Down & Dirty (Lightning 1)

ort and, besides, I can dial 911 with the best of them.

So I keep quiet as we wind our way down the 5, heading away from La Jolla at eighty-five miles an hour. Long minutes pass silently, and as we head out of my comfort zone—I’m definitely not a South County kind of girl—I can’t help wondering where we’re going.

At least until a huge bridge appears in front of us. “We’re going to Coronado?” I ask, a little incredulous. “Seriously?”

“I like Coronado.”

“Who doesn’t? But I can’t just go to the beach for the afternoon. I have to get back to work. I have to…” I trail off as I realize how unprofessional it would sound for me to start whining about how I have to go grovel to my boss and try to save my job. Not as unprofessional as kissing a client in the front of his truck, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.

He doesn’t say anything else as we head up the narrow-laned bridge. I try to remain nonchalant, but all it takes to have me clutching at the door handle is the car next to us swerving a little into our lane. I love Coronado but I hate, hate, hate this bridge. It’s a death trap just waiting to happen.

Hunter speeds up a little to get away from the erratic driver, but I don’t relax. I can’t. Not until we’re off this thing.

I’m trying to be subtle, trying not to show my fear—aside from the fingernails I’m digging into the armrest—but I’m pretty sure it’s not working, even before Hunter rests his hand on my knee.

“It’s almost over,” he says as we come around the curve and start the downward plunge back to land. “I’m sorry. It didn’t occur to me to ask if you were afraid of heights.”

His apology is about a million times more heartfelt than the one he gave me outside my office, and I feel myself melting just a little. I know better—of course I do—but there’s something about a strong, gorgeous guy touching me with obvious concern that’s an automatic panty dropper.

Especially if that guy is Hunter Browning, though I’d die before admitting it to him or anyone. “I’m not afraid of heights,” I tell him as we finally—finally—make it back to solid land.

He shoots me a doubtful look, but doesn’t say anything else. And neither do I. I could explain to him that it’s not the height of the bridge that bothers me. It’s the water underneath it. But that’s way TMI and I’m not going there, not now and not with Hunter.

Driving onto Coronado is like driving into some kind of private world out of time. The beaches are pristine, the houses immaculate and city ordinances prohibit anything as unsightly as the sign from a fast-food restaurant from marring the landscape. Home of the Hotel del Coronado, a famous U.S. naval air station and a lot of reclusive rich people, it’s got some of the most desirable properties in Southern California. But if he’s trying to get away from the grandiosity of the La Jolla homes we just looked at, this probably isn’t the place to go. Here on Coronado, having money—and showing it off—is pretty much a religion.

We make a few turns and then we’re driving down the Silver Strand, the main road that runs from pretty much one end of Coronado to the other. I figure we’re cruising toward Spinnaker Way—home of some of the most elite properties on Coronado—or maybe the Point, but instead he turns onto Ocean Boulevard and we head toward the older part of the island.

It’s midday, so traffic is light and it’s only a few minutes more before Hunter is pulling into a parking lot at the beach. It’s empty, the beach deserted on this Tuesday in early October. The rain has stopped, thank God, but the wind is ripping past us, kicking up sand and leaves and a few discarded aluminum cans in its wake.

Knowing he’s waiting for me to ask what we’re doing here, I bite my tongue to keep from doing just that. It’s hard, though, especially when he climbs out of the truck and gives me a “so, are you coming or what” nod.

I start after him, more than a little put out at this point. I don’t like being kept in the dark and I sure as hell don’t like being kept in the dark by a guy who has way too much charisma for his—or my—own good. Especially when my job, pathetic though it may be, is on the line.

He waits for me a few feet in front of his truck, then starts walking toward the beach. I follow him, keeping a watchful eye on the seething Pacific. He turns as soon as we make it to the sidewalk, though, and then we’re walking parallel to the water. He’s moving fast, and I have to scramble a little to keep up with my high heels and un-giant-length legs. I’d call him on it, but he’s obviously somewhere else, his gaze disconnected and far away.

We walk for about a half a mile, following the bends in the road. And then he stops, dead, and points to a house set back from the street by about a hundred yards. It’s white, with the bones of a house designed at the turn of the twentieth century. The yard is full of trees, one of which has a tire swing hanging from it. And while there’s a privacy gate blocking the driveway, it blends into the architecture instead of making the place look like a compound.

It’s beautiful and elegant and nothing at all like what we’ve been looking at. While it’s large—and is definitely worth seven figures because of location—it’s not a mansion by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe five thousand square feet, maybe six. Either way, I’m pretty damn sure there’s no candy room anywhere in the place. And no dance club, either, unlike the third property we looked at.

In fact, this house—and all the houses on this street—aren’t meant for celebrity consumption at all. In other words, “That’s a family home,” I say, turning to look him full in the face.

It takes him a minute, but eventually he looks down at me. And when he does, his green eyes are so filled with torment that it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to gasp. Not to reach for him. Not to try to comfort him even though, in that moment, everything about him screams that he is inconsolable.

I don’t understand. Hunter Browning is single, no kids, never been married, never even been engaged as far as the media has reported. And since the media reports everything about him, including what brand of boxers he likes to wear, I’m pretty sure I would know if he had a family. Or, more, if he’d lost one.

I wait for him to respond to my comment, and long seconds pass before he finally blinks. Before the agony in his eyes is hidden behind a blank stare. “That’s what I want.”

“You want that house?” Not sure why he needs a real estate agent if he already knows the house he wants. Especially since it’s not actually for sale.

“No.” He shakes his head adamantly. “Not that house. But one like it.”

I have questions—a lot of questions—but I can’t bring myself to ask them. Not now, when I can feel the tension radiating from him. Not now, when I can see traces of pain lingering in the shadows of his eyes.

Instead, I pull out my phone. Snap a couple pictures of the front, making sure to get the address so I know what to look up. Then I take a picture of a few more houses on the block, just for good measure. “You want a house on Coronado?” I ask, wondering why the hell we spent the morning looking in La Jolla if that’s the case.

“I just want to be near the water. La Jolla, Del Mar, Coronado. It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s fair.”