All she could see now was his face, his piercing eyes and tempting mouth.

He was close enough that the scent of his cologne mixed pleasantly with the water-and-sand aroma. His body was just broad enough, just muscled enough to make her feel sheltered, protected.

“I’ve been thinking of something else that might elicit a pretty good feeling.”

Better than what she was feeling now that he had her enfolded in his arms? She could only imagine.

But even her imagination wasn’t that good.

His head descended slowly, just enough to have her catching her breath. His lips touched hers in a whisper, like the barest summer breeze. Impatient and hungry for more, she came up on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to his. Their lips touched again, soft, slow. It was hard to follow his lead, but his firm grip on her said that’s the way he wanted it. She let him kiss her slowly again, just his lips. That small act stole her breath.

Touch of Fate

A.C. Arthur

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Once again I find myself in another place as I tell the story of Maxwell Donovan and Deena Lakefield. Visiting Hilton Head Island was like taking a long vacation, sitting on the shore watching the waves in a picturesque town. The scenery could not have been more romantic and what better place to start a love story as emotionally satisfying as this one.

As you may remember, Max has been around since the beginning of The Donovans—Love Me Like No Other (Linc & Jade’s story). He’s the supportive and loyal cousin who gives advice sparingly but is always there through thick and thin. Now it’s time Max faced the biggest secret of his life, and who better to do that with than the vivacious and spirited Deena Lakefield.

It is my hope that this story touches your heart the same way it did mine. When a different kind of hero finds his true love, I can’t help but be elated. And at the end of the day as I sit on the beach watching the sun set I can lift a glass and toast to the newest love match in the Donovan family and wonder who will be next.

Happy reading!

AC

If you don’t know where you are going,

You should know where you came from.

—Gullah Proverb

Chapter 1

June—Hilton Head, South Carolina

Sterile.

Never have children.

Weeping. So much weeping, it echoed in his mind like a broken record. He tried to focus on sleep, resting his mind and his body that had been through so much, but it was useless. Hospitals were meant for the sick, to give them time to rest and recover. But how was one supposed to do that when there were constant interruptions, like nurses coming to poke a needle in your arm or stick a thermometer in your mouth? And doctors who came bearing one bad diagnosis after another; and family members who rallied around like the support system they were meant to be, talking and soothing, praying and smiling through tears.

He hadn’t rested, not since the first punch had been thrown and he’d ended up on the floor in a corner, bleeding, choking, dying. But he hadn’t died, he’d lived and was now dealing with the repercussions that some would consider his fate.

A fate that had destroyed the part of his future that had meant the most to him.

With sweat pouring from his face, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, Maxwell Donovan shot straight up in his bed. Sheets twisted around his slim waist, tangling between his legs, enough to cover his nudity and restrain the wild kicking that often accompanied his nightmares.

He was wide awake now. The dream allowed for nothing else. His first inclination was to work so he’d retrieved his laptop from its case on the small desk in the corner of the room. Dragging his hands down his face he took deep breaths while waiting for the computer to boot up.

They were back. The dreams. No, the nightmares.

For months, almost a year, they’d disappeared. He’d been sleeping just fine, living even better.

Donovan Investments, Inc., the real estate investment business he’d gone into with his partner and cousin, Adam Donovan, seven years ago was thriving. In the past year they’d made over ten purchases and resales, almost tripling their profit from the year before. Sure, the country was in a recession and new home mortgages were on the downslide—even with President Obama’s new home buyers tax credit—the fact still remained that people generally paid for what they wanted and begged for what they needed. Meaning, people who wanted larger homes or better-looking business offices were still in the buying market. Now, five to ten years from now would they be able to afford the decisions they’d made in the past year? Max didn’t have the answer to that, nor did he spend too many nights trying to figure it out. He wasn’t in the lending business.

Through their company he and Adam searched for viable properties, most often through estates and word of mouth. They refurbished the properties then sold them for a larger profit. What set them apart from the proverbial house flippers seen on television reality shows was that they didn’t work in residential real estate. Office buildings, retail spaces and, now, resorts were where they concentrated their efforts.

And those efforts were paying off, he and Adam, along with their seventy-five-person staff, were making a more than comfortable living at their jobs. Business was good, so for Max that meant life was good.

Then everything in the Donovan family began to go haywire.

His generation of Donovan men, who were self-proclaimed “not the marrying type” for various reasons, were now getting hitched and starting families. His three cousins, Lincoln, Trent and Adam, had all taken the plunge. Linc and his wife, Jade, now had twin girls, while Trent and his wife of six months, Tia, had already welcomed a little boy into their family. Adam and his wife, Camille, were embarking on two exciting events—Camille’s fashion design company had expanded globally and they were now in Rome where her first international show was about to take place. And, as if that weren’t enough, Camille was seven months pregnant with their first child. Hence the reason Max was here in Hilton Head, South Carolina, looking over the faltering Sandy Pines Resort.

Pulling up his email he saw the one from his mother and had to smile.

Alma Donovan was another big part of the reason he was here and not Adam. It was her connection to this particular land in Hilton Head that first alerted Max and Adam to the prospect. The land northeast of US 278, or William Hilton Parkway, nestled along Broad Creek, between the Wexford and Long Cove Plantations, had belonged to Alma’s great-great-grandfather, Eustis Johnson. It was said that the money Eustis earned as a result of being one of the first black soldiers in the Union troop during the Civil War had allowed him to buy the land on Hilton Head Island, the island that once consisted almost entirely of African-Americans with deep historic roots. Hilton Head began its transformation into an almost all-white, upscale golf, tennis and shopping mecca in the late 1950s. Therefore, the land had gone from owner to owner, mostly staying within the Johnson family. It was with the passing of Alma’s third cousin that it had finally fallen into Alma’s name. And she wanted her son to make something of their legacy, something she and the rest of the Johnsons could be proud of.

So far, Max wasn’t impressed with what was being called the Sandy Pines Resort. He’d only been here two days but his first impression was that the previous owner had tried to compete with the existing gated communities around Hilton Head and failed dismally. Probably because of money.

Nina, Max’s assistant at his office back in Las Vegas, had done some research prior to his departure and emailed him all the information on the island he needed. Bypassing his mother’s email, he pulled up Nina’s and opened some of the files she’d sent. Hilton Head’s transformation was due partly to money—that wasn’t surprising. Developers with high ideas and deep pockets had invaded the all-but-forgotten island, getting a return on their investment that probably surpassed their wildest dreams.

The question for Max was did Donovan Investments repeat what had been working for so long on this prosperous island? Or should they do what they always did—break all the rules to come out on top?

That put him back to the meeting he had just before leaving Vegas. The one that Alma called with him and Adam.

“I want you boys to do this right,” she’d said the moment they both sat down at the conference table in their office.

She’d worn a business suit, which was usually what his mother wore; whether it be pants or a skirt, she was always ready for business. You’d never guess she’d been a housewife most of her fifty-five years. She had earned a BA in Business a year before marrying Everette Donovan. But since Everette was a third partner, along with two of his brothers, in this generation of the Donovan oil legacy, there had been no need for Alma to take her degree further. Or at least that’s what Everette first thought. After settling into marriage and having two sons, Max and Benjamin, separated by two years, Alma began to work a little here and there at home. Her work consisted mainly of helping Everette with his business dealings. After Max and Ben finished college and moved out of their family home in Nevada she’d teamed up with her sister-in-law, Beverly Donovan, making sure the Donovan name still had clout in the area of philanthropy. Between the two of them they had several charities going, along with their own foundation for women. And now, so it seemed, another pet project for Alma.

“You’re good at what you do, there’s no doubt about that or I wouldn’t trust this to you. But I want you to know exactly what I envision before you go any further.”

Adam tossed Max a questioning look that Max knew better than to return. When his mother was about business there was no playing involved. Adam, for whatever reason, acted like he’d forgotten that.

“So tell us about this project, Mom,” he’d said in his most professional voice, pulling out his legal pad and pen, prepared to take notes. That’s what he would have done at any other meeting, only this wasn’t any other meeting. Very rarely did he and Adam have clients come to them with a property they wanted to refurbish and keep. So he was all ears to his mother’s plan. At least for the moment.

“You’ve been to the island before, Max. Your father and I took you and Ben a couple of times when you were younger. That’s when Aunt Jocenda had the place. Then her crazy twin sister got it after Jocenda died in that plane crash. Jessa was always a bit touched but her parents never wanted to admit it.”

“So there was a crazy woman running this … what? A bed-and-breakfast on Hilton Head Island?” Adam questioned. “That sounds like a plot point in a horror novel.” He chuckled.

“You’re still the most playful of Beverly’s boys,” Alma said with a half grin. “I thought when Camille married you, you’d settle it down a little. I guess she hasn’t gotten that far yet.”

Adam was already shaking his head. “Camille loves to laugh. I like to oblige her when I can. But seriously, Aunt Alma, what is it you think we can do with this place? And why us? If you already own the property you could just hire contractors to refurbish the place for you. Then you could hire staff to run it, make an income off it for yourself. You don’t really need to get us involved.” He shrugged.

“Oh, but I do,” she said, pulling out a folder full of old photos. “This is what the house looked like when I was a little girl.”

Adam took a few pictures then slid some to Max. He looked down at what struck him as a house right out of history. Big, palatial, like an old Southern plantation. Wraparound porch, miles of grass, big magnolia trees lining the walkway. He was instantly taken back to a time and place before he was born, when African Americans didn’t have the right to read, much less own a house of this magnitude.

“And you say your great-great-grandfather, Eustis, owned this house and this land. Was this documented?” he asked.

“Of course it was documented, Maxwell. Don’t act like we’re thieves or liars. Because we’re not. I come from much more dignified stock than that.”

Justly scorned, Max nodded. “Okay, so the land is legally yours now. Does the house still look like this?”

“Somewhat, but not really. Jessa had the idea that she could change the house into a resort like the other big ones down in Hilton Head now, but she failed. Just like she failed in everything else she did.”

“Because she didn’t have enough money,” Adam guessed.

“That and because she didn’t have a lick of sense. You can’t run a resort if half the occupants are no-good drunks out to use you for the little bit you have. Jessa was always being used. I suspect because everybody could see she didn’t have it all going on upstairs,” Alma said, tapping a finger against her temple. “Anyway, that’s all done. The good Lord saw fit to carry Jessa on home with the rest of her family. Now, it’s in my hands and I’m so thankful that I’ve been blessed enough in my lifetime to be able to do it right.”

“You want to keep it as a resort?” Max asked, thinking he could see where his mother was going with this.

“That’s right.” Alma nodded. “But I want it to look like this again,” she said, pointing to the pictures in front of them.

“There’s acres and acres of land here, Aunt Alma. Do you want to build on some additions? Increase the number of guests that can be accommodated?”

“No, I want it to remain exactly the same size. I think it’s about ten rooms as it stands now, upstairs and down, not including living quarters for the staff.”

“The staff doesn’t have to live there. They can live elsewhere on the island, increasing the rooms to be rented out,” Max said but Alma was already shaking her head.

“No, I want it like it was when I used to go as a little girl. There was always somebody in that big house. People who took care of it all the time, faces I’d seen so much I thought they were related as well. They lived there so it made it all the more important to take good care of the space. And it was a home away from home. Not a hotel. Everybody felt comfortable there. We had breakfasts together in the big dining room, lunch usually out on the porch. Dinner back in the dining room. It was all timed and respected. The land was always well tended. Nice green grass, bright white magnolias and lots and lots of flowers in the gardens around back. The children had space to play while the grown-ups tended to their business. It was like a haven away from the rest of the world. That’s what I want to give vacationers. Not golf and yachting or expensive shops and boutiques. I want to give them some old Southern comfort.”

Max sighed as he remembered the conversation. Looking around the room at the peeling paint and ragged wood planked floors he rubbed his neck. Bringing his mother’s dream into this reality was going to be tough. But they could do it. She believed in him and Adam—in the business they had built. So much so she’d given them free reign and a limitless budget to get the project done.

So Max was determined to do just that. No matter how much his nightmares haunted him.

She’d messed up again.

That’s what her family would say.

Deena Lasharon Lakefield propped her feet onto the balcony railing and sat back in her chair. The warm South Carolina air massaged her skin as she closed her eyes, ticking off the events of the past week.

Reviews for her first romance novel, Until Tomorrow, were flooding in and were all good. She was a success, or at least her story was with the readers. Financially, her editor had advised she’d have to wait a couple months to see how sales went. But Deena was optimistic, always.

She deserved a vacation. Her older sister, Monica, had dutifully made the observation that Deena’s entire life was a vacation. Even more according to duty, Deena ignored her.

In Monica’s eyes, Deena was the immature sister, the careless and carefree one. So there was no surprise that every opportunity she had Monica was reprimanding her for something. But even if Deena tried to be more like her older sister—which she definitely did not because the world didn’t need another coldhearted workaholic woman mad at the entire male species—it just wouldn’t work. Deena wasn’t cut out to be a businesswoman. Her talent was to create.

As for her other sister, Karena, Deena admired her strength and her latest decision to cut down on some of her work hours and enjoy life. That could be due to the very handsome Sam Desdune, who’d worn Karena and her misguided ideas about relationships down.

In the supermarket she’d seen a brochure tacked onto the community board. She’d taken it down because she loved the scene of an old Southern plantation boasting sandy beaches, cool water and relaxation from the moment she stepped onto the grounds. It had taken her another hour to get home and book her room. The next day she was packed and heading to the airport.

Now she was here, sitting on the porch and for all intents and purposes enjoying the Southern air and relaxing.

It was only when she opened her eyes to see the poor conditions of her room and the sad state of the grounds at Sandy Pines Resort that she began to rethink her decision in coming here.

It wasn’t so rundown that she couldn’t stay. Truth be told, the place had potential. It just didn’t look well maintained. But her sheets were clean, the food was good and there was a pool that she could use twenty-four hours a day. There weren’t many guests so she had plenty of peace and quiet to work on her next book. All in all, Deena would say it was working out well. Despite the discrepancies in the brochure and what Sandy Pines actually was.

To take her mind off the resort and her sisters, Deena decided to run herself a bath. Afterward, she lay in the king-size bed staring up at the ceiling, sleep successfully evading her. After about an hour of this she’d sighed and climbed out of the bed. Either she could work until she fell asleep or she could go for a swim. She decided to do both, in a roundabout way.

Plotting the great romantic love affair was a hell of a lot easier than experiencing one of her own, she thought as she padded down the wrought iron stairs on the back side of the big house. That’s why she wrote fantastic love stories and took her own love life for what it was—good for the moment. Did she want the same happily ever after she wrote about? Of course she did, but she wasn’t about to spend every waking moment searching for it.

Dropping her towel and room key onto one of the lounge chairs she stepped out of her shoes. It was a quiet night, the sky above was dark, yet calm and welcoming. The air was balmy with a slight breeze as she shrugged out of her robe and walked toward the water. Monica would put a toe in to test the temperature. Karena would probably sit on the side with her feet fully submerged first until she felt comfortable. Deena just jumped in.

That’s how she did most things in her life. Made a decision and went for it. Some would call that impulsive. Her father called it irresponsible. Deena figured there was no other way to be and so far it was working just fine.

The water had a slight chill to it, but it didn’t bother her as she swam from one end to the other. It was refreshing, cutting through the water as sleek as a fish, her mother would say. Each stroke had her mind emptying of where she was, or any of the other issues that plagued her life. All she could think about now was Joanna, the heroine in her new book.

Joanna was looking for love. Not desperately looking, but hoping it would come sooner rather than later. She was twenty-eight, the same age as Deena, and had never really been in love. Of course, Joanna had boyfriends and fell in lust a couple of times but she was certain that love had never resided in her heart for a man.

They say new authors write what they know. This was not the case for Deena. She could write about falling in love, write about lasting and satisfying relationships, but had yet to find one of her own. There was irony in that somewhere, only she didn’t see it right now.

Instead she envisioned the perfect man for Joanna.

Tall, surpassing six feet. Good looking was a given, drop-dead gorgeous an added bonus. More importantly, he had to be compassionate and love life as much as Joanna did. He had to appreciate and support her or their life together would never work. Success and money didn’t matter that much to Deena, much to her father’s consternation. But this was a romance novel so he’d have a steady job and be a basically good guy.

With each stroke Deena thought more and more about creating Joanna’s hero, so much so that she had to pause … was she thinking about the perfect man for Joanna or the perfect man for herself?

Max’s mind was on a snack. As he was on the steps that creaked when you walked down, inhaling the stuffy humid air walking through the house, in his head he ticked off an endless list of changes as he moved into the large kitchen and flicked on the light.

He didn’t expect what he saw.

A butterfly, full-colored wings and lavish detail, drawn on skin the exact color of a milk chocolate bar.

On impulse his body tightened with arousal.

But when she turned around, smiled and said, “Hello,” all the air deflated from his lungs, his mouth momentarily going dry.

“Hello,” he finally managed when he realized he was standing like a mute.

“I was just getting a glass of water,” she said then turned back to the cupboard where she was reaching for a glass.

They were on the highest shelf and he thought, thank you, Lord, as the hip-riding shorts she wore over her bathing suit bottom didn’t reach upward with the rest of her body. The butterfly he’d first noticed, which was strategically located just above her buttocks, was again noticeable.

He could hear his cousin Trent saying now, “There’s nothing hotter than a tramp stamp.” That’s what tattoos in this particular location on a female were called. And right about now, no matter how rare an occasion it was that he actually agreed with Trent, Max felt his cousin’s words were the honest truth.

Not only was this tattoo hot, but the tight little body it was attached to was pretty damn spectacular as well. She wasn’t tall, maybe five feet four inches. But she was shaped like a woman definitely familiar with a gym. He noted her toned legs and well-defined arms. Her bottom was tight and round and his mouth was watering.

Clearing his throat, Max reminded himself that he was thirty-five years old, not sixteen.

“It’s late,” he said finally.

She was turning on the faucet, sticking the glass she’d retrieved from the cabinet beneath it. Turning back to face him, she folded one arm over flat abs left bare by the bikini top she wore. Lifting the glass to her mouth she gave him a quizzical look. “I know. Couldn’t sleep. Since you’re standing down here with me at this late hour I have to conclude that you can’t either.”

“True,” he responded with a nod. “How long have you been here? At the resort I mean, not in the kitchen?”

She smiled and Max thought maybe the sun was coming out early.

“Just a couple of days. I’m Deena Lakefield,” she said offering her free hand to him.

Closing the distance between them, he took her extended hand. Petite would seem like the right word for her. Still, he had an idea there was much more to her than her slight size.

“Max Donovan. I’ve been here a couple days, too. Wonder why we haven’t met before now.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been working a lot from my room.”

“What type of work do you do?”

She paused, like she was considering her answer, then with a tilt of her head said, “I’m a writer.”

“Really?” He would have placed her in media or something where she could talk and smile. It seemed she liked to do both. He liked to see and hear her do both. “What do you write?”

Her brown eyes brightened, her grin going from cordially nice to sensually soft. “Romance,” she said, her voice lowering slightly. “Know anything about that subject, Max Donovan?”

Chapter 2

Was she flirting with him?

Of course she was. He was, hands down, the finest man she’d ever seen. And because she’d gotten into boys early—at around ten was when she had started noticing the opposite sex—she’d seen her fair share of good-looking men.

But this man was like a walking god. All right, that was probably cliché, she’d blame that on the romance writer’s mind. Still, she couldn’t argue the facts.

He was tall—damn, she loved tall men—over six feet, like a good couple of inches above it, she concluded. His skin was the color of melted caramel, his eyes some dreamy toss-up between green and gray. It was hard to tell in this kitchen with the not-so-great lighting. He was muscled and sculpted and just basically existing as if he were meant to be painted, put in a frame and thoroughly enjoyed. His hair was great, she surmised immediately. Thick, a sandy-brown color and long. Not down his back long, but not close-cropped either. Actually, it looked as if he may have at one point had dreads or twists, because the two- to three-inch length looked wavy and soft. That was really the clincher for her since her own hair was worn in shoulder-length twists. She loved natural styles and applauded men for stepping outside the box and wearing their hair differently as well.

She wanted to lick him, like a caramel lollipop. That made her sound like a slut with a sweet tooth.

Yet, it was so true.

Standing here in this old-fashioned kitchen with its linoleum floor and Formica countertops with the moonlight spilling through the windows was the perfect prelude to hot summer sex.

And her imagination was on total overload.

“You write romance novels? Hmm, wouldn’t have pegged you for the fairy-tale type.”

He was talking.

Stop ogling him and talk maturely, she warned herself.

“Why? What’s wrong with fairy tales?”

“Reality’s better,” he said and she knew he was being honest. She liked that in a man.

“A fairy tale can happen in real life. It’s all about the imagination. Prince Charming can come in many forms, a millionaire businessman, a talented NBA player, a suit-and-tie corporate type, the cable guy,” she said, ticking off her answers with her fingers.

He smiled. His eyes changed when he did, becoming a little lighter, she thought.

“Come on, would you really consider the cable guy a Prince Charming?”

“If he provided the heroine with everything she needed or desired, yes. It’s not about the wrapping, it’s what’s beneath that makes the package worth while.”

There, chew on that a minute, Mr. Nonbeliever.

He shrugged. “Okay, I guess you can rationalize your opinion. So what brings you here? Are you from South Carolina?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. No Southern accent.”

“I’m from New York. My family runs an art gallery there.” She wasn’t sure why she’d told him this. She never used her family background to impress men. Ever. Was she trying to impress him?

“What do you do, Max?” she asked, loving the way his name rolled off her tongue.

“I’m in real estate,” he responded. Then, with a nod of his head, he signaled that they should have a seat at the big table across the room.

The chairs were wooden, as was most of the furniture here. But she liked the kitchen, with its big windows and open floor plan. Cabinets lined the better part of two walls, with windows decorated with eyelet curtains at equal intervals. The floor was bright white with little blue flowers, an old design but it worked in here. Pulling out a chair, she almost smiled at the heavy feel against her hands. Old furniture, antiques, had that feel. Weathered. Used. Loved. She liked it, so she sat down.

“That’s a vague answer. What do you do in real estate? Buy? Sell?”

He sat in the chair right next to hers, so close she caught a whiff of what would be his cologne, a little muted because he would have put it on early this morning, after his shower maybe. Still, the scent seemed to match what she’d seen of him. Confident. Intriguing. “Both.”

“Cryptic again. You don’t like talking about yourself much, huh?”

He shrugged. “I just think there are more interesting things to talk about.”

“Okay, well let’s talk about the company you work for, what do they do?”

He smiled and she smiled back.

“Persistent. I like that.”

His words sent little shivers dancing down her spine.

“My cousin and I are partners in a company that purchases properties, refurbishes and resells them.”

“Oh, you’re house flippers. I’ve seen them on television.”

His quick frown was unmistakable. “We’re not house flippers. We buy properties such as large estates, office buildings, resorts. We’re a much higher class than those you see on television.”

Because he seemed a bit bothered by her assessment of his business, Deena pushed on. She couldn’t help it, it was just her way. “You’re into the ‘class’ thing? Like you’re better than them because you don’t buy houses that everyday people would want? What class are your clients? Better yet, what class am I?”

He straightened in his chair, those intriguing eyes keeping her still, frozen in his gaze.

“First, that’s not what I meant. I do not abide by any class system. I was referring to the level of real estate work I do in comparison. Second, I never judge people by their circumstances. And third, I like your tattoo.”

Deena opened her mouth, fully prepared to blast his response, but then she snapped it shut. “Okay,” she said finally, clearing her throat. “Ah, thanks.”

He’d seen her tattoo. When? Probably when he’d first come into the kitchen because she knew she’d been alone at the pool. She shifted in her chair and tried to keep her gaze steady with his. But she had to admit, his compliment had thrown her off.

“Do you like butterflies?” he asked, his voice suddenly somber.

“Butterflies and moonlit walks.”

He lifted a brow. “Are you asking me to walk with you under the moonlight?”

She stared at him a second longer, thought about what he’d asked and what she wanted. He was fine, but he was also sure of himself. Sure that he could have anything and anyone he wanted. Of course, this was her quick assessment of him and she could certainly be wrong. But for right now it was what she thought, and so, she needed to react accordingly. “No, I don’t think so,” she replied. “I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”

Standing, she extended her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Donovan.”

Max, still in awe of her quick wit and spirited personality, not to mention her pretty face and sexy tattoo, stood, taking her offered hand. Before he could examine the action, he was lifting her hand to his lips and placing a tender kiss on its back. “The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Lakefield,” he said.

Slipping her hand easily out of his grip, she said simply, “Good night.”

Yes, Max thought when she’d left him alone in the kitchen. This had turned out to be a good night. And if he had his way it would end up being a very good trip.

New York

“She’s where?” Monica Lakefield slammed her briefcase onto her desk before pulling out her chair and taking a seat.

“Hilton Head, South Carolina,” Karena replied in a tone that was too nonchalant for her.

“What’s she doing there?”

“Probably writing her next book.”

“Book? Are you serious? When is she going to find a job?”

Karena sighed. “Writing is her job, Monica. Her book’s in the stores in case you didn’t know.”

“I know about the book. I’ve ordered a couple hundred of them in the past week. But really,” she said, her coral-painted nails moving swiftly over the keyboard, “is she making this a full-time permanent thing?”

“Yes. I think she is. Actually, I think she should. She’s good, Monica. You should read one of those hundreds of books you bought. This might be what she really needs to do.”

“She really needs a steady income and a pension plan.” Monica sighed. Why was she the only person in her family who thought along the lines of responsibility? Well, there was her father, Paul Lakefield, but he was more like a dictator in Monica’s book. She, on the other hand, was just being practical.

“Deena will be fine. She has her trust fund that she hasn’t touched. And besides, Deena’s always done whatever was necessary to take care of herself. She doesn’t ask us for anything.”

“You’re right,” Monica agreed. Her youngest sister never asked her for help. Truth be told, Monica was a little hurt by that fact. But she’d never let anybody else know that.

“Well, does she at least have an agent or an attorney to make sure she’s not signing her soul away on one of those publishing contracts?”

“Last time I talked to her she was interviewing a couple of prospects. Don’t know if she’s actually signed with one yet, but it’s one of her priorities.”

Monica chuckled.

Karena looked at her in a funny way. “What?”

“Nothing. I just can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh.”

“Well, I’m not the one shacking up with the handsome detective so maybe I don’t have anything to laugh about. But you’ve got to admit, Deena with priorities is funny.”

Karena smiled. “At one time you would have been right but I think she’s changing.”

Karena had reached into her own briefcase, no doubt to pull out the sales report they were meeting to go over. That was to signal the end of the discussion on Deena.

Monica still wasn’t certain she liked the idea of her sister being so far away by herself but recognized there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it at the moment. Maybe Deena was changing, maybe she could handle things on her own. No, her little sister was still naive to the world and all its pitfalls. For that reason she vowed to keep a close eye on her, to make sure that nothing or anyone would ever hurt Deena, the way she’d been hurt.

She’d done something different with her hair today. The shoulder-length locks had been pulled up in the front, twisted into some kind of knot, a red flower adding a splash of color. The flower matched a long flowing skirt of red and white and a skimpy red halter top that showed more skin than was probably legal. On her feet were a combination of sassy straps and sexy heels.

Max was totally undone.

He’d thought about her all through the night—or the remaining hours after he’d found himself a snack in the kitchen. Laying in his bed while an almost-cool breeze seeped into his room, making the thin gauze curtains dance mysteriously, all he could see was her smiling face. There was something bright and fresh about Miss Deena Lakefield that Max hadn’t encountered in a very long time.

In the circles he and his cousins ran in back in Vegas, women came in one of two categories: fast and ready to seduce, those were the ones who knew the Donovan name and had already counted the dollar signs before smiling into the face of one of the illusive men; or naive and impressionable, those were the ones who didn’t have a clue but would have a man so tied up in scandal and delusions of love affairs he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

No, Deena Lakefield was surprisingly different and refreshingly arousing.

Jogging down the front steps, he caught up with her just as the stone pathway turned to grass.

“Taking an afternoon stroll in lieu of the moonlight one you denied me last night?”

She turned, looked up at him, laughter already sparkling in her eyes. At her ears, large gold hoops dangled. “I didn’t deny you anything. I just didn’t feel like walking.”

Max nodded, slowing his pace so that his long stride matched her short, quick one without missing a beat.

“I didn’t ask you last night if you were here for just business or a little pleasure, too,” he said, noting the quietness that surrounded them. There wasn’t another house for miles and they were walking along the generous acreage of Sandy Pines. He wondered where she was going since he was currently following her lead. He knew which parts of the island he wanted to visit, needed to get around to visiting to secure the appropriate permits required to get started on the renovations. But for right now he was content to take some time to get to know her better. The slow Southern pace was doing something to him, something he wasn’t sure he liked.

“A little of both. I can write anywhere, but my next book is set on a secluded island.”

“Really? Does the hero save the heroine from a vicious shark attack? For which she must repay him by spending one glorious night in his bed?”

She stopped and used a hand to shade the sun from her eyes as she looked up at him. “Just how many romance novels have you read, Mr. Donovan?”

“I like it better when you call me Max.” Reaching out, he took one of her hands in his and continued their walk. “And I don’t read romance novels. The formula is just so cliché anybody would know it.”

“That’s not true. Granted, there are certain plots that work well over and over again. The author’s goal is to not be cliché, to let the characters fall in love on their own.”

“Yeah, with candlelight dinners and violinists in the background.”

“Or something as simple as lovers walking on the beach.”

Her words seemed to float on the breeze as the grass shifted to sand. Max looked to his left and saw that their walk had led them right to the shoreline. Broad Creek greeted him with glistening blue-green water and rustic sand. The sky was a periwinkle blue with the sun like a huge orange beacon in its center. The breeze was gentle, the air fresh. It was, Max thought, the perfect scene.

“Touché,” he conceded her observation and continued walking along the sand. “So that was the business portion. What’s the pleasure? Are you here alone?”

“Funny you should ask that now as you walk me along the beach, holding my hand like we’ve known each other a lifetime.”

Max chuckled and felt more relaxed here with her at this very moment than he had in the last couple of years.

“I figure you’re alone because what man would be foolish enough to let you out of his sight?”

“If you hadn’t just told me differently I’d swear you’ve been reading romance novels. You’ve got sugary lines memorized.”

“Not sugary. Honest.”

“You make a habit of being honest?” she asked.

“I try. How about you?”

She shrugged. “It’s the only way I know how to be. My family says I don’t think before I talk, so you’re never quite sure what’ll come out of my mouth.”

“I guess that can be a good and bad thing.”

“I’ve never had any problems. It’s mostly the person I’m talking to that doesn’t like something I’ve said. But that’s probably because the truth hurts.”

“Yeah, sometimes I guess it does,” he answered quietly.

“So you never said what you’re doing here at the luxurious Sandy Pines.”

“Originally this trip was all about work. But now,” he said as they came to a stop, “it’s definitely pleasure.”

“Is your company thinking of buying a resort here?”

“My mother owns the Sandy Pines,” he said, trying not to wince at the thought. However, after his complete tour of the grounds and a couple nights to really think about it, he was coming up with a strategy to make this an old Southern bed-and-breakfast exactly the way his mother remembered it.

“Really? So you’re of high class after all,” she said teasingly, remembering their conversation from last night. “Wait a minute, you said your name was Donovan, right? The oil tycoon Donovans?”

She’d turned so that instead of being beside him she was now standing in front of him.

He laughed. “One and the same.”

“And that’s funny?”

“No. I’m just glad you didn’t say The Triple Threat Donovans.”

“Really? Why?”

“They’re my cousins, Adam, Trent and Linc. They sort of have a reputation for being unobtainable.”

“All of the Donovan men have that reputation, as well as their relatives. I’ve heard all of this, not actually experienced it for myself. My sister is dating Sam Desdune. I think he’s friends with one of your cousins. Anyway, he told us all about your family.”

Max would have to remember the next time he saw Sam to jack him up for that little favor. “Sam’s a good friend of the family. The private investigation business he and Trent run is doing really well. I heard he’d finally settled down.” Another one in the growing list of relatives and close friends that were taking the leap, Max thought but didn’t say.

“I like Sam and his family. Haven’t met any of the other Donovans.”

Unable to resist touching her, Max ran a finger up and down her bare arm. “So you’ll base your judgment of them on me?”

She smiled. “No. Of course not. I’m sure they have no more control over you then my family wishes they had over me.”

“For the most part my family’s not like that. We pretty much do our own thing.”

“Even if it’s not in the family business?” There was something there in the shift in tone when she’d said that. It made Max think her life wasn’t as happy as she seemed to be.

“Sure. My cousin Linc owns two casinos and is thinking about expanding overseas. Trent went into the Navy right out of high school and is now running a P.I. firm. Adam and I are in real estate. We’ve got a cousin in construction, one in finance. We’re all over the place.”

“And your family’s cool with it. That’s great.”

“You sound like your family’s not like that. Are you going against the grain by writing books instead of doing what they want?”

“Very perceptive, Donovan,” she quipped.

“Max.”

She nodded. “Right. Max. Yeah, my family’s really different from yours. Well, at least my immediate family is. There’s my parents, old-school money and by-the-book, who take working and succeeding very seriously. Then there are my sisters, both older, both more successful in my parents’ eyes. But that’s mainly because Monica and Karena went into the family business.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, art. I thought I told you that already. We own the Lakefield Galleries of Manhattan and soon to be Atlanta with my cousin Simone at the helm. Monica runs the gallery like a private school nun and Karena does all the buying. They’re both really good at what they do. The gallery is a huge success.”

“And you write books. No interest in art at all, huh?”

She’d begun kicking at the sand. Her painted toes were now sprinkled with the grains. He suspected she didn’t like the way her family treated her but that she got through it by putting up some sort of bravado.

“It’s not that I don’t like it. I mean, there are some really great pieces that I can appreciate. It’s just not my passion. You know what I mean?”

What Max knew without a doubt was that this small, friendly woman was full of passion, whether it be in art or writing, it was there, and should definitely be appreciated.

“I know what it means to do something you really enjoy. Most people aren’t that fortunate to have their dream job, so I’m grateful for my opportunity. You should definitely take advantage of yours and if your family doesn’t understand, then that’s their problem. Not yours.”

“My sentiments exactly,” she said with that infectious laugh of hers.

But Max sensed more. She didn’t dismiss her family’s treatment as easily as she appeared to. Then again, he’d only known her for some hours now, he could be totally wrong about her.

“I love birds,” she said almost absently, looking up toward the sky.

Max followed her gaze. “And butterflies and moonlit walks.”

“Yeah, and those too. But I really envy birds.”

“Should I be afraid to ask why?”

“I don’t get the impression you’re afraid to ask or do anything, Max Donovan,” she said honestly. There was just this air about him, this aura that seemed to surround him. Confidence. Power. Strength. All of which were filling her mind with serious hero possibilities. “I envy their freedom. They can fly anywhere they want, anytime they want. There’s nobody to stop or prevent them from traveling, from doing their own thing. It’s got to be a terrific feeling.”

“I see your point,” he said.

She wasn’t really listening for his response, her attention really was on the birds she’d seen just a moment ago that now were just about out of sight. But there was no mistaking his hand releasing hers or his body shifting so that part of the bright sunshine and her precious birds were blocked from view. All she could see now was his face, his piercing eyes and tempting mouth. He was close enough so that the scent of his cologne mixed pleasantly with the water and sand aroma. His body was just broad enough, just muscled enough to make her feel sheltered, protected.

“I’ve been thinking of something else that might elicit a pretty good feeling.”

Better than what she was feeling now that he had her sheltered by his arms? She could only imagine.

But even her imagination wasn’t that good.

His head descended slowly, just enough to have her catching her breath. His lips touched hers in a whisper, like the barest summer breeze. Impatient and hungry for more, she came up on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to his. Their lips touched again, soft, slow. It was hard to follow his lead but his firm grip on her said that’s the way he wanted it. She let him kiss her slowly again, just his lips. That small act stole her breath.

It seemed like a luxurious but painful forever before he deepened the kiss, his tongue moving slowly, erotically, over hers. It wasn’t like a practiced dance or even a pleasant symphony, but more like a tidal wave of intense pleasure and longing. His palms flattened on her back, one moving just inches above her bottom. She pressed into him, or was he pulling her closer? She couldn’t really tell, didn’t actually care. All that mattered at this moment was the absolute perfect way in which Max mastered her mouth. It would have been like he was teaching her what he liked, except she felt like she already knew. The kiss was strangely familiar and yet the man was one she’d just met. It was beyond odd, but damned delicious so she wasn’t about to complain.

When he finally pulled away from her Max wasn’t sure what time of day it was or where they were for that matter. All he knew was that he definitely liked kissing Miss Deena Lakefield.

“That was better than looking at the birds,” she said, her signature smile spreading quickly across her face.

Liking that smile and appreciating those lips even more he found himself chuckling. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

Chapter 3

It was late afternoon by the time Max had finished walking the grounds of Sandy Pines and talking to some of the natives of the island. There were two other properties within walking distance of Sandy Pines. Well, they weren’t actually in normal walking distance, a total of seven miles each way, but he was used to moving around and working out, so it hadn’t bothered him.

He needed to get an idea of the tone of this island. What the people liked or didn’t like. He wasn’t shocked to learn there were lots of rules about building on the island, lots of restrictions he’d have to make sure he followed. While Hilton Head had been turned into a resort haven, the town still wished to hold on to its original small-town feel. As he walked back, looking at the magnificent scenery ideas for the new and improved Sandy Pines flowed through his mind.

Along with thoughts of a certain pretty woman. After their impromptu walk on the beach this morning she’d said she had to work. He understood as he was here to work as well, so they’d parted ways. But he’d thought of her on and off all day. It felt weird for Max to think about a woman this much, that wasn’t his normal reaction to women.

As a Donovan he automatically had a reputation for being a playboy, even if it was unfounded. Unlike his cousins, he wasn’t mentioned in the local gossip pages for his reputed womanizing. Here and there because he was a Donovan, his name would appear if he were at some big function or had a date that had a little popularity of her own. But that wasn’t often and it wasn’t a reputation Max tried to play to. On the contrary, he led a much more solitary and out-of-the-spotlight life than his more famous relatives. That was a purposeful move designed to protect not only himself but the women that he may become involved with.

Max’s definition of being involved with a woman wasn’t the same as the other Donovans either. He didn’t do long-term, at all. Two to three dates max was about all he could manage. He wasn’t a stranger to sex but didn’t use that as a reason to scope out women either. No, Max was not the normal Donovan on the inside. On the outside was another story entirely. Then again, he knew that people were going to see what they wanted to see in a person. So the reputation preceded him, that didn’t mean he had to live up to it.

It was a warm afternoon so since he’d worked for the better part of the day, Max decided to take a little time for himself. Leaving his room, he took a back staircase that led down to the first floor and a door that opened right up to the large pool at the back of the house. The water looked refreshing in the early summer heat of South Carolina. So, after dropping his towel on a lounge chair, he wasted no time diving in.

He was swimming underwater when a pair of legs caught his attention. Heading directly for them, he surfaced and was rewarded once again with one of the prettiest smiles he’d ever seen.

“Hi, again,” she said with a little chuckle.

“Hello.” Max grinned, a quick punch of lust landing in his gut. Was there anything this woman wore that didn’t look absolutely sinful?

Her bikini top was a deep purple color this time, cupping high, full breasts that had his mouth watering. Through the crystal clear water he could see a skimpy bottom and swallowed to keep from drooling like a horny teenager.

“Great minds must think alike,” he said.

“They must.”

“I thought you were writing.”

“It was too hot. I wanted to come outside, enjoy some of the scenery. Well, enjoy the pool.” She laughed.

“I hear you, I couldn’t resist it either.”

“You have great form,” she said.

He looked a little lost for a minute so she amended her words. “I watched you dive in. Do you swim often?”

He grinned. “Yeah. I try to hit the gym every day. A swim always follows my workout. What about you? How often are you at the gym?”

“How’d you know I go to the gym?” she wondered.

He took her wrist, lifted her arm out of the water into the air. “This type of toning is not natural. So whatever you’re doing in the gym, keep it up. You have a terrific body.”

If she were hot from the temperature outside, Max Donovan had just wracked up the degrees with that comment. Deena had watched a little more than just his diving form when he’d joined her in the water.

She’d seen him the moment he stepped from the house. His trunks weren’t anything fancy, but gave her a terrific view of his muscled thighs. A bare chest had every nerve in her body tingling and great biceps sort of topped the entire package off. He looked good but didn’t carry himself like he knew he looked good. She liked that. A lot.

“Thanks,” she responded. “You’re not too bad yourself.” She was trying to sound nonchalant, like she swam with gorgeous guys with enticing bedroom eyes all the time. Not!

They frolicked in the water awhile, racing each other, then dunking each other like little kids. Deena’s side hurt from laughing so much. She was loving the idea of taking this trip now, despite what anybody else said, she had a feeling this was going to be a great summer.

And as she came up from another one of Max’s sneak-attack dunks, his hands circled her waist, holding her close to the rigid contours of his body.

“I’ve never met a woman like you,” he said, his pensive green eyes staring down at her.

She was nervous, but refused to show it. “Is that a good or bad thing?” she asked, treading water.

He licked his lips. “I’m beginning to think it’s a really good thing.”

His head began to lower and Deena’s toes began to tingle. Oh goodness, he was going to kiss her again. The kiss this morning still lingered on lips, another one would surely be the end of her.

“Good,” she whispered seconds before his lips could touch hers.

“Very good,” he said before sweeping his tongue over her bottom lip.

Her arms were reaching up to circle his neck immediately. He pulled her body even closer as he licked along her lips again. She trembled and opened her lips to him. But that wasn’t what he wanted. Thrusting his tongue inside her mouth, he captured her tongue and suckled.

She would have sank right to the bottom of this pool with that quick erotic act if he hadn’t been holding her so tightly against him. As it stood, all she could do was give herself over to his clever ministrations.

He took the kiss deeper, plunging her into a heated swirl of desire she’d never felt before. One of his palms went to her bottom as the other one centered in the middle of her back. She wrapped her legs around his waist and tilted her head to take some control over the drugging kiss.

In her mind it didn’t really matter who controlled the kiss, all she knew was that she didn’t want it to end. Maxwell Donovan was definitely a man she wanted to get to know better. In and outside of this pool.

“Time fo’te middleday meal. You just sit down. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

The next afternoon, Max led Deena to the large dining room table and, pulling out a chair for her, he obeyed the tall, military-looking woman’s request. From her greeting the first day he’d arrived, he knew she was Dalila Contee, the supervising maid and cook. She’d been here at Sandy Pines for more than thirty years.

“What did she just say?” Deena asked when they were seated and alone.

“She said it’s time for lunch. She’s speaking part Gullah and part English.”

“Gullah?”

Max nodded. “It’s a popular language in the sea islands of the south. Slaves from the Sea Islands of South Carolina and northern Georgia were brought to America largely from different communities on the Rice Coast of West Africa. They spoke many different languages, so in order to communicate with each other they combined the similarities of their language with the English they learned and formed the unique Gullah language.”

“Wow, I never knew that.”

“Most people don’t. I didn’t until I started researching the island of Hilton Head. It has a rich history in our rise from slavery, one I’m thinking we should preserve.”

“You’re probably right.”

“What other ideas do you have for Sandy Pines?”

There were already plates set on the table, good china, he surmised by looking at it closely. The glasses were most likely crystal, both in an older-looking pattern, that meant they’d been in this house and in his family for a while. It was certainly something to see firsthand some of what his ancestors had accomplished. Most people of African American descent didn’t even know from where they came, let alone the opportunity to sit at a table that a great-grandfather had probably used.

“Right now I’m just getting a feel for the place, for the island. I think there’s more here than history has told.”

“I think you might be right,” she agreed just before Dalila came back in.

“You Alma’s boy. Same lukkha her,” Dalila said, putting bowls on the table and smiling over at Max.

“You know my mother?” he asked.

Dalila nodded her head, her silver-streaked hair not moving at all as it was pulled back so tight into a bun. She wore a long dark skirt and crisp white blouse. No apron, no uniform, just clothes, understated but neat. There was an air of authority about Dalila, a no-nonsense aura that radiated from her. And there was knowledge. Max could see in her eyes that this woman had seen a lot, experienced a lot. And, yet, she was still standing. He both admired and envied her that.

“Alma was a good girl. Came here in the summer with her parents. Then wit’ her chillun. Two boys. Max and Ben. Strong names she give you.”

Max barely remembered their summer visits here. Now, he was embarrassed by that fact.

“Right,” he said as a way of agreeing but not admitting. “Are you the only one left working here?”

He’d seen a groundsman around when he’d checked in and of course there was the young lady that had taken all his information and his credit card the minute he’d walked through the doors. But in the three days since he’d been here he hadn’t seen anyone else.

“Old Juno takes care the outside. Me and Chiniya, Juno’s girl, we take care of the inside. Don’t need nobody else, don’t get more’n two or three here a month.

You from the city too?” she asked, moving closer to Deena.

“Ah, yes. I’m from New York.”

“Hm-hmm,” Dalila said, crossing long arms over her ample breasts. “Need to take time out. Go to town, take ‘em wid you. Attuh you eat.”

As fast as she’d come in, Dalila left. Deena hummed happily, lifting a bowl and scooping potato salad onto her plate.

“What are you so happy about? She didn’t have much to say to you.”

Passing him the bowl she said, “I think she did. I mean, I don’t think it’s actually the words but what lies in between that she said. She thinks we work too much, don’t take time to enjoy the scenery enough, wants us to go exploring after we eat. I’m with that.”

Shaking his head, Max put potato salad on his plate, picked up a piece of fried chicken and put that on his plate too. For somebody who didn’t know what the Gullah language was a few minutes ago, Deena sure had understood Dalila well. And she’d called him perceptive? No, Max was sure that Deena Lakefield saw more and deciphered more than anyone gave her credit for. Just another fascinating attribute that made her … what was she to him? Special? Unique?

He didn’t quite know, but planned to find out.

“Tell me more about your family?” he asked while they ate.

“Not much to tell. Monica’s my oldest sister but she thinks she’s my mother. She’s controlling and rigid in what she thinks is right. But I love her anyway.”

“It’s like that with family. We don’t have to always like them, but we love them. What about your other sister? She can’t be that bad.”

Deena shook her head. “Oh, no. Karena’s great. She had a hard time last year when she hooked up with Sam because she didn’t think she could be in a relationship and have a successful career. But she’s gotten over that.”

“Sam’s a good guy. He’ll treat her right,” Max said, not really wanting to talk about relationships, but acknowledging that it was probably going to be a little hard to skirt around that issue.

“What’s your family like? There are a lot of Donovans, I hear.”

“There are. My uncle actually lives in Dallas but all three of his kids have left home. His wife died years ago so we always think he’s alone, but he says he’s just fine.”

“Alone doesn’t always mean lonely,” she pointed out. “Some people just like to be by themselves. I think they can still lead normal lives that way.”

“I agree,” Max said because sometimes he felt more like his Uncle Albert than he was ready to admit.

“Do you like to be alone?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love hanging with my cousins. We have a great time together. And I like our family gatherings. But there are times I just need to be alone. You know, with my thoughts and stuff.”

“You look like a thinker,” she said before taking a sip of her lemonade. “Like there’s a lot on your mind that you’re trying to sort out.”

“It just seems easier to work things out that way.”

“I’m the exact opposite,” she told him. “I like to talk.” Then she chuckled. “I guess you can tell that already.”

He smiled. “It’s okay. I just figured you had a lot to say.”

“All the time,” she added. “My mother said I’ve been talking since birth. I don’t believe that but I was the first of her children to talk and walk. Like I’ve always had someplace I wanted to be or something to do.”

“And you’re on your way there with your writing?”

She sighed. “I love writing. It’s like having the chance to escape into my own little world. I really enjoy the freedom and the expression. I believe this was my calling. Despite all the other things I’ve tried.”

“Other things like what?” He wasn’t sure but thought it might be a little dangerous asking this question.

“Hmm, let’s see. I did a few months as a video dancer. Then I thought I might like acting. Those didn’t really turn out to be my thing. I like to be in the spotlight somewhat. But the thought of people staring at me and my body shaking all the time wasn’t very appealing. I tried catering, because I love to cook. But that required a little more organization than I could manage.”

“You sound like quite the entrepreneur.”

“I guess. But this is it, writing is the one. I have a really content feeling with this, a satisfaction all those other careers didn’t give me. Monica calls me scatterbrained because I’ve moved from one thing to another for so long.”

He put his fork down, seeing again that as much as she acted like it didn’t bother her, what her family thought of her and said to her really affected her. “I don’t think that makes you scatterbrained. If more people took the time to figure out what they wanted to do with their lives, the dropout rate in college wouldn’t be so high. Companies wouldn’t have an increased turnaround in staffing. Careers are big decisions and not everyone is born knowing what it is they want to do.” “Were you?”

He shook his head. “Actually, I studied engineering in college, thinking I’d build bridges or something like that. Who knew I’d get into sales and renovations. But, like you with writing, there’s a satisfaction in what I do that I don’t think I’d get from doing anything else.”

“And your parents were fine with that?” she asked, still with doubt.

“I think parents just want what’s best for their kids throughout their entire life. The problem is, what’s best is not always what the parent sees. But it’s okay, Deena, you don’t have to walk anybody’s path but your own. I’m sure your family will come around when they see how happy you are with your writing career.”

“I hope so,” she said but Max could tell she wasn’t convinced.

That was unfortunate. One thing he knew for sure was that he didn’t like this melancholy and doubting Deena. He liked her smiling and talking. So he’d just have to keep her mind on things beside her family and their thoughts about her career.

Right after lunch, after Dalila’s second directive to do so, Max and Deena headed to Shelter Cove. Max drove the car he’d rented upon his arrival while Deena plotted their course using the map she’d gotten from her travel agent. What they both noticed first about their drive was that it was a little difficult spotting signage to help guide their way. According to town regulations, signage was limited in order to promote the island’s natural beauty.

“We’re lost,” Deena said after they’d passed the same spot on US 278 three times.

“I am not lost. I have a GPS right here,” Max said, tapping the dashboard. “And you have a map right there.”

“And we’re lost,” she reiterated. Why men could never admit this was beyond her.

“Shelter Cove is just around this bend.”

“You mean the bend we’ve been around three times already?”

He shot her an annoying glance and she smiled sweetly. “Why don’t we stop at that gas station and ask directions?”

“Because I’m not lost,” he said, stubbornly driving past said gas station.

A half hour passed and Deena had let her map slip to the floor. She knew they were lost, it was just about waiting until Max would admit it. So instead she turned on the radio, flipping past several stations. An oldie but goodie was on a station she passed and she hurriedly flipped it back. Luther Vandross’s “A House Is Not a Home” played and Deena sang along.

For a while Max listened to her slightly off-key voice. This song had been an all-time favorite for him but he didn’t say that. In fact, he didn’t say a word, just let her sing until the song was finished.

“I take it you like that song.”

“What? Are you kidding? Who doesn’t like Luther and his many love ballads? Many of his songs have inspired some pretty hot love scenes in my stories.”

“Really? You need Luther to inspire you to write love scenes? What about personal experience?”

“I have that, too. But nothing compares to Luther.”

Was she always so open? Each time he asked her a question, she answered him. Never once did she hesitate. Max was used to women being calculating, manipulative, their every response practiced and designed to lead to what they ultimately wanted. He didn’t get that impression from Deena. She just said whatever was on her mind. He wondered if that was a good or bad thing.

“Okay, you win,” he said finally.

“I win what?”

“We’re lost.”

Deena laughed. “No, you’re lost. I’ve just been waiting for you to realize it.”

He couldn’t be angry; her laughter was contagious. The mood was light. Being with her, pleasant. He decided to go with it.

Living in New York and Las Vegas, both of them were fairly used to shopping at high-end stores. When they’d finally reached Shelter Cove they were both in awe of the specialty shops like De Gullah Creations and Blue Parrot. Deena happily picked up souvenirs for both her sisters and her mother.

“Not getting your father anything?” he asked as they stepped up to the counter to pay.

“He wouldn’t be interested in anything here,” she answered quickly. “My father is very stern and very shrewd. He frowns upon what he calls frivolous spending.”

Max nodded, pulling his wallet out of his pocket on instinct as the clerk gave Deena a total. “So he’s tight?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. I guess he just wants to hold on to what he has.”

“A closed fist never receives anything,” Max said, extending his arm to give the clerk his credit card. “My mother used to tell me that when I was young.”

“Oh. No, you don’t have to do that,” she said, pushing Max’s hand away from the clerk. “I have money.” She was digging through her purse for her wallet.

“It’s okay. I want to pay for it.”

“But you don’t have to. I can pay for my own things.”

The clerk looked from one of them to the other, huffing impatiently.

“Deena,” Max said, putting a hand on her arm. “It’s okay. I’ll pay for the items.” He sensed she was about to say something else so he continued, “You can buy me a soda and snack when we leave. I’m still hungry.”

Reluctantly she put her wallet away, frowning up at him. “I’ll buy you a snack and whatever else I decide to purchase, Mr. Donovan.”

He opened his mouth to speak but she was the one to stop him this time. “I know. Max.”

With another of her sugary smiles she took her bag and walked out of the store.

“Independent woman, huh?” the clerk asked.

“I guess so,” was Max’s reply. “Independent and sexy as hell.”

Chapter 4

Meeting a guy in the middle of the night then letting him kiss her senseless on the beach the next morning wasn’t out of the ordinary for Deena. The impulsiveness of the situation actually lived up to her reputation. Still, she had a good feeling about Max Donovan and she always trusted her gut. That’s something her father taught her that she actually took to heart.

Now she was getting dressed to go to dinner with him. They’d shopped and toured the island all afternoon. Max needed to get a feel for the scenery to help him with the project he was doing for his mother. She just wanted to see the island, maybe get some ideas for her book. But mostly, she just didn’t want her time with him to end, so she’d tagged along. Tonight was special, different. It was their first date.

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