Beach Colors (6 page)

The realization hit her like a tidal wave. When had she stopped loving Louis? Long before he’d stolen her life. When had he stopped loving her? If he ever had. Because how could someone who loved a person, even if that love had faded, how could he have done that to her?

And how could she be sitting here indulging in totally inappropriate thoughts about a stranger?

She ordered herself to get up and skulk away before he came back, but she didn’t move. He swam parallel to the shore with strong, graceful strokes. She only got a glimpse of his head and sometimes his shoulders as he cut through the water, but it was mesmerizing.

She didn’t know how long she watched, but suddenly he straightened in the water, his head bobbing out of the waves; then he dove again and disappeared beneath the surface.

It was her chance to get to the other side of the jetty out of sight, but she sat still, holding her breath, waiting to see where he’d reappear. And jumped when he rose out of the water not ten feet away.

He stood there with the water sluicing down his body, looking toward the shore, tan and muscular and— He turned, saw her, his movement arrested like a startled stag.

And she was getting way too fanciful. He was a guy, nothing more. Right, so why was her heart racing like a bad case of stage fright. He cocked his head slightly, either a question or an acknowledgment of her presence. He began moving toward her but stopped when he was knee deep in water.

“I was just, uh . . .” Her brain froze; there was a gaping silence.

“Enjoying the view?”

Was she ever. But was he flirting with her or talking about the landscape?

“I was sketching.” She held up her sketchbook, realized he might think she was drawing him and said hastily, “The sailboat.” She pointed toward the water, knowing full well the sailboat had dipped out of sight at least ten minutes before.

“I see.”

Even though his face—strong jaw, sculpted cheekbones—remained passive, Margaux swore she could see amusement in his eyes. And she could actually see his eyes; they were a deep rich chocolate. He was more approachable with those smiling eyes and she smiled back in spite of her intention to act aloof.

He started wading toward her, came to stand right below her, which put his head on the same level as her butt. She shifted her position, which she realized wasn’t much better.

“We seem to be running into each other a lot,” she ventured. God, where was the sophisticated woman she’d been only days ago?

“It’s a small town, remember?”

“Of course I remember, it hasn’t been that long since I’ve been back.”

“No? How long?”

She shrugged. It really was none of his business and besides she couldn’t concentrate with him standing so close to her.
Get a grip, he’s the chief of police.

“A few years, five maybe—eight—ten. And I certainly didn’t expect anyone to be swimming. You must be freezing.”

“What, you could tell by the goose bumps?” His mouth quirked up on one side.

She looked at his arms. They were covered with goose flesh. Her eyes drifted to his chest. They shouldn’t have. He was very buff and the cold had made everything tight.

He hoisted himself onto the boulder, biceps swelling as they took his weight. Margaux moved back. To keep from getting dripped on, she told herself.

“Swim here a lot?” she asked weakly.

His face broke into a true smile and Margaux’s stomach did a little butterfly two-step. Was this the same uptight cop who’d given her a ticket? Maybe he had a twin. An evil twin who was making her feel things she hadn’t even considered for a long time. And had no right to be considering now.

“Ever since I was a kid.”

Margaux nodded. She really needed to keep the distance between them. But she just felt like smiling.

“We used to climb up to these rocks and watch the summer girls lying out on Little Crescent Beach.”

“We did that, too,” Margaux blurted. “Watch the townie boys, I mean.” She jerked her head. “But over on the other side.”

“I know.” He moved closer.

Margaux’s breath caught, her senses alert, but he merely leaned past her to peer at the Crescent Beach side of the jetty.

He moved back into his own space and Margaux felt a traitorous stab of disappointment.

“You were one of those girls?”

“Yes,” she said without thinking. “I mean. You knew we were watching you?”

“Of course. Teenage boys have radar when girls are around.”

Margaux tried to think back. Surely she would have remembered him. But the past had melted into an impression, all soft lines and pastel colors. She couldn’t pick him out from the others, she couldn’t even remember how many there were.

“And never the twain shall meet,” he said.

“A cliché.”

“Kipling.”

“I mean how you’re using it. Town people, summer people. We’re not so very different.”

“Right. You should look at it from this side of the jetty—a townie’s point of view.”

“My father was a townie.”

“But you weren’t.”

He was right.
Townies, summer people.
She was neither. She didn’t belong here. She should never have left Manhattan. Without warning, dark panic swelled inside her, threatened to drown her.

“I have to go.” She stood up abruptly, which was stupid because now the rock was wet where he’d dripped all over it. Her foot slipped and she fumbled to save her sketchbook.

Nick sprang to his feet, grabbed her arms, and steadied her.

They were standing so close that when she looked up, her hair brushed his chest. His muscles flexed, Margaux’s skin tingled, and she felt that ache deep inside her. Neither of them moved. She was standing half risen on her toes, but she couldn’t tell if Nick was holding her there or whether she had raised herself in order to offer her mouth.

She was definitely going stark raving mad, but she didn’t care.

She tried to grab hold of her rational self, shake it awake. This was so wrong. How could she be standing here so close to another man, someone she didn’t even know, and feel drawn to him? Want to lose herself in him—in someone. It had been too long.

Her eyes swam with unexpected tears. She blinked hard, trying to stop them from overflowing.

“Margaux, what is it? Are you hurt?”

He was holding her tight and she wanted to give in to his strength, but she couldn’t. She had to be strong—but on her own terms—on her own. Her life, her livelihood depended on it.

“Margaux, tell me.”

She shook her head, a tear flew off and landed on his shoulder. He flinched as if he’d been burned.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s nothing. Something flew in my eye. I’ll be all right in a second.” But her mouth twisted.

“Let me see.” His hands moved from her arms and he lifted her face up, peering into her lying eyes. He lifted her eyelid.

His hands were gentle, so unlike the rest of him, hard, unyielding, and powerful.

“I don’t see anything.”

She sniffed. “Tears probably washed it out. That’s what they’re for, right? Washing things away?” She laughed unconvincingly. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” His hands had moved back to her arms as if he thought she might float away if he let go. But she was caught in one of those time stretches; seconds or minutes passed, Margaux didn’t know or care. She just knew she wanted to stay right where she was, give in to the strength of this stranger and feel safe if just for a few minutes.

His hands eased around her back and he pulled her closer, lowered his head.

Margaux closed her eyes.

“No. Sorry.” He dropped his arms so quickly she almost stumbled. “If you’re okay, I’ll, uh . . . It’s been nice to see you . . . again. Enjoy your sketching.” He slid back into the water and looked up at her, a slight frown creasing his brow, his eyes deep and dark.

“You might want to put some sunscreen on. Your nose is turning pink.”

Margaux’s hand went unconsciously to her nose.

He turned and splashed back to the little triangle of pebbled beach, snatched up his shoes and shirt, and headed up the narrow path.

Margaux stared after him, feeling deflated and more alone than ever. She watched him until he was swallowed by the trees. She was rattled; alarmed at her reaction to this man she’d met once and who’d given her a speeding ticket. Horrified at the ease with which she fell under the spell of the moment. At what she was feeling.

Desire.

She sat down, her mind reeling. She had forgotten what desire felt like. Why now?

Maybe it was seeing him in all his unnerving masculinity or sitting so close that his dark eyes seemed to pierce her soul. Or because . . . She stopped herself. She was not going to follow that train of thought. It was out of the question. Ridiculous to even contemplate. How could she feel desire when her life was in shambles?

It must be some kind of fatal attraction. Because he was nothing like her ideal man. Too rough, too muscular, too . . . heavy-handed. The chief had no finesse, not in body or personality. He was there; a presence, uncompromising. And she didn’t need that kind of man, she didn’t need any kind of man. God knows she’d had a husband for better and definitely for worse and she certainly didn’t plan to go down that road again.

And besides, she’d cried in front of him. Hopefully he’d bought the old insect-in-the-eye bit.

It was not that big of a deal, she tried to convince herself. She’d just have to tough it out next time they met. If they had to meet at all.

Of course they’d meet. Even with the additional summer people, Crescent Cove was too small a town not to run into each other all the time.

She wouldn’t burst into tears every time she saw him. He’d just caught her in a fragile moment.

Hell, she never had fragile moments. And she’d be damned if she’d start now. She’d overreacted a little bit and who could blame her. It had been a long time since she’d looked at a man as a man, not just as a mannequin to drape clothes on or to accessorize the models who wore her designs. But a flesh-and-blood, virile, sensual experience . . .

She glanced once more to the path that led through the woods and touched her flushed cheek.

She yanked her hand away. It was just a little sunburn. “Ugh,” she growled. She was here to reinvent herself and salvage her career, not to flirt with the local cops.

Disgusted with herself, she sat down and opened to a new page of her sketch pad, determined to work. She drew a picture of a person, a man, a merman, rising from the sea to claim his love. And he looked just like the chief of police.

Oh for heaven’s sake
. She ripped the page out, but there was nowhere to throw it away. She carefully stuck it between the pages of her sketchbook.

N
ick didn’t even bother to put on his boots, he was in such a hurry to get away. And now he was paying for it. His feet were tender from the winter and the ground was covered in debris. But he didn’t stop until he was back in the truck, then he just sat behind the wheel trying to analyze what had just happened.

His entire teenage life he’d waited for Margaux to grow up, to become the person he hoped she would be. She was only about ten when she’d first sat down at “his” table at the library and began copying pictures of dresses out of magazines. It didn’t seem to occur to her that he might want the table all to himself.

Maybe she hadn’t even noticed him, she was so focused, even as young as she was. He was already spending lots of time at the library. He came almost every day after school and before his job at the marina. She was only there in the summers, so he knew she was a summer person.

All winter he sat at that same table with the vague sense of comfort that she would be back the next year. Then his father died and his life and his future fell apart. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be going to college, he still went every day to study. He could have cried when he saw her walk through the library door the next summer. That at least was the same.

He started the truck engine. It was stupid to think about those days. She’d grown up and he’d finally gotten his chance to get an education.

Now they were both back. And what had he done? Made some stupid comment about the view when all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and make her love him. Hell, they’d been sitting right next to each other. Standing so close that her hair tickled his chest. His hands were still alive where they’d touched her arms. And he couldn’t think of an intelligent thing to say. He was an idiot.

It was small consolation that she’d been just as flustered as he had been. More so. Not at all the cold, in-charge, remote woman he expected. It just made her more enticing.

And then he’d screwed it up by making her cry. He didn’t get it. He could tell she was skittish as soon as he saw her. She’d practically levitated off the rocks when he sat down beside her.

But the crying thing. He went back through the conversation. They’d just been talking about the past. Teenagers spying on each other. That wasn’t so bad. But those were real tears. He didn’t believe she had something in her eye. He’d upset her when he wanted nothing more than to hold her, keep her safe. Hell, he’d almost kissed her. That had been close. And would have been a disaster. He was the chief of police and she was a private citizen.
He was that boy in the library and she was his talisman.

He backed out of the McGuires’ driveway, feeling emotions he shouldn’t be feeling. He tried to force them back where they’d lurked for years. He didn’t want them out again, didn’t even want to name what he felt. Because that would put him right back standing on the jetty all those years ago, knowing that was as close as he’d ever get.

J
ude smiled across the candlelit table at Roger Kyle. The tiny restaurant was quiet, with only the low murmur of conversation, the tinkling of china and crystal, and the muted strains of a string trio as background to their conversation.

Roger was an old and dear friend. She and Henry and Roger and his wife, Alice, had spent many wonderful times together. They had become closer during Alice’s long battle against cancer; they were at the hospital the day she died. And Roger had been there for her when Henry died years later.