Two Hearts, Slightly Used

Sharon Bing. The sister of a man who’d been trying off and on for years to lure him into a business partnership, Sharon had been one of Pete’s most effective inducements. What had started out as a casual acquaintance had unexpectedly escalated into a high-octane affair. With a background in the airline industry—old P. G. Bing had once owned a small regional airline, giving young Pete and Sharon a leg-up in the business—Sharon had liked the idea of being married to the man who had tested and helped develop one of the Navy’s hottest flying machines. And Brace had thought, why not? He’d tried about everything else. Other men had taken the plunge and lived to tell the tale, so why not give it a try?

And then had come the crash. Hanging on to the ability to breathe had taken top priority for the first few weeks, but he was tougher than he’d been given credit for.

Eventually, Brace had discovered that appearances mattered a lot more to Sharon than he’d thought. She was a beautiful, brainy woman, and beautiful, brainy women could pretty much write their own ticket. He couldn’t begrudge her that. He sure as hell couldn’t blame her for wanting out once he no longer fit her specifications.

She’d let him down gently, he’d have to hand her that. About as gently as he’d let down the ATX-4. It had probably been the best thing that could’ve happened to him, he’d rationalized later. What did a guy who’d been flying solo all his life need with a wife, anyhow?

He still kept a picture of her—one of those glamour things, all heavy eyelids, pouting lips and plunging neckline, shot through a soft-focus lens. It helped to remind him, in case he was ever tempted to forget, of what could happen when a guy started taking himself too seriously.

It would’ve hurt a lot worse if he hadn’t been groggy from all those painkillers. An unexpected side benefit of having his face ripped off and then reconstructed—getting dumped hadn’t seemed all that important at the time.

Deliberately Brace pulled his thoughts out of the power dive and steered them back to the present. Which, at the moment, included a tall, skinny woman with stringy black hair, a gritty voice and the sweet disposition of a hornet with PMS.

Of course, he hadn’t been all that sweet himself. But dammit, Keegan had guaranteed him complete privacy in return for keeping an eye on things for a few weeks! All he needed was a quiet, private place to hole up while he weighed his options and made his decision. How the devil could a man concentrate with a bunch of nosy strangers dropping in out of the blue, staring at his face and asking stupid questions?

Dammit, he was not oversensitive! He didn’t give a damn what she thought, as long as she did her thinking somewhere else!

He’d give her a day, he decided. Two days, tops, but he doubted if she’d even last that long. A deserted island in late January, with the nearest shopping mall several islands away?

No way. If he knew women—and to his sorrow, he did—she’d be out of here before noon.

The old training film video droned on. Brace had watched it at least a hundred times. Yawning, he told himself he should’ve plugged in her phone, at least. That way she could call the marina and be out of his hair before she dug in too deeply.

First thing in the morning, just to be on the safe side, he mused drowsily, he’d run Keegan’s boat around to the other side of the island, out of sight. Just in case she took it in her head not to wait for Jerry to get out of school.

“Yeah. You should be so lucky,” he muttered. Yawning, he watched as the pilot of the P-51 taxied in for a perfect three-point landing, confident that no woman whose idea of a serviceable flashlight was a pink plastic gizmo the size of a lipstick tube was going to tackle a forty-horse outboard in unfamiliar waters.

Feeling the last of the tension seep out of the muscles at the back of his neck, he yawned again and told himself he might even offer to run her over himself.

Sure! Why not? And to prove what a sweetheart he was, he wouldn’t even make her beg.

Two

To a woman who had mastered the word processor, the food processor, elementary plumbing and the fine art of diplomacy under fire, there was nothing particularly intimidating about an outboard motor. Frances had watched the boy from the marina punch, poke, jiggle and shove and then steer with one arm crooked casually over the handle. And while this particular model was somewhat larger, the principles were probably pretty much the same. The main thing to remember, she reminded herself, was that once she got the thing cranked up, steering was in reverse. To go right, shove the handle left and vice versa.

As a precaution, she untied the lines before she began fiddling with the controls. It had occurred to her that once she got the engine running, she might have her hands too full to worry about undoing all those fancy little knots.

A bit of common sense was called for here. Luckily, common sense was her strong suit. Thanks to her brothers, Bill and Dennis, she had a basic knowledge of combustion engines. There was nothing particularly difficult about operating an outboard engine.

Or was it a motor? Bill had explained the difference, but she’d forgotten. She’d learned to make simple repairs on most household appliances, but she could never remember the names of all the little gizmos.

Once underway, the first thing Frances noticed was that aluminum on water reacted somewhat differently than did rubber on pavement. For one thing, it lacked gripping power. By trial and error, she managed to propel the boat into open water without coming to grief, and felt a warm glow of pride.

Really, this was no big deal at all.

The second thing she noticed was the poles, which had been stuck seemingly at random along the way, one of which was green, with a light on top, the rest being plain. Not so much as a hand-painted arrow pointing the way to Coronoke or Hatteras. She’d been so tired and so intent on reaching her destination on the way over the day before that she hadn’t paid them much attention.

Now, just to be on the safe side, she steered a wide course around each one. By the time it occurred to her that they might have something to do with marking a trail, every clenchable muscle she possessed was clenched, from her teeth right down to her toes. Three times she came within inches of plowing into a shoal and then had to fumble with the left-turn, right-turn thing.

Outboard motors, she decided, were designed either by or for a dyslexic. Her left-handed sister, Debbie, would have managed just fine!

As her destination drew near, it occurred to her that with no brakes except for an anchor that was stashed up under the pointy end of the boat, the good ship Coronoke might not be easy to park. A little test of momentum seemed indicated here. Praying she could start it again, she cut the power and carefully observed how long it took to come to a full stop.

Not too bad, she mused. But sideways? Where had that tricky little glide step come from? The handle was aimed straight forward.

Frances was still experimenting when her stomach began to growl, reminding her that her last meal had been a super-coronary special at a fast-food restaurant in Manteo early the previous afternoon. The fat content of all that beef, bacon and cheese alone had kept her functioning until now. However, a bowl of Fancy’s Fat-Free, Fiber-Filled Homemade Granola would be her first priority once she got back to the cottage.

After two more rehearsals a safe distance away from any visible obstacles, she managed to make a creditable landing at the marina without denting either boat or pier. Still slightly terrified, but extraordinarily proud of her accomplishments—considering that the last boat she’d skippered had been a rubber affair some six inches long in a claw-footed bathtub—she tied up at the pier, briefly considered tossing out the anchor for good measure and elbowed her way up onto the splintery wharf.

And then she quietly collapsed, breathing deeply of the cold, fish-and-diesel-oil-smelling air. In the distance a noisy truck rattled past, the first sign of life she’d seen all day other than the wheeling gulls that searched the dark waters of the harbor for scraps of food.

Not until the chill began to creep into her bones did she turn to the task at hand. Making several trips to her car, she loaded her various bags and boxes aboard and set out again, her mind on trying to remember which box held her coffee filters and which held her supply of granola makings.

Somewhat to her surprise the entire operation, practice maneuvers included, had taken only slightly over an hour.

* * *

Back on Coronoke, Brace stood at the end of the pier in his briefs and boots, oblivious to the raw, cutting wind, and ran through about six yards of gutter profanity. Dammit, he’d known the first time he’d set eyes on that woman that she was going to be trouble! In the first place, she had no business even being here! Keegan had sworn he would have the place to himself, otherwise he never would’ve agreed to the deal.

Evidently she’d bought his story about the lack of basic amenities. Damn good thing, too. If that hadn’t worked, he’d planned to hit her with a tale about hurricanes, tornadoes and man-eating mosquitoes and throw in a few alligators for good measure.

But dammit, why’d she have to go and steal his boat? He’d already made up his mind to ferry her back across to the marina. If there was one thing that irritated him more than a clinging, whining female, it was one of the superindependent types.

Brace had been shaving when he’d heard the outboard sputter a few times and start up. He’d gone racing down to the landing in his briefs and boots, face covered with shaving cream, in time to see her roar out of the harbor, hanging on to the stick like a chicken in a high wind. While he stood there swearing, the phone had started ringing back at the Hunt, and he’d raced back and grabbed it just in time to hear the disconnect.

Still swearing under his breath, he’d jogged back down to the landing, wondering what the devil was happening to his nice, private little retreat. No one was even supposed to know where he was except for the Keegans and Pete Bing.

He figured it was Keegan, calling to check up on things. Pete knew better than to put the screws on him at this point in their negotiations. Brace had left it at the “don’t call me, I’ll call you” stage. He still had a lot of thinking to do before he signed on with any outfit. Not that he had any doubts about Bing Aero. He had plenty, however, about the woman involved.

And Sharon would definitely be involved. Brace didn’t kid himself on that score. With Sharon, the bottom line came first; personal relationships limped in a poor second. The deal had been a straightforward one—cash on the barrelhead in exchange for a hefty bundle of stock in the privately owned corporation, a modest salary and an impressive sounding title. Eventually he would take over the design division.

It was a sweet deal for a guy who had never held down a desk in his life. Never wanted to, but now that his choices had narrowed down, it didn’t look all that bad.

Even so, he’d have to do some pretty serious thinking before tying himself up in a long-term deal. Pete had hinted at some of the experimental stuff they were doing, knowing that Brace would find it hard to turn it down, now that his test-pilot days were definitely over.

He’d been right. Brace had been up-front about the fact that he’d been approached by two other outfits and had asked for three months to make up his mind. That had been six weeks ago. The clock was still running.

And now this! Dammit, how the devil was a guy supposed to concentrate?

Scowling at the receding wake of Keegan’s red runabout, he tried to recall if he’d topped off the tank after the last couple of supply runs. Late yesterday, just before she’d showed up, he’d cruised around to the northwest side of the island to check out the three hunting blinds there. He’d run over to collect his mail, and the marina had been closed, and...

Brace swore again under his breath. The lady was beginning to get on his nerves! Thanks to her tricks, he was going to have to put one of the other boats in the water and get another outboard out of storage just to retrieve the runabout.

Stalking back up to the Hunt to finish shaving and get dressed, he told himself to cheer up. At least she was gone. That was the good news.

The bad news was that he’d been the one to chase her off, and he’d lied to achieve his ends. Even at his worst he’d never been much of a liar.

Right on schedule his conscience kicked in again. Until she’d come nosing around his private sanctuary with her holier-than-thou attitude, he hadn’t even known he possessed a conscience. So what if he hadn’t exactly welcomed her to the island? Dammit, it was for her own good! She would’ve hated it if he’d let her stay, and he’d have had to put up with her whining about the wind and the sand and the bone-aching cold. There was nothing here for a woman. Especially not for a woman alone. Women didn’t thrive in isolated outposts, they needed bright lights and lots of attention, neither of which was available on Coronoke.

And besides, dammit, she wasn’t his responsibility!

On the other hand, Keegan’s boat was.

Figuring she’d have had just about enough time to reach the marina if he’d left enough gas in the tank to get her that far, Brace grabbed a pass key off the board and jogged down the wooded trail to her cottage to be sure she hadn’t left behind so much as a single hairpin. Once she hit Highway 12, he didn’t want her to have any excuse to come back.

She hadn’t left a hairpin, she’d left a whole damn suitcase! About a years’ worth of supplies were still piled on the kitchen counter where he’d parked them the night before. By the time he found the toothbrush, the bottle of lotion in the bathroom and the gown tossed across the foot of her unmade bed, the tendons at the back of his neck were so tight his fingers wouldn’t even uncurl.

She hadn’t left. Dammit to hell and back. The miserable little sneak thief had stolen his boat and gone back for the rest of her gear! Hadn’t she heard a word he’d said?

So much for the gentlemanly approach. She wanted to play hard ball? Great. Let’s see how she liked his fast ball!

Working with practiced efficiency, Brace crammed her few scattered belongings into her suitcase, stripped the bed and crammed the sheets in on top of her clothes, then scanned the quarters for anything he might have missed.

He tossed her suitcase out onto the deck beside her laptop computer and stalked back inside for the groceries. She’d bought ‘em—she could damn well have ‘em! He only hoped she hadn’t stocked up on ice cream, because he could do without having his last clean pair of jeans leaked all over!

Although in this weather, the stuff might not even have melted. The temperature hung in the low forties outside. The house, which had been battened down since October, felt even colder.

Once again the conscience Brace hadn’t known he possessed kicked in. She must’ve worn her clothes over the nightgown to sleep in. No blanket in evidence. According to Maudie, most cottage owners provided a few summer-weight blankets, but evidently she hadn’t known where to look.

“Dammit, nobody comes here in the dead of winter, especially not a lone female!” He automatically excepted Maudie Keegan, who had once lived alone on the island year-round as caretaker. Maudie was a different breed of cat. She was a local, used to the treacherous Outer Banks weather, which could go from mild to wild in a matter of minutes; accustomed to being without power, sometimes for days on end.

A small, all but unrecognizable voice whispered that maybe he should give the woman a second chance—show her around, clue her in on the power situation, lend her a few blankets and show her where to plug in her phone—

No way. She might not appreciate it now, but he was doing her a big favor. She’d probably thought she was coming down to some nice sunny beach resort where everything was laid out for her comfort, from cocktails to hot tubs.

Some travel agent somewhere needed to have his license yanked!

Brace took one last look around the cottage before locking up and heading down to the boat with her gear. It took four trips to haul it all. Good thing she hadn’t come prepared for an extended stay!

But his conscience still wasn’t quite ready to roll over and play dead. She’d come all the way down here, expecting the standard beach resort, and he’d more or less chased her off. It wasn’t her fault—he blamed the guy who’d given her the key. Easing the small fiberglass boat away from the pier, he decided that instead of just kissing her off and good riddance, he would take the time to suggest she catch the Ocracoke ferry, and then the Cedar Island ferry, and head on down the coast until she struck summer. Jekyll Island, or maybe St. Augustine. Hell, why not go all the way to the Keys? Plenty of sunshine, plenty of company—perfect for a single woman looking for a good time.

But whatever she was looking for, she wasn’t going to find it on Coronoke. Not alone. Not in January. Not while he had anything to say about it!

* * *

Frances watched as the marina receded silently in the distance. After poking and jiggling every appendage on the outboard, she had reached the inevitable conclusion that she was out of fuel. There was a single paddle in the boat, and she was wielding it as fast as she could, but it wasn’t working. The harder she paddled, the faster the current carried her away from the island, and the only sign of life was seven pelicans lumbering past a few feet above the surface of the water.

Was there such a thing as carrier pelicans? Maybe she could drop a note to the Coast Guard in their pouch.

How could she have done anything so stupid! She, the practical member of the Smith family—the practical member of the Jones family, for that matter. The one who had always reminded her younger siblings to take along an umbrella and to keep enough spare change on hand to call home—the one who reminded her husband and her in-laws to take their vitamins every day and cut down on their intake of fat, sodium and refined sugar.

A small green-and-red plane droned overhead, and she stood up and waggled her arms. “Help! Down here! Send help!”

When her leather-soled loafer slipped on a patch of wet aluminum, causing the runabout to lurch, she sat down rather suddenly and gripped the sides. Really, she was beginning to feel a bit discouraged. Beginning to feel, in fact, as if she were the only living human being left on earth.

Which was absurd. She had merely run out of gas. She, who was known throughout her family for advising others never to leap without first looking, and never, ever to start the day without breakfast, had committed both sins, and now look at the fix she was in! Starving to death while she was being swept out to sea.

She was mentally measuring the distance to a low, marshy strip of land some thousand feet away, assessing her chances of making it to shore before she turned into an ice cube, when she became aware of a high-pitched hum, like the drone of a distant swarm of bees.

“Oh, help,” she whimpered. Twisting around, she saw not one, but two boats racing toward her from opposite directions. “Thank you, Lord,” she said devoutly. That water had looked awfully cold and deep and swift. “I owe you big-time for this.”

As for Uncle Seymore, she had a small bone to pick with him if she ever got near a phone again. There were one or two things he’d neglected to mention concerning his precious island hideaway.

Jerry reached her first. The other boat was smaller, slower, but still headed her way at a rapid rate of speed.

“What’ja do, flood ‘er?” the gangly boy called out. His lovely teeth sparkled in the pale shaft of sunlight slanting between layers of dark clouds.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, but it’s occurred to me that I might have run out of gas. Is that likely?”

He shrugged. Pulling alongside, he slung a line onto the runabout and stepped aboard, reaching for the red tank near the stern. Frances had never felt so stupid.

Well...yes, she had. And quite recently. But that was another story. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble. And by the way, aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

Before he could answer, the other boat pulled alongside, and the same tall, scowling man who had tried to run her off the island the night before was there. She hadn’t gotten a good look at his face then, but there was no mistaking that tall, rangy physique.

Embarrassed, she stole a quick glance at him. Forbidding was the first word that came to mind. Mad as the dickens was the next. And yet there was something oddly compelling about the set of his features that had nothing at all to do with his expression.

He was scowling—or maybe it was a permanent condition. It occurred to Frances that it was probably a good thing Jerry had reached her first. She wouldn’t trust Flint-Face not to stuff her into a sack and throw her overboard.

“She ran outta gas,” Jerry said cheerfully.

“If she’d asked before stealing my boat,” Flint-Face retorted, “I would have warned her to check the levels first.”

Frances resented being talked around, as if she weren’t even there. “I’m sure you would,” she snapped. “You warned me about everything else. As for stealing your boat, it was the only one there, and I was told there was a boat for the use of the cottagers.” Without waiting for a response, she turned to the younger man. “Jerry, do you know anything about generators? Could I possibly persuade you to—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Flint-Face cut in. His voice reminded her of the ropes she’d used to tie up at the marina. Hard, rough, showing definite signs of wear, but none of weakness.

“Sure thing. He can check you out, ma’am. Prob’ly won’t need it, though. Power’s been real steady lately.” He switched tanks and offered to fill the spare and leave it at the marina to be collected later, and Frances shrugged and left them to it.

At least she was no longer in danger of drifting out to sea. Jerry had thrown out an anchor, and Flint-Face kept his motor idling against the current. She waited, appreciating the sun’s meager warmth on her cold backside while the two men fiddled with hoses and tanks and stainless steel fittings.

Finally Flint-Face shut off his outboard and tied his smaller boat behind her larger one, which meant, she surmised with an inward groan, that she would have the dubious pleasure of his company for the run back to the island.

Jerry veered off with a cheerful wave, sending a spray of icy water over the bow of the red runabout where Frances huddled. Sighing, she wiped the salt from her eyes. Thanks, Jerry, she thought wryly. I needed that. Having mastered so many new skills in a single morning, never mind that she’d run out of gas, her ego might have been inclined to come creeping out of hiding for the first time since she’d learned that her entire eleven-year marriage had been one giant fiasco.

“By the way, I don’t believe we ever got around to introductions, did we? I’m Frances Smith Jones.” She addressed the lean, rigid back, which was bent over the controls.

Silence.

Fine! If he wanted to remain anonymous, that was just fine with her. If there was one thing she was no longer interested in, it was men. Not under any circumstances. Not in this lifetime!

The outboard sputtered and caught again. As it settled down to a steady roar, the tall, scowling man turned and seated himself in the stern, facing her. It occurred to Frances that his eyes were exactly the color she’d always imagined an iceburg to be. Clear gray, without a glimmer of warmth. Every bit as hard as flint, if not as opaque.

As for the rest of him, it was...interesting, she decided. Jaw far too aggressive, cheekbones far too angular—there was something odd in the angle of them, too, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. As for his mouth, at the moment it looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. She was tempted to smile at him, just for meanness.