Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

him then. From the ceremony. “You’re his brother.
    Dylan. The one who—”
     
    Went away.
     
    She’d heard stories. She was drunk, but she recalled the basics. How, twenty-five years ago, his mother had left the island, left her husband and Caleb and her infant daughter, Lucy, taking with her the other son. This one.
     
    “I thought you were older,” Regina said.
     
    He went very still in the moonlight. “You remember?”
     
    Regina snorted. “Hardly. Since I was, like, four at the time.” She plucked the wet silk from her breasts. She’d have to make a trip to the mainland now. There was no dry cleaners on the island.
     
    “Here.” A flash, like a white flag in the dark, as he pulled out his handkerchief. A real gentleman.
     
    And then his hand was on her chest, his fingers spanning the tiny gold cross that lay beneath her collarbone, the heel of his palm pressing the handkerchief right between her breasts. Warm. Intimate. Shocking.
     
    Regina sucked in her breath. Not a gentleman at all. Asshole.
     
    She knocked his wrist away. “I’ve got it.”
     
    Beneath the wet material, her nipples beaded. Could he see, in the dark? She mopped at her dress with his handkerchief. “What are you doing here?”
     
    10
    “I followed you.”
     
    If he hadn’t just groped her breasts, she’d be flattered. “I meant, on the island.”
     
    “I wanted to see if they would actually go through with it.”
     
    “The wedding?”
     
    “Yes.” He refilled her flute, emptying the bottle, and handed it to her.
     
    The gesture reminded her sharply of his brother. Despite the breeze off the water, her face felt hot. She felt warm all over. She gulped her wine. “So, you just showed up? After twenty-five years?”
     
    “Not quite that long.”
     
    He folded his long body onto the rock beside her. His hip nudged her thigh. His hard, rounded shoulder brushed her shoulder. The warmth spread low in the pit of her stomach.
     
    She cleared her throat. “What about your mother?”
     
    “Dead.”
     
    Oops. Ouch. “Sorry.”
     
    Let it go, she told herself. She wasn’t getting anywhere swapping dysfunctional family stories. Not that she wanted this to go anywhere, but—
    “It’s pretty strange that you never came back before,” she said.
     
    “You only think so because you never left.”
     
    She was stung. “I did, too. Right out of high school. Got a job washing dishes at Perfetto’s in Boston until Puccini promoted me to prep cook.”
     
    “Perfetto’s.”
     
    “Alain Puccini’s restaurant. You know. Food Network?”
     
    11
     
    “I take it I should be impressed.”
     
    “Damn straight.” Pride and annoyance simmered together like a thick sauce. She drained her glass. “He was going to make me his sous chef.”
     
    “But you came back. Why?”
     
    Because Alain— the son-of-a-bitch— had knocked her up. She couldn’t work kitchen hours with an infant, or pay a babysitter on a line cook’s salary. Even after she’d forced Alain to take a paternity test, his court-ordered child support barely covered day care. His assets were tied up— hidden— in the restaurant.
     
    But she didn’t say that. Her son and her life were none of Dylan’s business.
     
    His thigh pressed warm against her leg.
     
    Anyway, men looked at you differently when you had a kid. It had been a long time since she’d sat with a man in the moonlight.
     
    Longer still since she’d had sex with one.
     
    She looked at Dylan, lean and dark and dangerous and close, and felt attraction run along her veins like the spark on a detonator fuse.
     
    She shook her head to clear it.
     
    “Why did you?” She turned the question back on him.
     
    His shoulder moved against hers as he shrugged. “I came for the wedding. I’m not staying.”
     
    Regina quelled an unreasonable disappointment.
     
    So it didn’t matter how he looked at her, really. She leaned down to dig the bottom of her glass into the sand. It didn’t matter what he thought.
    After tonight, she’d never see him again. She could say anything she wanted. She could do . . .
     
    Her breath caught in her throat. Anything she wanted.
     
    12
     
    She straightened, flushed and dizzy. Okay, that was the wine talking.
    Loneliness, and the wine. She wouldn’t ever really— she couldn’t actually be considering—
    She stumbled to her feet.
     
    “Easy.” He caught her hand, supporting her.
     
    “Not usually,” she muttered.
     
    His grip