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Just the two of them.
Alone.
Get a grip, she told herself. It’s only a friendly dinner. And certainly not a date.
Kara struggled with the urge to go home, but then Michael answered the door wearing a pair of jeans, a crisply pressed white shirt and a smile that reached the golden hue of his eyes.
He’d showered. And shaved. His eyes swept over her body in an appreciative caress. “Come in.”
Kara moved into the small cottage. A fire crackled softly in the living room, and the easy sound of something classical played on the stereo.
Just friends. Neighbors.
“Can I pour you a glass of wine?”
Wine?
He flashed her a warm, friendly smile, and she wondered if she’d made more out of the offer than he’d intended.
We’re just newfound friends having dinner. What harm could there be in that?
Dear Reader,
While taking a breather from decorating and gift-wrapping, check out this month’s exciting treats from Silhouette Special Edition. The Summer House (#1510) contains two fabulous stories in one neat package. “Marrying Mandy” by veteran author Susan Mallery features the reunion of two sweethearts who fall in love all over again. Joining Susan is fellow romance writer Teresa Southwick whose story “Courting Cassandra” shows how an old crush blossoms into full-blown love.
In Joan Elliott Pickart’s Tall, Dark and Irresistible (#1507), a hero comes to terms with his heritage and meets a special woman who opens his heart to the possibilities. Award-winning author Anne McAllister gets us in the holiday spirit with The Cowboy’s Christmas Miracle (#1508) in which a lone-wolf cowboy finds out he’s a dad to an adorable little boy, then realizes the woman who’d always been his “best buddy” now makes his heart race at top speed! And count on Christine Rimmer for another page-turner in Scrooge and the Single Girl (#1509). This heart-thumping romance features an anti-Santa hero and an independent heroine, both resigned to singlehood and stranded in a tiny little mountain cabin where they’ll have a holiday they’ll never forget!
Judy Duarte returns to the line-up with Family Practice (#1511), a darling tale of a handsome doctor who picks up the pieces after a bitter divorce and during a much-needed vacation falls in love with a hardworking heroine and her two kids. In Elane Osborn’s A Season To Believe (#1512), a woman survives a car crash but wakes up with amnesia. When a handsome private detective takes her plight to heart, she finds more than one reason to be thankful.
As you can see, we have an abundance of rich and emotionally complex love stories to share with you. I wish you happiness, fun and a little romance this holiday season!
Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor
Family Practice
Judy Duarte
To Bob and Betty Astleford, who gave me a strong, loving foundation that became a springboard to reach my dreams. You taught me the values I hold dear and set a fine example of love, marriage and parenthood. I love you, Mom and Dad.
In memory of Regina Ann Ronk, who blessed my life and my writing. Philippians 1:2–3.
JUDY DUARTE
An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy Duarte always wanted to write books of her own. One day, she decided to make that dream come true. Five years and six manuscripts later, she sold her first book to Silhouette Special Edition.
Her unpublished stories have won the Emily and the Orange Rose writing contests, and in 2001, she became a double RWA Golden Heart finalist. Judy credits her success to Romance Writers of America and two wonderful critique partners, Sheri WhiteFeather and Crystal Green, both of whom write for Silhouette.
At times, when a stubborn hero and a headstrong heroine claim her undivided attention, she and her family are thankful for fast food, pizza delivery and video games. When she’s not at the keyboard or in a Walter-Mitty-type world, she enjoys traveling, romantic evenings with her personal hero and playing board games with her kids.
Judy lives in Southern California and loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 498, San Luis Rey, CA 92068-0498. You can also visit her Web site at: www.judyduarte.com.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Chapter One
“Dr. Harper, now that your wife is in prison, what are your plans?”
Barely out of his black Jag, Michael Harper tensed his jaw, slammed the car door and shoved past a cocky reporter and a heavyset cameraman. Ever since the trial, the press continued to dog him.
Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? The whole damn mess was yesterday’s news, at least as far as he was concerned. He’d been cleared of any wrongdoing, Denise was in prison, and their divorce had been finalized three months ago.
“Just one question, Doc. Has your practice suffered because of the scandal?”
A camera flashed in Michael’s face, and he clenched his fist, fighting an urge to grab the photographic equipment and sling it to the ground. “No comment.”
He strode toward the private stairwell that led from the underground parking garage to his second-floor southern California office, hoping to shake more than the dank odor of concrete, gasoline fumes and exhaust. Why the interest in him? In his practice, his life? He hadn’t done anything, just been an unwitting victim.
The thought of himself as a victim turned his stomach, knotted his gut. Michael Harper, son of the Raleigh-Harpers of Boston. Distinguished graduate of Harvard Medical School. Renowned cardiovascular surgeon. His life had been charmed from birth. Perfect.
Until now.
Damn you, Denise. Michael swung open the metal door and slammed it behind him. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Sure, the whole sordid mess had taken a toll on him. His former wife who had also been his office manager had carried on a lengthy affair with a high-profile politician. That was tough enough to handle.
But she’d laundered drug money through his office, then made illegal contributions to her lover’s campaign. There’d been a thorough investigation, and Michael had been cleared of any wrongdoing. Still, the embarrassment was hard to live down. Hard to forgive. Impossible to forget.
The press continued to dog him, Dr. Michael Harper, who had nothing to do with any of this. Even those sleazy tabloids had found him a newsworthy topic. Apparently, the public enjoyed hearing about a wealthy surgeon cuckolded by a bad girl and a notorious politician. But quite frankly, he was ready to escape the limelight.
Forever.
When he reached his office, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. He wasn’t sure why he even bothered to come in today. Habit, he supposed, but it wasn’t necessary. Due in part to the depositions and trials, both federal and state, he’d cut back on his patient load until it was nearly nonexistent.
“Michael?” Bertha Williams, his office manager, asked. The woman had come out of retirement to fix the god-awful mess his ex-wife had made of his books. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Michael followed the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of an electric percolator to the break room.
In years past, Bertha had hovered over him like a mother hen, fixing him a hot lunch when he’d been too busy to eat or too concerned about a patient to realize he’d skipped a meal or two. She handed him a steaming cup of coffee, then eyed him carefully. “Did you forget to shave again? Or is that an attempt to shake your wholesome, all-American look?”
“Neither.” Michael stroked the day-old bristles on his chin, then shrugged. “Maybe it’s apathy.”
“Humph.” She clicked her tongue, crossed her arms and shook her head. “You’re looking bad, Michael. Not overworked, but under too much stress.”
“I’m all right, just tired of all the fuss.”
Concern simmered in her hazel eyes. “You’re a surgeon, dedicated to your profession and respected among your peers. I’ve seen you work with only an occasional game of golf as a diversion. It may have been enough in the past, but not now. I think you should consider a vacation.”
A vacation? Impossible. “I need a permanent break from the press and media, but there’s a host of reporters staking out my jet at the Santa Monica Airport. They’re just waiting for me to show my face.”
“You could take a drive up or down the coast,” Bertha suggested. “Maybe find a secluded house on the beach.”
Ocean breezes. Sunshine. Long, solitary, mind-cleansing walks on the sand. It sounded too good to be true. Michael shook his head. “I can’t even go downstairs to the parking garage without meeting an entourage of reporters.”
Bertha furrowed her gray brow and drummed her fingers on the table, then she brightened. “Take my car. It’s parked out front today. Of course, it won’t be at all like driving that fancy black Jaguar of yours.”
Michael smiled. He doubted anyone would expect to see him drive an ’89 Ford Taurus out of here. Maybe her idea had merit.
Bertha stood. “I’ll get the keys. Then I’ll check with Dr. Hanson about taking the few patients you have scheduled this week.”
“No, I don’t think it will work. I’d have to go home and pack—”
“Oh, pshaw. You’ve got a shaving kit and change of clothes here. And anything else can be purchased along the way. Michael, you need a break, if not a full-scale vacation. Take some time to yourself, and maybe then you’ll be ready to come back to work.” Bertha dug through her oversize handbag and handed him a set of keys.
Two hours later, Michael drove south on Pacific Coast Highway. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but as long as the press hadn’t followed him, he’d be content to watch the sun set over the ocean, maybe even try surfing again. He hadn’t taken time to relax in years. He hadn’t really needed to.
A small, nearly obscure sign identified the upcoming town as Harbor Haven. The name had a pleasant, out-of-the-way sound. He flipped the blinker then turned left. A haven was just what he needed, especially if it provided peace and quiet.
He passed several pastel-colored storefronts—Bailey’s Bait Shop, Connie’s Bookstore, and the EZ Suds Laundromat. On the other side of the street, he spotted a momand-pop grocery store. Harbor Haven wasn’t really a town, he realized, but rather a small secluded enclave.
Down the road, a sign advertised Campbell’s Seaside Cottages, and an arrow pointed to a side street on the left. Michael followed the directions until he spotted a group of quaint little beach houses, all white with latticework trim. Only a bright yellow number distinguished one from another. A pink, flashing neon sign hung in the window of the largest cottage and announced, Vacancy.
He swung into a graveled parking lot, empty except for two kids and a mixed-breed dog playing with a soccer ball. Carefully avoiding a small, sandy-haired boy and an older redheaded girl, Michael pulled the Ford into a parking space.
As he turned off the ignition, he noticed the Rolex on his wrist. Not exactly sure why, he slipped off the expensive gold watch and placed it in the empty ashtray. Today, he was just a regular guy who drove an old Ford. Certainly not anyone famous or newsworthy.
As he swung open the door and stepped from the sedan, the soccer ball came flying toward his feet, resting underneath Bertha’s car.
“Sorry, mister, I’m not too good at kicking yet.” The little boy’s soft brown eyes pleaded for understanding, and he pointed toward the broken-down fence that lined the back half of the parking lot. “The ball was s’posed to go over there.”
Michael stooped to retrieve the soccer ball, then tossed it toward the boy. The girl, wearing white shorts and a pink sweatshirt, struggled to hold the dog. When their eyes met, Michael did a double take.
It was easy to see how he had mistaken the petite woman for a child—but only from a distance. Up close, her maturity struck him as obvious, and when she smiled, her wholesome beauty stunned him.
The breeze stirred up the smells of salt and seashore and played havoc with her curly red hair, as did the sunlight, highlighting the color of autumn leaves and, for only a moment, reminding him of Boston. And the park where he had played as a boy.
She swatted at the springy strand that whipped across a lightly freckled nose. Large, expressive eyes, the color of the sea, enhanced a small, delicate face. She eased her hold on the dog until it lunged toward Michael with its tongue flopping. Snagging the bright yellow collar, she jerked the black overgrown puppy back. Michael wasn’t sure the petite woman could control the monstrous animal, but she did.
“Gulliver,” she scolded. “Behave yourself, or I’ll put you in the backyard.”
“I didn’t mean to spoil your fun,” Michael said. “As soon as I rent a cottage, I’ll move the car.”
“Hey, that’ll make you our neighbor.” The boy smiled. “I’m Eric, and this is Kara.”
He hadn’t meant to speak, to introduce himself. This quest had only been for solitude, a time to form a game plan of sorts. He’d toyed with the idea of relocating his practice from Los Angeles to Boston and hoped taking time off would help him decide.
When she flashed him a shy smile, warmth slowly poured over him, like aged cognac from a crystal decanter. And the words spilled out without any effort on his part. “My name’s Michael.”
Kara Westin nearly stumbled over the panting dog, but when she regained her footing and glanced into the amber-colored eyes of the man who’d just introduced himself, her heart jumped, and her breath caught in her throat. She wrestled the urge to gawk at the stranger standing before her.
Tall and broad-shouldered. Handsome, too. Hair, golden brown—sun-bleached, most likely. He had that lanky, water sport aficionado look. Jet skis, surfboards, sailboats.
Vacationing? she wondered. This late in the fall? The tourist season was over, which she found disappointing. A people watcher by nature, Kara missed the daily activity that provided fodder for the journal she kept.
She extended her hand in greeting before he did. “It’s nice to meet you, Michael. How long will you be staying?”
“I’m not sure. A few days, maybe a week.”
Kara eyed him carefully, trying to garner a sense of who her temporary neighbor might be. She found him hard to read. That, in itself, told her she should be wary. Her instincts about strangers had usually been on target. But this particular man wasn’t giving her intuition very much to work with.
“Where are you from?” she asked, unable to keep herself from prying.
“A couple of hours up north. I had some time off and thought I’d just travel along the coast.”
Kara, glad the dog had finally settled down, eased her hold on Gulliver’s collar. “Sounds like you’ve got an adventurous spirit.”
He slid her a half smile. “I’ve been accused of being staid and boring, but never adventurous.”
“That’s too bad.” Kara wondered how a man who looked to be the epitome of outdoor fun could consider himself dull. It didn’t seem possible. “Life can be tough if you can’t find time to enjoy it.”
“Kara’s just about the most funnest person you’ll ever know,” Eric interjected. “She’s always got a cool idea. She can make the yuckiest things kind of neat.”
“I’m not into fun,” Michael said. Topaz-colored eyes studied Kara a bit more intensely than she liked. It seemed as though he was trying to read her, just as she had tried with him. She found it unsettling until he turned and smiled at Eric. “I just came here to walk on the beach. Think. Have some alone time.”
And then Kara saw it, that glimmer of something in his eyes that told her more about the man than he told her himself. She recognized sadness, and although he’d only allowed her a brief glimpse, it was there. She was sure of it. Michael, whoever he was, had come to Harbor Haven to ease his pain.
Her heart went out to him, just as it did for every orphan she met—human or animal. Of course, she didn’t need to adopt another lonely stray into her world. Her time was spread a bit too thin, as it was.
When she wasn’t working at the Pacifica Bar and Grill and saving every dime she could for graduate school, she was helping Lizzie make a home for the children.
“Well,” she said, dismissing her analysis of the good-looking stranger, “Harbor Haven should give you all the fresh air and sunshine you need.” She pointed toward the office built on the front of Lizzie’s cottage. “You’ll find Elizabeth Campbell inside. She’s the owner.”
“Thanks,” Michael said. Then he strode toward the office, leaving Kara and Eric to their game of soccer.
“Okay, Kara,” Eric said. “Let’s finish our practice. What does the book say we need to do next?”
Kara smiled at the boy whose childhood had been interrupted by tragedy, knowing it was their commonality that led to their friendship and camaraderie. She, too, had been orphaned, but she didn’t have family to look after her. “I left the book on the picnic table. Let’s go read the next chapter.”
Eric dashed ahead, still favoring his left foot. Last year a tragic car accident had damaged his hip and thigh. The orthopedic surgeon said Eric might never regain the full use of his leg. Kara hoped he didn’t need any additional operations. The poor kid had been through enough already.
“Out of my way, Gulliver,” Eric said, as he tried to maneuver around the loping dog. “You’re supposed to watch and get the ball when we miss the goal. Only people play soccer.”
Kara wished she’d played soccer herself, as a kid. She hadn’t, of course, but the public library had oodles of books on sports, and she was determined to learn along with Eric. Instead of putting them at a disadvantage, reading and studying together had a lot of positive effects—the least of which was developing a close, loving bond with each other.
Eric, who had virtually no reading skills six months ago, was now browsing the library with enthusiasm. He saw education as a means of achieving anything he wanted, including fun on the school playground.
And that’s exactly what Kara had hoped would happen. It was her own plan of action. That’s why she struggled so hard to put herself through junior college, then on to a four-year degree. It had taken her six years to do it, but she’d achieved it without any student loans or financial aid.
As a child, she’d been a ward of the state for as long as she could remember, dependent upon the charity and handouts of others. But not any longer. Everything she owned, every oddball, mismatched piece of furniture, secondhand pair of shoes or outfit had been provided by her own labor. Self-sufficiency made her feel as rich and proud as a queen. And she would never take a dime from anyone else, never feel obligated to anyone again.
“Oh, Gulliver,” Eric said, as he and the gangly dog collided. The boy’s bad leg gave way, and he fell to the graveled parking lot and skidded on his hands and knees. “Ow.”
Oh, no. Not his leg, Kara thought, as she strode to Eric’s side, hoping the injury was minor. Lizzie hadn’t been too happy about Eric playing outside, let alone soccer. Too dangerous, she’d said. But Kara figured the woman was more concerned the courts would find fault with her and take Eric and his baby sister away. It hadn’t been easy for a seventy-five-year-old woman to gain custody of her grandchildren, but the boy’s heroism in the midst of tragedy had made him a celebrity of sorts.
Several televised reports and a heart-stunning newspaper editorial had led to an outpouring of support. Telephone calls to the television stations jammed their lines for days, and a slew of letters written to the editor of the newspaper demanded the children’s need for a loving family member to take them, no matter what her age. The judge, swayed by public sentiment, granted Lizzie temporary custody of Eric and Ashley, the baby sister whose life he’d saved.
Still, the guardianship Lizzie held was tenuous. Kara, having been jerked about within the system herself, knew firsthand how temporary custody and foster care could be. When it became necessary for the kids to have a more permanent home, she hoped the press would back her attempt to adopt the kids she’d grown to love. She had Lizzie’s blessing, but the court would make the ultimate decision. And at this time in her life, she had little to offer the kids except love.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Eric struggled to stand, tears running down his dusty cheeks to a quivering bottom lip. “That dumb dog—”
“Gulliver didn’t mean to knock you down,” Kara said. “He thought you wanted to race and play.”
“I know, but it really hurts, Kara.”
She scooped the boy up in her arms, then carried him toward the cottage he shared with Lizzie. “We’ll get you cleaned up and bandaged. You’ll be good as new in no time.”
“It stings, really bad.”
“I know it does, honey.” Kara carried Eric to the office steps, then adjusted him in her arms so she could open the door. “I don’t think we should let Gulliver play soccer with us anymore. He’s too big and rough.”
Eric blew at a scrape on his palm, then glanced at Kara. “But that would hurt his feelings, like when the kids at school don’t pick me to be on their team.”
Kara sighed. “You’re right. I guess we’ll have to figure out something else.” She knew how cruel some kids could be. Freckle-face strawberry. Raggedy Kara Ann. Don’t play with Kara—she’s got cooties.
Sometimes the sounds of childhood crept back to haunt her. She stilled them by remembering the kindness some of her teachers had shown—teachers like Miss Green who had shown compassion for a homeless girl by keeping a comb and brush set in her desk drawer.
Every morning, Kara would stop by the classroom where she could wash her face and comb her hair before the first bell rang. Most days, Miss Green would have an extra barrette or ribbon. The teasing seemed to ease after that, which was probably why Kara was still obsessed with cleanliness. She might not have any clothes that weren’t hand-me-downs or secondhand purchases, but she owned an array of soaps, body lotions and hair products that would put a teenage girl to shame.
As Kara nudged the door with her shoulder, Lizzie looked up from her desk. “Land sakes, what happened?”
Michael watched her every bit as intently as Lizzie, but she hoped to get Eric into the bathroom with as little fuss as possible. Things like this seemed to cause Lizzie’s already high blood pressure to skyrocket.
“Nothing that a little soap, water and bandaging won’t help,” Kara said, hoping to sound cheerful.
“But his leg,” Lizzie cried. “The doctors said to be careful.”
“He’s fine. Don’t worry, Lizzie. Sit down before you have a heart attack.”
Michael was at Kara’s side in a moment. “Here, let me help,” he said, taking Eric from her arms.
She appreciated his assistance, which would allow her hands the freedom to care for the wounds. “The bathroom is this way. If you’ll just set him on the counter, I can do the rest.”
Kara led Michael down the hall, but when he placed Eric upon the pink-tiled counter, he didn’t turn and leave. Instead, he carefully checked each wound. His gentle assessment surprised her. Most men had a rather macho side, at least those she’d met while working at the Pacifica Bar and Grill. An image of Jason Baker came to mind, a man who had once thought Kara should be thrilled that a guy of his wealth and social standing should want to date her.
Hon, she could imagine him saying, just rub a little dirt on it. It’ll toughen up that wimpy kid.
“Do you have any antibacterial soap?” Michael asked, pulling Kara from her musing.
Unable to spot any on the countertop, she stooped to search the cabinet under the sink where Lizzie kept bathroom supplies. Finding soap in a clear, plastic bottle decorated with cartoon characters, she stood. “You don’t have to help me. I can take it from here.”
“It’s no trouble,” he said.
She watched him work carefully, all the while talking to Eric about soccer and school, taking his mind off the cleaning of gravel embedded in his right knee. Then Michael paused, glancing at one leg then the other. Noting the extensive scars and disparity in musculature? Kara wondered. If so, he didn’t comment, which was good. Eric was self-conscious of the difference.
“You’re pretty good with fixing skinned knees and hands,” Kara said, trying to make conversation. “What else are you good at?”
He looked at her with another one of those unreadable expressions, then their gazes locked for only a moment, but long enough for her to feel a flutter in her stomach and a warmth in her breast.
What else are you good at? Good grief. Had she said that? It sounded so suggestive, and she certainly hadn’t meant to…
“I mean,” she said, “any other talents?”
“None to boast about,” he answered. His amber eyes never left hers, and the room seemed to close in on them.
Boy, it was hot in here. Kara blew out her breath. “Ready for some gauze and tape?” she asked, trying to still her awkwardness.
“Yeah,” Michael said, returning his attention to Eric.
When Eric had been bandaged, Kara reached to take the boy from the counter and set him on the floor, but apparently Michael had the same idea. Their hands brushed together, and they both jerked back in response.
Kara, her fingers still tingling from his touch, felt her cheeks warm. Darn that telltale flush. She didn’t want him thinking she felt embarrassment or anything else. He was a stranger, just passing through. And she had a lot on her plate these days. A brief—
A brief what?
For goodness sake, was she even thinking an odd encounter in Lizzie’s bathroom with a stranger was a prelude to anything at all?
She’d been reading too many romance books.
And if she’d learned anything at all, happily ever after only happened in fairy tales. It had been a tough lesson, but one she wouldn’t ever forget. She would never allow a Prince Charming to rescue her and set her up in a castle in the sky.
Kara Westin could take care of herself.
Kara carried Gulliver’s leash and stepped out on the porch, intent on taking her usual sunset walk south of the harbor. It had become an evening ritual, ever since she’d first moved into the Haven.
The quiet hour before dusk was her favorite time of the day. She relished the tranquillity as the sun sank low in the pink and gray streaked sky. It gave her time to think, to plan, to dream.
Resting her hands against the lattice railing, she watched the waves crash upon the shore. Sometimes, when things were really quiet, she envisioned herself on the deck of a huge ship, sailing across the sea to a land of plenty and promise. Kara didn’t have many possessions, but she did own a vivid imagination, something she found priceless.
A lone gull sounded in the distance, and she searched the horizon. Instead of the bird, she spotted Michael, her new neighbor. He sat, alone and pensive, perched on the rocks that lined the jetty.
Who was he? Why had he come after the other tourists had gone home? She wanted to honor his privacy, but to do so meant she would remain on the porch instead of walking barefoot in the sand. Perhaps she could wave, acknowledge his presence, then continue on her own. She didn’t need to strike up a conversation or bother him.
She stepped from the deck and strode toward the fence behind Mr. Radcliff’s house. Kara and Mr. Radcliff were the only two permanent tenants of Lizzie’s cottages. The elderly man had been kind enough to allow Gulliver to stay in his yard, since Kara’s house didn’t have a fence. Kara, in turn, fed and cared for the dog and kept Mr. Radcliff’s yard clean.
Lizzie thought Mr. Radcliff rather stodgy and persnickety, but Kara disagreed. Losing his eyesight had surely made the old man act that way. Besides, Kara liked to focus on the good qualities people had, and as far as she was concerned, Mr. Radcliff had plenty. He’d been the first to suggest a trust fund be set up for Eric and little Ashley. And he’d organized the Gray Brigade, a group of senior citizens who had besieged the local paper with phone calls and letters to the editor in support of Lizzie’s request for custody.
Mr. Radcliff was kindhearted, even if he was a bit cranky at times. Lizzie referred to him as another of Kara’s adoptees, which, in a sense, he probably was. Of course, Kara made it a point not to coddle him, but she did take him dessert some evenings. And whenever his hometown newspaper arrived in the mail, she made time to read it out loud to him.
After she snapped the leash on Gulliver, Kara and the dog took off toward the shore, a bit more quickly than Kara had intended. “Come on,” she warned the dog. “Take it easy. I want to walk, not race. And if you don’t stop jerking ahead, you’ll pull my arm from its socket. Then who will exercise you?”
Gulliver, apparently not the least bit intimidated by Kara’s threat, didn’t show much restraint as they neared the stretch of beach where Michael rested upon the rocks, one knee bent, the other extended. He seemed so lost in his thoughts that she doubted whether he noticed her watching him. Or whether he even cared.
He picked up a small stone, studied it carefully, then tossed it into the surf. The breeze ruffled his golden hair, and the sun glistened off a bristled cheek, making him look like an eighteenth-century sea captain who’d lost his ship and crew. Kara’s imagination took hold, and she envisioned him marooned on a desert island, forlorn and helpless.
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