Hot Island Nights

And yet she still didn’t reach for the door handle.

This meant so much to her. A chance to feel connected to someone. A chance to have a father.

Just do it, Elizabeth.

She curled her fingers around the cool metal of the door handle just as her phone rang, the sound shrill in the confines of the car. She checked caller ID.

“Violet,” she said as she took the call.

“E. How was your flight? What’s happening? Have you spoken to him yet?”

“Long. Not much. And no,” Elizabeth said, answering her friend’s questions in order. “I’m sitting in front of his house right now, trying to get up the courage to knock on the door.”

“You’re nervous.”

“Just a little.”

“Don’t be. Once he gets to know you, he’ll be over the moon you’ve tracked him down.”

Elizabeth pulled a face. Violet’s vote of confidence was lovely, but if her father knew she existed—a big if—he’d clearly had his reasons for keeping his distance for the past thirty-odd years.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong.” Elizabeth studied the slightly shabby house doubtfully. “Maybe I should have made contact with a letter or e-mail first. Used a lawyer to break the ice …”

“No. You’ve done the right thing. And even if you haven’t, you’re there now. All you have to do is knock on his door.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Elizabeth joked.

“Come on, E. You’re a woman on a mission, remember? You’re reclaiming your life, striking out on your own. Shaking off old Droopy Drawers was just the first step.”

Elizabeth frowned at her friend’s less-than-flattering description of Martin. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that. Just because I’ve decided not to marry him doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.”

“True. It’s not as though he’s going around literally boring people to death. Although he took a fairly good stab at stifling the life out of you.”

“Vi …”

“Sorry. I just think it should be a punishable offense for someone as young as he is to carry on like a crusty old bugger. How many thirty-two-year-olds do you know wear cardigans with leather elbow patches?”

“Just because he dresses conservatively doesn’t mean he’s crusty, Vi. He’s just … conservative,” Elizabeth finished lamely.

“Conservative? I’m sorry, E, but conservative is not the word for a man who refuses to have sex in anything other than the missionary position. The word you’re looking for is repressed.”

Elizabeth kneaded her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “You have no idea how much I regret ever saying anything to you about that, Vi.”

Martin would be mortified if he knew that she’d discussed their sex life with anyone. Especially Violet.

Elizabeth blamed her dentist. If it hadn’t been for the stupid article in the stupid women’s magazine in his waiting room, there was no way she would have tried to talk to Martin about her “sexual needs and desires” instead of “vainly waiting for him to intuit” them, and there was no way she would have felt the need to seek counsel from her best friend in the embarrassing aftermath.

“I’m not going to apologize for refusing to let you sweep that sterling little moment under the rug,” Violet said. “Normal people—note I’m stressing the word normal, as opposed to uptight repressives—talk to each other about sex and explore their sexuality and have fun in bed. They don’t pat you on the head and tell you they respect you too much to objectify you, or whatever rubbish excuse he came out with after you’d finally got up the gumption to talk to him. And I love that he tried to make it all about you, by the way, and not about his hang-ups.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this again.”

But Violet was off and running on one of her favorite rants. “For God’s sake, it wasn’t as though you asked him to tie you up and go at you with a cheese grater or something. You wanted to do it doggy style, big bloody deal. There were no small animals involved, no leather or hot wax.”

“I’ve called off the wedding, Vi. This is definitely filed under The Past. You need to let it go.”

There was a small silence on the other end of the phone.

“You’re right. Sorry. He just really gets on my wick.”

“Well, you’ll probably never have to see him again, since he’s hardly going to want to know me once he’s gotten over the fact that I’ve dumped him. That should make you feel better.”

A dart of fear raced down Elizabeth’s spine as she registered her own words. She’d changed the course of her life by walking away from the wedding and she had no idea what might happen next. A terrifying, knee-weakening thought. But she refused to regret her decision. The truth was she’d never really loved Martin the way a woman should love the man with whom she planned to spend the rest of her life. She was fond of him. She admired his many good qualities. He made her feel safe. But he also exasperated her and made her yearn for … something she didn’t even have a name for.

“E. Someone’s just come into the shop and I have to go. But you can do this, okay? Just get out of the car and go introduce yourself. Whatever comes after that, you’ll handle it.”

“Thanks, coach. And thanks for all the hand-holding and tissue-passing and intel-gathering over the past few days,” Elizabeth said.

“Pshaw,” her friend said before ending the call.

Elizabeth put her phone in her handbag and took a deep breath. It was time to stop fannying about and get this over and done with.

Her heart in her mouth, she opened the car door and stepped into the hot Australian sun.

2

NATHAN JONES WOKE TO a single moment of pure nothingness. For a split second before the forgetfulness of sleep fell away, he felt nothing, knew nothing, remembered nothing.

It was the best part of his day, hands down.

And then he woke fully and it was all there: the memories, the anxiety, the guilt and shame and fear. Heavy and relentless and undeniable.

He stared at the ceiling for a long beat, wondering at the fact that he kept forcing himself to jump through the flaming hoop of this shit, day in, day out. There was precious little joy in it and plenty of pain.

Then he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. It wasn’t like he had a choice, after all. He wasn’t a quitter. Even though there were times when it seemed damned appealing.

His head started throbbing the moment he was upright. He breathed deeply. It would pass soon enough. God knew he’d chalked up enough experience dealing with hangovers over the past four months to know.

The important thing was that he hadn’t woken once that he could remember. If the price he had to pay this morning for oblivion last night was a hangover, then so be it.

He stood and ran a hand over his hair, then grabbed the towel flung over the end of the bed and wrapped it around his waist. He worked his tongue around his mouth as he headed for the door. Water was called for. And maybe some food. Although he wasn’t certain about the food part just yet.

The full glare of the midmorning sun hit him the moment he stepped out of the studio into the yard. He grunted and shielded his eyes with his forearm. Looked like it was going to be another stinker.

He crossed to the main house and entered the kitchen. The kitchen floor was gritty with sand beneath his feet and he smiled to himself. Sam would have a cow when he came home, no doubt. Nate had never met a guy more anal about keeping things shipshape and perfect. A regular Mr. Clean, was Sammy.

The fridge yielded a bottle of water and he closed his eyes, dropped his head back and tipped it down his throat. He swallowed and swallowed until his teeth ached from the cold, then put the nearly empty bottle onto the kitchen counter. He was about to head to the shower when a knock sounded at the front door.

Nate frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Didn’t particularly want to see anyone, either. That was the whole point of being on the island—privacy. Peace and quiet. Space.