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Her father had been a collector. He’d loved the big bands. There were rare days, days when he was actually home, that she’d walk into the living room to find the music blaring on their ancient hi-fi, and her parents doing the Lindy Hop, with wide, bright smiles on their faces.
She’d first learned to dance by standing on her father’s shoes as he’d moved her around the room. Jazz had been her childhood soundtrack, and hearing certain songs, even now, brought her right back to the moments, large and small, of growing up with her slightly nutty folks.
After her father died, leaving her his practice, she’d gone back to that old love. She’d searched for others who shared the passion. That’s where she’d first run into Alex. In a chat room for jazz fans.
He was a collector also, and at first, their conversations had been exclusively jazz-centric. He wasn’t so much into the big bands as he was the singers. Billie Holiday. Cab Calloway. But they’d understood each other, right from the get-go. They had this shared language, which made the conversations flow.
Then they started chatting about other things. He lived such an interesting life. As a columnist for the Washington Post, he was at the cutting edge of politics, and damn, he wasn’t afraid to say what he felt. That was one of the things she liked most about him. She never had to wonder.
Her life seemed so mundane in comparison, but he always wanted to hear her stories. Her practice was more like the veterinarians of old, or at least of small towns. She treated everything from hamsters to llamas. On her mountain, an enclave of ex-hippies and old coots, there was every kind of creature, and she was the only vet. The only one they trusted, at least. Because her beloved father had trusted her, and that was sacrosanct.
She checked Alex’s bathroom door. It was still shut, and she wondered what the hell was taking him so long. All he had to do was put on some trunks. Then she turned back, wondering if she dared open the drawer. It was a pretty nosy thing to do. She wouldn’t care for it one bit if he invaded her space like that. But then, she’d never said she was fair.
She did it. She opened the drawer really carefully, even knowing the door behind her could open the next second. And she burst out laughing.
Condoms. The exact same brand that she’d put in the exact same drawer next to her bed.
She covered her mouth to muffle the sound when the door opened behind her. Spinning around, she shoved the drawer closed with her hip and tried to look innocent.
“What?” he asked.
“What?” she asked back.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m just warm.”
He walked toward her slowly, studying her far too intently. “I think your nose just grew, Pinocchio.”
“I was snooping. Are you happy now?”
He nodded, but his scrutiny didn’t end. “And what did you learn?”
“That you like DeMille. And Tatum.”
“Art or O’Neil?”
She laughed, moving away from the drawer. “How about that walk on the beach?”
He smiled back, and although they’d only met that afternoon, she knew without a doubt that he knew she’d peeked in the drawer. Which was only fair, she supposed.
“Did you remember your sunscreen?”
“Yes, in fact, I did,” she said.
“Good. I wouldn’t want that beautiful nose to burn.”
Her fingers went to said nose in a moment of adolescent shyness.
He winked at her, and her hand moved from her nose to her tummy, which had gone all mushy. Then he led her down the stairs, through the bungalow, then onto the incredible white sand.
She hadn’t bothered with shoes, because, why? And the feel of the sand under her feet was unlike anything she’d experienced before. She was used to Southern California beaches, where the water was cold, the sand dirty, and you had to watch every step because you never knew where a pop top was hiding.
This was pristine and soft. The water was perfect, not as warm as the air, but not too chilly. “Oh, man, this is—”
“The farthest thing from Washington, D.C., I could think of.”
“No, I think that would be Antarctica, but hey, this works, too,” she said.
“You’re cute. Anybody ever tell you that?” Alex quipped.
“And yet, somehow, I can’t hear it enough.”
His grin was as warm as the sunshine as they wandered down the beach. There were birds in the distance, and although she couldn’t see them, she imagined exotic plumage and long beaks, all courtesy of the Discovery Channel and, in the distant past, her own studies. She should have been used to palm trees, but these were actual natives, not like the ones in L.A., and she had to fight back the urge to touch every one.
She turned to the other thing she wanted to touch, letting her gaze wander over his chest. Not perfect—no six-pack there—but it was nice. Strong. And so were the thighs beneath his blue trunks. “So why did you really do this?”
“Birthday present,” he said quickly.
“No, that was the excuse. What’s going on?” she asked.
He kicked some sand and increased the distance between them by a hair. “Things have been…interesting with work.”
“Interesting as in the old Chinese curse?”
He smiled, nodded. “I used to love waking up in the morning. Seriously. I couldn’t get enough. Nothing mattered except the work. This was even before the column, when I was learning the ropes at the Post. Everything was exciting and challenging, and I was on the side of the White Hats for truth, justice and the American way.”
“And now?”
“Haven’t you heard? Gray is the new white. And my hat’s become a bit tarnished.”
“Oh.” She tried to see his eyes, but he was assiduously studying the sand. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not really,” he said.
“Is it just work? Or are things not peachy in your personal life, either?” she asked.
“What personal life?”
“Ah, that’s a tune I know by heart,” she said, sighing.
“Honey, you wrote the music.”
She stopped. It took him a minute to realize that she wasn’t next to him, but then he came back.
“We’ve chatted pretty much every night for eons, talked about everything from Nietzsche to your obsession with white panties, and this is the first time I’m hearing you’re unhappy with your work?” she said.
He shrugged.
“But your column is doing so well.”
He looked at her with such troubled eyes that she hardly knew what to do. “Let’s go swimming,” he suggested.
She reached to pull off her cover-up. “We didn’t bring towels.”
“Oh. Not good. You go on in. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, thanks.”
He hesitated, and she wasn’t quite sure why. That look was still in his eyes, that combination of hope and despair that made her want to hold him. With a slight shake of his head, he turned back to the bungalow, jogging easily through the sand.
Just yesterday she’d told herself over and over that she knew this man. That she’d spent a year getting to know him. They’d shared secrets. Big ones. And she didn’t know something as huge as his unhappiness with his work?
What else didn’t she know?
She tossed her cover-up to the sand and walked into the surf. The waves brushed her legs and then her thighs. The water was a little chillier than she’d first thought, but nice. She lived an hour from the beach in L.A. and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in the ocean.
He was right. She had written the book on working too much. It had to stop, or she was going to lose it big time. The only problem was, she didn’t know how to stop it.
The first step was to stop thinking about it. To stop thinking altogether. And the best way to do that was to have oodles of hot, sweaty sex. Having seen Alex’s super pack o’ condoms, she surmised that he needed the exact same thing.
Anesthesia by orgasm.
It worked for her.
4
ALEX GRABBED A COUPLE OF the big towels, both of them vivid with animal prints, and went back out to meet Meg. Thigh-deep in the water, she was as beautiful as anything on the island.
He hadn’t expected that. He’d been so used to looking at her picture that she didn’t really seem like the same woman.
Not that he was complaining, but it was still a little disconcerting.
Which was how she must be feeling after his confession. He hadn’t even planned on telling her. At least not on the first day. She didn’t need to be burdened with his crap. It was probably all midlife-crisis bullshit, although he was only thirty-three. And for God’s sake, he worked in politics. How could anyone not get caught up in all that power and all that bull? It had crept up on him with amazing stealth. Secrets shared, held close to the vest, but they all came with a price. Nothing earthshaking, nothing to lose sleep over. Until he was buried so deep he could hardly breathe.
Which was why he’d needed to get the hell out. To take his mind off work, off Washington, off anything but one beautiful woman who made him laugh as much as she made him hard.
He jogged through the sand, checking out Meg, checking out the emptiness of the beach, putting two and two together. Although the actuality of doing anything out here, while private, would probably be uncomfortable. Sand had its place, and that was far, far away from all the good body parts.
On the bright side, the bungalows were real close.
Meg turned as he spread out the second towel. She was in up to her waist now. When the waves receded, her hips and thighs came into view.
He wanted to touch her. Everywhere the water touched. He wanted to feel the soft skin between her thighs, trace every curve.
“It’s fabulous,” she said, waving him in.
He went in, shocked by how cold the water was, but completely unwilling to admit it. Smile firmly in place, he decided this was another reason not to have sex at the beach.
“Is it always this deserted?” she asked.
“No idea. The other bungalows are booked, though. I know, because the only reason I got this one, considering the holiday, was through contacts at the paper. Redskins tickets were involved.”
She grinned as she dunked a little deeper into the water. “I’m glad you didn’t say blackmail, because I doubt very much I would have cared.”
“Confessions of wickedness so early in the week? Excellent.”
She splashed him and the shock of the water threatened his manly countenance. He managed to hold it together somehow. Especially with Meg as a reward.
“The water is so clear. I can’t even imagine how good the snorkeling’s going to be,” she said.
Should he tell her he’d never been snorkeling? Or on Jet Skis? Or gone windsurfing? That his experience with large bodies of water consisted of flying over them at thirty-five thousand feet? And was there any cool way of casually mentioning that he played a mean game of one-on-one at his local park?
He decided to show, not tell, so he took three long strides, then dived into the water. Tensing from the cold, he swam until he got more accustomed, which was just long enough so that he gasped for breath when he shot up.
Actually, he felt pretty damn good. Which had more to do with Meg than with the ocean, but the ocean didn’t hurt.
She was laughing. What a sight it was. Broad laughter. Laughter that involved every part of her, and he chalked up another one for the good guys. He knew she didn’t laugh like this often. Her life was one problem after another, one horse, one llama, one cat, then the next. Always on call, never enough help. Never enough rest because the phone might ring.
They both needed to be here. And they both needed to get the hell over whatever awkwardness they felt, and get down to it.
He was going to make sure that by the time Meg Becker got back on the plane, she’d be the most sexually satisfied woman who ever lived.
If he felt damn good along the way, so much the better.
As he watched her, as the waves knocked him in the ass with soothing regularity and the sun warmed his chest, her laughter stilled. She rocked with the same rhythm, from the same waves. The joy was still there in her eyes, but something else was there, too.
Curiosity. Desire. But still, that bit of hesitation. They knew each other and they didn’t. The only cure was getting close, letting down the walls. Telling the truth.
He wasn’t used to that. Not that he lied all the time, but he’d learned to be very selective about what he said to whom. It was all about omission in his line of work. Getting the other person to reveal too much, while he revealed nothing at all.
Which was great when he interviewed a congressman, but counterproductive in the ocean with the woman he hoped to sleep with until they both cried uncle. “I was thinking about walking to the hotel tonight. Getting some dinner, checking out the disco. What do you think?”
“I think yes,” she said. “But I’m going to need a nap before that. I’ve been up since dawn.”
“Sounds like a plan. Now quit being such a wuss and let’s do some real swimming,” he said.
“Who you callin’ a wuss?” she asked, hands on her perfect hips.
“If the shoe fits.”
She gave him the evil eye seconds before she dived sleekly into the water. He watched her glide along, the ocean so clear it was like glass. She stopped when she was just behind him, and as he turned, she rose from the sea.
Glistening, dripping, beautiful. Even though she was close enough to touch, he resisted. Too soon, and too much, and she’d been traveling since last night. He wanted her to be comfortable and willing. There was time enough. If he could last. Which wasn’t looking so good at the moment.
He yawned widely. Nap. Yep, that would be good. The privacy wouldn’t hurt, either.
“Now who’s the wuss?”
