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
He glanced back at the card and noticed an address on Beach Road and phone number. The address wasn’t for an office, though. The house number was too high. That end of the street contained only homes. Big, expensive, ocean-front homes.
Andrea had apparently put her formidable brains to successful use.
No surprise there. But the address also meant she was only a few blocks down from his new case. After handling Mrs. Jackson and calming Dwayne, he had another stop to make and an apology to impart, one that was several years overdue.
As soon as he had it out with that little instigator Sloan.
There was no way sweet Andrea Hastings had come up with seduction and a secret identity on her own.
After tossing on his rumpled clothes, he headed downstairs, where he heard voices coming from the kitchen. Sloan was sitting on her husband’s lap while he laughed and tried to hold a coffee mug out of her reach.
Normally, he would have slipped out of the house and let them “play,” but he wasn’t going to let any more time than absolutely necessary come between him and making things right with Andrea.
“Sorry to interrupt, but we have to talk,” he said as he approached the table.
Sloan glanced over her shoulder at him. Her expression was carefully blank. “About what?”
“Not what.” He held up Andrea’s card. “Who.”
“I’M A SLUT,” ANDREA said miserably when she opened the door to Sloan’s knock.
Sloan sighed. “Oh, good grief.”
“I am.” Trudging back into the den, Andrea flopped on the sofa and didn’t even stop to admire the view from the window-dominated back wall of her house. The sight of her much-treasured kitchen and sunroom, the waves crashing on the shore mere yards away, always reminded her of how far she’d come, how hard she’d worked for her success.
She threw a cold washcloth over her face to counteract her flaming, guilty cheeks. “I slept with a man I never intend to see again. I had sex with him to deal with my emotional issues and shortcomings, never once wondering if he was ready to take that intimate step so quickly.”
“You feel guilty for last night?” Sloan’s surprise was clear.
Lifting the washcloth, Andrea peeked at her friend. “Shouldn’t I?”
“No.” Sloan—dressed in a professional, but somehow still alluring, pale pink suit and hot silver sandals—settled into the nearby chair, crossed her long, tan legs and stared at Andrea. “You had a decent orgasm, didn’t you?”
She swallowed hard. “Beyond decent, and several.”
“And you fulfilled your fantasy to see Tyler Landry naked.”
“The reality was better.”
“So you successfully seduced your fantasy man, which was better than you imagined it would be, you regained your confidence as a desirable woman, plus you got revenge for all the crappy, selfish guys who’ve flooded the land for the last two thousand years and used women the same way.” Sloan leaned back in her chair. “What’s the guilt about? Do you think he would have hung around all night if he felt used and didn’t want to be with you again? And again?” She paused, her mouth tipping up. “Many, many times over?”
“I guess not,” Andrea said, considering the sense in her friend’s words. Tyler was a great many things but gullible wasn’t one of them. “But still—”
“So you really never want to see him again?”
“That was the plan, if you remember. The plan you sold me on as you tied me into that breath-stealing costume. Get over my teenage fantasy issues, my awkward past, try not to focus on my convicted-felon-now-on-probation brother and move on to…” Andrea jolted to her feet. Her heart pounded in a panicked rush. “This is your fault. You knew this would happen.”
“What?” Sloan asked, blinking with fake innocence.
“Me, getting hooked on him again.”
“I didn’t think you’d be satisfied with one night,” she admitted. “So, why does it have to be one? Why can’t you see him again?”
“Because it’s all wrong! I lied. I wore a mask, for pity’s sake.”
Sloan’s gaze grew speculative. “Even during…?” She waved her hand when Andrea shook her head, unwilling to spill intimate details. “And you didn’t lie. You were mysterious and intriguing. Obviously, it worked.”
“But I’m not mysterious and intriguing.”
“So see him again and be you. What’s the worst that could happen?”
She headed out.
Feeling ridiculous but unable to stifle the urge, Andrea followed. “Did you see him when he left this morning?”
“Yep.”
“How did he seem?”
“Annoyed, confused and anxious.” She paused at the door. “Of course the last thing could be because my father called.”
“About what?”
“Some case,” Sloan said vaguely. “Anyway, Tyler showed me your card—nice touch, by the way—and said we had to talk.”
“How mad is he?”
“He isn’t thrilled with me. You, he’s crazy about.”
Andrea’s traitorous, susceptible heart jumped.
Sloan’s lips twitched. “And he seemed to think the mask was sexy.”
“What else did he say?”
“He wanted to know what you’ve been doing the last twelve years. I told him he had to find out for himself.”
“What else did he say?”
Turning as she stood on the porch, Sloan shrugged. “You aren’t in high school anymore, you know.” Then her gaze raked Andrea’s ratty sweatpants and paint-stained tank top. “Put on some makeup and decent clothes and stop wallowing. You’re supposed to be floating on a cloud with blissful, lustful memories keeping you airborne.”
“Yeah, I’ll work on that.”
“You might want to work fast. Mrs. Jackson’s silver tea service is missing, so Tyler’s just a few doors away, investigating the case. That’s what my dad called about this morning. So, unless I’m completely off base—and I rarely am—he’s going to come by here.” With a sassy wave, she scooted off the porch. “Have fun.”
Andrea’s jaw dropped. She watched her—supposedly—best friend swing her purse and her hips into her cute little convertible as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “You could’ve led with that!” she shouted after her.
“MRS. JACKSON, ARE you sure you locked the china cabinet last night?” Tyler asked his, hopefully, future constituent.
Henrietta Delmar Jackson peered at him from behind tiny, silver-framed glasses. “Of course I’m sure, honey.” Her veiny hand clutched Tyler’s. “Are you sure that girlfriend of yours wouldn’t mind if you got a little side action?”
Deputy Dwayne lifted his paper bag—already well-used since arriving at the Jackson home—back to his face and inhaled deeply. Dwayne was a nice guy, but actual crime scared him. He was more of a behind-the-scenes person.
Glaring at his colleague, who sat beside him on the uncomfortable, but no doubt valuable, antique sofa in Mrs. Jackson’s front parlor, Tyler fought desperately to keep his attention on the investigation.
Such as it was.
He’d been forced to lie about having a girlfriend to keep the ninety-something “victim” from crawling into his lap. All he needed was paramedics arriving to save Dwayne from himself and Tyler from Mrs. Jackson, and his humiliation would be complete and forever.
“But the lock wasn’t forced,” Tyler continued. “Neither were any of the doors to the house.”
“I’ve seen those paranormal shows on TV,” Mrs. Jackson said with a defiant nod. “They could zip in here with a blink.”
“They?”
“The aliens.”
Mere weeks ago his life was a mix of foreign lands, missions in the dead of night, glimmers of hope, fighting to avoid dwelling on fear and loneliness. Today, aliens and zipping—whatever that was. Did he prefer reality or ridiculousness?
“What was I saying?”
“They could zip with a blink.”
“Right.” She nodded. “The aliens obviously zipped in here and stole my precious silver. They need it for their weapons of mass destruction, you see.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said, looking at Dwayne, who shrugged, the paper bag still over his mouth and nose. “I bet they do.”
“But if aliens weren’t responsible,” Tyler continued to Mrs. Jackson, “does anyone else—on this planet—have a key to your house?”
She narrowed her bleary eyes. “Are you mocking me, young man?”
“No, ma’am.” And he thanked God she wasn’t still calling him honey. “I’m going to find your silver service.”
“Sheriff Caldwell could find it faster,” she said.
“I’m sure he could. But Deputy Burris and I are on duty at the moment.” He nudged Dwayne in the ribs, forcing him to lower the paper bag he’d been breathing into. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes, sir,” Dwayne parroted.
No help there. Great. “We’ll look around the property and dust for fingerprints, Mrs. Jackson,” Tyler said as he rose. “But it would be helpful if you could let us know about the key and give us a list of all your employees and anybody who’s recently shown an interest in your tea set.”
Her eyes brightened. “Are you going to turn out the lights and make things turn blue like that cute boy on CSI?”
Since those blue lights tended to reveal blood splatters, Tyler certainly hoped not.
He and Dwayne spent the next hour searching the house and property for the tea set without success. The lack of results frustrated Tyler in a big way, since he’d expected to find the missing item under a bed or table, hidden from enemies of the alien persuasion. But, true to his word, he dutifully covered the table where the tea set normally rested with fingerprint powder, lifted several viable prints and knew they’d all wind up belonging to Miss Jackson, her friends or her employees.
By the time he and Dwayne escaped to the porch, thoughts of his personal problems and lack of sleep had caught up with him, leaving him tired and even more annoyed.
“Well, it’s not there,” he said to Dwayne as they headed to their respective cars.
“Unless she buried it in the backyard.”
For the first time since waking up naked in a twist of sheets without a hot woman anywhere in sight, Tyler smiled. “There’s a viable possibility. Beyond that, there’s no forced entry. No footprints. No enemies—on Earth, anyway. Let’s look at the cleaning staff, the pool boy, anybody who has access to the house on a regular basis.”
“The church ladies might bring her meals. It seems I’ve heard Sister Mary Katherine talk about that recently.”
“But the church ladies—and the good Sister in particular—aren’t involved in a theft, so it’s likely somebody she employed ran off with the silver, hoping for a fast payoff. I doubt it’s a professional, because even if he knew the significance of the set and its worth, a smart thief wouldn’t touch something that hot. Some pawnshop owner’s about to get more than he’s bargaining for, then this whole thing is going to get sticky.”
Dwayne nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir, Dwayne. We’re the same rank.”
“But when you’re sheriff…”
“If I’m sheriff. Mrs. Jackson may be the abrupt, crash-landing of my campaign.” And, dammit, he couldn’t even find the energy to care about his career or the silver-stealing silliness. He wanted to see Andrea and apologize, clarify, then repeat last night. “I’ll check with area pawnshops. Let’s close this down before it gets out and everybody’s talking about crime running rampant without Buddy here to keep order.”
Smiling, Dwayne saluted. “You got it, boss.”
“Don’t salute me, Dwayne.”
“Even when you’re sheriff?”
“Even then.”