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Did he really think he could melt away the years so easily? “A ni
ce guy for a dress designer, you mean.”
“You’re not provoking me, no matter how hard you try.”
She’d see about that.
He flopped down on the sand. “Okay, Flower, let’s have it out.”
The acid words churned inside her, all the rage and bitterness ready to spill out. But as she watched a father and son fly a Chinese kite with a blue and yellow tail, she realized she couldn’t say any of it, not if she wanted to hold on to even a shred of her pride. “No lasting scars,” she said. “You weren’t that important.” She made herself settle next to him in the sand. “And you’re the one who’s had to live with what you did.”
He squinted against the sun. “If it wasn’t that important, why did you give up a career that was earning you a fortune? And why haven’t I been able to write anything since Sunday Morning Eclipse?”
“You’re not writing at all?” She felt a stab of satisfaction.
“You haven’t seen any new plays running around with my name on them, have you? I’ve got a frigging case of concrete writer’s block.”
“Too bad.”
He threw a shell toward the water. “Funniest thing. I was writing just dandy before you and Mama came along.”
“Hold on. You’re blaming me?”
“No.” He sighed. “I’m just being a prick.”
“Finally something you’re good at.”
He looked her square in the eyes. “What happened between us that weekend didn’t have anything to do with Eclipse.”
“Come off it.” Despite her determination, the words spilled out. “That picture meant everything to you, and I was ruining your big opportunity. A nineteen-year-old kid with an absurdly misdirected case of puppy love. You were a grown man, and you knew better.”
“I was twenty-eight. And, believe me, you didn’t look like a kid that night.”
“My mother was your lover!”
“If it’s any consolation, we never did the dirty deed.”
“I don’t want to hear.”
“All I can say in my defense is that I was a lousy judge of character.”
Fleur knew her mother well enough to believe Belinda had made it easy for him, but she didn’t care. “So if you were Mr. Innocent, why haven’t you been able to write since then? I can’t pretend to see into the murky depths of your psyche, but there must be some connection between your writing block and what you did to that stupid nineteen-year-old kid.”
He came to his feet, spraying her with sand. “Since when did I get nominated for sainthood? Nineteen and looking the way you did wasn’t a kid.” He pulled off his T-shirt and ran down to the water, where he dived under a wave, then swam out. His form was as lousy as ever. Big he-man movie star. Bastard. She wanted to retaliate, and when he finally emerged, she unfastened her beach robe and let it drop. Underneath was the tiny tangerine bikini Kissy had bought her, and she made sure he got a front-row view as she performed a perfect runway walk to the water, planting one foot directly in front of the other so that her hips swayed. At the edge, she lifted her arms to fasten a tendril of hair that had come loose from the pins, casually stretching as she did it to make her legs look even longer.
She stole a glance out of the corner of her eye to see if he was watching. He was. Good. Let him eat his shriveled little heart out.
She plunged into the water and swam for a while, then came out and walked back to where he was sitting. He held her beach robe on his lap, and as she leaned down to pick it up, he moved it just out of her reach. “Give a guy a break. I’ve been working with horses for three months, and this is a nice change of scenery.”
She straightened, then walked away. Jake Koranda was as dead to her as the grandmother she’d never known.
Jake watched Fleur until she disappeared into the beach house. The beautiful nineteen-year-old who’d sent him into a tailspin couldn’t hold a candle to this woman. She’d become every man’s fantasy. Was it his imagination, or did that pert little butt sit higher than ever on those knockout legs? He should have given her back the robe so he didn’t have to torture himself watching her body in that ridiculous tangerine bikini tied together with those little bits of string. He could eat that bikini off her in three good bites.
He headed for the water to cool off. The guy flying the kite with his kid had spotted Flower as soon as she came over the dunes, and now he was backing into the water to get a better view. It had always been that way—men stumbling over themselves while she sailed past, oblivious to the stir she’d created. She was the ugly duckling who wouldn’t look into a mirror long enough to see that she’d changed into a swan.
He swam for a while, then went back to the beach. Fleur’s cover-up lay in the sand. As he picked it up, he caught the same light floral scent he’d smelled the night before when she was struggling in his arms. He’d been a real prick, and she’d stood up to him. She always had, in one way or another.
He dug his heels into the sand. The music started playing in his head. Otis Redding. Creedence Clearwater. She’d brought back all the sounds of Vietnam. He’d never forget kneeling on Johnny Guy’s lawn with her wet and sobbing in his arms. She’d ripped a hole through the wall he’d built inside him—a wall he’d thought was secure—and he hadn’t been able to write a word since then for fear he’d bring the whole damned thing crashing down. Writing was the only way he’d ever been able to express himself, and without it, he felt as though he was living half a life.
