bedtime story. Heat soaked the shoulders of her sensible blouse. She looked up at Morgan, the shape of his head black against
the bright sky, and everything inside her flowed and moved to the rhythm of the wind and the waves. All the muscles she‟d
used last night went lax, all the nerves woke and reminded her they‟d like to be used again.
He dropped a couple of towels from the inn on the sunlit rock.
She blinked. “You‟re not going to swim. It‟s too cold.”
“I may.” His eyes were opaque, his mouth a hard, flat line. “If it becomes necessary.”
Necessary?
She couldn‟t imagine any circumstances that would drive her into that water. Someone drowning, maybe.
He nodded toward the two craft beached above the straggling brown line of seaweed. “I thought we would take a boat.”
She felt a spurt of surprised pleasure. She hadn‟t expected him to plan a romantic interlude on the water. “You rented a
boat?”
“No.” He padded across the hard, damp sand and ran an assessing hand over the rowboat‟s upturned prow.
She expelled her breath. “We can‟t simply row off in someone else‟s property.”
“I am an excellent oarsman,” he assured her. He tugged off his boots, set them on the sand.
“Yes, but . . .”
His feet, she thought. Something about his feet . . .
His muscles bunched. She watched, distracted, as he flipped the heavy boat and hefted it into the air as if it weighed no
more than a canoe. Goodness, he was strong.
“I‟m sure you are,” she said. “It‟s still stealing.”
He turned. His smile revealed an edge of teeth. “My people do not see it that way.”
She had noticed islanders had a more relaxed attitude toward crime and property than people who lived on the mainland:
doors left unlocked, cars left running with their keys in the ignition. One of the advantages, she supposed, of knowing all your
neighbors.
But Morgan was no more an islander than she was.
Barefoot, he waded into the shallows. The surface of the water heaved and sighed, expanding in ripples around his legs.
Wet denim clung to his calves.
“Come.” He swung the boat down with barely a splash. Its bottom scraped sand. “I have something to show you.”
Her heart fluttered. It felt dangerous, delicious, to be doing something as illicit as joyriding in a borrowed boat. He made
her feel like a girl again, irresponsible, carefree, sneaking onto the locked grounds of Kastellet in search of adventure.
“I thought we were here to talk about Zachary.”
“We will,” he promised. “In the boat.”
She climbed slowly to her feet. “This really isn‟t necessary.”
“Yes, it is.” His eyes glinted. “Otherwise, I cannot be sure you will not run away.”
She laughed. Putting her hand in his, she let him lead her to the water‟s edge, leaving solid ground and her scruples behind.
The sea was the color of mossy slate, flashing with sparks like fool‟s gold. Pale green bladders of seaweed floated just
beyond the reach of the oars.
Liz trailed her fingertips in the cool, dark water, enjoying the surge against her hand, the tingle up her arm.
Tiny, sensory details impressed themselves on her consciousness. The rush of water and the rattle of the oarlocks. The
shape of Morgan‟s hands and the turn of his head. The faint gold glitter of beard by the edge of his jaw where he‟d missed a
spot shaving.
He rowed with a fluid, easy strength that sent warmth curling through her midsection. It occurred to her, idly, that she‟d
never seen him sweat. Not that it mattered. It was remarkably pleasant to be with him like this, to be gliding without effort or
destination over the sunlit water while he did all the work. A passenger instead of the captain, enjoying the ride.
She flushed almost guiltily. Not that that arrangement would suit her in her everyday, real life.
She pulled her hand from the water. “So, about Zack. I take it he was rude to you last night.”
Morgan stroked the oars. “We exchanged . . . words,” he acknowledged in that precise way he had, as if English were his
second language.
“I know he can be difficult.” She bit her lip. “He was very close to Ben.”