Tides of Passion (40 page)

Elle blinked and lurched forward. She halted just behind where they crouched near the water's edge. Windswept and sun-kissed, they created an enchanting picture.

Her hands itched to touch.

A warning sounded, deep in her mind. Gripping her damp skirt in her fist, she leaned in, intent on telling Rory they had to leave.
Now.

"There are two ways to determine its age," Noah said, flipping a bluefish in his hand. A ring-billed gull shrieked and danced nearby, begging for the pungent morsel.

"Deter?" Rory wiped a sandy fist beneath his nose.

"Oh. Tell. Two ways to
tell
its age."

"Is this one old? He's already dead."

"Well, growth rings on scales, or otoliths, would tell us." He tapped Rory's ear. "Otoliths are bones in a fish's ear."

"Fishes have ears?"

"Of course." Noah's lips parted in a smile as he leaned closer. "Have you ever chopped down a tree and looked at the rings to tell the tree's age?"

Rory considered for a moment, nodded. "Yup, once with my uncle Caleb."

Noah stiffened, just the tiniest bit, but Elle saw it. "These... these are the same kind of rings." He drew a circle in the sand, then another around it. "Two circles. The fish would be two years old."

"How old is this one?"

Noah shrugged. "I'd need a microscope to tell."

"Microscope? Do you have one?"

He nodded.

"Go get it," Rory said, and flipped his hand toward Noah's gear.

Laughter, deep and clear, rumbled from his throat; Noah bent from the force of it. "No, no. At the coach house. The rest of my equipment is being delivered tomorrow. Next time, maybe—"

Rory shook his head fiercely. "We gotta check this fish. I'm afraid he might be so young. A baby without a mother."

Elle held her breath. Noah arrested his movement to throw the bluefish into the sea. He brought his arm to his side, the stiff fishtail brushing his trousers. "No mother, huh?"

"Just like me."

Noah swallowed, working hard to recover from his shock. "I'm sure he's a rather old fish. A grandfather, at least, by the looks of him. I can take him home and check. If it will make you feel better."

"It will," Rory assured him, leaning close to his uncle.

They could have been father and son, two casts from the same mold. Elle sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Merciful heavens, how could Zach not realize the reason behind her fascination with his son? Her body overheated, neutralizing the nip of cool water against her feet.

Maybe he did realize after all.

The boys rose, Noah's hand clasping his nephew's shoulder, Rory making no move to shrug it off. When they turned to find her directly behind them, Noah took a deliberate step back, Rory an excited step forward.

"Miss Ellie, we got a grandfather! I'll tell you how old later." He waved the fish close enough for her to get a good whiff. She didn't know how old it was, but it had been dead a long time.

Pasting a smile on her face, she ruffled Rory's hair. "We'd better go. Your father will pitch a fit if we sail home in the dark."

"Do you want me to take him home?"

"I'm quite capable of getting a child home, Professor." She grabbed Rory's hand and tugged him behind her. Halting at the food-scattered tablecloth, she swiftly repacked the basket.

She heard him step behind her. "I only meant—"

"I know what you meant. I always know what you mean." Clutching the basket, grit biting into her palm, she shoved to her feet. Rory stood to the side, jabbing a broken conch shell in the sand.

He sighed and blinked eyes so pale the edges dissolved into white. His left eyelid drooped, resisting a return to its previous position. "You'd better go before it gets dark."

A sick shot of remorse replaced her fury. Caleb's fist
had
done permanent damage. "Yes, I've—I've got to get back," she stammered, stepping forward. "Come on, Rory."

Rory waved, oblivious to the tension crowding the air. "The micrascrap, Uncle Noah. I'll come by tomorrow."

Noah's shoulders slumped as he recorded their brisk departure through salt-crusted lenses. He felt tangled in knots, an absolute snarl. Looking at his nephew, he had experienced the first hint of love he had felt in ten years.

And, dear God, what had happened to his mother?

He glanced down the endless stretch of ivory shore, bewildered and forlorn. Kneading the ache in his neck, he retraced his path.
Footprints somewhere along here.
He stopped. The larger held another impression. Noah traced the toes, dabs in the sand the size of a dime, and circled the firm imprint of a heel.

He had looked back once—while squatting near the water's edge—and seen Elle placing her foot
in
something. At first, he'd guessed she pricked her sole on a pin shell. Then, the look on her face as she stared at the ground, frightened or confused, maybe even excited, cranked an idea through his mind. A fantastical idea. Impractical and silly. Perfectly, typically Elle Beaumont.

He outlined the mark of a feminine arch, drew his hand back when his fingers started to tingle.

He had never been able to understand her fascination with him. Summer heat and winter frost, they were disparate beings. He'd loathed her heedless nature, her inattentive squirming, her frivolous chatter. Laughing during church service, talking during school lessons. Tardy for everything. Most of the time, looking like a tomcat had spit her from its mouth.

How had she found anything to admire in someone as dissimilar?

Their differences, and his often blatant disregard, did not mean he had ignored her. Elle made it impossible
not
to notice. Sneaking into his bedroom; stolen apples crammed under her skirt, telling dirty jokes while perched atop a shell slab in the burying ground; gawking at him so often that Christabel Connery carved
Elle loves Noah
into every tree trunk in the schoolyard.

At twelve, her antics had embarrassed him. By sixteen, however, he had come full circle. Disconcerted in an adolescent way, yet speculating, for the first time. Why her eyes flashed in that impassioned way whenever she looked at him, what he had done to warrant it, and, if he remembered correctly, what he could
do
with it. After all, how many times had he seen her crawling out or dropping off? Landing at his feet or in his arms? Skirt billowed around her knees, a bare ankle, or bony shoulder flashing?

A healthy young man could only take so much.

He tipped his head toward the sun, calculating. It sat low in the sky, a flaming ball coloring the water cherry. Still enough light to cross the pass, but he would check on Elle and Rory after he sailed in, just to make sure.

Old habits died hard.

He glanced at the footprint again and nudged his spectacles up. He would have expected this nonsense from the girl with apples stuffed under her skirt, the girl who had made sure Christabel's gibe would last by spending an entire summer scratching the marks in deeper. What did it mean coming from the woman who flaunted surprisingly generous curves, ruby curls, and a plump bottom lip he could barely tear his gaze from? Noah dashed sand across the troublesome footprint and sank to his heels.

If Elle thought to tangle him in knots, he would show her he wasn't willing. He wasn't willing to let her read his mind either, even if he suspected her talent for it had faded long ago.

He entertained women out of necessity. Institute dinners, charity events, and alleviation of his sporadic pangs of desire. He didn't have the former to contend with and could live without the latter for a while yet. In fact, maybe he should tell Elle she didn't interest him. In the
slightest.

Noah watched the sun slip low in the sky, his mood lifting. He always felt better with a plan in mind.

Meet Tracy Sumner

Tracy's story telling career began when she picked up a copy of LaVyrle Spencer's
Vows
on a college beach trip. A journalism degree and a thousand romance novels later, she decided to try her hand at writing a southern version of the perfect love story. With a great deal of luck and more than a bit of perseverance, she sold her first novel to Kensington Publishing.

When not writing sensual stories featuring complex characters and lush settings, Tracy can be found reading romance, snowboarding, watching college football and figuring out how she can get to 100 countries before she kicks (which is a more difficult endeavor than it used to be with her four-year-old son in tow). She lives in Charlotte, NC, but after spending a few years in "the city", considers herself a New Yorker at heart.

Tracy has been awarded the National Reader's Choice, the Write Touch and the Beacon—with finalist nominations in the HOLT Medallion, Heart of Romance, Rising Stars and Reader's Choice. Her books have been translated into German, Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish. She loves hearing from readers about why she tends to pit her hero and heroine against each other from the very first page or that great romance she simply
must
order in five seconds on her Kindle.

Ciao!

Also by Tracy Sumner

Tides of Love

To Seduce a Rogue

To Desire a Scoundrel: A Christmas Seduction

Praise for

TIDES OF PASSION

Reader's Choice for Best Long Historical

Beacon for Best Historical

"A fresh voice in romantic fiction!"

~
Affaire de Coeur

*

"Terrific dialogue... and hot loves scenes. If you haven't read Tracy Sumner before,
Tides of Passion
is a good place to start."

~All About Romance

*

"Delicious and amusing... witty dialogue, sparkling humor

and a snappy narrative. A must read!"

~
thebestreviews.com

*

"This novel realizes with a great and witty gusto that independence isn't so much about being on your own

as it is about choosing to be together."

~
Romantic Times

*

Praise for

TIDES OF LOVE