Under the Boardwalk: A Dazzling Collection of All New Summertime Love Stories by Geralyn Dawson Page B
Authors: Geralyn Dawson
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declaration came to me, and I have kept it safe ever since."
"So you do still have it?"
"Of course. It's no longer on this island, however. I won't risk it to a gulf storm."
He paused for a moment, his gaze following the white splash against brilliant blue of a seagull in flight. "It is my most prized possession, Hannah. That's why I shared it with you when I made you my family. It's all I have left of them."
He turned his head and stabbed her with a stare. "And you want to take it away from me."
----
Chapter 2
Drew's feet pounded against the sand as he ran along the edge of the lapping surf. Emotion rolled through him, providing fuel for the physical exertion he demanded of his body. Anger, bitterness, disappointment—each were part of what drove him. But the underlying energy, what added the most fuel to his fire, was self-disgust.
Damn him for a fool for thinking she might regret having left him.
At various times throughout the past decade he had indulged in fantasies in which Hannah spent her life pining away for him. Whenever he got to feeling lonely, missing her and wondering about her, he'd tell himself she undoubtedly spent the majority of her days regretting her choice. He'd imagined meetings with her at which she'd fall at his feet and beg his forgiveness. He'd daydreamed of reunions at which she threw herself into his arms and begged him to take her back. He'd visualized coming home from the office one day and finding her naked in his bed, naked in his bath, even naked on his boat, pleading with him to save her from a sorry life by taking her and making her his own.
Instead she showed up wanting not him, but his family heirloom.
"Idiot," he puffed out. You'd think a man would outgrow childish fantasies. You'd think he'd put the ache of a broken heart behind him. "Sap-skull."
Drew picked up his pace, running full speed to keep from thinking, until his lungs gave out and forced him to slow to a walk. Finally he stopped, bent over, and breathed deeply, collecting both his breath and his thoughts.
This was ridiculous. All these feelings were ten years old. It was foolish to allow them to plague him still. Of course, seeing Hannah again had stirred them up, but it was time to put them to bed.
Bed. The word hit him like a sailboat's boom.
Slowly, he straightened. He focused his gaze on an ungainly brown pelican taking flight from the beach in front of him as a deliciously wicked idea took root in his mind.
Why not? Why the hell not
?
Turning around, he headed back toward his cabin. He turned the notion over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons, debating the sense of the entire idea.
It was mean. Ungentlemanly. Contemptible, even.
But the woman owed him.
Hannah Mayfield owed him for the broken ribs, the broken dreams. She had cured him of falling in love. Since he'd never fallen in love again, he'd never married again. Never fathered children. He liked children, liked them a lot. Hannah had cost him a family. She owed him.
"And I know just how to make her pay."
Approaching his cabin, he saw her sitting primly atop the three-legged stool he liked to sit on while whittling. When she saw him, she stood and faced him. Looking at her without a fog of anger clouding his vision, Drew was caught by surprise at the picture she presented. Hannah could easily have been a mermaid come ashore.
Her wet dress clung to her like a second skin, outlining her generous, eye-candy curves. Her blue eyes sparkled like sunlight on the surf. Her chin was up, her shoulders back, and her lips… oh, her lips… were pursed in a delicious little pout that shouted to a man,
Kiss me
!
It took all Drew's strength not to comply that very instant.
She licked those lips and said, "Drew, please. Can we talk?"
Talk. Yeah, they could talk. That could be part of it. Talking was good. Touching was better. Lots of touching was lots better.
Because that was his price.
The woman owed him that much. She owed him the touching and
"So you do still have it?"
"Of course. It's no longer on this island, however. I won't risk it to a gulf storm."
He paused for a moment, his gaze following the white splash against brilliant blue of a seagull in flight. "It is my most prized possession, Hannah. That's why I shared it with you when I made you my family. It's all I have left of them."
He turned his head and stabbed her with a stare. "And you want to take it away from me."
----
Chapter 2
Drew's feet pounded against the sand as he ran along the edge of the lapping surf. Emotion rolled through him, providing fuel for the physical exertion he demanded of his body. Anger, bitterness, disappointment—each were part of what drove him. But the underlying energy, what added the most fuel to his fire, was self-disgust.
Damn him for a fool for thinking she might regret having left him.
At various times throughout the past decade he had indulged in fantasies in which Hannah spent her life pining away for him. Whenever he got to feeling lonely, missing her and wondering about her, he'd tell himself she undoubtedly spent the majority of her days regretting her choice. He'd imagined meetings with her at which she'd fall at his feet and beg his forgiveness. He'd daydreamed of reunions at which she threw herself into his arms and begged him to take her back. He'd visualized coming home from the office one day and finding her naked in his bed, naked in his bath, even naked on his boat, pleading with him to save her from a sorry life by taking her and making her his own.
Instead she showed up wanting not him, but his family heirloom.
"Idiot," he puffed out. You'd think a man would outgrow childish fantasies. You'd think he'd put the ache of a broken heart behind him. "Sap-skull."
Drew picked up his pace, running full speed to keep from thinking, until his lungs gave out and forced him to slow to a walk. Finally he stopped, bent over, and breathed deeply, collecting both his breath and his thoughts.
This was ridiculous. All these feelings were ten years old. It was foolish to allow them to plague him still. Of course, seeing Hannah again had stirred them up, but it was time to put them to bed.
Bed. The word hit him like a sailboat's boom.
Slowly, he straightened. He focused his gaze on an ungainly brown pelican taking flight from the beach in front of him as a deliciously wicked idea took root in his mind.
Why not? Why the hell not
?
Turning around, he headed back toward his cabin. He turned the notion over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons, debating the sense of the entire idea.
It was mean. Ungentlemanly. Contemptible, even.
But the woman owed him.
Hannah Mayfield owed him for the broken ribs, the broken dreams. She had cured him of falling in love. Since he'd never fallen in love again, he'd never married again. Never fathered children. He liked children, liked them a lot. Hannah had cost him a family. She owed him.
"And I know just how to make her pay."
Approaching his cabin, he saw her sitting primly atop the three-legged stool he liked to sit on while whittling. When she saw him, she stood and faced him. Looking at her without a fog of anger clouding his vision, Drew was caught by surprise at the picture she presented. Hannah could easily have been a mermaid come ashore.
Her wet dress clung to her like a second skin, outlining her generous, eye-candy curves. Her blue eyes sparkled like sunlight on the surf. Her chin was up, her shoulders back, and her lips… oh, her lips… were pursed in a delicious little pout that shouted to a man,
Kiss me
!
It took all Drew's strength not to comply that very instant.
She licked those lips and said, "Drew, please. Can we talk?"
Talk. Yeah, they could talk. That could be part of it. Talking was good. Touching was better. Lots of touching was lots better.
Because that was his price.
The woman owed him that much. She owed him the touching and
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