He was standing behind her.
All six-feet-three-amazing-inches of him.
Sloan drew a quick breath as Aidan turned her to face him. She lifted her chin and his lips captured hers, silencing her in a flash. Her heart leaped in her chest, and she was pretty sure she let out a moan of longing.
He didn’t hesitate to tangle his tongue with hers. He tasted of the lemon he drank with his tea. He smelled of sawdust and spicy sandalwood.
She clutched his T-shirt in her fist, grasping to get closer. She wanted to feel his bare, sleek skin against hers, to have that intense gaze focused on her, to feel his muscles harden beneath her…to have him tremble and gasp along with her.
His hands molded her to his body and she felt the need, the hunger and the wild lust they’d been trying to deny. It had been too long, and she wasn’t going to miss her chance now that it had come, to satisfy her desires…and his.
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader,
I’m a Southerner with roots so deep my mother has directly traced me (since I’m the oldest grandchild) back seven generations to my great-several-times-over grandfather, who was one of the first non-Native Americans to live in Reeseville, Alabama.
Along with family histories, telling stories is a Southern tradition, and now that I live in South Carolina, I’m learning new tales to share. Palmer’s Island is my fictional combination of two real islands off the coast near Charleston—Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island. Beautiful and quiet, they represent a beloved living history in this part of the country.
Like any real Southern town, I infused my island with nosy but caring citizens, church ladies who love to bake casseroles and a beauty salon as gossip central. It was also the perfect place for my grieving hero, Aidan Kendrick, to hide and brood in a dark, damaged house behind a wall of tangled foliage. Fortunately for him, however, Sloan Caldwell and her fellow islanders are like the island itself—abundant with sunshine and forgiving of mistakes.
I hope you enjoy my tale of love and redemption—with an old-fashioned mystery mixed in to keep everybody guessing.
Best wishes,
Wendy Etherington
After Dark
WENDY ETHERINGTON
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wendy Etherington was born and raised in the deep South—and she has the fried-chicken recipes and NASCAR ticket stubs to prove it. The author of nearly twenty books, she writes full-time from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband and two daughters. She can be reached via www.wendyetherington.com or by regular mail at P.O. Box 3016, Irmo, SC 29063.
Books by Wendy Etherington
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
263—JUST ONE TASTE…
310—A BREATH AWAY
385—WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…
HARLEQUIN NASCAR
HOT PURSUIT
FULL THROTTLE
HQN BOOKS
NO HOLDING BACK, with Liz Allison
RISKING HER HEART, with Liz Allison
A NASCAR CHRISTMAS 3,
“Have a Beachy Little Christmas”
To my cousin, Mark Durham, a true Southerner
who knows how to tell a good story
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
1
SLOAN CALDWELL yanked at the hem of her little black dress, then lifted the worn brass knocker on the big oak door. The resulting tapping noise sounded like a series of gunshots, echoing in the misty, dark night.
Every small town in the South had a crumbling, spooky old mansion on a hill, and hers didn’t disappoint—though their hill was more of a dune. To think, they now had a genuinely dark, eccentric and notorious owner to go with it.
It was spine-tingling stuff for Palmer’s Island, South Carolina.
As a barrier island just over three miles wide, with five restaurants, one bar, no high-rise hotels, one public park that was beach-accessible and its largest house—the one she was standing on the porch of—not backing up to the beach, the island itself was considered a bit eccentric. But the residents who lived there and the tourists who visited liked it that way.
After several long minutes, the door was flung open. The tall, dim shadow of a broad-shouldered man filled the frame. “What do you—” He stopped, cocking his head. “Who are you?”
Sloan really wished she could see his face, specifically his eyes—though she knew from the TV, newspaper and Internet how gorgeous he was—but the lack of light on the porch or in the foyer left most of the details about him to her memory and imagination.
She swallowed and held out her hand. “I’m Sloan Caldwell, Director of the Palmer’s Island Historical Preservation Society.”
“You’re a society matron?” he asked, his disbelieving tone clear.
Like blue hair was a requirement for social awareness. “Miss, actually.” She tried a smile and put her hand on her hip. She had nice hips. Men usually noticed. “May I come in?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m busy at the moment. Come back another time.” He started to turn away.
She reached into the briefcase hitched on her shoulder and pulled out a file folder, which she handed him. “But you contacted me. About the renovations to the house?” she added when he remained silent.
Sighing audibly, he reached behind him and flipped a switch, which turned out to belong to a small desk lamp sitting on a sawhorse in the foyer. “My lawyer sent this,” he said, staring at the papers in the file, then flicking his gaze to