It was the one she was supposed to wear for the American Singing Star finale. Almost every single outfit she had worn for that show had made her uncomfortable. At first the outfits had been too geeky: buttoned-to-the-top blouses and calf-length skirts. Then the metamorphosis had begun, but again Allie had been dressed as a character, not as herself.

  And so she had worn too-tight black leather pantsuits, form-fitting tube dresses, one-piece short suits that lived up to the word short.

  But when she had been presented with this dress and tried it on, it felt as if her heart had stopped.

  It wasn’t like anything she had ever worn, on the show or off. And it didn’t really speak to who she was or to who the show had made her into.

  The dress spoke to who Allie could be.

  The famous designer Iggy had made it, and adjusted it just for her. The dress was two things: it was the sea and it was flame. The top of it was the color of fire, reds and oranges and yellows licking together. Those colors poured down the dress like the slow ooze of lava, and then exploded into the turquoises and navy blues of molten rock hitting the sea.

  It had a low V in the front, another at the back, a belt at the tininess of her waist. And then the dress swept down, past her knees, her calves exposed in a swirl of gauzy sea foam fabric.

  When Allie had missed the finale, nobody had asked her for the dress back. They hadn’t asked her for the shoes, or even the jewelry that came with it. She wasn’t sure if it was an oversight, a payment or an apology.

  Naturally, given the disastrous circumstances her claim to fame had ended with, she had sworn she would never wear the dress.

  Now she was glad for that. She was glad the public had never seen her in it. And she was glad Ryan had never seen her in it.

  She contemplated how she could think his name with absolutely no emotional charge. If she felt anything at all, it was a strange pity, as if every single contestant on that ridiculous show had been caught in webs woven out of their own dreams.

  The dress was not the dress of someone who had given up on dreams. It was the dress of someone who owned them, who knew exactly who they were, and were not the least bit afraid to show it.

  When had she become that person?

  Almost the instant she had let an intruder into her house, almost the instant she had said yes to the adventure of letting the strangers who knocked on her door—or broke it down, as the case may be—into her world.

  She was seeing herself differently.

  She was seeing herself like this. She had promised Sam they would do grown-up things, and she had somehow transformed, maybe for the first time in her life, into a complete grown-up.

  Allie liked it. She looked sensual rather than sexy, mysterious rather than an open book. She looked like a woman who was passionate and complicated and confident. She twirled in the mirror. She flicked her hair. She wished for just one change to those horrid black tips...but tonight, she did not cover it.

  She strapped on the tiny shoes with their impossible heels. She felt grateful for all the hours practicing moves on heels for the show. Thanks to dozens of rehearsals, she could practically turn a cartwheel in high heels.

  She took the necklace that had come with the ensemble. The necklace flashed and reflected the flames of the dress. It looked like diamonds though, of course, it was fake, like everything on that show had been fake.

  They had tried to make her into a fake.

  She gave the exhausted Popsy, stretched out full length on her bed, a pat on the head and a scratch on the tummy. Then she took a deep breath and stepped out her bedroom door. She went down the hall and into the kitchen.

  Sam sat at the table. He was looking at his phone, and so engrossed in whatever he was seeing that he didn’t look up.

  It gave Allie a moment to study him. He wasn’t as dressed up as her. Obviously his best suit had not come on beach holiday with him. Still, Sam was looking pretty glorious himself.

  Dressed in jeans, the dark navy of brand-new denim and a pressed shirt, he looked strong and lean and confident. He was freshly shaven, his hair combed, but his clothes and his grooming only added to his allure, because what he was, he carried inside himself.

  For a moment, she felt almost intimidated by the aura of power and control around him, but then he noticed her and, with a grin that made him her Sam again, he turned the screen toward her. A video was playing, Cody in the foreground dancing happily in front of the tiger enclosure.

  His grin faded as he took her in. The phone dropped from his hand. His mouth opened and then closed again.

  In his eyes, she saw the reflection of what she was.

  And for the first time, Allie stood in the full glory and gratitude of the fact that American Singing Star had not succeeded in making her into what they wanted her to be.

  He got up from the table and came and took her shoulders in his hands.

  “How can you look so dressed up without a suit?” she asked, looking up into his face, into the desire-darkened color of his familiar brown eyes.

  He was a man comfortable in T-shirts and shorts and pajama bottoms and flip-flops. But he was also powerful and successful, rich beyond anything she had ever dreamed.

  But she knew she had the confidence to explore this side of him, too. She was aware her Sam, the one who tossed Cody in the air, and left books open on their spines, and built sandcastles, and dove into the sea, and fixed things that needed to be fixed, was right here, coexisting with this man.

  She was aware she wanted to know all of him.

  She slipped her arm though his proffered elbow and he escorted her out to the car. The car was gorgeous, all deep leather and luxury.

  But a faint smell clung to it, that made her laugh out loud.

  They didn’t drive very far. He went to the other side of Sugar Cone and pulled into the marina.

  “You rented a boat?” she said. She felt her first moment of uncertainty. She wasn’t dressed for a boat. What if his idea of showing her his world involved baiting hooks? No, Sam simply wasn’t the kind of guy who would get something like that so wrong. You did not tell a woman to wear her best and take her fishing.

  “Not exactly a boat,” he said. “Not like a rubber dingy or a fishing boat. Actually, not even like a motor boat.” He pulled up at a slip.

  Her mouth fell open.

  Behind an arch and beyond a gangplank, a boat bobbed graciously. Or would this be called a boat?

  A yacht was probably the correct term.

  While she sat there, stunned, a uniformed man came and opened her door, saluted them both as Sam took her arm and they made their way up the slightly swaying gangplank. Another uniformed man waited at the top.

  “Mr. Walker, Ms. Cook, welcome abroad the Queen of Love.”

  Allie gasped at the name.

  “I’m Clark and I’ll be your steward for your time with us. We’re about to set sail, so I’ll get you settled with a drink and then if you want a tour of the yacht I’d be happy to give it to you or I can take you straight to the dining area.”

  “A drink would be nice,” Sam decided for them, thank goodness, since it felt as if the cat had her tongue.

  They were brought to a fabulous area in the bow of the boat, a semi-circle of deep white leather furniture.

  Champagne was presented in flutes, and a plate of hors d’oeuvres was set out.

  Clark went to attend to whatever yacht people attended to while a boat set sail, and then returned.

  “May I show you the boat?” he asked. He took them through a main door and Allie stopped. It was a beautiful living room, more white leather, with a white grand piano to one side and a completely stocked bar on the other.

  “We’re supposed to have clear sailing for your dinner cruise tonight, however, if you are more comfortable in here, please just let me know.”

  They followed him through the yacht, being introduced to any crew they came across and finally ending in the wheel house where they met the captain. Allie noticed Sam was watching her with a smile as one experience after another unfolded in front of her.

  “Just own it,” he told her quietly.

  “But what does—”

  She stopped herself. Did it matter what it cost? He could obviously afford it, and he wanted to give it to her. And so she surrendered to it, she just gave herself over to the complete enjoyment of this exquisite experience Sam was giving her.

  Was it a date? If the movie, yoga on the beach and getting sweaty riding bicycles had left any doubt, this did not.

  They went out to sea, and anchored off a lovely little island. It had a cottage on it that reminded her of her house. They were given the choice of the outdoor or indoor dining room. Sam wanted her to choose, and she chose the outdoor dining room.

  On the port side, the cottage lights came on and splashed across the sea, and on the starboard side, way in the distance, they could see as the lights of Sugar Cone Beach winked on, and the ones in the hills above it. The sea became like a dark piece of velvet studded with the jewels of reflected light.

  Dinner was served.

  “And I thought the restaurant last night was swanky,” Allie managed, as dish after dish of exquisite food was presented to them under inky dark skies, by staff who were so graceful and quiet, it was almost as though they were alone.

  The meal finished and coffee came.

  And then the lights were lowered, and music poured through speakers.

  “Would you care to dance?” Sam asked her.

  She closed her eyes, as the dreamlike quality of the evening intensified. Then she opened them, looked at him and nodded. She put her hand in his. In a moment, her forehead resting on his chest, his chin on the top of her heard, they swayed together, letting all the magic they were experiencing outside of themselves come in.

  Was it just days ago, Allie wondered dreamily, that she had thought she knew what a perfect moment was?

  The truth was she had no idea.

  And for the first time in a long, long time, she trusted it.

  She looked up into his face. His eyes were closed and he was without a doubt the most beautiful human being she had ever seen. She nestled deeper into his chest, and put her arms around him, pressing into the small of his back to bring him closer to her.

  She thought back over their days together.

  He wasn’t just beautiful outside. He was beautiful inside, too.

  “I’ll remember this moment forever,” she whispered to him. And for an instant, it pierced the perfection of the moment, a reminder that all good things ended.

  They could not dance on this deck forever.

  Sam and Cody would be leaving soon. And they had never once discussed what happened next.

  But in this perfect moment, it felt as if Allie knew exactly what happened next.

  What they had experienced between them over the past few days was too strong to just walk away from.

  This was the beginning of the courtship. Not the end.

  She reached up, and took his lips with hers.

  Sam tasted of champagne and the night stars. He tasted of the sea and of every great mystery humans had ever explored together. He tasted of gentleness and he tasted of strength. He tasted of simplicity and he tasted of complexity.

  Allie shivered under the taste of his lips, the red-hot touch of his hand on the nakedness of her back, the way he pulled her into him, both savage and sensitive.

  The kiss validated all she knew and all she was feeling.

  And she tasted the beauty of him so fully that something in her that had been unfinished was suddenly completed.

  Until he pulled away from her, stepped back, raked a hand through the dark crispness of his hair.

  “I’m not sure we should go there,” he whispered huskily. “I’m not sure.”

  How was that possible? How could he be not sure, when she had never been more certain of anything in her whole life?

  That’s what you get, a little voice inside chided her, for having faith in perfect moments. Again.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THEY DROVE HOME in silence, some tension in the air between them that he wanted to move away from, and that Allie wanted to move toward.

  “I’m not ready to go to bed,” Allie said when they arrived at the cottage and went in the door.

  “You’re exhausting me,” Sam informed her. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  But she glanced at Sam from under her eyelashes, and he did not look exhausted.

  They were home from their magical evening, at that awkward moment when it was time to say good-night, go to their separate rooms and shut the doors.

  Lie awake and listen to each other breathing.

  “I’m not ready for bed,” she said, again.

  He sighed. “Me, either. You know what I want?”

  Oh, yeah, she knew what he wanted. She had seen it in his eyes tonight when they had danced, felt it in the heat of his body when the music had turned slow.

  “What do you want?” Allie whispered.

  He leaned forward. She thought he was going to kiss her. But he didn’t. He touched her hair.

  “I want to cut this.”

  “What?”

  “I want to get rid of those little black tips. I want to banish Tempest forever.”

  Hmm...interesting...just when she wanted to let Tempest out.

  Without waiting for her answer, he led her out onto the deck. He placed a stool in the center of it, and beckoned for her to sit down.

  He went back into the house and got a towel and a clothespin, and secured them around her neck.

  “It feels like Superman’s cape,” she said softly.

  “Maybe that’s what it is when you become yourself.”

  And then with exquisite tenderness he began to cut her hair. Deliberately, his hands brushed the soft nape of her neck. Deliberately, he placed his lips where his fingertips had been. The black hair fell around her, bit by bit, and his lips and hands took the place of everything that hair had represented.

  “It’s kind of like Sampson and Delilah,” she told him softly, “only in reverse. My strength is coming back to me with every snip. I am becoming more who I am, not less.”

  Finally, he was finished. He took off the towel and stood back regarding her. He took his fingers and ran them through her hair. He fluffed it. He acted as though he could not get enough of staring at her.

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  “It’s my turn to pick what we do. I want to swim with you,” she said, and heard the huskiness in her voice. “I want to skinny-dip with you in the ocean.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” he said.

  “I think it is,” she decided. “I’m all done with letting other people decide what the good ideas are, even you.”

  * * *

  Even you.

  As if he mattered to her, but not as much as she mattered to herself. Allie had been beautiful before. As she interacted with him, and Cody and her guitar. But Allie stepping out of that pile of dark hair and fully into herself was more than beautiful.

  It was irresistible.

  She went into the house, and came back out with a towel wrapped around her.

  Sam could feel his mouth going dry. She was naked under that towel.

  He tried to reason with himself: she was always naked under something, her clothes, her bathing suit.

  She walked by him, and helplessly he followed her to the water’s edge.

  She dropped the towel, and stood there. The night was dark and yet her skin glowed white, luminescent. She gave him one look, one seductive smile, and dove into the waves.

  He dropped his shorts and followed her into the water.

  She was swimming out beyond the break, treading water and tilting her head to the stars.

  “You’re going to get us arrested,” he told her huskily.

  She turned her face away from the stars and looked at him. He saw her bravery. He saw what she was asking.

  He did what he had wanted to do since they had danced together, since he had cut her hair.

  Since the first time he had tasted her lips, probably since the first time he had seen her, lying on the floor, those huge eyes taking him in.

  Even then, the bravery had been there.

  He closed the small distance of dark water between them. He growled her name. She answered by twining her arms around his neck, by pressing herself against him. Her skin was hot in contrast to the cool of the water. Her body was substance, something you could hang onto, something solid in a liquid world.

  He took her lips.

  Her answer was tentative. A tasting. A nibble.

  And then less tentative. Her hands twined more tightly around him, and her mouth invited him deeper.

  He could not refuse the invitation. He was a man who had been dying of hunger and thirst, and this moment offered him what he had turned his back on.

  Life.

  Her lips tasted of seawater and hope. Her lips tasted of the wine she had sipped earlier and of dreams. Her lips tasted of laughter.

  Her lips tasted of a future.

  He groaned, and pulled her to him. He carried her out of the water.

  She nestled into him. “Warrior,” she said, the maiden being carried off.

  But nothing could be further from the truth. He was not a warrior—he was the conquered. This was the very thing he was sworn to fight.

  But his weakness was such that he could not remember why he needed to fight. He set her down slowly, pulled on his shorts, watched out of the corner of his eye as she pulled the towel around herself.

  And then he scooped her back up. He carried her through the darkness, through the sand, aware she felt featherlight. How could someone so powerful be so light?

  He slid open the patio screen with his foot, carried her through the darkened house and to his bedroom. He tossed her on the bed, and stood drinking her in, the unearthly beauty of her.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18