Hot Under Pressure (15 page)

“Sure it is.” The look Beck shot him must have been ferocious, because Winslow started backpedaling fast. “I mean, hey! It’s not my fault you and Skye have star-crossed lovers written all over you! And you can glower at me all you want, Mr. Tough Guy, but you know I’m right. There’s still something between you.”

Beck forced his shoulders to relax, his fingers to uncurl from the fists he didn’t remember clenching. “Yeah. Sex.”

Star-crossed lovers. Bullshit. Maybe this would shake some of the fairy dust out of Winslow’s eyes.

Leaning in, Beck raised a brow as Winslow leaned back, looking nervous. “Want to know a secret? We made a bet, Skye and me. Either way this goes, she gets her divorce. But if our team wins the finals? I get her. For one more night.”

See
, Beck wanted to insist.
It’s over. There’s nothing left between us but the way our bodies react to each other.

But instead of getting a clue, Win got the sappiest smile in the history of the world spreading across his face. “Aw! That’s so romantic!”

Stung, Beck sat back. “No, it’s not,” he said firmly.

“Okay, fine. But it’s a start.”

Beck crushed down an inarticulate noise of frustration. “It’s an ending.”

“Oh, Beck.” Win shook his head sadly. “God, straight boys are the worst.”

“I think we’re done here,” Beck said, fishing out a ten and throwing it on the low wicker table. “See you back at the hotel.”

“Don’t be like that!” Win toppled back onto his cushion and lifted imploring hands to Beck. “Come on, sit down. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

Beck stood up in a controlled rush, feeling his muscles uncoil gratefully after an hour of being cramped on the floor. “Nah, we’re cool. I’m just tired. And I kind of hate it in here.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for sticking it out so long, and entertaining me with your tale of woe.”

“It’s not a tale of woe.” Beck stuck his hands in his back pockets and looked down at one of the best friends he’d ever had. “It’s just my life, man. And that part of my life is finished.”

Looking perfectly at home lounging on a tasseled blue velvet pillow like some kind of pasha, Winslow laced his fingers behind his head and regarded Beck seriously. “What part? Love? I hope not, Beckster, for your sake.”

“Love.” Beck laughed, but the sound tore at his throat with jagged edges. “Jesus Christ. This isn’t some romantic comedy, Win.”

He expected Winslow to argue with him, extol the virtues of falling in love, take him to task for acting like he didn’t know what the word meant.

But Win just blinked slowly and smiled. “You know, we’re only going to be here a few more days. Maybe you should take some time to revisit the parts of your life you left behind.”

Taking a look around the crowded bar, full of chatter and laughter and the clink of glasses, sucking in a breath heavy with smoke and the scent of sweaty bodies packed close together, Beck suddenly felt an intense urge for fresh air. And that made him think of …

“What are you smiling at?” Win wanted to know.

“Nothing. See you around.” Beck hitched up his jeans and headed for the exit, still grinning, an odd lightness filling him at the thought of seeing a particular corner of his past, one last time.

Chapter 14

Beck’s worn leather boots skidded on the loose gravel of the faint path, and he shot a hand out just in time to steady himself against the rough trunk of a tall eucalyptus tree.

The whole area around Kirby Cove was covered in eucalyptus, cypress, and pine trees, and the fresh, green smell of them on the cool night air filled Beck’s lungs with welcome relief.

Picking his way more carefully, and glad for the hundredth time that he wore his old, comfortable boots in the kitchen rather than the more common leather or rubber clogs, Beck peered up through the enfolding branches and wished for a full moon.

This far off the official trail, he needed all the light he could get.

Finally, he emerged from the woods into the clearing at the top of the bluff overlooking the bay. Beck blinked away the sudden dazzle of the lights of San Francisco in the distance and the glow of the Golden Gate Bridge stretching away from him and out over the black water.

Something in his chest settled as he took in the view. He might deny it, he might hate it, he might fight against it and vow never to come back here—but no matter what Beck said, this would always be home.

A salt breeze off the bay got him moving again, pulling his T-shirt up and over his head as he clambered down the rocky embankment.

Now that he was here, he found himself in a hurry to get down to the protected inlet, hidden from the campground, where he and Skye used to swim.

Without warning, memories swamped him. Of that first night, the night they’d met, when he’d hiked through the forest after checking his highly illegal crab traps and found a beautiful young girl perched on a rock, like a mermaid or a siren, something out of the illustrated book of myths his parents had given him for his sixth birthday. The one with the cover falling off, and the edges of the pages all worn soft and rounded from constant handling and banging up against the other crap he hauled around in the backpack that carried all his belongings.

Shaking away the vision of Skye as she’d been twelve years ago—pale as the moon shining down on him now, her red hair a waterfall of curls over her shoulders, the soft, smooth curves of her body—Beck ducked a low-hanging cypress branch.

He slung his T-shirt around his neck, his boots finally crunching on the sharp gravel of the beach as he jogged around the last cluster of rocks and got his first real glimpse of the cove.

Their own, private swimming hole, they’d called it, and in all the times they’d gone there, they’d never seen another camper or hiker adventurous enough to bushwhack down to this little inlet and try the water.

Not surprising; it was dangerous to swim in the San Francisco Bay at the best of times—skinny dipping at night was crazy.

Only a lunatic—or a couple of kids convinced they were invincible—would dare.

Beck froze, staring out at the dark water in disbelief. Apparently, he wasn’t the only lunatic at Kirby Cove tonight.

A hundred feet away from the rocky shore, a white figure stroked cleanly through the choppy waves.

The compromised visibility made the distance too far for Beck to make out a face, but with a shiver of premonition, Beck knew in his gut who that swimmer was.

A quick recon of the beach proved him right.

Right there, piled at the foot of Skye’s favorite sunbathing rock, was a neat stack of folded clothes, topped by a stained white chef’s coat.

Whirling to face the water, Beck stared hungrily out into the bay, willing his eyes to sharpen. He had to see her. He had to be sure.

The swimmer paused mid-stroke and hung in place, treading water beneath the surface as she tilted her face up to the night sky. The sound of her panting breaths carried over the open water, as clearly if Beck were treading water beside her.

Wind kicked up around him, whipping the trees and scudding the clouds that had covered the moon away, shining a brief, milky light over the woman’s features.

It was Skye.

Beck flung his shirt to the ground beside her clothes, then went to work on his jeans.

*   *   *

This was dumb. Skye knew it was dumb. If any of her friends went swimming alone at night, even in a nice, safe pool, she’d whack them across the head and warn them about the danger.

Which was exponentially greater when swimming in open water. Notoriously treacherous open water, at that.

But she’d always felt safe at Kirby Cove … and besides, she’d needed this like she needed air. And chocolate.

This swim had been essential.

A mere hour of solitude, and she could hear herself think again. Everything seemed clearer out here, away from the noise and bustle and demands of her kitchen and crew. She loved them like crazy, but … sometimes
crazy
was the operative word.

Involuntary shudders wracked through her, cues from her body that this water was really too cold, especially when she wasn’t doing much more than hanging out and maybe it was time to think about getting out, thank you very much.

A noise, like pebbles shifting and rolling, sent a chill through Skye that had nothing to do with the water temperature.

Right. Because death by drowning wasn’t the only thing a solitary swimmer risked.

Heart in her throat, every muscle corded with tension, Skye kicked her legs furiously to turn her in place so she could see the shoreline.

The beach was empty.

Scanning the gravel bank for a hint of what could’ve made the noise she’d heard, Skye felt her leaping pulse begin to even out.

It was nothing. Probably a rabbit or some other harmless little animal. Still, the peace and serenity of the moment was broken, and she figured it was probably time she got dry and went home, anyway.

Reluctantly pulling toward the shoreline, Skye was just beginning to feel the good, satisfying tremble in her shoulders and arms from the workout she’d given them today when something touched her leg.

Still jumpy, she gave an embarrassing shriek and thrashed a little, even while her brain tried to convince her it was nothing, some reeds or a harmless fish.

But then the touch came back, and this time it slid from her knee to her thigh, shockingly warm against her water-chilled flesh, and Skye’s mind went blank with terror. Throwing all her strength into her stroke, she swam as hard as she could for the beach.

A familiar laugh behind her startled Skye so badly she nearly choked, saltwater burning down her throat and up into her nose.

Coughing and hacking, Skye whipped around to see water pouring in rivulets down Henry Beck’s handsome, smiling face and over his broad shoulders.

“You asshole!” Skye could barely see him, shock and adrenaline making her eyes water.

“I’m sorry,” he said, slicing through the water toward her. “But it’s been way too long since I snuck up on you like that.”

“I could kill you right now,” she snarled, wiping at her face and kicking her legs to keep out of reach of his long arms, gleaming bare in the moonlight.

“Aw, come on, that’s no way for a pacifist to talk.”

“You’ve always been a bad influence,” she told him, finally getting her breathing under control. She had to fight the urge to try and smooth her impossible hair down. It wouldn’t work, and she’d just make him think she cared what she looked like in front of him.

Which wasn’t true. At all.

For instance, she definitely wasn’t thinking about the fact that she was swimming in only her currently very translucent pink bra and panties.

Or that she hadn’t lost any weight since the last time he’d seen her in her skivvies … in fact, she’d done the other thing.

It wasn’t easy to keep afloat while crossing her arms over her chest, and she felt like a tool, so she gave up on that and concentrated on keeping her head above water.

Beck’s dark stare dipped to the water line, zeroing in on the plump upper swells of her breasts peeking out over the tops of the bra cups sticking to her skin.

“I thought you were about to get out,” he said casually. “How long have you been swimming, anyway?”

Kicking slowly toward the shore, Skye frowned. “About an hour, I guess. I don’t know, I came straight here after we left the competition kitchen.”

Beck followed her at a slow, deliberate pace. She couldn’t seem to stop sneaking glances at the swift, sure stroke of his arms through the water, the bunch and play of muscle in his big shoulders.

Closer to the beach now, Skye felt the mucky ground under her feet and started to stand up.

A sudden gleam in Beck’s eyes had Skye sucking in a breath and ducking back down into the water. “You complete shit! You just want me to get out so you can see me in wet underwear!”

“Never said I didn’t.” Not looking too pissed off at being thwarted, Beck flipped onto his back and floated lazily.

One good thing about being scalded with a furious blush … it took some of the chill off the surface of Skye’s skin.

“What is
with
you?” she hissed. “You left
me
ten years ago, remember? And after that last phone call…” Her voice shook. The memory of that staticky, halting conversation would be with her till she died. Skye firmed her chin and skewered him with a glare.

“After that, not a word. Not a single call, or postcard, or singing freaking telegram, Henry. You could’ve been dead for all I knew!”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

That was a solid hit, right to the gut. Winded and shocked, a storm of pain rose up and pushed the words out of her clenched throat. “Oh, fuck you, Henry. Seriously, just…”

Not caring anymore what he saw or didn’t see, Skye stood on wobbly legs and started wading toward the beach.

All she knew was that she had to get away from him, and the memory of those long months alone with her grief.

A soft curse and a splash from behind her was all the warning she got before a hard hand shot out and gripped her wrist.

“Skye, wait…”

“No!” Tugging frantically, Skye twisted to get free of his implacable hold.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

His deep, solemn voice drained the fight out of her. Trouble was, it seemed to drain everything else, too, every drop of energy and spirit the peaceful hour of solitude had given her.

Struggling against the urge to wilt completely, Skye swallowed hard. “It’s fine. You can let me go now.”

Beck made that inarticulate noise she knew so well—the one that meant he was frustrated, hounded by some emotion he couldn’t or wouldn’t express. “Not yet.”

Flexing her wrist against his fingers, Skye played her trump card. “You’re hurting me,” she said quietly.

He let go as if her skin had burned him, and she began picking her way back up the beach without another word or glance.

This was too hard. Everything with Beck … it was too much, and for a brief, horrible moment, Skye saw the dark, gaping mouth of the past surging up to swallow her whole.