Dragonfly Kisses

Dragonfly Kisses

A Tryst Island Erotic Romance
by Sabrina York

Dragonfly Kisses

ISBN 978-0-9891577-1-1

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Rebound Copyright © 2013 Sabrina York

Edited by Wizards in Publishing

Cover design by Wicked Smart Designs

Electronic book publication June 2013

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

The publisher does not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Cassandra Carr, Celeste Deveney and Natalie French. When you read the book, you’ll know why, if you don’t already.

Acknowledgements

First of all, thanks to my amazing beta readers, Charmaine Arredondo, Laurie A., Ronlyn Howe and Shelly Estes. My deepest appreciation to Wicked Smart Designs for a rocking cover and to Kate Richards for helping me whip this novella into shape.

Thank you so much to my dear friends for your support: Chantilly White, Cerise de Land, Delilah Devlin, Desiree Holt, Gina Lamm, Sidney Bristol and Tina Donahue.

To all my friends in PNWA, the Greater Seattle Romance Writers of America, Passionate Ink and Rose City Romance Writers groups, thank you for all your support and encouragement.

Chapter One

August

Dylan Deveney propped his feet up on the table and leaned back in the patio chair, sipping whiskey and staring out at the water. It was quiet, dark, still. The moon was out, teasing the water with ribbons of soft light.

Of all the things his lucrative job as a radio host afforded him, he loved the little cabin on Tryst Island the most.

Although, the island hadn’t lived up to its name.

There hadn’t been any trysts for him. Not since…

Well, not since his wife left him.

He cut the thought off. No. He wasn’t going to think about any of that. Whenever he did, he got so morose he wanted to die. Wanted to drink himself into a stupor and blot everything out.

He tipped his whiskey back and poured himself another.

Yeah. He really had to stop thinking about it.

But he couldn’t.

It had been three years and still—

Clearly the drinking wasn’t working.

He kept waking up in the morning. And when he did, the misery was still there.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he should add a handful of the Xanax his doctor kept prescribing to his drink. This place was remote. No one would find him. Not in time.

It’d be a peaceful way to check out.

And life without
her
wasn’t worth living. Her bright smile. Her soothing voice. Her sweet laugh. Her presence. A memory of Lila, giggling, making snow angels filled his mind.

There were no more angels in the world. Of that he was certain.

He scrubbed his palm over his face and willed himself not to cry.

Still, something annoying pricked at his lashes.

It was horrible, losing someone to cancer. Watching her waste away. Suffer. The worst part had been the helplessness. There’d been nothing he could do about it. About any of it. Just fucking hold her hand and murmur lies and try to keep it together.

There was no reason to keep it together any more.

His cell phone buzzed and Dylan frowned at it. He picked it up and checked the screen. Dawn. Of course. His sister had the uncanny ability to know when he least wanted to talk to her. He punched “Ignore Call,” and it felt good. Damn good.

He tossed the phone onto the table, crossed his arms and glared out at the endless expanse of darkness. It matched his mood.

Maybe he should.

Just do it.

A movement on the deck through the trees to his left caught his attention, and he turned his head. A beautiful girl with long jet-black hair, wearing a fluffy robe and clutching a towel, strolled out and leaned against the railing, tipping her face to the night breeze. He’d seen her before. A couple of times. And with her presence at the neighboring house, sometimes, at night, the low, gripping tones of the cello wafted through the woods.

Not elementary-school-recital screeching, like he’d been forced to listen to when his daughter’s teacher decided to torture humanity. But full, rich, mellow cello. Practiced and refined. Somehow he’d come to associate this woman with that music.

There were always people at the house next door, especially on the weekends, but rarely the same ones. Every time
this one
had come, there had been music.

A gust teased her hair, sending it out in silky questing strands. She blew out a breath and curled it behind her ear. She was exquisite. Beautiful. There was a hint of the exotic in her features, he thought, but it was hard to tell from a distance, and through the veil of branches and trees.

He didn’t care. In his mind she was exotic.

It hardly mattered. They’d never meet, after all.

She turned and walked toward him, and his pulse surged, but she strolled to the hot tub on the deck and lifted the cover, swishing her fingers in the water.

Dylan leaned forward. Was she going to—?

Hell. Yes. She was.

Glancing around—probably to make sure no one was watching—she dropped her robe.

She was naked.

Her body stole his breath.

It was perfect. Petite and curvy and lush in all the right places. Her skin was a velvety brown, like coffee doctored with a healthy dose of cream. He swallowed, transfixed.

For the first time in three years, something captured him. Completely.

An unfamiliar hunger rose.

It surprised him, delighted him, this tightening in his groin. He reveled in the discomfort, the reminder he was still alive. At least a part of him was.

Damn, he wished he had a pair of binoculars. As creepy as it sounded, he sure wished he had some. He also wished he hadn’t had so much to drink tonight, because it was making his vision a little bleary. And he didn’t want to miss a thing.

She stepped up the stairs, moving with a lithe grace, like poetry in motion, and swung her leg over the lip of the tub.

Damn. Damn, damn.

She sighed and threw her head back as she slid into the steaming water. Inch by inch, it engulfed her. Her expression sent a skirl of lust through him.
It is probably the same expression she has when she comes.
He couldn’t stop the thought. Or the surge of his erection. But then he didn’t want to.

He hadn’t felt like this in…far too long.

Exhilaration sizzled through him.

Maybe he wasn’t completely dead inside.

Maybe there was something left to live for after all.

Maybe there was one angel left in the world.

November

He’d taken to coming to the island each weekend and spending hours out on the deck—rain or shine, and since this was the Pacific Northwest, that meant mostly rain—all in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. But he didn’t see her again. Not for months.

Then, when he did, and his heart nearly leaped out of his chest at the sight of her, she was with someone else. A slender guy with sandy brown hair who looked far too boring and clean cut for a woman like her.

They came out onto the deck in their bathing suits—laughing, shivering, joking about how cold it was.

Dylan loved the sound of her laugh. Hated
he
had evoked such a heavenly trill.

He glared at the guy, the douche. He was bony. Looked like a boy in a pair of his dad’s swim trunks.

She
didn’t need a bony boy. She needed a man.

They got into the hot tub and soaked for a while, but when the douche pulled her into his arms and she melted into him, Dylan couldn’t watch any more. He pushed out of his chair and went inside. And drank himself to sleep.

His producer mentioned he was particularly acerbic that week and asked if he could please keep up the rant.

Dylan was happy to oblige.

January

The next time he saw her was Super Bowl weekend. Dylan didn’t plan to watch the game. He didn’t give a shit about football. Didn’t give a shit about anything.

He’d gone to the island to brood. That’s what weekends were for. He certainly wasn’t there, perched on the deck, hankering for a glimpse of
her
.

When a group of guys crowded out onto the deck, all holding beers, he almost went home. But then
she
floated out.

There were other women with her, but they were all a blur.

She wore a pretty flowing dress and had her sleek hair pinned back. It cascaded over her shoulders like a shimmering waterfall. So black it was almost blue. She was tiny, compared to the other forms milling about. Petite and delicate. Like a flower amidst towering weeds. Her every movement, every gesture, was a symphony.

One of the guys, a muscular bohunk, said something to her and she smacked him on the shoulder. When he grabbed her and started tickling her, her laughter was like shards of glass in Dylan’s bloodstream. He clenched his fists to keep from vaulting over the rail, sprinting through the trees and ripping her from his arms.

But then the guy tousled her hair, the way a brother or casual friend might, and Dylan relaxed. He didn’t like the thought of her over there with so many men. But it wasn’t as though he had any say in the matter.

It wasn’t as though he had a say in anything at all.

Hell. He didn’t even know her name.

March

And then, one day, he was in the kitchenette at work, making a cup of coffee during a commercial break, and he saw her. Only a photograph on a handbill tacked to the bulletin board, but everything in his body seized. One of the other stations in their studio played classical music. Someone from their office must have posted it. In the photo, she stood next to a cello with her arms crossed, three starchy looking gentlemen in monkey suits at her back.

Cassandra
. Her name was Cassandra French. Acclaimed cellist. She was playing at Benaroya Hall in a limited engagement. Tonight.

He bought a ticket. To the symphony. Something he’d never done before—he was really more of a hard rock kind of guy. He paid some peckerwood on eBay a fortune for a seat in the loge, right up in front.

He would have paid a helluva lot more to spend an evening staring at her, watching her play.

There was a suit in the back of his closet, and Dylan put it on, forcing himself not to remember the last time he’d had occasion to wear black. He got to Benaroya Hall an hour early and had a little dinner—eschewing the wine—then sat on the edge of his seat, listening to the limited orchestra tune up, ignoring the poodle in the seat next him patter on to her companion about how
transported
she was the last time she saw French perform. The woman was hard to ignore. Probably because whenever she moved, waved her arms or inched forward to look down upon the peasants in the gallery below, her cloying perfume rose in a cloud to choke him.