“I can‟t. I have to get home.”
He wondered suddenly if she had a man at home, expecting her.
“You are married.”
Her firm lips pressed together. Parted reluctantly. “Widowed.”
Ah. “Recently?”
“Three years ago.”
He was aware of a faint satisfaction, almost relief. Not that the existence of a husband would have mattered. The boy was
his. “Then there is nothing to prevent you from joining me.”
She sucked in her breath.
“Dr. Rodriguez, I‟ve got Caleb on line three,” her assistant called.
“Thank you, Nancy.” She took a step forward.
Morgan did not budge from the doorway.
Her gaze held his for one heartbeat. Two. Beneath the lemon fragrance on her skin, he caught a subtler, salty note like
panic or desire.
“Drinks,” she snapped. “Four-thirty. I‟ll meet you in the bar at the inn.”
Morgan shifted out of her way. “I look forward to seeing you.”
It was true, he thought as she stalked past him without a word.
Not simply because their meeting would bring him another step closer to his goal. He was . . . intrigued by her. Attracted
by warm brown eyes and a cool smile, by strong shoulders and delicate hands.
The years between were nothing to him. He had not changed.
Yet as he watched her walk away, her hips barely suggested by the shape of her coat, her dark hair bundled at the base of
her neck, he was aware of the passage of time like the beating of his blood or the rush of angel wings.
She was grown, changed, different. Better armored and more interesting than the girl who had sex with him sixteen years
ago.
Deep in his belly, he felt a tug of curiosity, a quick, hot coil of lust. How else was she changed? And what would it take to
persuade her to have sex with him again?
Liz adjusted the rearview mirror, smoothing on her lipstick with a trembling hand.
Oh, God. She met her overbright eyes in the mirror. What was she doing? She was not fussing with her face like a twentyone-year-old primping for the first date they‟d never had.
She wasn‟t that stupid. Not anymore.
Even if he was the most compelling man she‟d laid eyes on then or in all the long years since.
She jammed the top on her lipstick and zipped her purse shut. She just wanted to look presentable, that was all. Put
together. In control.
Satisfied with her rationalization and her appearance, she slid out of the car and locked the doors, ignoring her broken back
window.
The Inn at World‟s End was a sprawling white Victorian perched on the bluffs north of the harbor. Neglected gardens and
old, storm-weathered trees surrounded the spindled porch and rolling green lawn. The owners, Caroline and Walter Begley,
were transplants from Boston. Liz had already noticed that they catered more to the yacht crowd than to the islanders.
Which suited her just fine. She didn‟t need the entire island speculating about the new doctor‟s after-hours rendezvous with
some hot stranger in the bar.
The Reef Bar had a separate entrance off the crumbling parking lot. Liz tugged on the heavy wooden door, grateful for the
room‟s low lighting.
The Reef‟s walls were decorated with fishing nets and neon beer signs. At the bar, a couple of lobstermen in flannel shirts
and faded ball caps provided additional local color. The rest of the scattered clientele was a mix of pastel stripes and plaids, a
blur of tans and topsiders. The women wore white denim skirts and capris, the men salt-faded polos from L.L. Bean.
Alone in a corner booth facing the door, Morgan sat, his black shirt blending with the shadows, his pale hair capturing the
light.
Liz met that gold-rimmed gaze and sucked in her stomach.