Hot Island Nights

The San Remo bridge appeared in front of her and she drove over a long stretch of water. Then she was on the island and the thought of meeting her father, actually looking into his face and perhaps seeing an echo of her own nose or eyes or cheekbones, chased the weariness away.

She had no idea what to expect from this meeting. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted from it. A sense of connection? Information about where she came from? A replacement for the parents she’d lost when she was only seven years old?

The truth was, she could hardly remember her mother and father—or the man she knew as her father. There were snatches of memory—her mother laughing, the smell of her stepfather’s pipe tobacco, moments from a family holiday—but precious little else. Her mother was always slightly sad in her few clear memories, her stepfather distant. Despite her lack of recall—or, perhaps, because of it—she’d always felt as though something profound was missing in her life. Her grandparents had been kind and loving in their own way, but their careful guardianship had not filled the gap the loss of her parents had left in her heart.

A gap she’d never fully acknowledged until right this minute. It was only now that she was on the verge of meeting her biological father for the first time that she understood how much she’d always craved the wordless, instinctive connection between parent and child, how she’d envied her friends their relationships with their parents.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she gave herself a mental pep talk as she drove into the tree-lined main street of the township of Cowes, the most densely populated township on the island. It was highly likely that her father didn’t even know she existed. Arriving on his doorstep full of expectations was the best way to start off on the wrong foot. She needed to be realistic and patient. They were strangers. There was no reason to think that they would feel any special connection with each other, despite the fact that they shared DNA.

And yet her stomach still lurched with nervousness as she turned the corner onto her father’s street and stopped out the front of a cream and Brunswick-green house that had all the architectural appeal of a shoe box. Clad in vertical aluminum siding, it featured a flat roof, a deep overhang over a concrete porch, sliding metal windows and a patchy, brown front lawn.

A far cry from the elegant, historically listed homes of Mayfair. She wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on the thighs of her trousers.

She had no idea what kind of man her father was. What sort of life he’d led. How he might react to his long-lost daughter appearing on his doorstep.

She’d had a lot of time to think about what might have happened between her mother and father all those years ago. In between dodging phone calls from Martin and reassuring her grandparents, she’d made some inquiries. She’d discovered that John Mason and her mother had married in January 1982 when Elizabeth was seventeen months old—further proof, if she’d been looking for it, that the birth certificate was accurate and John was not her father.

What the marriage record couldn’t tell her was when her stepfather and mother had met or how long they’d dated before they got married or if there had been another man on the scene at the time. Her father, for example.

Her grandfather clearly didn’t have a great opinion of Sam Blackwell. She wondered what her father had done to earn his condemnation. She’d been tempted to confront her grandfather again before she departed and insist he tell her everything he knew, but after a great deal of debating she’d decided not to. She was going to meet her father and talk to him and hear his story and form her own opinion about him.

But before she did any of that, she needed to get her backside out of the car and across the lawn to her father’s front door.

She didn’t move.

Come on, Elizabeth. You didn’t fly all this way to sit in a hire car out the front of your father’s house like some sort of deranged stalker.

And yet she still didn’t reach for the door handle.

This meant so much to her. A chance to feel connected to someone. A chance to have a father.

Just do it, Elizabeth.

She curled her fingers around the cool metal of the door handle just as her phone rang, the sound shrill in the confines of the car. She checked caller ID.

“Violet,” she said as she took the call.

“E. How was your flight? What’s happening? Have you spoken to him yet?”

“Long. Not much. And no,” Elizabeth said, answering her friend’s questions in order. “I’m sitting in front of his house right now, trying to get up the courage to knock on the door.”

“You’re nervous.”

“Just a little.”

“Don’t be. Once he gets to know you, he’ll be over the moon you’ve tracked him down.”

Elizabeth pulled a face. Violet’s vote of confidence was lovely, but if her father knew she existed—a big if—he’d clearly had his reasons for keeping his distance for the past thirty-odd years.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong.” Elizabeth studied the slightly shabby house doubtfully. “Maybe I should have made contact with a letter or e-mail first. Used a lawyer to break the ice …”

“No. You’ve done the right thing. And even if you haven’t, you’re there now. All you have to do is knock on his door.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Elizabeth joked.

“Come on, E. You’re a woman on a mission, remember? You’re reclaiming your life, striking out on your own. Shaking off old Droopy Drawers was just the first step.”

Elizabeth frowned at her friend’s less-than-flattering description of Martin. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that. Just because I’ve decided not to marry him doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.”

“True. It’s not as though he’s going around literally boring people to death. Although he took a fairly good stab at stifling the life out of you.”

“Vi …”

“Sorry. I just think it should be a punishable offense for someone as young as he is to carry on like a crusty old bugger. How many thirty-two-year-olds do you know wear cardigans with leather elbow patches?”

“Just because he dresses conservatively doesn’t mean he’s crusty, Vi. He’s just … conservative,” Elizabeth finished lamely.

“Conservative? I’m sorry, E, but conservative is not the word for a man who refuses to have sex in anything other than the missionary position. The word you’re looking for is repressed.”

Elizabeth kneaded her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “You have no idea how much I regret ever saying anything to you about that, Vi.”

Martin would be mortified if he knew that she’d discussed their sex life with anyone. Especially Violet.

Elizabeth blamed her dentist. If it hadn’t been for the stupid article in the stupid women’s magazine in his waiting room, there was no way she would have tried to talk to Martin about her “sexual needs and desires” instead of “vainly waiting for him to intuit” them, and there was no way she would have felt the need to seek counsel from her best friend in the embarrassing aftermath.

“I’m not going to apologize for refusing to let you sweep that sterling little moment under the rug,” Violet said. “Normal people—note I’m stressing the word normal, as opposed to uptight repressives—talk to each other about sex and explore their sexuality and have fun in bed. They don’t pat you on the head and tell you they respect you too much to objectify you, or whatever rubbish excuse he came out with after you’d finally got up the gumption to talk to him. And I love that he tried to make it all about you, by the way, and not about his hang-ups.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this again.”

But Violet was off and running on one of her favorite rants. “For God’s sake, it wasn’t as though you asked him to tie you up and go at you with a cheese grater or something. You wanted to do it doggy style, big bloody deal. There were no small animals involved, no leather or hot wax.”

“I’ve called off the wedding, Vi. This is definitely filed under The Past. You need to let it go.”

There was a small silence on the other end of the phone.

“You’re right. Sorry. He just really gets on my wick.”

“Well, you’ll probably never have to see him again, since he’s hardly going to want to know me once he’s gotten over the fact that I’ve dumped him. That should make you feel better.”

A dart of fear raced down Elizabeth’s spine as she registered her own words. She’d changed the course of her life by walking away from the wedding and she had no idea what might happen next. A terrifying, knee-weakening thought. But she refused to regret her decision. The truth was she’d never really loved Martin the way a woman should love the man with whom she planned to spend the rest of her life. She was fond of him. She admired his many good qualities. He made her feel safe. But he also exasperated her and made her yearn for … something she didn’t even have a name for.

“E. Someone’s just come into the shop and I have to go. But you can do this, okay? Just get out of the car and go introduce yourself. Whatever comes after that, you’ll handle it.”

“Thanks, coach. And thanks for all the hand-holding and tissue-passing and intel-gathering over the past few days,” Elizabeth said.

“Pshaw,” her friend said before ending the call.

Elizabeth put her phone in her handbag and took a deep breath. It was time to stop fannying about and get this over and done with.

Her heart in her mouth, she opened the car door and stepped into the hot Australian sun.

2

NATHAN JONES WOKE TO a single moment of pure nothingness. For a split second before the forgetfulness of sleep fell away, he felt nothing, knew nothing, remembered nothing.

It was the best part of his day, hands down.

And then he woke fully and it was all there: the memories, the anxiety, the guilt and shame and fear. Heavy and relentless and undeniable.

He stared at the ceiling for a long beat, wondering at the fact that he kept forcing himself to jump through the flaming hoop of this shit, day in, day out. There was precious little joy in it and plenty of pain.

Then he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. It wasn’t like he had a choice, after all. He wasn’t a quitter. Even though there were times when it seemed damned appealing.

His head started throbbing the moment he was upright. He breathed deeply. It would pass soon enough. God knew he’d chalked up enough experience dealing with hangovers over the past four months to know.

The important thing was that he hadn’t woken once that he could remember. If the price he had to pay this morning for oblivion last night was a hangover, then so be it.

He stood and ran a hand over his hair, then grabbed the towel flung over the end of the bed and wrapped it around his waist. He worked his tongue around his mouth as he headed for the door. Water was called for. And maybe some food. Although he wasn’t certain about the food part just yet.

The full glare of the midmorning sun hit him the moment he stepped out of the studio into the yard. He grunted and shielded his eyes with his forearm. Looked like it was going to be another stinker.

He crossed to the main house and entered the kitchen. The kitchen floor was gritty with sand beneath his feet and he smiled to himself. Sam would have a cow when he came home, no doubt. Nate had never met a guy more anal about keeping things shipshape and perfect. A regular Mr. Clean, was Sammy.

The fridge yielded a bottle of water and he closed his eyes, dropped his head back and tipped it down his throat. He swallowed and swallowed until his teeth ached from the cold, then put the nearly empty bottle onto the kitchen counter. He was about to head to the shower when a knock sounded at the front door.

Nate frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Didn’t particularly want to see anyone, either. That was the whole point of being on the island—privacy. Peace and quiet. Space.

He walked through the living room to the front hallway. He could see a silhouette through the glass panel in the door. As he hovered, debating whether or not to answer, the silhouette lifted its hand and knocked again.

“Coming,” he said, aware he sounded more than a little like a grumpy old man.

The door swung open and he found himself facing a tall, slim woman with delicately sculpted features and deep blue eyes, her pale blond hair swept up into the kind of hairstyle that made him think of Grace Kelly and other old-school movie stars.

“Yes?” he said, his tone even more brusque. Probably because he hadn’t expected to find someone so beautiful on his front step.

She opened her mouth then closed it without saying anything as her startled gaze swept from his face to his chest, belly and south, then up to his bare chest again. There was a long, pregnant silence as she stared at his sternum. Then she pinned her gaze on a point just beyond his right shoulder and cleared her throat.

“I’m terribly sorry. I’m looking for Sam Blackwell. I was told this is his place of residence.”

Her voice was clipped and cultured, the kind of cut-glass accent he associated with the royal family and people who maintained a string of polo ponies.

“You’ve got the right place, but Sam’s not around right now,” he said.

“I see. Could you tell me when he’ll be back?” She darted a quick, nervous glance toward his chest before fixing her gaze over his shoulder again. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d never seen a bare chest before, the way she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. Six months ago he would have been amused and intrigued by her flustered reaction—she was a beautiful woman, after all.

But that was six months ago.

“Sam won’t be back until the new year,” he said. “Try him again after the fifth or sixth.”

He started to swing the door closed between them.

“The new year? But that’s nearly a month away.” Her eyes met his properly for the first time, wide with disbelief and maybe a little bit of dismay.

His gut told him to close the door, send her on her way. He had enough on his plate without taking on someone else’s worries.

“Not much I can do about that, sorry,” he said instead.

She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead. The movement made her white linen shirt gape and he caught a glimpse of coffee-colored lace and silk.

“Do you have a number I can contact him at?”

“No offense, but I’m not about to hand Sam’s number out to just anybody.”

She blinked. “But I’m not just anybody, I assure you.”

“If you want to leave your number and a message with me, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

She frowned. “This isn’t the kind of thing you handle with a message.”

Nate shrugged. He’d offered her a solution, but if she wasn’t interested.

“Then maybe you need to wait till Sam’s back in town.”

“I’ve travelled thousands of miles to see him, Mr….?” She paused, waiting for him to supply his name.

“Nate. Nathan Jones.”

“My name’s Elizabeth Mason.”

She held out her hand. After a second’s hesitation he shook it. Her fingers were cool and slender, her skin very soft.

“I really need to make contact with Sam Rockwell,” she said, offering what he guessed was her best social smile.

“Like I said, leave your number with me, and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Her finely arched eyebrows came together in a frown. “Perhaps you could tell me where he is, then, if you won’t give me his number?”

“Look, Ms. Mason, whatever this is about, if Sam owes you money or something else, the best I can do for you is to pass your number on. That’s it, end of story.”

“I’m not a debt collector.” She appeared shocked at the idea.

“Whatever. That’s my best offer, take it or leave it.”

When she simply stared at him, he shrugged. “Fine,” he said, and he started closing the door again.

“He’s my father. Sam Blackwell is my father,” she blurted.

That got his attention.

Sam had never mentioned a daughter, or any other family for that matter. Not that the omission necessarily meant anything, given that Sam wasn’t exactly the talkative type.

Nate frowned. Why would Sam invite his daughter to visit when he knew he was going to be interstate?

“Sam didn’t know you were coming, did he?”

“No, he didn’t.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “In fact, I suspect he doesn’t even know I exist. Which makes me incredibly stupid to have jumped on a plane to come find him like this, but I didn’t even think about the fact that he might not even be here—”

Nate took an instinctive step backward as her voice broke and tears filled her eyes.

Should have shut the door when you had the chance, buddy.

She tilted her head back and blinked rapidly. Nate considered and discarded a number of responses before reluctantly pushing the door wide.

“You’d better come in,” he said.

She gave him a grateful look as she walked past him and into the house. He led her to the kitchen.

“You want some water?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He waved her toward one of the beat-up vinyl upholstered chairs around the kitchen table, then grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the tap.

“Thank you,” she said as he handed her the glass. “I promise I’m not normally like this. It’s just that it’s been a long flight and things have been a little crazy lately. And I really should have thought this through some more—” She shook her head. The hand holding the glass was trembling with emotion. “Sorry. I’m babbling again. I’m not normally a babbler, either.”

She offered him a tremulous smile. She looked so vulnerable sitting there, so lost and confused.

Everything in Nate screamed retreat. He didn’t need this.

“Look, I don’t want to get involved in some kind of family dispute or This Is Your Life situation,” he said.

Her smile disappeared as a deep flush rose up her neck and into her cheeks.

“I don’t believe I asked you to get involved, Mr. Jones. I was simply conveying the facts of my situation to you.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not know even that.”

“By all means.” Chair legs scraped across the linoleum floor as she stood abruptly. “If you’d simply give me my father’s number, I won’t bother you a moment longer.”

Nate reached for the pad and pen beside the phone and pushed them across the counter toward her.

“Give me your number, I’ll make sure Sam gets it,” he repeated.

She might be beautiful, she might even have what he suspected was a great ass under the expensive tailoring of her crumpled linen trousers, but he wasn’t about to sic her on his old friend without some kind of warning.

She stared at him incredulously. “You’re still not going to give me his contact details? Even after everything I’ve just told you?”

“Sam’s my friend.”

Her chest rose and fell as though she was fighting to restrain herself from saying something. Then her mouth firmed and her chin came up.

“Fine. Thank you for the water.”

She turned toward the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said. He tapped the pen against the pad.

Her nostrils flared. Then, holding herself very upright, she strode to the kitchen counter and snatched the pen from his hand, writing her phone number in the elegant, curling strokes of a bygone era. When she was finished she dropped the pen onto the counter and lifted her chin even higher.

“I can see myself out, thank you,” she said with enormous dignity.

“Where are you staying in town?”

“I fail to see how that’s any of your business.”

“In case your phone doesn’t work for some reason, so I can leave a message for you,” he explained patiently. Although he was fast running out of that particular commodity. He hadn’t asked for Ms. Mason and her troubles to walk in the door.

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

The look she gave him was so snooty, the tilt of her head so imperious he decided he’d done his good deed for the day.

“Fair enough. Don’t blame me if I can’t contact you for some reason.”

A small muscle worked in her jaw. He had the distinct impression she was grinding her teeth.

“I’m staying at the Isle of Wight,” she finally said.

“Duly noted.”

She hovered for a second as though she didn’t quite know what to do next, then she strode to the front door. She paused on the verge of exiting, looking back at him across the width of the living room.

“And by the way, Mr. Jones, where I come from it’s good manners to put clothes on before receiving visitors,” she said.

She was so hoity-toity, so on her dignity that Nate couldn’t help himself—he laughed, the sound bursting out of him and echoing loudly off the walls. By the time he’d pulled himself together enough to notice, she was gone.

The smile slowly faded from his lips. It had been a long time since he’d laughed like that. A long time.

For no reason that he was prepared to acknowledge, he walked into the living room and pushed the curtain to one side. Despite her touch-me-not, refined air she had a sexy sway to her walk and he watched her ass the whole way to her car.

She opened the car and slid into the driver’s seat, but didn’t take off immediately. Instead, she simply sat there, her head lowered, her expression unreadable from this distance.

Trying to work out what to do next, he figured.

He told himself that she was none of his business, that he had more than enough shit to shovel in his own life, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he couldn’t stop thinking about the way her hand had trembled when she held the glass of water. And how lost and scared she’d sounded under all that well-educated, well-enunciated hauteur.

“Bloody hell.”

He grabbed a pair of board shorts from the laundry, tugged them on, then exited the house and walked down the hot concrete path toward her car. She didn’t notice him approaching and she started when he rapped on the passenger window. She hesitated a second, then pressed the button to lower the glass.

“Look, Sam’s in Sydney until the start of the race and won’t get into Hobart until New Year’s Eve at the soonest,” he said. “But once he knows you’re here, I’m sure he’ll come straight back.”

“Race? What race?”

“The Sydney to Hobart yacht race.”

She bit her lip. “I’ve heard of that. Isn’t it very dangerous?”

“Sam’s an experienced sailor. One of the best.”

“Is that what he does? Sail, I mean?”

“He hires out as crew mostly, and sometimes he delivers yachts for owners.”

He took a step backward to signal the question-and-answer session was over. It wasn’t his place to fill in the blanks for her. That was between father and daughter. Nothing to do with him.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve spoken to Sam,” he said.

She hesitated, then nodded. The glass slid up between them and she started the car then pulled away from the curb.

Nate watched until she’d turned the corner. Guilt ate at him. He should have helped her more. Reassured her. She’d come a long way looking for a man she knew nothing about. He could have called Sam on the spot, told him—

Nate caught himself before he let the thought go any further. Since when had he made himself Elizabeth Mason’s knight in shining armor?

He smiled grimly, the action more a show of teeth than anything else. Rescuing damsels in distress was hardly his forte, after all. Look what had happened to the last damsel who’d put her faith in him.

Tension banded his shoulders and chest. Pressure pushed at the back of his eyes and nose. His heart started to race as sweat prickled beneath his arms.