They weren’t wrong.
He slipped off his helmet and steadied the bike. The bike sank slightly into the hot asphalt. The sun had heated the island thoroughly, but even the California summer gave ground when the rays left and the ocean breeze kicked in. Fastening the helmet to the seat, he bent down and started unlacing his boots. Maybe he’d take a walk, see where it led him.
He had at least an hour to burn before the rain came.
And he was in the mood to forget. He wanted to flirt a little. Maybe get to know the pretty beachcomber if she was interested. After the past couple of months, he needed a bit of sweet oblivion.
When he’d been in the navy, storms always meant trouble. Someone, somewhere, would need a rescue, the H-60 would go up and his team would hit the water. No matter how dangerous that water got, he didn’t leave until the rescue happened.
Except once.
Usually, he exhausted himself physically and then sleep followed. But lately the dreams had been getting worse, as if his mind was just plain done forgetting what had happened on that final tour. The pills the doctor had given him weren’t an option as far as he was concerned. Too many good soldiers went that route and never came back. That last mission had messed with his head enough—he didn’t need a chemical assist.
So his options were working his butt off until he dropped—which his injured knee protested vociferously—or finding himself a woman. His gaze slewed right to the woman in the bikini before he could censor that last thought. Behind him the cheerful noise of the island’s boardwalk picked up as the tourists toweled off or suited up for a predinner stroll. There were plenty of women around, checking out the beach, some scantily clad but somewhere, somehow, he’d lost the urge for a mindless, anonymous hookup. Maybe he’d feel different by the end of the summer yet right now, with his R & R stretching out in front of him, he just felt empty.
The ocean kept calling his name like always and he couldn’t imagine staying put. He shuddered at the thought of going all white picket fence with a nine-to-five job.
Good luck with that.
Before he could change his mind, his boots landed beside the bike and he rolled up the jeans. Since his inner stalker was anxious to get better acquainted with Ms. White And Crochet, he’d give in to temptation.
Take the chance.
“That’s a real nice sunset,” he said when he was standing behind her, because apparently, this was the night to trot out every lame line known to mankind. Hell. He was rustier at the social-skills thing than the newest recruit.
Her head shot up and she almost jumped at the sound of his voice, her hands getting a death grip on her canvas tote. As he got his first full-on look at her face, he realized he was in trouble here.
He knew this face, knew this woman. Danielle Andrews. His Dani.
Catching her elbow with his hand, he made sure she didn’t fall.
She was still gorgeous. Even more so than she had been the last time he’d surprised her on the beach. Then, the feel of her skin against his calloused hands had been like satin. She’d been everything that was fine, and he’d known she couldn’t possibly be meant for him.
“You startled me.” She stared at him and, yeah, his body remembered her easily, was already yearning for a second touch from her. Dani’s face was still all-American pretty, with her wide eyes and that shoulder-length, honey-brown hair. She’d parted it down the center into two neat sections, and he got the feeling he could run his hands through those silky strands for hours. If she let him. Her hands eased up on the bag some as recognition and shock played out on her pretty features, so maybe there was a little hope for him. He released her elbow before she got the wrong idea.
She wasn’t a stranger, but he had no business touching her.
“You’re still here,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. That was the story of his life, though, leap headfirst into danger. Of course, here he’d been too busy feeling sorry for himself and admiring a beautiful woman.
Standing there on the beach, staring up at him, Dani Andrews looked confused, as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted to haul off and hit him—or if she’d decided he wasn’t worth the bother. She certainly knew who he was. After all, she’d come over from the mainland and spent every summer at her grandparents’ place for as long as he’d been on the island. She’d worked at the ice cream joint at the end of the boardwalk, making cones, and he’d eaten his weight in ice cream just for the excuse to chat her up some. Those brown eyes of hers looked decidedly less friendly by the minute, her head already shaking back and forth. Or maybe that was the effect of the wind picking up as the storm offshore gathered steam.