Tides of Passion (39 page)

Dear Reader,

Soon after the release of
Tides of Love
, I began receiving letters asking when Noah Garrett's older brother, Zachariah, would get his own story.

I had always intended to write Zach's story, but when I finished
Tides of Love
and thought to start
Tides of Passion
, I wasn't sure who could lure Zach away from his lonely, quite solitary existence. He was committed to being a father but had stated in no uncertain terms that he would never marry again.

And I believed him.

This character was definitely not interested in falling in love. Another hardheaded Garrett!

In an
allaboutromance.com
review for
Tides of Love
, someone mentioned that Zach's love interest would have to be a stranger to Pilot Isle; someone he would have instant, insatiable chemistry with. It was then I recalled a scene at the end of
Tides of Love
, where Zach is headed to the train station to pick up Elle's best friend, Savannah Connor.

At that time, I was living in Manhattan, and I understood Savannah (a native New Yorker, as you know) as well as any heroine I have ever written. I loved her strength and her vulnerability—and I realized she would be the perfect match for Zach, a man with a strong sense of decency and loyalty, but also a man who thought he would never find another woman to love.

I loved helping him find out how mistaken he was!

Happy Reading.

Tracy Sumner

Page forward for an excerpt from
Tides of Love

Excerpt from

Tides of Love

by

Tracy Sumner

Noah shaded his eyes and watched as Elle swaggered over the packed sand, her barefoot stride sure and even. In no hurry to reach them, she stopped once to skip a rock, once to stoop for a shell. The same girl, obviously. Head chock-full of mischief and frivolity. She waved at Rory and turned slightly, her stride faltering, sputtering to a halt. Her hand dropped to her side. The other tensed around her basket handle.

She hadn't known he was there.

Noah felt a moment's wicked pleasure in the face of her discomfiture. Hell, she had delivered enough in her day. He had left the coach house before dawn to avoid her. Her uncertainty made up for his lack of sleep.

With a resigned shrug, she swiped her curls from her face, smoothed her hand over her shirtwaist, and started forward. He couldn't help noticing how her dress clung in moist patches—a result of her poor gymnastic ability and her immodesty. Clung to her hips, the curve of her breast.

Look away, Noah.

He gave his spectacles a recalcitrant shove. No need to retreat. He didn't care how refreshingly undone she looked, how wet cotton clung enticingly to her body. Her hair lifted in the breeze, and she captured it between her fingers. Even in Chicago, few women wore their hair that length, just below the ear.

Noah preferred long hair.

When she got closer, he saw her skirt was tangled in her free hand, gathered above any point of decency. Trim ankles. Narrow, fine-boned feet. Creamy skin, he noted, before he forced his gaze away. Too, the years had eased the dappled preponderance of freckles.

"Such a surprise," she said, and plunked her basket to the sand, scattering enough to fill a bucket.

Noah frowned and scooted as far as he could without actually moving to a different spot.

"Thank you, Rory, for leaving me wet and floundering."

Rory giggled. "I told ya not to do the somsault."

"Som
er
sault. I agree. The first try was shoddy. Perfectly shoddy. Hence, I tried again, much to the delight of a group of fishermen sailing by."

Noah cut his eyes to her, his jaw dropping.

"Oh, Noah." She wrapped her arms about her stomach and laughed. The only other word he understood was, he believed, "fussbucket."

Fussbucket?
He moved to stand, sand squeaking beneath his heels.

She circled his wrist with a finger and a thumb, a gentle appeal. "Stay." She nodded to the basket, curls bouncing against her cheek, smile teasing her lips. "I've brought lunch. Enough for an army."

Yes, he could smell her lunch. He could smell
her.
Honeysuckle and a dash of something woodsy, like moist earth, thrown in. Still, even if she smelled ordinary—perhaps a shade better than ordinary—this woman was still harebrained Elle Beaumont. "I couldn't—"

"Yes, you could. You're too thin. You must be hungry."

Famished, in fact. A cold turkey sandwich in the train's shabby dining car had been his last meal. Still...

His gaze sliced to her feet, pink toes digging in the sand. Skin as soft as it looked, he would bet. Scooting over another inch, he stared hard at a flock of sanderlings bustling around a beached jellyfish. "I don't—"

She shushed him, so he sat. Completely bewildered, while she chattered and shuffled, unpacking enough food for her army of three. Slices of ham, four chicken legs, a loaf of bread, a small round of cheese, three pickles, two apples, one orange, and a jar of lemonade. The necessities: tablecloth, napkins, forks, plates, cups. Once she'd placed the items in an admittedly handsome composition, she sat, skirt bunched beneath her.

She handed him a napkin. He folded it neatly in his lap, yielding to the surge of relief to see her limbs adequately covered.

"I've brought dessert," she added, tucking Rory's napkin into his rumpled collar.

All at once, the males leaned forward, peering into the basket. A feast, a
child's
feast, lay inside. A chocolate bar, a bag of vinegar taffy, and at least ten different penny candies, everything getting mushy in the sun. Rory released a delighted whoop, which Noah silently echoed. He tilted his head her way, feeling a small smile tug, wondering if she remembered his sweet tooth.

A green-eyed glance, an impish smirk. He didn't know what to make of the teasing look. He had never known what to make of Marielle-Claire Beaumont. He remembered mischief and shenanigans, pranks and rough horseplay, accidental touches and a fierce desire to protect. Helplessly, he glanced at her blotchy bodice, doing its best to dry under fixed sunlight and steady gusts of wind. Sinking his teeth into the chicken leg, he tore off a chunk and looked away.

Same old Professor, Elle noted with little surprise.

Deliberate chewing, measured swallows, a leisurely sip now and again, his napkin swabbing the corner of mouth every third mouthful. He ate like an aristocrat, long legs folded gracefully, hand propped on the edge of the blanket, not a smack or a slurp slipping past.

From the corner of her eye she watched him pluck two apples from the basket and flip one to Rory, who scrambled to catch it, hands cupped. Noah polished his on his creased trouser leg and took a neat bite. Rory mimicked, then attacked with enthusiasm. They shared a smile and a laugh, mouths full of apple bits.

Elle dabbed at the vinegar pooled beneath her pickle. It rattled her to see them together, looking like a matched set. The square, handsome little face, the same stoic pout hardening the cheeks. She hated that look. Although she loved—
had
loved—both the faces.

In her youth, when one of Noah's dispassionate displays pushed her fury over the edge—had her fists readying to knock him off his polished boots—she would make the mistake of looking into his face long enough to see a spark of loneliness, or merciful heavens, grief. Which served to solidify her love like a clay pot in a kiln.

Jabbing her finger between her lips, she sucked the tip clean of vinegar. The scent of wet wool wafted beneath her nose. Wool? Ah, Noah's sweater. She glanced at him, found him staring at her, a pale gray assessment. She popped her finger from her mouth, her pulse hammering. As Rory hummed an off-key tune, a joyful, abstracted ditty, the world stilled. The sun beat down on their backs, the roar of the ocean a distant rumble. She wanted to know everything about him. Did he have a fiancée?
Juste Ciel,
a
wife?

She searched, trying to read him. She could do it if he gave her enough time.

With a muttered oath, Noah bolted to his feet, scattering sand across her arm. "Rory, how about a walk?"

Rory jumped at the chance and raced toward the water; Noah followed, a stiff-shouldered stride.

Elle rose also, her heels sinking into the warm sand. Her skin burned from humiliation, not heat. What did he think she was going to do, bite him? Of course, he
had
witnessed her letting the reins of protocol loosen a bit. Devil Island provided the one place she felt free enough to allow that to happen.
And,
she'd been trying to trespass in his feelings.

No matter, he was in for a blunt awakening.
Elle loves Noah
might be carved in every tree in the schoolyard, but that didn't make it an eternal decree. He perplexed her, that's all, and if her knees shook, the shock of seeing him after all these years made that happen. She stalked down the beach, determined to tell him what she thought of his haughty presumption. The nerve, the gall, oh, what she wouldn't—

Skirting a piece of driftwood, she halted abruptly. Two sets of footprints mashed into the sand. She cut her eyes toward the water. Noah and Rory hunkered near the edge, heads nearly touching. Before she could change her mind, Elle settled her foot in the larger impression, heel over heel. An incredible sensation—partly a tickle at the back of her throat, partly a contraction in her stomach—hit her with the force of a tidal wave. She swallowed, heart thudding, heat racing up her leg.

The smooth tickle to the arch of her foot sent a memory roaring through her mind. Running barefoot along the acorn-studded cemetery path, yelping as a sharp stem pierced her skin. Noah had stopped and offered his lanky back. She'd accepted without thinking twice and let him piggyback her the rest of the way. Accidentally, of course, and for just a moment at most, his fingers had brushed her ankle, circling it and squeezing. He'd stopped and glanced over his shoulder, and something, something blustery as a summer thunderstorm, had passed between them. Something that made him avoid her for two weeks. Two weeks of tears and tantrums because the day after the incident, she found him kissing Christabel Connery in the darkened coatroom at school.