Page 8 of Sucker For You

“Fuck, that’s good. . .”

Flushed, damp hair raked into a bun, breath minty, he emerged from the steam and back into the living room fifteen minutes later, wrapping a towel around his hips, whistling a Bobby Darin tune while wondering exactly how much Erin and Ethan would miss their strawberries, when the key he’d replaced under the eaves turned in the door.

Great timing.

Though he wouldn’t have minded if Erin had waited untilhe’d had a few minutes with the fruit.

Except—the woman stepping into the bungalow now wasn’t Erin.

She wore a white dress. The wet silk was transparent. It clung to her slender shoulders, the cold-pebbled peaks of her breasts, the divot of her navel, and her narrow hips. Mascara streaked her sharp cheekbones and her chapped mouth, and stuck in the silvery blonde hair that tangled against her throat. She stood barefoot with a pair of spiked heels and the handles of an overnight bag in one hand, the bungalow key clutched between the diamond-studded fingers of the other. She smelled of salt water. Gray as mist, her eyes were wide with shock.

Beautiful, anddefinitelynot Erin.

“Shit.”

Wes fumbled for his shirt.

And dropped his towel.

2

Stunned into stillness instead of screaming or running, shivering in the living room of Ethan’s beach house, Isabel stared. She tried not to, because her first impression should have been more than enough to inform an appropriate response:man, stranger, naked. But her second impression?Ink-storied skin, powerful shoulders and lean hips, a freckled tan alternating with the pale striations of a swimmer’s rash guard, sun-bleached hair pulled into a knot, moisture condensing on a stubbled jaw, bronze-ringed eyes dilating, before rapidly cutting away, hands grappling for a sliding towel—

“Shit!” He stumbled over a duffel bag and careened toward a reef tank beside the television on a credenza.

Water sloshed.

Her body moved without consulting her brain.

Dropping her shoes, bag, and the keys, she lunged for the aquarium, lunged athim—and yes, she preserved a few anemic spires of coral from tipping off the shelf behind the stranger, but only by running her momentum aground against him, her arms extended around and past his ribcage, her palms just making contact with the tank’s dusty, wobbling glass—andoh, his skin was hot—

“Ah!”

Lurching sideways, she nearly upset the tank a second time. She backed away. She struggled not to inhale, not to admit that dangerous heat farther into herself. Except the man waswatching her retreat, and when she risked a quick glance through her hair, even his gaze was too hot. He caught her looking.

Staring again.

He frowned. One scar-notched eyebrow tilted. “Who. . .?” His voice was low, deep with surprise.

“Um—I. . .” She choked.

“No, wait.”

Shivering, breathless, and dripping—but not coldenough, not even with the wet hair plastered against her skull triggering goosebumps down her spine—Isabel remained where she stood, biting nervously at her thumbnail while he disappeared through a doorway that must have led toward the bungalow’s bathroom. After cursing and knocking around in the interior, he reemerged with a terrycloth robe belted over his ink and sunburns. He tossed a duplicate robe to her.

“Here.”

Somehow, she caught it.

“Now.” He folded his arms. This time, both eyebrows rose. “Who the hell are you?”

Maybe she should lie. Lying would be a safe response to the situation.

Wouldn’t it?

Instead, her fingers fisted in the robe and she told him, “I-Isabel Wright.”

He nodded. “And I’m Wes Monaghan.”