Chapter 10
Ian and Augusta left The Shack and headed east down the beach. When they reached the Washout—literally a washed-out block of beachfront homes where the wind tore across the shore to the Folly River—they cut through someone’s yard to East Ashley.
“This is all I need,” he said, “to end up back in jail for trespassing.”
Augusta laughed. “This is Jack Shaw’s house.”
“Great!” he said. “Even better.” He shook his head.
“Relax,” she said. “He’s not home.” She winked at him. “Probably sitting in his office right now trying to figure out how to get you back behind bars.”
“That’s not particularly funny,” he suggested, but laughed anyway.
They followed the road past Karen Hutto’s sun-bleached yellow cottage, where Amanda had vanished from her front yard, and finally onto the beach access road that wound past the old defunct Coast Guard station. The farther they walked east, the darker the sky grew, untouched by artificial lights. “I keep wondering, what is that?” he asked, pointing to a graffiti-covered cement foundation that was surrounded by beach scrub. Whatever it was, covered in psychedelic writing, it appeared man had waged a war against nature, both of them trying to claim the lost building for themselves.
“An old Coast Guard station. Apparently, it played a huge part in protecting the naval base here from German spies during World War II. I think Hugo flattened it.”
“As in Hurricane Hugo?”
Augusta nodded. “Yep. Same storm that flattened those beachfront homes at the Washout. It’s a surfer’s haven now.”
“Anything worth taking a look at here?”
“And brave sand spurs?” Augusta shook her head. “Not really. But it might actually draw that cop out of his car if he thinks we’re messing with a historic landmark.”
Peering over his shoulder at the red parking lights that clicked off at the end of the beach access road, Ian laughed. “I know. Damn. I thought we’d lost them.”
“There’s only one street that runs this far east,” she told him. “Not even a good guess, really. He’d have to be stupid not to figure out where we’re going.”
“We can still ditch ’em,” he boasted, and grinned. He took the sandals from her abruptly, plopping them onto the ground. “Put them on,” he directed. “I want to show you something anyway.”
Augusta did and Ian led her through the dunes to show her where a loggerhead turtle had recently laid her eggs. Known nests were marked, but apparently, one loggerhead mommy had braved the tourist-infested shoreline to deposit her brood along a secluded spot on the far northeastern beach. Carefully, Ian uncovered the nest so Augusta could look inside, where there were literally hundreds of eggs. “Talk about sibling rivalry!”
He smiled up at her. “Spoken like a true middle child.”
Peering into the nest, hands on her knees, Augusta shrugged. “What can I say, I was the one who ended up without Mommy’s attention, right?”
He gave her a knowing look. “Something tells me you fared just fine without it.”
Augusta smirked. “Depends on who you talk to.”
He chuckled low. “From where I’m sitting, Augusta Aldridge, there’s not a damned thing wrong with you.”
Augusta blinked and met his gaze, a shiver racing down her spine. He was staring up at her, his blue eyes intense. Uncomfortable with his scrutiny and uncertain what to say next, she peered down into the nest at the golf ball–sized eggs.
Her head was clear—as clear as the moonlit sky.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
Didn’t she?
Ian covered the eggs back up with sand, gently . . . the way he had once handled her body . . . as though somehow she might break beneath his touch. “Apparently, it takes about thirty or so years for them to get the maternal itch,” he said, “but when they do, they travel back to lay their eggs on the beach where they were born. Pretty incredible stuff.”
Except that those loggerhead babies would soon discover there was no mama around to care for them. Something Augusta had firsthand knowledge of. But that was a reality she had come to terms with long ago. She sat on the beach and sighed.
She was thirty-two now. Maybe that’s all that was wrong with her? Like the loggerhead turtles, maybe she was just getting a maternal itch?
Except that . . . when she looked at Ian . . . it wasn’t the thought of having babies that sent her heart skidding to a halt . . .
Ian sat beside her, scooting near, their legs so close now, their knees were almost touching.
Augusta buried her fingers in the warm sand, lifted up a handful, letting it trickle through her closed fist, like a broken hourglass. “So how did you find the nest?”
He glanced at her, pulling his shoulder-length hair away from his face. “I’ve done a lot of beachcombing lately.”
“Cool,” she said. But it wasn’t cool, because they both knew exactly why he was searching.
Is that how the killer found his victims? Scavenging along the shore?
Uncomfortable with his scrutiny and the turn of their conversation, along with her thoughts, she peered up at the darkening sky.
From where they sat, they could see the Morris Island Lighthouse in the distance, standing in the middle of moonlit, white-capped waters. Beyond that, the city of Charleston gave off a mellow glow. In between, the water was dark, and the silhouettes of numerous sailboats dappled the harbor. “Did you know there’s a light curfew around here?” she asked him.
“Nah, but I figured. The place goes black after ten.”
Augusta raised a brow. “I guess they try to keep the beaches as dark as possible at night . . . for the turtles.”
“Mood lighting,” he suggested, and winked at her.
“I think it disorients them,” she countered. “The lights apparently lure them away from the ocean where they’re supposed to go.”
In the growing darkness, the breeze whispered through the sea oats. Augusta could see dark spots on the beach moving . . . probably hermit crabs or other sea creatures scavenging, too. Opportunistic creatures, operating under cover of night.
But Ian wasn’t a killer. Her instincts were good. She wouldn’t be here with him if there had been even a single red flag.
She took in a deep breath of salt air, afraid to hope for something more than what they had in the moment. If she let it, her entire life could be defined by a string of bad relationships. It was all she knew, and her parents had been a poor example. Her father had come from a long line of politicians and her mother had been a “daughter of the Confederacy”—Charleston royalty, so to speak. While her dad’s political aspirations had no doubt been served by her mother’s pristine heritage and unshakeable façade, Flo’s idealism was hardly benefited by her father’s unprincipled career. On the surface, the marriage might have seemed perfect—like Jackie O. and John Kennedy—but their dysfunction had been preordained. Add to that the fact that Flo had been a strong woman, uncompromising, and it was no surprise their family had unraveled so quickly after Sam’s disappearance. Her parents hadn’t married for love. She doubted either of them had ever known the meaning of the word. She worried maybe she didn’t either.
“So here we are again,” he said.
Augusta swallowed, and lay back in the sand, staring up at the sky above, listening to the ocean smash into the rocks below. Here the beach was uncharacteristically rocky—by design, to keep the shore from eroding in the powerful currents.
“Here we are again,” she echoed, and gooseflesh rippled over her skin.
No matter that she tried to deny the attraction, it was there, as thick as a Lowcountry mist in the morning. She was barefoot, her sandals lay beside her on the beach, and the ends of her skirt were damp from walking through the surf. The warm, soft breeze tousled the neckline of her cotton blouse and Ian shifted beside her, turning to face her.
Augusta held her breath, not daring to look at him. “What are we doing?”
She watched in her peripheral vision as he leaned on an elbow, staring down at her. “Damned if I know, Augusta. The world is going to hell around us and here I’m sitting on the beach yet again . . . staring down at your gorgeous lips . . . thinking how much I want to kiss you.”
His voice sounded raw, as though he meant every word.
Augusta swallowed, and shifted her gaze to peer up at him, gauging his expression, her heart pounding fiercely. Under his scrutiny, her nipples began to ache for his touch, burning despite the cool night air.
He reached out and placed a hand over her cheek, barely touching her, turning her face toward him. “You deserve to be made love to . . . in a bed,” he said.
Augusta tried to find her voice. She met his gaze straight-on. “This is the last thing we should be doing,” she agreed.
For the longest moment, neither of them spoke.
His heart beating like a drum, Ian stared down into Augusta’s lovely face.
She was the last thing he needed in his life, he told himself—the last person he should be involved with. If he were even half the man he used to be, he would take her by the hand, walk her back to her car and see her safely home.
At the very least, he would take her home and make love to her the way she deserved to be made love to, with cool, clean sheets beneath her soft, sweet body.
But they were alone. Here on the beach. For the first time in so long there weren’t a dozen pairs of eyes locked on him, and the night was as beautiful as she was.
Moonlight reflected off the white sand, leaving her aglow in soft light. Behind them, the dune grass shimmied with the breeze.
She lifted her face into his hand, and he couldn’t stop himself. He bent to cover her mouth with his, savoring the taste of her mouth. “I want you,” he whispered.
In answer, she reached up, sliding her long, graceful fingers around his neck, pulling him closer, and Ian was lost from that moment forward.
He shifted his body so that he lay beside her in the warm sand, hooking his hand around her thigh and drawing her leg over his, reveling in the feel of her lithe body and the soft skin beneath her skirt.
He kissed her deeply, knowing that whatever it was that was happening between them was meant to be. It felt right, even if it was the wrong damned time.
But his conscience warred with him. She deserved better than this. Could he really even be certain their relationship would survive all the drama? It was possible—innocent or not—that he could spend the rest of his life behind bars. The simple fact that police were tailing him told him they weren’t going to simply drop the charges. Nor should they—not when there was so much at stake.
They shouldn’t be here right now.
Augusta moaned beneath him, but he tore himself away, looking down into her confused eyes. “This isn’t the way it should happen again,” he said with conviction.
But he wanted her to know that it wasn’t an easy decision. He placed a hand on her bottom and pulled her tight against his erection, pushing it into the hollow of her body.
He was hard as granite and his body ached for release, but he couldn’t take it, not here, not now. He slid his hand up to her waist, pulling her close, desperately wanting her to understand it wasn’t a rejection.
The confusion in her blue eyes was endearing, and he wanted to hold her all night long. He hugged her then, burying his face into her shoulder, and for the longest moment, simply held her, reining in his desire. “Let’s revisit this after it’s all over,” he whispered into her hair.
Augusta nodded, shivering. The heat of his body was blistering, but she trembled as he held her. It was exactly what needed to be said, but it filled her with regret . . . for not having been strong enough to be the one to say it.
Her sister was right; she couldn’t think straight where Ian was concerned.
He didn’t seem in a hurry to disentangle himself from her arms, so she let him hold her, resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart. After a long while, he turned so she could lie in the crook of his arms and together they stared up at the sky.
The scent of the sea was strong here. Combined with the familiar scent of his skin, it was as close to feeling at home as Augusta thought she’d ever come—inexplicable as that might be.
The sky was clear, with nearly every star visible in the heavens, and the sound of crickets filled the night air. It seemed they were completely alone, with only the sound of the ocean for music. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the stars so clearly.”
“That’s Cassiopeia,” he said, pointing up into the north sky. “That cluster that looks a little like a lazy
W
.” She listened quietly and he continued, pulling her closer. “As the story goes, Poseidon banished her as a punishment for her arrogance. Supposedly, she’s bound to a throne in a position so that as she circles the poles, she’s upside down.”
Augusta smiled beside him. “Poseidon must have been a pervert,” she determined. “Isn’t that some kinky sex position—upside-down sex?”
He laughed, then glanced at her, nudging her gently. “Only you would say something like that. Hell, I don’t know.” He grinned. “Never tried it.” But something about the tone of his voice told her it wasn’t quite the truth.
“Liar!”
He laughed. “Maybe when I was younger.” And then his voice turned sober. “Truth is, you’re the only woman in nearly six years, Augusta.”
Augusta sucked in a breath and buried her toes in the warm sand. For some reason, knowing that made her feel better, not worse, though she couldn’t say the same.
“But damn it . . . I’m trying to get our minds
off
that particular subject and you’re not helping.”
“Sorry,” she said, though she really wasn’t. It was the right thing to do—to wait—but the simple fact that he had been the one to suggest it only made her want to make love to him all the more. “Do you think they’ll drop the charges?” Augusta dared to ask after a moment.