Swept Away (9 page)

sense—yet she knew it was true.

Even now, Clark slaved away at the gallery—doing God knew what, but definitely something he thought would bring in more money. Or maybe Ian was there with him tonight, schooling him on which stocks to buy, and which to dump, and exactly when to execute the trades—he
and Ian had been hunkered over desks together working on investment strategies since soon
after his engagement to Kat almost six months ago.

She tried to appreciate Clark’s work ethic, his determination to keep them living in the manner
to which they were accustomed—yet it was Saturday, for heaven’s sake, and Richard, the
young man he’d hired especially for Saturdays, was perfectly capable of handling things at the gallery on his own. Still, Clark had gone in this afternoon, saying he’d be there “for a couple of
hours. But we can go out to dinner tonight if you want. Someplace on the water?”

He knew Debra loved the water. He hadn’t built the house there, fearing hurricanes, storm surges, but he had bought the island last summer—for her forty-eighth birthday. A too-extravagant gift she hadn’t needed and they hadn’t really been able to afford, yet that was Clark’s way, and something about it had touched her heart when she’d been feeling most
neglected.

Now she was feeling neglected again, and nothing much was touching her heart. There had
been no dinner over the water, no dinner at all, just a phone call saying he’d ended up in the
middle of some work he didn’t want to leave until tomorrow. “Especially since Kat’s out for
the next few weeks.” As if there was so much traffic in the gallery that he’d be chained to the
front door the whole time Kat was off on her girls’ getaway, then her honeymoon.

Thinking of Kat, Debra pushed the mute button on the remote and grabbed up the phone,
dialing her daughter’s cell. When the message played saying Kat was unavailable, she knew
Kat had either forgotten her charger again or was in the middle of some loud casino where she couldn’t hear the phone. “Hi, sweetie,” she said at the beep. “Just calling to check on you, but I
guess you’re having too much fun to answer. I hope so. Just be careful, Kat. And call when
you can—I miss you.”

She hung up feeling silly—Kat had left only this morning, but already she was saying she
missed her. I’m such a typical mom.

Once upon a time she’d sworn to herself she’d be a cool mom, a hip mom, the fun mom all the
kids wanted to have drive them around to shopping malls and movie theaters. In ways, she
thought she’d lived up to that, but in the end, a mom was a mom—and somewhere along the
way, she’d done what so many moms did: She’d started replacing her own hopes and dreams
with Kat’s dreams until she didn’t really have any left of her own. Now Kat’s happiness was
the biggest part of her life—Kat’s wedding next week felt as important to her as her own had
twenty-nine years ago—and she supposed that was okay, the way life went, how things were
meant to be. She just—immaturely, she supposed—wished she’d gotten to go out to dinner
with Clark this evening, so that her life might feel like it was a little bit her own tonight.

In boredom, she left the TV quiet and padded from the large, plush family room down a wide
hall to her office. She didn’t exactly need an office—but Clark had insisted she have one, and it was a nice luxury when it came to her charity work and, more recently, her articles for her
Booklovers’ newsletter. Lately, the ever-growing book club had become a big part of her world
—she’d made new friends there, and it gave her someplace to go once a week that was
completely her own, about no one but her.

Easing into the big leather chair on wheels—Clark’s motto in life was “only the best,” even
when it came to a chair she only spent a couple of hours a week in—she hit the e-mail button
on her keyboard. A message appeared from Tansy, a friend from the country club, and then
another from Michael Quinn—which made her pulse kick up a bit.

The local literary author had kindly come to speak to the Booklovers last month, and afterward,
being a huge fan of his novels, she had gathered the courage to ask him for an interview,
explaining that she was writing features for their new newsletter and that she knew the club
members would be thrilled to learn more about him. To her amazement, he’d readily agreed,
and they’d recently shared a lovely lunch at Bice, on Fifth Avenue, where, over an appetizer of beef carpaccio with arugula salad and hearts of palm, it had suddenly occurred to her how very
handsome he was.

Odd, but she supposed that somewhere along the way she’d stopped really seeing that in men.
Okay, Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney—she knew they were handsome, but as for the men
who passed in and out of her daily life, she didn’t really see them. Until it had struck her that Michael Quinn had the kindest blue eyes she’d looked into in a while. And he possessed those little crinkles around the eyes that somehow managed to make middle-aged men look rugged
instead of old. Along with a strong jawline and light brown hair that had not yet become
sprinkled with gray, even at forty-five.

She doubled-clicked to open his message. Debra,

Thanks so much for sending the article. I had no idea you were such a talented writer—I’m
impressed.

And now I have a huge favor to ask.

I have a few trusted readers who look over my manuscripts before I send them to my editor,
and one has had to back out for personal reasons this time around. Could I convince you to
take a look at my next release? It’s AFTER THE RAIN, the book I talked about (ad nauseum, I
fear) during the interview. My only rules are A) if you’re not comfortable with this or don’t have the time, no problem, we’re still friends, and B) if you read it, be honest, tell me what
works and what sucks. I know you’ve read all my previous work, and after hearing some of
your insights on my earlier novels, I respect your opinion.

So, what do you say? Depending on your schedule, I could give you the manuscript over lunch
one day this week.

Michael

Debra stared at the screen, her bottom lip crushed firmly between her teeth. Michael Quinn
thought she was a talented writer. And considered her a friend. And he wanted her to read his
new book. And to have lunch with her again. This week. Her heart felt like it would beat right
through her chest.
She hit the reply button.
Michael,
I’m flattered by your faith in me and would be thrilled to read AFTER THE RAIN. You may have to forgive me if I gush a bit, since you know I love your work, but if I find anything that
does indeed suck, I promise to tell you. How’s Monday? Too short notice?

Debra

P.S. So pleased you liked the article!

After sending the message, she sat back in her chair and let out a breath she hadn’t quite
realized she was holding. “Whoa,” she murmured. This felt big.

Because an author—an author!—was asking her to read his unpublished work and weigh in
with an opinion.

And because she enjoyed being around him. Just over the one lunch they’d shared, she’d come away with the impression that he’d really listened to her when she talked.

In all honesty, she’d gone into the lunch on guard for pomposity, expecting to depart feeling
glad she’d done it but also glad it was over. Yet Michael had been nothing but genuine.
Interesting. Severely intelligent. And clearly in love with the craft of storytelling. At the same
time, he’d seemed interested in her, her life, her husband’s gallery, her daughter’s art—he’d
even said maybe he’d come to the opening of Kat’s show next month.

She’d left the lunch feeling strangely exhilarated, and then a little sad, because the exhilaration
was all she had left. The lunch was over. Everything about him had felt a little over. As if she’d
just found this wonderful, energizing connection—and poof, in a blink it was gone.

Only now it wasn’t over. Now there was another lunch. And there would be discussion about
his book. Maybe ongoing. It felt suddenly as if a whole new, fascinating world had just opened before her, like maybe she would somehow get a life of her own back again. Through Michael.

Walking back down the hall to the family room, she put the sound back on the TV, then hit the
channel button, moving away from the tragedies, ready to look for something a little more
lively.

Brock lay on the floor next to the bed, atop a few blankets Kat had tried to call a mattress. He
wore a pair of dark gray gym shorts that must have belonged to Nina’s clothing-deprived ex-
boyfriend.

“I can’t believe you don’t even have a couch in this place,” he muttered. He couldn’t see her,
because she’d insisted his “mattress” be arranged on the far side of the bed, opposite where she
lay, so that he couldn’t look at her while she slept. Like he was going to just lie there and stare
at her. Maybe he’d been a little too bold with his advances.
“Believe it,” she said through the darkness.

He was actually amazed by the whole bungalow—which was little more than a studio
apartment plunked down in the sand. Sturdy enough, with a cinder-block foundation and solid
construction above it, but it seemed way too modest a place for Clark Spencer, right down to
the 1970s dcor, complete with paneled walls and a Formica table and countertop. The only
element with any style or heart to it was the antique armoire on the other side of the bed. But
then, Kat had explained that they simply hadn’t gotten around to making improvements yet. So
he firmly expected the little dwelling would soon be bulldozed to the ground and replaced with
something much more palatial, and was only sorry he’d landed here before it happened.

“I also can’t believe you’re gonna make me sleep on a hard tile floor when you have a nice big
bed up there you could be sharing with me.” The floor really was hard. But his work had led to
sleeping in far worse places than this, and wanting to crawl into bed with Kat was admittedly
about more than saving him a backache in the morning.

“What part of engaged don’t you grasp?” she asked, her voice crisp and irritated, making him feel challenged. Because she sure liked shooting around that word, “engaged,” but her eyes
kept saying something a lot closer to “tempted.” Or at least they had before she’d turned out the
lights a few minutes ago. He wanted to find out what her body said in the dark.

“Don’t worry, kitten, I grasp it all right. I just think that under the circumstances, the guy
would understand.”

He sensed her sitting up in the darkness to snap at him, “Then you’re out of your mind. Go to
sleep.”

He couldn’t resist a quiet chuckle. For a moment.

But then he turned more somber, listening to the sounds of island insects chirping in the dense
junglelike area surrounding the little house and thinking about Kat getting married. He hadn’t
let it show, but he’d felt it in his gut when she’d told him. He wasn’t sure why—hell, he hadn’t
seen the girl in ten years. Probably just that little niggling regret from not letting her have her way with him so long ago.

He’d been with plenty of women, most of them hot, built, and skilled in bed. But the truth was
—whenever he was deep undercover on a mission and the danger started getting closer, creeping in around him, and he needed to escape to someplace better in his head for a few
minutes just to wash away the fear, he often thought of Kat. He could still see her in his mind, nearly naked and riding him. Except when he used that memory to push the danger aside, there
weren’t any panties, and he wasn’t wearing anything, either. They were back in that black
bucket seat that had come from his brother’s old Thunderbird, naked and moving together, him
inside her.