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She spotted Roger and his wife chatting with a man whose back was to her. The guy was tall and wore faded cargos, while an un-tucked white T-shirt flapped in the breeze. He sported a ball cap so she couldn’t see his hair, though his skin was tanned a dark golden, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors.
A large bag was slung over his shoulder, and he held another smaller bag in his hand. There was something about the way he stood...
Roger and his wife waved to him as they climbed into their boat and—wait—were they leaving? Uneasy, Donovan grabbed her own bag and began heading up the beach. There was no point in yelling because A) she was pretty sure they’d be back sooner than later and B) the noise of the motor would drown her out anyway.
Roger’s boat reversed away from the dock, and before Donovan had a chance to run the last bit of the way, the boat was headed to open water and the man they’d been talking to turned toward the house.
He took three steps before he stopped, but it was two steps more than she needed to know exactly who it was. Even with the ball cap and aviators covering his eyes, there was no mistaking that chin and mouth or the broad chest and wide shoulders.
“What the hell are you doing on my island?” she snapped, picking up the pace and swearing a blue streak when her foot landed on a piece of sharp coral.
He tore off his sunglasses, staring at her in—wait—was that surprise? Shock?
His mouth tightened as a shadow from the clouds crossed overhead.
Her gut tightened because she could clearly see what was reflected in his eyes, and it sure as hell wasn’t delight. It wasn’t even close. Jack Simon looked dangerous and more than a little pissed off.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he swore, eyes moving up her body until he nailed her with a look that had her hackles instantly up. “Grace,” he practically growled.
Grace. Of course. Who else but a young woman whose heart had been broken, yet again, and who believed (wrongly as Donovan tried to tell her many times over)that Donovan and Jack belonged together. She’d obviously set up this whole thing, thinking that a romantic getaway would somehow kickstart an affair that was long dead.
“Shit,” she murmured, eyes moving to the small fleck on the horizon. Roger and Mary were so far out they’d disappear from view at any moment. She couldn’t stay here with Jack. No way in hell that was happening.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said turning toward the guest house. It was perched higher up, among a stand of palm trees. “I’ll just pack my stuff and when Roger and Mary get back, I’ll have him take me to the mainland.”
She started forward, marching up the small incline and ignoring the pain in her foot.
“Not gonna happen,” Jack said from somewhere behind her.
She froze but refused to turn around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Roger told me that he and his wife had a family commitment and would be off the island for three or four days unless there was an emergency.”
Three days? No ‘effing way.
“I don’t care. I’m calling him right now.”
Crap. With what? She didn’t have a cell and even if she did, she didn’t have a phone number for Roger.
“Not gonna happen,” he repeated. “Their daughter went into labor, and it’s their first grandchild.”
“Are you kidding me?” Hands bunched at her side, she swore a blue streak that would make a sailor proud.
“Unbelievable,” Jack said. “You haven’t changed one bit. You’re still a self-centered—“
“Bitch,” she finished for him.
The thing of it was, he was right. She did sound like a spoiled rotten child, but this was all about self preservation. She couldn’t stay here with him.
“Do you have the number?”
“I do.”
“Are you going to give it to me?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
