In McGillivray's Bed by Anne McAllister Page B

lovely Bahamian lilt.
    Not tracking in sand hadn’t been high on Hugh’s list of priorities. And he’d never swept it once. Why bother? In five steps he’d be on the beach.
    But tonight he was standing on flagstone.
    No wonder things felt different. He raised his gaze again to the spot where his bike should have been.
    It could have been Molly or Tommy or Marcus. But he somehow doubted it. It wouldn’t have occurred to them to sweep the walk before they took it. It wouldn’t even haveoccurred to Lisa Milligan, who probably didn’t even realize the walk existed.
    It would only have occurred to one person: Sydney St. John.
    Hugh laughed aloud, shaking his head. Trust Sydney St. John. Crazy woman.
    It wasn’t enough to wash every blinkin’ dish in the house, she had to sweep his walk before she borrowed his bike to leave. Probably she’d even repaired the hole in the plaster.
    Whatever. If she’d taken the bike, she was definitely gone.
    He bounded up the steps, whistling—and stopped dead. Not only his bike had gone missing. Everything else had, too.
    Well, not everything. The hammock was stirring faintly in the soft breeze. The porch swing was still here. But everything else was—not.
    There were no books, no tools, no dirty cups and plates and glasses. No magazines.
    Well, actually, yes, there were magazines. In a very neat, perfectly aligned stack, a dozen or so magazines sat on an end table next to the swing.
    End table? Hugh raised his brows. He didn’t actually remember having an end table. But now that he saw it sitting there uncluttered, it did look vaguely familiar.
    Alongside the hammock there was another one. And behind it, a neat row of car parts, plane parts, boat parts and bike parts were all lined up, according to height apparently—with no regard to which vehicle they belonged to—standing at attention.
    It was like being back in the Navy again.
    A very weird Navy.
    Hugh stared. And stared. And then he shifted his gaze slowly and deliberately to some new brick-and-board shelves beneath the window. They held precisely shelved scuba gear. He looked around for his wet suit which usuallyflapped in the breeze from a plant hook. He wasn’t surprised to discover it was no longer there.
    He could feel a bellow beginning somewhere in the pit of his stomach. And just as he was about to let it loose, the screen door opened, and there she was—the perpetrator of all this blinking order! —Ms. Sydney St. John wearing a sarong and a smile.
    Hugh felt as if all the air had been sucked right out of him.
    He caught a glimpse or two of the “long, long legs” Maurice had mentioned. And when she moved so did the “real nice curves,” which the sarong very thoroughly outlined.
    â€œAh,” she said, beaming. “You’re back. Excellent. I thought we might have to eat without you, but—”
    He dragged in all the air he could manage. “Where the hell’s my stuff?”
    She waved an arm in an all-encompassing move. “It’s straightened up.”
    â€œStraightened up? Damn it to hell! What do you think you were doing? How dare you throw my stuff out? Where’s my bike? My surfboard? My wet suit? My life? ”
    â€œIn order. For once,” she said tartly.
    â€œOrder? You call this order? ” It was like calling Mount Everest a molehill. He expected his spark plugs to stand up and salute!
    â€œRelax. I didn’t throw anything away,” she said soothingly moving to stand between him and the front door.
    It made him instantly suspicious. He stalked across the porch and pushed past her into the house. “God almighty! What the hell have you done? ”
    His life in boot camp hadn’t been this organized.
    â€œWhat you apparently have never done. I cleaned house.” She followed him in through the living room to the kitchen.
    â€œWho told you—who asked you?” he sputtered,