Authors: Tracy Sumner
She laughed, digging her fingers into the sand. The tactics her opponents in New York had feared worked for naught in Pilot Isle. It was preposterous, and a little frightening, when she considered that her adversary was now her husband. Gracious, how would she prevail in any battle if he understood her stratagem so well?
During their most recent skirmish, she had tried to sway him by igniting their ever-present passion, using every brilliant trick he had taught her.
Accepting what she offered, he had taken a little more than she counted on giving in Caroline's parlor. Delighted, she'd had a glimmer of hope that she might get herself out of this mess when he abruptly pushed her away, telling her with a clever smile that
more
would come after the ceremony.
And not a second before.
So here she was, living in Pilot Isle, North Carolina, new stepmother to a six-year-old boy, and wife of the most handsome, exasperating man she had ever met. Throw in two brothers-in-law who treasured her, they said, for bringing their brother back to life, and you had a full family.
She could resist accepting them, accepting this life, when in reality her choices had been limited. Because she had married Zach for Rory's sake; and she could not resist
him
. Somehow, that sweet little boy had slipped into her heart without her knowing it. Heavens, the way he'd looked at her in the church as he held her hand and waited for his father to finish repeating his vows.
Too, she had also done it for Zach, since character and honor meant so damn much to him.
And finally,
yes
, secret of all secrets, she had done it for herself.
Stacking her hands behind her head, she settled back, the sand warm and soft and soothing. A furtive smile crossed her face, one she hadn't allowed to show all day. She didn't love Zachariah Garrett.
She
didn't
.
But—and this was something she had told no one, not even Elle—she wouldn't have married him if she knew without a doubt that she
could not
love him. It hadn't happened; of that she was certain. But she felt...
something
.
And at the oddest times.
When his lips lifted in a frustratingly smug smile; when he gestured with his hands about a subject that excited him; when he looked at her as though he—
She closed her eyes. When he looked at her as though he accepted her for who she was.
That in itself was most unusual.
What exactly did she feel for him? How could she tell when he infuriated her half the time and the other half they were naked?
* * *
The kiss was gentle.
Relentless. Wet. Light, then increasing in pressure. Coaxing, teasing.
Savannah woke in gradual degrees, tasting salt and sunshine and the smoky trace of liquor. The featherlike brush of his tongue, slow and languid. Again. And again, until her hands lifted to find him, fingers burying themselves in his hair. He murmured or sighed against her lips, his body warm and solid by her side.
She blinked, rousing herself from the dream. Dying rays of sunlight flooded around the man hovering above her, throwing his face into indistinguishable shadow. But she knew from the sound of his breathing and the scent lingering on her lips.
"How long do we have?" Hand cupping the nape of his neck, she drew him back to her.
Zach's mouth was warm and firm, persuasive enough to have her trembling and demanding more. "Not long. The toast." For a moment, he lost the battle, pressing her back into the sand. The hand cradling her head tightened, lifted, bringing her deeper into the kiss. "Sleepyhead."
"I've missed this," she said against his lips.
"Tonight," he returned after a moment.
Her lids fluttered as she settled back. Golden light surrounded him, searing her eyes. It almost felt like she sought to capture a sunbeam.
"Tonight?"
He smiled, that much she could see. "Did you doubt it?"
She had. He seemed to have an ideal for a wife in his mind, in his
heart.
One she was sure didn't hold any resemblance to her.
How could she possibly tell him that?
"Irish, if you think you'll be in my bedroom for more than five minutes and still have a stitch of clothing on, you sadly miscalculated." His lips trailed down her neck to her collarbone, where he lay a possessive kiss.
"I thought you might, oh." Arms flopping to her side, her statement drifted away.
Wedging his elbow in the sand, he peered down at her from an angle that silhouetted half his face. "What?"
"This marriage." She shrugged, sending a dusting of sand down the back of her dress. "It isn't real. Or rather, I wasn't certain you wished to legitimize it."
She felt him stiffen. "Isn't real?"
Touching him, she trailed her fingers along his jaw. For all his calm control, he possessed a healthy temper. "You swore never to marry again. And now you have."
"Yes. Now I have."
She sighed. Men always needed a woman to spell it out. "Our relationship... I wasn't sure you wanted it to continue."
His mouth, the half she could see, lowered in a frown. Then he laughed, but it held no amusement. "You thought we would have a celibate marriage?"
"I didn't know."
The hand at her hip clenched into a fist. "Why the hell would we do that?"
Dare she? "Hannah."
His head snapped up. After a stunned moment, he shoved to his feet.
She caught him at the water's edge, her hand tugging his sleeve. Waves rolled in, dampening his trousers bottoms. Obviously, he had left his shoes by the dunes. "I have to be able to speak her name without you retreating from me. We can't live like that."
Turning his head to look at her, his beautiful eyes expressed an emotion she didn't recognize. Something distant and confined. "You can speak her name. I'll answer any question you ask." His gaze returned to the sea. "I don't have any secrets. What you see—" He shrugged off the rest.
"It was perfect."
She
was perfect, Savannah wanted to cry. But she found she couldn't bear to hear him agree.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rolled his shoulders. The sinking sun lit the ocean with a hundred crimson points of fire. Overhead, a gull dove into the misty wind in search of food. "It was far from perfect. I've told you that before."
"You were happy."
"Content." He nodded. "Yes."
She could tell he didn't like to delve deeply into these areas, but to ignore them would go against her very being. "Contentment isn't a state of existence I've had much experience with. Especially, since, oh, you see, I'm not very good with men," she admitted in a reluctant whisper. "At extreme odds actually. Even with the ones in my own family."
Family she had failed to notify about her pending marriage, but that was another issue altogether.
He turned to her, his hand going to her chin and lifting. The chill had evaporated from his eyes. "Maybe they expected something you weren't willing to give. You can't spend your entire life apologizing for who you are, Irish."
She swallowed. "You don't expect more?"
His gaze traveled away, then slowly back. She could see him weighing his answer. "Let's just say I'm willing to negotiate."
"You think we have a chance to be content?"
A smile played over his lips. "I'm hopeful."
"Most of the men of my acquaintance would not agree. They would tell you to run for the hills. My father would weep for you."
Laughing, he said, "I'm not expecting harmony every hour of the day, if that's what you're thinking. I have a little boy in the house, remember? That creates its own level of bedlam."
"I don't know how to be married, Zachariah. I don't know how to be content."
His hand slipped into hers, and they stood shoulder to shoulder gazing at the flaming horizon. "I'm not trying to recreate what I had, Irish. So this is new for me, too. I'm as scared as you are, maybe more so."
"Scared? You?"
He squeezed her hand. "Don't go believing all that stuff you hear in town."
"They're used to us bickering. What will they think when we come back smiling?"
Turning her to face him, he pulled her close. "I can think of a couple of things."
"How embarrassing."
Throwing back his head, he laughed. "Embarrassing is getting caught tangled up like, how did you phrase it, two cats in a sack."
"Are you sorry?"
He considered, then shook his head. "Unbelievably, this has actually helped my image. I've saved you from spinsterhood. A life of abject loneliness in an unfeeling city. Everyone tonight has been patting me on the back for my selflessness."
"
What
?" Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized he had dodged her question. But she could not let the spinsterhood comment pass. "They're insane if they believe you've... oh, that is so insulting! The idiots."
Guiding her up the beach, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held on tight. "Sweetheart, paste a smile on for those idiots, if you please. I have sainthood to uphold."
Sweetheart
. The endearment took the spark right out of her.
* * *
Their truce didn't last for long.
Zach remembered standing with Caleb and trying to figure out how to leave his wedding reception as soon as possible. He wanted Savannah naked and in his bed, and he wanted that
now
.
He glanced at her, noting that she looked half-cocked, her hair hanging down her back, her feet bare, shoes God knows where. Unable to check the urge, he let his gaze travel from her wiggling toes to her lopsided smile. The dress... ah, he didn't know how to express how beautiful she looked in it. Her wild hair and flushed cheeks only made him think of how she looked after they made love.
As he stared, the usual response occurred: pounding heart and a subtle, or not so subtle, shift below his trouser buttons.
"Constance, if you want to take advantage of that lusty look you're giving Savannah, you'd better do something quick. She's a wee bit tipsy if I'm a good judge," Caleb mumbled and swayed into his shoulder.
"Couldn't be a better one," Zach agreed.
As soon as Savannah finished a drink, someone filled up her glass. Zach had poured one out in the grass when she wasn't looking, but he couldn't manage that trick all night.
"She asked me if I'm sorry that we had to get married," Zach blurted, mostly because the question had been lingering in his mind. More truthfully, his lack of a real answer had been lingering.
Caleb sipped, swallowed. "Are you?"
He watched Savannah smile at Elle, her lips curving. They looked moist, like she had just run her tongue over them. "I don't know." Raising his glass, he eyed her over the rim. "I'm confused. Everything's happened so fast."
"Can't you just let the past go? You have a pretty woman by your side, in your bed. Trouble with a capital T, right enough, but damned if some of what Savannah's got doesn't make up for that."
Zach felt the familiar stirring of anger. "I would have liked to choose for myself, is that too much to hope for?"
"Choose what? To be alone? You
were
choosing that."
Rage roared through Zach's mind, the wine consumed all evening swimming crazily in his head. Turning, he thrust his face close to his brother's. "Marriage is serious business, Cale. And maybe you don't see it, but lust and love are miles apart. Yeah, okay, you were
right
. Does that make you happy? In the end, I couldn't live like a goddamn monk. But now"—he flung his hand out, sending wine across the cuff of his shirt—"I have a... I have a—"
"Wife," she whispered, the brush of silk against his wrist and the teasing scent filling his nostrils telling him what a big mistake he'd made. "You have a wife."
Zach's gaze shot to his brother's. The panicked expression he saw reflected there surely mirrored his own. "Cale," he said and tipped his chin to indicate the need for privacy.
"You could have told me the truth when I asked you."
Closing his eyes for the briefest second, he let the sounds of laughter and music filter into his mind. Of course, Savannah would go straight to the heart of the matter. "I did tell you the truth," he said, swiveling to face her, praying she wasn't crying or something worse. Whatever it was women could do that was worse than tears.
Her expression held nothing more than a healthy dose of resentment. Not a tear in sight. "You most certainly did not," she said between clenched teeth. The slight unsteadiness in her stance was the only indication of her inebriated state. She held herself together pretty well for a woman.
"I didn't lie."
She drew a gusty breath, releasing it to the starry sky. "Yes, fine, Constable. You did not, indeed, lie. You simply avoided the question."
He began to feel his own resentment flare. "What do you want from me, Irish? Can you tell me? Because I'm doing everything I can here."
Her eyes locked with his. Lord, they were green tonight. "I want honesty."
"
You. Have. That
."
"Prove it." She swallowed. "Are you sorry?"
He didn't know why he and Savannah had to talk so much. Why she wanted to know what he was thinking all the time. Sometimes he wasn't thinking
anything
. Nothing at all. He and Hannah had never talked about feelings. They had just
been
. It seemed dangerous, like swimming through a pack of sharks, to talk about stuff like this.
"Are you?" She took a step forward, her voice cracking. The wind tossed a lock of hair into her face. He had to shove his free hand into his pocket to keep from reaching. "Are you?"
"I don't know," he burst out, practically shouting. "I never counted on you. On
this
. I had it all planned. The rest of my life planned. Now ...." His knuckles whitened as his fingers tensed around the glass.
"You don't have room for anyone else in your heart. Do you realize that?" She shook her head in resignation. "I do. And why it hurts, I'm not certain."
"Heart?" He took a stumbling step back.