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She wept for Cindy, who had been so willful. If only she hadn’t been so determined to snare one of the wild and sexy Connelly boys. The boys flirted carelessly with all their pretty guests. But only one of them had died.
She wept for herself, too, for the loneliness and the guilt she’d held inside so long. If only she had called out the moment she saw that darkly tanned male hand reaching in through the window, balancing Cindy as she climbed over the sill.
“I’m awake,” she should have cried. “Don’t go.”
She buried her face deeper into her hands, trying to shut out the visions. Her sister’s blond hair in the moonlight, the man’s hand....
On the inside of the wrist was a small tattoo, just two inches long but unforgettable. The moonlight gleamed on the design, and Glenna had recognized it instantly—the legendary moonbird, its outstretched wings undulating eerily.
The moonbird. Only three people wore the moonbird tattoo—Edgerton, Philip and Mark Connelly.
For years, the bird had flown through her dreams every night. Strange and ghost white, silent and menacing, its wings pumping up and down slowly, beating with some primitive rhythm that was both sensual and dangerous. Oh, God, Cindy... If only they had both been a little older, a little wiser.
The flood of tears had finally begun to slow. She rested her forehead on her knees, not caring that her hair was mopping the muddy sand. How long had she been crying? Her chest hurt; her eyes burned. She felt as limp as a strand of seaweed. No wonder she had postponed this emotional storm for so long. It hurt. It hurt like hell.
Lost in the pain, she didn’t hear the footsteps approaching. The cool hand on her back was a shock, and with a gasp she lifted her head, peering with swollen eyes into the glimmering dawn light.
A man knelt beside her, hovering protectively, the way he might have bent over a wounded bird. His faint scent of clean masculinity mingled with the musky smell of the mist. He smiled, just a little.
“You know,” he murmured softly, skimming his fingers lightly across her shoulder blades, “an old Indian legend says that the ocean was created from tears. And all mankind will have to share in the making of it.”
She blinked at him, bewildered, half-mesmerized by the gentle touch, the unexpected words. His voice was low, sensual—but somehow casual, as if he was merely continuing a conversation they had begun a long time ago. As if he was completely comfortable with both legends and tears.
“But surely,” he went on, drawing aside a strand of hair that had stuck to her forehead, tucking it behind her ear, “no one heart should have to contribute so many.”
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. His eyes were impossibly green, she noticed irrelevantly, fringed with the blackest lashes she had ever seen. And his hands were strong. Masculine. Deeply tanned. Hands that women dreamed about...
Her gaze fell slowly to the inside of his wrist. His white shirtsleeves had been rolled back almost to the elbow. She knew what she would see. She had known ever since she had heard the first mellow syllable of his hypnotic voice.
And there it was. Like fear made visible, like the mark of Cain. The outstretched wings of the moonbird tattoo.
CHAPTER TWO
NO! SHE WANTED to cry the word aloud, cursing the fate that had brought him out here. Not Mark Connelly. No...
She couldn’t be so unlucky. She’d known she would see him eventually, of course—but she had expected to meet him in an office, with Purcell Jennings at her side making the introductions. Not here, not when she was speckled with sand and swollen with tears. Not wet and defenseless and emotionally spent.
She clambered to her feet, brushing at her skirt, miserably aware that the soaked fabric clung to her bare legs. It was hopeless. She peeled one last patch from her wet thigh and then gave up.
“You’re right,” she said. Horrified to hear the catch in her voice, she cleared her throat and tried again. “I’ve cried far too much. I’m fine now.”
He was still down on one knee and he tilted his head to look up at her. Mark Connedly.
For a moment, in spite of the tattoo, she couldn’t quite believe it was true. She had remembered him so differently. Surely his full, hard lips used to have a sneering twist. And his eyes...they used to be cold, slightly cruel. Didn’t they?
Ten years... Suddenly she felt unsure of herself. Just how much did she remember, really? It had been such a long time. That slightly saturnine arch to his black brow—she remembered that. And his intensely masculine, sexually charged aura—yes, she remembered that, too.
But somehow she had forgotten just how plain all-American handsome he was. The rising sun, which had finally burned through the mist, lit the sea green of his eyes. It touched the bronze plane of his cheekbone with peach highlights and buried itself in the healthy blue-black sheen of his thick hair.
He was hardly the decadent devil she remembered. He was actually quite beautiful.
“Really, I mean it. I’m fine now,” she stumbled on, aware that she was staring. “You’re right. I was just being foolish.”
“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” he said calmly, still not rising. “There’s nothing foolish about a broken heart.”
She frowned. A what?
“My heart isn’t bro—” she began, but suddenly she stopped. He knew, she realized with a horrible sensation of emotional nudity. He knew all about the pain that had been fracturing her heart into jagged little pieces.
She looked away quickly, out toward the water. The sun, climbing fast, was transforming this landscape right before her eyes.
Her stark, broody study of gray on gray was disappearing. Now this beach was Purcell’s province—the Gulf a shimmering blue ribbon flung out beneath a pink-and-gold streaked sky. Blue and cream and peach-colored bits of shells were scattered along the sand like confetti.
The vivid beauty unsettled her. It was almost too perfect—like this man. Mark Connelly, her number one suspect. Had he always been so gorgeous? How could her memories have been so wrong?
She concentrated on squeezing the water out of the tip of her braid and then tried to brush away the tear trails that crisscrossed her face. But her sandy fingers deposited their gritty residue on her cheeks. She was just making things worse.
“I don’t know what came over me,” she said stupidly, unable to find even a sliver of her usual poise. She desperately wanted him to stop looking at her like that. “I don’t usually do this...this kind of thing.”
“Don’t you?” Finally he rose beside her, and she took an involuntary step away. He was so tall, so male...and, even worse, so knowing. It made breathing difficult. “Maybe you should.”
She frowned. “No—I mean...” She tried to smooth back the tendrils of hair that had escaped the tight braid and now curled damply against her forehead. “I don’t need to. I’m usually much more...controlled.”
“Ahhh...” He raised his brows. “Is there so much to control, then?”
She stared at him, unnerved equally by his astute perceptions and his indifference to the universal rules governing small talk between strangers. Had he always been like this? Yes... A sudden memory flashed through her brain like heat lightning. This same man, that same tone...
Ten years ago. Mark Connelly had been only nineteen, but he had already possessed a man’s body and a lethal sexuality that even a twelve-year-old could sense.
Cindy had talked about Mark more often than any of the others. “He’s not the prettiest,” she’d say, “but he’s the most dangerous.” And when Glenna had asked why on earth anyone would want a dangerous man, Cindy had just laughed.
One day, tired of feeling invisible to the teenagers who noticed her only when they wanted her to fetch something, Glenna had wandered away to pout. She had been busy gouging resentful runnels into the sand with a seashell when Mark had plopped down beside her.
She remembered being stunned by the attention. He had been kind in a rather offhand way. Without ever actually saying so, he had hinted that he understood how rotten it was to be the youngest, to be teased and ignored and exploited. And when he had risen again after only a few minutes, he’d looked down at her with something she interpreted as pity.
“It will happen, you know,” he’d said.
She had scowled, instinctively resenting any sympathy. “What will?”
“You’ll grow up.” He’d smiled. “And boys will think you’re pretty.”
She’d been too shocked to answer, staring at him as if he had just whisked a rabbit out of a hat. Without another word, he had ambled away, returning to the cluster of young men who daily attached themselves to Cindy like so many barnacles.
Back then, Glenna had been too naive to realize that it was just a parlor trick. Mark could dip into a little pop psychology, a superficial understanding of human nature, and the girls believed that he had read their minds. Other boys pretended to pull pennies out of the girls’ ears—Mark Connelly pretended to pull secrets from their hearts. Same game, different props.
But now, at twenty-two, she saw through him all too clearly. He played the flirtation game even better today, and she had dealt him the perfect card. You meet vulnerable woman weeping on the beach. Advance three spaces. Skip past small talk, enter premature intimacy.
But he had the wrong sister this time.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said crisply, “but honestly I’m fine. Actually I’d better be getting back to my car.” She brushed her palms together briskly, removing as much of the sand as possible, and held out her right hand. “Thanks again.”
He narrowed his eyes as if her attitude, or perhaps her tone, somehow sparked his curiosity. Taking her hand, he cocked his head and let his gaze slowly rake her face. “You seem so familiar.” He lifted one corner of his lips. “This is an old one, but I have this feeling... Have we met before?”
Not a very imaginative line, but she knew that, for once, it was spoken sincerely. She felt her heart do a two-step and fought to keep her face neutral. She had always known this would be the trickiest part of coming back.
“My name is Glenna McBride,” she said politely. She wouldn’t lie outright—but she could pray that he didn’t remember her real name. Why should he? The teenagers had always simply called her Mouse, Cindy’s pet name for her tiny, timid little sister. “Hey, Mouse, here’s a dollar. Go buy me a Coke, would you? And hurry—I’m dying in this heat.”
Her last name was different now, too. Her parents’ marriage hadn’t survived the trauma of Cindy’s death—they had divorced within two years. Both remarried quickly, as if eager to make fresh starts. Keg McBride, her mother’s new husband, was a good man and he had adopted Glenna right away.
Mark was shaking his head. “Glenna McBride,” he repeated, the name soft on his lips. “No, I guess I’m imagining things.”
He hadn’t let go of her hand. Glenna shifted it subtly, but he ignored the signal to release her. Glenna suspected that Mark Connelly ignored a lot of the signposts in his life.
“Did you say your car? You aren’t leaving, are you? I had hoped you were staying at the Moonbird.”
She took a deep breath. He didn’t recognize her name. First hurdle cleared.
“Well, I am, actually,” she said, plunging ahead. “I’ll be working with Purcell Jennings. The photographer. He’s going to take some pictures of the hotel for a book on old Florida inns.”
Slow down...no babbling, for heaven’s sake. As a member of the Connelly family, Mark would already know about Purcell.
But she plowed on, her confidence growing with every coherent sentence she managed to produce. “Purcell arrives tonight, but I came early to scout around a bit. He’s not as mobile as he once was and he likes me to narrow down the locations for him first.”
Yes, that was better. The half lie sounded fully authentic. She was finding her stride, regaining control.
“But that’s perfect,” he said, obviously pleased, as if complimenting fate for doing such a good job arranging things to his satisfaction. “I’ll show you around.”
Irked, she removed her hand from his with one firm tug. He looked slightly surprised—as if few women ever struggled to make their way out of his grasp.
Well, good, she thought, lifting her chin. An ego like that could use a couple of knocks. And he might as well learn right now that the drooping damsel he’d found weeping on the shore was not the real Glenna McBride.
“I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible. I concentrate better if I’m alone.”
His mouth quirked. He was clearly prepared either to speak or to grin, but she didn’t have time to discover which. Just behind his shoulder, she saw movement along the beach, and a strong voice carried toward them on the clear morning air.
“Mark!” The tones were deep, authoritative. With a jolt of recognition, Glenna knew immediately that the voice belonged to Edgerton Connelly. The oldest Connelly boy, the leader of the pack. Self-important, slightly bossy. How perfect, she had thought when she heard he was running for the legislature. “Mark,” he said now, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Edge.” Mark turned toward his cousin, who looked impressively elegant but completely out of place here on the beach in his expensive suit. “I’m glad you’re here. I’d like you to meet Glenna McBride.”
Edgerton flashed a smile toward her, a good politician’s smile that warned her he was much too busy to chat but at the same time suggested that he was awfully sorry about it. He also diplomatically refrained from noticing her disheveled state. Apparently even wet, sandy beach-weepers had been known to vote.
“Ms. McBride,” he said with a smooth nod of his well-coiffed blond head. “I’m sorry to have to pull my cousin away, but he’s needed rather urgently up at the hotel.” He angled toward Mark. “The senator’s wife will be here soon, old buddy, and you know she’ll be crushed if you’re not there to meet her.”
Glenna couldn’t see Edgerton’s face, but she thought she heard real irritation lurking under his nicely oiled tones. What the hell, the tone asked, was Mark doing wasting time with a nobody on the beach when The Senator’s Wife was waiting?
Snob, she thought, addressing his Armani jacket.
But Mark either didn’t notice his cousin’s anger or didn’t care. “Sorry, Edge,” he said cheerfully. “Tell Philip to cut the biggest scarlet hibiscus he can find, stick it in a pitcher of sangria and take it to her room. Believe me, in half an hour she won’t even notice I’m not there.”
The Armani jacket stiffened. “Not there?”
Mark patted his shoulder. “Sorry. I can’t. You see, I had just offered Glenna my services as a tour guide.”
Edgerton made a small choking sound, but Glenna broke in quickly. “And I,” she said, “had just refused them. I appreciate the offer, Mr. Connelly, but as I said, I work best alone.” She met Mark’s quizzical gaze steadily. “Besides, I wouldn’t dream of letting you disappoint—” she lowered her tone “—The Senator’s Wife.”
Surprisingly he didn’t try to persuade her. He didn’t even look disappointed. Instead, he looked curious. He lifted one black brow. “Did you say Mr. Connelly?”
“Mark,” she amended indifferently. If he wanted to rush to a first-name basis, she could handle that. She brushed at her skirt one last time. “Well, it was nice to have met you both—”
“But you didn’t.”
She looked up, perplexed. “Didn’t what?”
“Meet me.” He was studying her hard. “And yet you already knew my name.”
She kicked herself mentally, realizing how close she had come to giving herself away. What a stupid move! Honestly, she must have cried her brains right out into the sand.
“Well, after all, there’s no need for false modesty,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “Everyone who lives on Moonbird Key knows the Connellys.”
“But you don’t. Live on Moonbird Key, I mean. Believe me, I’m sure of that.” He held out his hands, palms up. “And, false modesty aside, I don’t flatter myself that my fame extends much beyond the bridge to Fort Myers.”
“Perhaps,” she countered, wondering whether her voice sounded acerbic or flirtatious, “you underestimate yourself.”
Edgerton snorted. “Oh, yeah, sure. Mark underestimates himself. That’ll be the day. Well, come on, we’d better get going.” His voice was more openly irritable now. He took two testy paces toward the hotel and, sensing that no one was following, turned back. “Mark. Ms. McBride said she works alone. We’d better let her get to it.”
Mark didn’t answer him. He hadn’t taken his gaze off Glenna. She met his appraisal as serenely as possible, but the intensity in his eyes made her skin tingle. His curiosity was as tangible as a touch.
“Damn it, Mark. Mark?” Edgerton’s impatient bluster was dissipating, replaced by a thin tremor of anxiety. “Mark, you know I really need you. Please?”
Please? Glenna’s gaze shot toward the older man. Since when did Edgerton Connelly, undisputed leader of the Moonbird boys, have to say please to Mark?
Mark was the poor cousin, the one who lived at the Moonbird on sufferance, the one who hadn’t a penny to his name. “Is that what makes him dangerous?” Glenna had asked her sister. And Cindy had chuckled melodically. “Sort of, Mouse,” she’d said, ruffling Glenna’s hair. “Sort of.”
For a minute she thought Mark might ignore the desperation in Edgerton’s voice. But finally she felt his gaze shift, releasing her like a butterfly unpinned, and he pivoted toward his cousin.
“You’re right, Edge,” he said agreeably. “We wouldn’t want to intrude. Well, goodbye, then—and good scouting.” He started to move away but immediately halted, as if something had just occurred to him. “You’ll be at tonight’s dinner dance, though, won’t you? Purcell will want to come. So I’m sure we’ll see each other there.”
His smile was wicked. He recognized her reluctance to let him come any closer, that smile said. But it also said that he wasn’t so easily thwarted. He was intrigued by her—he wanted more, and he intended to get it sooner or later. That was no surprise.
What did shock her was the small thrill of anticipation that shimmered through her like a silver fish skimming just below the surface of her mind. Dangerous, she thought with an internal shiver. Cindy had been right. This man was damned dangerous.
“Oh, yes,” she said, meeting his laughing eyes, accepting and answering the challenge. “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding you. You’ll be the one dancing with The Senator’s Wife, right? The one with the hibiscus between his teeth.”
Actually it was much easier than that.
Even without a hibiscus, Mark Connelly stood out. Suntanned and swarthy as a pirate in his elegant white tails, he was quite simply the sexiest man in the room.
Which was no small feat, because by nine o’clock that night the Moonlight Ballroom was awash with beautiful people. Every adult in Florida who had any pretensions to glamour, power or wealth was here. To miss the grand reopening of the Moonbird Hotel apparently was to declare oneself a nonentity.
