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Touch Me Now
Donna Hill


When her engagement falls apart, Layla Brooks heads for the one place she's always felt at home–Sag Harbor. Far from the hectic pace of New York City, she can concentrate on her massage therapy business.And business is all she's interested in, despite her friend Melanie Harte's offer to find her someone through her exclusive Platinum Society matchmaking service.Then Maurice Lawson checks into the local B & B and one glance tells Layla that the dark-eyed, intense veteran needs healing, inside and out. Both are stunned when their therapeutic sessions become charged with raw passion. But when every touch is this electrifying, the only thing to do is to give in tonight and every night.…







A touch of desire…

When her engagement falls apart, Layla Brooks heads for the one place she’s always felt at home—Sag Harbor. Far from the hectic pace of New York City, she can concentrate on her massage therapy business. And business is all she’s interested in, despite her friend Melanie Harte’s offer to find her someone through her exclusive Platinum Society matchmaking service.

Then Maurice Lawson checks into the local B & B and one glance tells Layla that the dark-eyed, intense veteran needs healing, inside and out. Both are stunned when their therapeutic sessions become charged with raw passion. But when every touch is this electrifying, the only thing to do is to give in tonight and every night.…




Touch Me Now

Donna Hill





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dear Reader,

Welcome to the lush and often lavish world of Sag Harbor, New York, steeped in rich African American history, folklore and romance. I felt this was the perfect place to set my latest series, Sag Harbor Village, and introduce you to new faces as well as reacquaint you with some familiar ones.

As many of you may recall in Dare to Dream, Desiree Armstrong and Lincoln Davenport found each other in Sag Harbor. Melanie Harte from Heart’s Reward, owner of The Platinum Society, has a mansion on the hills of Sag Harbor. And of course there is Rafe Lawson from my Lawsons of Louisiana series, who frequents the services of Melanie’s matchmaking enterprise.

Now I would love to introduce you to my latest visitors to Sag Harbor: the talented masseuse Layla Brooks, godsister to Melanie and soror to Desiree, and the über sexy and mysterious navy SEAL Maurice Lawson. Yes, you have the name right. Maurice is the nephew of Senator Branford Lawson!

So sit back, put up your feet and let me take you on a journey of sensual pleasure, life-changing discoveries and the healing of the heart and soul in my latest offering, Touch Me Now.

Happy reading,

Donna


Contents

Prologue (#u19e3b650-092b-5c6a-a0b0-749a6cd3d0bb)

Chapter 1 (#uccafc8de-501c-5668-b52a-df0fb13cfe70)

Chapter 2 (#u04ef3379-101e-59a7-b155-3032d6f1c788)

Chapter 3 (#ub9f028e2-7a3f-54d0-88c0-7d5f330be999)

Chapter 4 (#u98f244c9-e221-51d4-9ea3-9241f70b5da2)

Chapter 5 (#u012dcc1b-b1e0-5e29-9fff-fc37d57ad522)

Chapter 6 (#u01df26f2-5917-5fd7-92f2-fc6b1be1cdc2)

Chapter 7 (#ubc96cad1-4285-50e1-b42a-f71b5eae78e4)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Preview: Everything Is You (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue

It was late afternoon. The lunch crowd, what there had been of it, was gone. Business was slow, slower than usual for this time of year. Everyone was hurting, it seemed. She’d been let go from the paper months earlier, but had been lucky enough to pick up a few extra hours at Jack and Jill’s the local lounge and jazz spot in the West Village, and she had begun to build a pretty solid list of clients from her massage business thanks to Brent.

Thoughts of Brent brought a smile to her face and a rush of sensual excitement through her veins. There were times when she still wondered how she’d gotten so lucky. Brent had women running after him like a buy-two-get-one-free sale at Macy’s. But she was the one that he wanted. He’d proved it to her time and again and there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t tell her that he loved her or did something to show her.

She wiped down the tables and glanced with a sense of awe at the dazzling diamond on the third finger of her left hand. In six months she would join the ranks of her girls Melanie and Desiree and become a married woman. She’d picked out her dress. Simple and elegant Desiree had said. It was going to be a small, intimate wedding, only their really close friends and immediate family. Melanie offered her place at Sag Harbor for the wedding and reception. Layla couldn’t wait to be Mrs. Brent Davis.

“Daydreaming again?” Mona asked, sidling up next to her. Mona Clarke ran Jack and Jill’s and in the six months that Layla worked there, they’d become more than employer/employee, they’d become friends. Mona completely understood that Layla’s job at the lounge was only temporary and that her real love was the art of massage, the power to heal through touch.

Layla turned and a shy smile teased her full lip-glossed mouth. “That bad?”

“Yes, very,” Mona said, with her fist on her hip. “Hey, I got this.” She took the cloth from Layla’s hand. “It’s slow as maple syrup in here today. Why don’t you go on home to your man, see what he can do about that cheery disposition of yours,” she teased.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Unless you really need the tips you’re not going to make today. Go, go, practice some of your massage techniques on that fine specimen.”

Layla wiggled her brows. “Hmm, maybe I will.” She gave Mona a quick kiss on the cheek. “I owe you,” she called out as she hurried to the back to get her purse.

“See you on the weekend.”

Layla stopped at the local market on her way home and picked up some fresh vegetables and seasonings for a stir fry meal and a bottle of Brent’s favorite wine. She still had a few hours to prepare everything before Brent got off work. She wanted things to be extra special. In fact she planned to take Mona up on her suggestion and try out a new massage technique on him that she’d been mastering and maybe that new Victoria’s Secret lingerie that she’d splurged on. A wicked thought tickled her belly.

With her purchases in hand she strolled the four blocks to her apartment, intermittently stopping to check out the window displays at boutiques and artisanal shops along the way.

She climbed the stairs to her walk-up and came to a dead stop at the front door, momentarily alarmed by the sound of movement inside until she heard Brent’s voice. She let go of a breath of relief. Calling 911 would have really screwed up her afternoon. Brent home early. The surprise was on her.

Layla turned her key in the door all ready to leap into Brent’s arms but came to a grinding halt when she saw Brent and two suitcases in the middle of the floor.

He slowly turned to her with his cell phone still at his ear. There was a look in his hazel eyes that defied explanation. She’d never seen it before or since—her own terror, disbelief and pain reflected in someone else’s eyes.

All he said was that he was sorry. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t love her. He never wanted to hurt her. He was leaving.

She was certain she’d screamed, threw things, demanded answers, maybe she even begged him not to leave. Who knows? None of it changed anything, anyway. He was gone.

What was she going to do now with the pieces of her heart scattered all over her hardwood floors and her soul on the other side of the door walking into a life without her?


Chapter 1

One Year Later…

Summer came early to New York. Memorial Day was three weeks away and the temperature was already in the low eighties. If this was any indication of what the next three months would bring it was going to be a long, hot summer in the city.

Layla Brooks sat on the sill of her third floor walk-up apartment of the prewar building that faced Washington Square Park. She peered out of the smudged window at the entanglement of humanity on the streets below. Absently she fanned herself with the stiff, white envelope that boasted a Sag Harbor address—a world away from where she lived in the West Village.

The West Village was known for its eclectic blend of people, styles, food, excitement and entertainment. Those were the things that drew her to this slice of New York City life, that and her cushy job as a journalist for The View. Her beat was New York lifestyles and in search of the next salacious story she haunted some of the best and the worst locales in the city.

It was simply ironic how things got twisted all around and she became her own headline: laid off, unemployment running out, and working two nights a week as a hostess at Jake and Jill’s one of the local blues lounges. All things considered, she was better off than a lot of folks. She’d saved her money over the years and invested wisely, thanks to the wise counsel of her godmother Carolyn Harte. The paper had given her a decent severance and in the year that she’d been out of work, she’d finally finished up her classes in massage therapy. It had been an on-again, off-again process for nearly five years. Now she was fully certified in rehabilitation therapy, deep tissue massage and she had even taken a special course, two years earlier in tantric massage, which was how she’d met Brent Davis, her former fiancé.

Brent was the manager of the tantric massage studio, tucked away in a three-story townhouse on the Lower East Side. He’d trained her—personally. There was no question that in the right hands the eroticism of the human touch is mind-blowing. Unfortunately, Brent felt the same way—about everyone. She’d been naïve and in love, engaged to be married to the man of her dreams and too blind to see that Brent didn’t only have “hands” for her. It took her a while to push that part of her life to the back of her head. But the hurt would rear its ugly head every now and again when she’d see couples hugged up together, whispering to each other and knowing that the evening would end with them in bed together—and she would roll around alone on empty sheets.

The upside was that Brent was good at what he did and he’d taught her everything she needed to know to be just as good a masseuse as him, if not better. She had a few regular clients and the extra income was great. The idea of owning and running a studio became more intriguing day by day. But with the economy still on shaky ground she wasn’t quite ready to take the leap. At least not yet.

She stopped fanning herself and flipped the envelope over. She ran her finger beneath the flap and tore it open. She pulled out the stiff, off-white postcard inside.

It was the invitation she’d been expecting, embossed with the Platinum Society logo. It was the kickoff party of the season coupled with Desiree and Lincoln’s fifth wedding anniversary party, hosted by Layla’s god-sister, Melanie Harte. Although the festivities were more than a month away, Mel always planned way in advance.

Desiree Armstrong was her soror and dear friend. They still laughed about all the fun they used to have as students living in the Big Apple. So when Desiree married Lincoln Davenport and moved out to Sag Harbor to open her art gallery and help out with his Bed & Breakfast establishment, The Port, Layla and Desiree didn’t see each other as often as they once did, but Layla could always find a reason to visit Sag Harbor.

She’d spent most of her summers on the Harbor. Her godmother, Carolyn, the cofounder of the Platinum Society—a high class matchmaking service—made sure that she kept an eye on her precocious daughter Melanie, and Melanie didn’t go far without Layla. They’d grown up rubbing elbows with the people that the average person only saw on television and in the news. Melanie and Layla were trained in the areas of entertainment, money management, travel, fashion and knowing how to mix and mingle with anyone from the man on the street to the President of the United States. Like Melanie, Layla could speak three languages fluently and had traveled to Europe and Africa before she was eighteen. And if Layla had her way she would have married Melanie’s gorgeous brother Alan even though he always thought of her as the “cute kid,” and his little sister’s friend.

She smiled as those good memories rushed to the surface before she hopped down from the sill, just as a truck backfired below and let off a plume of smoke into the muggy air.

Yes, it would be great to get away. A change of scenery, hanging with her girls and enjoying a blow-out party was just what she needed.

* * *

“I think you should stay for the summer,” Desiree was saying while she held the cell phone between her jaw and shoulder and adjusted a painting on the wall.

“Girl, the whole summer! You have got to be kidding. I have…stuff up here to take care of.”

“Yeah, right. What stuff—a hostess job?”

“I have clients. They’ll miss me,” she said, trying to sound convincing.

“I have a beach full of clients for you and you know Melanie will hook you up. Besides, when was the last time that the three of us had a chance to spend some real time together?”

Layla thought about the tempting offer. But the truth was, both of her girls were married; Desiree to Lincoln and Melanie to Claude. She would be the proverbial fifth wheel. Her chest tightened as images of what could have been flashed for an instant in front of her.

“I don’t know, Desi,” she said slowly, teetering on the brink of relenting.

Desiree blew out a puff of frustration. “Well, whatever you decide to do is fine. I think you’re blowing a perfectly good vacation.”

“Where would I stay for the entire summer?”

“Right here at The Port.”

“Desi, come on. What about your guests? The summer is the busiest season. You need all of your guesthouses.”

“True, but you wouldn’t be a guest.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You would be a summer employee.”

“I thought you said this was my vacation.” She chuckled.

“Look, what if you stayed in one of the cottages and paid your way by offering massages to my guests? I’ve had a spa set up for months with no one to really run it. It would be a major perk. And you get to keep the tips!”

Layla burst out laughing. Desiree always had some kind of plan. “Let me think about it.”

“Okay, but don’t think too long. I know someone will want to hop on this great opportunity.”

“Someone like whom?”

“Doesn’t matter. Someone will.”

“Girl, you are too crazy.”

“Crazy as a fox,” Desiree said with a snicker.

“Yeah, okay. Anyhow, I’ll see you next weekend. But I’ll let you know before then what I’m going to do.”

“See you next week. And think about the offer. It’s perfect.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll think about it. I’ll see you Friday.”

“Smooches.”

Layla disconnected the call. An entire summer on the Harbor? Hmmm. She got up from the side of the bed and walked toward the window. She pushed the off white curtain aside. Traffic, gray concrete and throngs of rushing people filled her line of sight.

She let the curtain drop back in place. A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Nothing was keeping her in the city beyond her decision to just say yes.


Chapter 2

Maurice Lawson winced when he attempted to push up from the couch and stand. The pain in his leg vibrated through his entire body. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Slowly the searing fire ebbed to a dull throb. He inhaled deeply and sat back down.

That night, flying over the Afghanistan mountains flashed in his head. The skies were clear with just enough cloud cover to camouflage their mission. He and his Navy SEAL crew were on a stealth mission. Everything was going according to plan. The target was illuminated on the control panel of the Black Hawk Helicopter. And then without warning the world seemed to explode. He’d lost two men on that mission and he’d barely survived himself. He’d spent three months in the hospital and the next three months in rehab, learning how to walk again.

The doctors said he’d always have pain…and nightmares. But over time both would diminish. They hadn’t.

That was more than a year ago. He still battled the pain and the nightmares…and the guilt. Some days, the guilt was more painful than his injury.

“Maurice…”

He opened his eyes and his gaze settled on Dr. Morrison.

“Are you all right?” She put down her pad.

He nodded. “Yeah.” He forced a laugh. “I should be used to it by now.”

“How are you sleeping?”

He shrugged. “Some nights are better than others I suppose.”

Maurice Lawson had been referred to her through the Veterans Administration. After recovering from his wounds it was clear that his injuries were more than physical. She’d been working with him for about six months and the psychotherapy was slow, but there were days when she felt they were making progress. Then there were days like this one when that haunted look would come into his eyes.

Dr. Morrison leaned forward. “Maurice, your physical therapy is over, but I can’t get you beyond that night if you won’t let me help you to help yourself. You’re holding on to more than physical pain and that’s what’s really debilitating.”

The corners of his eyes pinched. His full mouth drew into a tight line. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to accept that what happened that night was not your fault.”

“But it was!” he bellowed. “Why can’t you understand that? I was in charge. Those men relied on me to get them in and out of there safely. And I didn’t.”

“What could you have done differently?” she softly asked.

He turned away from her penetrating stare. He’d asked himself that very question a million times. He’d gone over every minute of that flight. Nothing stuck out. It was textbook. But he had to have missed something. And that’s what haunted him.

“What?” she asked again.

“I don’t know,” he finally answered, his voice filled with defeat. “I don’t know.”

“How about your friends, family, have you been in touch with them?”

“We don’t have anything in common. They all want to act as if nothing is wrong or that everything is.” His laugh was ragged.

“You can’t continue to live in your head, Maurice, disconnected from everything. It’s well past the time that you rejoined the world. Begin new relationships.”

“Is that right, Doc,” he said derisively. “You mean if I join the world, as you put it, I’ll be all better.” This time he fought against the pain and stood.

“I’m saying that you can’t continue to punish yourself by shutting everything and everyone out.”

“It’s not that easy,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“I know it’s not. It never is. But if you are ever going to regain some semblance of life, of an existence, you’re going to have to try. You’re going to have to work at it, just as hard and with just as much passion as you’ve put into being a decorated fighter pilot.”

He stole a look at her. “I don’t know how,” he admitted.

Dr. Morrison stood up and came to him. “I have a friend who owns a fabulous Bed & Breakfast in Sag Harbor. I think a change of scenery and the relaxation of being by the water would be therapeutic.”

“I don’t think so, Doc.”

“At least think about it, Maurice. And I’ll only be a phone call away…when you want to talk.”

He pushed out a breath. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

She returned to her desk and wrote the information down on a prescription pad, tore off the paper and handed it to him.

He looked at the neat handwriting. “The Port.”

“Go, Maurice. A few days, a few weeks.” She studied his face. “Give yourself a chance. And think about getting back in touch with Ross.”

His gaze jumped to hers.

“You’d mentioned in earlier sessions that the two of you were close, that you even played in a band together. I’m sure he would be glad to hear from you. Have you spoken to him since you’ve been home?”

He lowered his head. “No.” He folded the paper and shoved it in his pants pocket. “Time up?”

She moistened her lips. “Yes.”

He bobbed his head. His jaw clenched as he turned toward the door. “See you next week, Doc.”

Maurice opened the door to his one bedroom condo apartment. He’d lucked out and was able to purchase the condo from his Veterans benefits in one of the most sought after communities in the quickly gentrifying neighborhood of Ft. Greene. One of the perks of fighting for your country, he thought derisively.

He’d been in the space for nearly a year after leaving rehab and it was still sparsely furnished, only the basic necessities. It didn’t matter much to him. It was only him. He didn’t have company, there was no woman in his life and all he needed was a place to sleep, eat and bathe.

He tossed his keys into a plastic bowl on the kitchen counter and limped over to the window. He drew in a long, slow breath. Never in a million years would he have imagined his life coming to this point. His breathing echoed in the cavernous space. Alone. Broken.

Dr. Morrison’s words bounced around in his head. …if you are ever going to regain some semblance of life, of an existence, you’re going to have to try. You’re going to have to work at it, just as hard and with just as much passion as you’ve put into being a decorated fighter pilot.…And think about getting back in touch with Ross.

Ross. He almost smiled. Ross McDaniels was his best buddy all through high school and into college. They discovered their love of music together and that it was a surefire way to charm the ladies. Ross was the sax man, he the piano. The two of them together were a lethal combination. Ross had been in his corner when he lost his father and never once came down on him for cutting himself off from his family, even if he didn’t agree. They’d stayed in touch throughout his years in the service and it was not until the accident that Maurice cut off all contact. He didn’t think he could stand to see the look of sympathy in Ross’s eyes. That, he knew he could not take.

He slung his hands into his pockets. Ross didn’t deserve that. His stomach muscles clenched. Was his number still the same? He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contact list.

Ross McDaniels. What could he possibly say to him after all this time?

Maurice swallowed over the tight knot in his throat. Ross had a birthday coming up. His was a month earlier to the day and Ross used to always tease him about being “the oldest.”

He stared at the number, debated a million reasons why and why not and finally pressed Call before he could change his mind.

The line rang three times before it was picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ross, it’s me…Maurice.”

For a moment the line went completely silent.

“Mo…” he finally said. “Don’t B.S. me, man, is this really you?”

The tight knot in his gut burst loose and a tentative smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, man, it’s me. You usually have impersonators calling you?”

Ross laughed from deep down in his belly, a sound so welcome and familiar. Maurice’s eyes stung.

“Not usually. I…where the hell are you?”

“In Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn? You’re back? Why haven’t you called? I tried to find you for months. The Navy wouldn’t tell me shit. What happened? How long have you been home, man?”

Maurice waited a beat. “I’ve been home a little over a year,” he said quietly.

He could almost see the waves of confusion pass over Ross’s face as he tried to process what he’d just been told.

“Say what?”

“It’s a long story. I…would have…I should have called…”

“I’m gonna forget that I should be pissed as hell right now. Brother, I thought…we all thought you were dead, man.”

Maurice heard Ross’s voice crack and that nearly broke him. “Look, I had my reasons.”

“I’m listening. No, as a matter of fact, this is not for a phone conversation. I want to put my eyes on you. Where are you in Brooklyn?”

“Fort Greene. Why?”

“You driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Janet is throwing me a little birthday party tonight. I want you here.”

“Ross…man…”

“I’ll text you the address. Eight o’clock. Not taking no for an answer. Besides, I spent enough birthdays without my man at my side.”

He thought about it. “Things are different. I’m different.”

“We all are,” he said softly. “Eight o’clock.”

“All right. Eight.”


Chapter 3

Layla was never one for sitting in traffic and knew that city dwellers would be packing up to head to the shores come Friday afternoon. The idea of bumper to bumper cars, noise and horn blowing put her spine in a vice grip. She decided to hit the road on Thursday at mid-day. Getting around the winding streets of lower Manhattan was half the battle. Once she hit the William Floyd Parkway toward Shirley, Long Island it got easier. She put her foot down on the gas and didn’t let up.

The two and a half-hour drive took just about two hours and before she had a chance to get tired she saw the signs for the Sag Harbor turnoff up ahead.

She pressed the button on the armrest to lower the windows and took a deep inhale of the ocean-tinged air. The scents of salt, sand and sea were carried along by the balmy breeze. Layla inhaled deeply. Her grip loosened on the steering wheel and her shoulders slowly lowered from their sentinel position near her neck. She had no idea how tightly wound her body was until she felt the embrace of the leather cushion of the seat.

Her clients were lukewarm about her departure and one woman began to whine about how Layla’s leaving was interfering with her calendar. Mona told her that her job at Jack and Jill’s would be waiting for her when she got back and not to worry about a thing. Mona had lent strong shoulder strength after the utter devastation of her engagement to Brent. Mona spent many an hour and drank countless mimosas listening to Layla pour out her heartache and fury and just as many assuring her that it was Brent who was the asshole, that it was his loss not hers and that a real man was out there waiting for her—when she was ready. She was certain she would never be ready. She couldn’t survive another hurt like that and the only way to get hurt like that is to love someone. That was something she had no more intentions of doing. She was going to build her business, travel, enjoy her friends and maybe even write a book one day about the art of healing through touch. But love…she was done.

She’d paid up her rent for three months, had her utilities and cable temporarily suspended, packed her bags and hit the road. Taking in the magnificent view and allowing the tranquility of the shore to seep into her limbs, she knew she’d made the right decision.

Her foot eased off the accelerator as she entered the town proper. The cobblestone streets were lined with bright colored canopies and shiny glass windows advertising the array of shops, restaurants, bakeries, specialty stores and art galleries. The waters along the pier were home to everything from basic fishing boats, to outboards to large yachts and party boats that lolled atop the soft waves.

The Port was beyond the center of town, across a wide swath of beach and soft rolling hills. Lincoln had built the place up from two small cabins to a dozen, complete with the kind of amenities expected at high price hotels—a bar, sit down restaurant, exercise room, a lounge and room service. And now The Port had its own masseuse.

Layla followed the winding streets out of the main part of town until the shops began to recede in her rearview mirror. The summer homes, and for some, yearlong homes, began to dot the landscape with pops of color against the sandy shores and green slopes.

Twenty minutes later she was driving onto The Port property. She pulled into an available parking space and got out. She arched her back and stretched her arms high over her head then took a look around.

Not much had changed that she could determine since the last time she’d visited. But knowing Desiree and Lincoln, Mr. & Mrs. DIY, she was sure that there were many new changes yet to be discovered.

Layla grabbed her oversized purse from the passenger seat, shut the car door and walked into the reception area.

A gorgeous young woman who looked as if she’d been carved out of polished ebony wood greeted her.

“Welcome to The Port. My name is Gina. Do you have a reservation or would you like a tour?”

“Hello, Gina. Umm, I’m actually a friend of Desi and Lincoln. I’m going to be doing massage therapy for the summer.”

Gina’s brows lifted and her lush mouth widened into a brilliant smile displaying two rows of even white teeth. “Of course. Mrs. Davenport told me to expect you. Let me tell her you’re here.” She picked up a phone on the desk, spoke briefly then glanced up at Layla. “Follow me, Ms. Brooks.”

Much of what Layla remembered since her last visit was the same. The Port was still a classy place, from the high-end furnishings to the sense of elegance, style and professionalism that seemed to ooze from the staff. She did notice some new artwork, and a humungous flat screen television that served as an entertainment medium, and also provided updates about The Port and the town of Sag Harbor that scrolled across the bottom.

Layla followed Gina down the short hallway to where she remembered Desiree’s office to be. Gina tapped lightly on the partially opened door.

“Come in,” rang out the cheery voice.

“Your friend Ms. Brooks is here.” Gina headed back to the front.

Before Layla could put one foot in front of the other the door swung fully open and Desiree burst out like sunshine after a storm.

“Layla!” Desiree swept her friend up in a tight hug then stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “How was the drive?”

“A breeze. You look fabulous. And happy.”

Desiree had opted for a short, natural spiral hairstyle and her complexion fairly glowed from the inside out.

“Thanks and I am.” She beamed, then a frown tightened her brow. She glanced around the space where Layla stood. “Where are your bags?”

“In the car.”

“Oh,” she breathed in relief, pressing her hand to her chest. “For a minute I thought you weren’t planning to stay.” She hooked her arm through Layla’s. “Let’s get your bags and I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

“I’m not sure for how long, but I have enough clothes and accessories to last me a minute.”

Desiree laughed. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

They walked arm-in-arm out of the main building and across the landscaped front. Desiree had one of the staff gather Layla’s bags from her car and bring them to her room.

“I’m so glad that you decided to come,” Desiree said while she turned the key in the cottage door lock. “You’re going to love it and my guests are going to love you.” She swung the door open and they stepped inside.

As Layla expected, the space was beautiful. Pale walls and whitewashed floors gave the rooms an expansive, open aired feeling and the rattan furnishings, glass accessories and the bay windows topped it off. Although The Port had a full-service restaurant and bar as well as room service, each cabin came with its own fully functional kitchen.

Layla’s cabin looked out onto the beach and down the pathway that branched right and left with a cabin on each side of comparable size to hers.

She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter and turned toward Desiree with a broad smile on her face. “Beautiful.”

Desiree took a mock bow. “And you’re going to have a ball. I’ll leave you to get settled. When you’re ready come on over to the main building. Lincoln can’t wait to see you.”

“Okay. Give me about an hour.”

“See you then.”

Desiree let herself out and Layla took her bags to the bedroom and began to unpack. She laid out an outfit and then went into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Wrapped in a thick, pale peach towel, Layla padded around her new digs and she had to admit, from the moment that she’d stepped onto the property and inhaled the ocean-washed air and spectacular views, she felt lighter inside. All of the worry and stress of everything related to home evaporated. She went into the seating area and turned on the stereo, and then two-stepped to the beat back into her bedroom.

Totally refreshed, and dressed for the sultry spring afternoon, Layla followed the path back to the main building and took in the sights along the way.

Maurice Lawson lounged beneath the shade of the blue and white striped canopy that hung above his back deck. His injured leg was elevated on a pillow. Absently, he rubbed his upper thigh while he watched the waves gently move in and out from the shore. The temperature was perfect, and the light breeze blowing off the water combined for a near hypnotic effect. Although he’d been reluctant to take his therapist’s advice, he was glad that he’d come. The past few nights were the first in months that he wasn’t awakened by the nightmares. Simply being able to rest through the night was beginning to have a positive effect on his spirit.

It was hooking up with Ross that finally changed his mind.

There’d been several moments of panic when he’d pulled up in front of Ross’s Long Island home. He’d sat in his car debating on whether to get out and go inside. But then the front door to the house opened and Ross stepped out and all the time apart slipped away. It didn’t matter to Ross and Janet that he’d been hurt or that he’d cut them off for so long or that he was seeing a shrink to try to get his head right. All that mattered was that their friend was alive and he was back.

He and Ross talked long after the last guest went home. They talked until the sun rose, and when he returned to his apartment in Brooklyn he felt almost human. Human enough to take Ross and Janet and Dr. Morrison’s advice and go to Sag Harbor. Do some thinking and some soul searching. And whatever he decided, they would be there for him when he returned.

He rested his head against the back of the chair and was just about to close his eyes and let the pain medication settle in when movement to his right drew his attention. At first he thought that perhaps it was an apparition, a vision like the ones he would see at the end of the tunnel of light—beckoning him through those painful nights of recovery. That light and the ethereal image at the end of it were the only things that gave him hope and the will to go on. He hadn’t seen the vision since he’d left the military hospital in Afghanistan, until now.

But it wasn’t his imagination and the image wasn’t a result of hallucinations from the pain. She was real and she moved as if walking on air. The lightweight white clothing that she wore gently floated around her, lifted by the gentle breeze.

Maurice sat up a bit to see where she was going, and to convince himself that she was real. She turned a corner, and disappeared behind one of the houses. He stared at the space where she’d been until his vision blurred. He shook his head and blinked his eyes several times to clear them. The strange, unsettling sensation rippled in the center of his stomach.

“Crazy,” he muttered to himself and tried to push the moment aside. He closed his eyes, leaned back and let the medication do its work. He dozed lightly and the one thing that he remembered when he awoke and found the sun setting down beyond the horizon was that he’d dreamed of the illuminated image again.


Chapter 4

“Are all the cabins full?” Layla asked, sipping on her mojito.

Desiree, her husband, Lincoln, and Layla were seated at the on-site bar relaxing and catching up while listening to the backdrop of soft jazz and calypso floating in from some unseen source.

“We have three vacancies, for now. But they’re already booked. Of course everyone isn’t staying for the entire season. The majority are here for about two weeks,” Desiree said, then popped some peanuts into her mouth.

“Surprisingly, business has remained pretty good, even in the off-season,” Lincoln said.

“During hard times people need some kind of escape, even if it’s only temporary,” Layla added.

“True, that’s why we work really hard to keep the prices down and the service up,” Desiree said. “And at least once every quarter we have a half-price weekend special with all amenities included.”

“That must really help to draw in the business and make people want to come back.”

“It does. And of course Melanie recommends all of her clients to come and visit. When she has functions up at her place and clients want to stay over, some of her guests will stay here.”

“Can’t wait to see Mel. I haven’t seen her since the wedding,” Layla said.

“She’s out of town but she should be back early next week. She insisted on hosting our anniversary party, so I know she will have plenty to do when she gets back. And she has a long list of very eligible men she wants you to meet.”

“Meeting men is not on my list of things to do. I came here to get away from the city, help you out and get some sun in. That’s it.”

Desiree and Lincoln shared a quick “sure you’re right” look, between them.

Layla pushed out a breath and slowly gazed around at the tranquil setting. Singles and couples walked along the beach, gathered beneath umbrella covered tables or swam in the pool. Several guests were entering the restaurant and the sound of happy voices filled the air. She could easily get used to living like this. The whole notion of not having to think about where she was going to park her car every day was more than worth the price of admission.

“Did you show Layla her place?” Lincoln asked.

“Yes.”

“Love it,” Layla said. “I get the feeling that the two of you have intentions of me being around for a while.” She looked from one guilty face to the other.

“We just want you to be happy and comfortable,” Desiree offered, putting on her sweet as syrup voice.

Lincoln draped his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “And if you decided to stay,” he hedged, “you’d be all set up already. As a businessman I have to always think ahead.”

Layla deadpanned the two of them and then laughed. “You two are a mess.”

“We try,” they said in unison.

“Listen,” Lincoln pushed back from his seat. “I’m going to leave you ladies to do whatever it is that you do and I’m going to check on some inventory.” He leaned over and gave his wife a slow, sweet kiss and whispered something against her lips that Layla couldn’t make out, but whatever it was it had Desiree’s face flushed with heat.

Desiree’s gaze followed Lincoln until he was out of sight. She sighed deeply. A light smile softened her lips.

“You two are still as hot for each other as boiling oil.”

“Is it that obvious?” Desiree teased. She reached for her glass of white wine.

“Uh, yeah.”

The friends laughed.

“So when did you want me to start? Did you let your guests know about the new massage therapy services yet?”

“I’ve been working on a small flyer to hand out, but I wanted your input first to make sure I had all the details right and I wanted you to have a couple of days to unwind and relax.”

“Girl, around here, I could get too relaxed and you wouldn’t get any work out of me!”

“I know the feeling. But that’s the kind of atmosphere Lincoln and I want at The Port. A real getaway, you know what I mean. If you look around, you don’t see anyone hunched over laptops and checking BlackBerries and iPhones every five minutes. They’re actually here to enjoy themselves. At least that’s what I see when they come out of their rooms,” she added as a caveat.

Layla nodded in agreement. “In that case,” she raised her hand to get the attention of the bartender, “another mojito please.”

* * *

Layla couldn’t stay in bed a minute longer. And as much as she wanted to simply loll around on the sandy shores like a careless beach bum, the urge to be busy grabbed hold of her. She was actually anxious to get her massage room ready and her fingers moving. All night she’d dreamed of how she was going to set up her space and the atmosphere she would create. This would actually be the first time that a work space would truly be all hers and not the vision of whomever she was working for. A twinge of memory tried to pull her back to those times with Brent, with him teaching her the techniques that made her successful, that they practiced on each other late at night. She shook off the vision. That was the past she reminded herself once again.

It was barely seven a.m. and she was bathed and dressed. She tucked her iPad into her tote bag and headed out.

The morning was simply exquisite. The sun was at a perfect pitch. The sky was clear enough to see for miles and the gentle warmth that blew in from the ocean was invigorating. She spotted several guests jogging along the shoreline and there were already a few out for an early morning swim in the pale blue ocean.

Layla drew in a long breath and smiled. Whatever reservations she may have had about packing up and leaving the city were fading fast.

Desiree had given Layla the key to the massage suite the previous evening after their cursory tour. It was during the night that her wheels started spinning and she woke up knowing exactly what she wanted.

She let herself in and stood in the center of the room and looked around. She took out her iPad and opened it to the Notepad icon and began jotting down a list of the things that she would need, from thick towels, to oils, literature on massage therapy, robes, slippers, lighting and music. She would also need cases of water and a place to keep them cold.

Lincoln and Desiree didn’t cut corners on design layout or expense. Connected to the therapy room were shower stalls and a sauna room.

Layla guessed that what Desiree said was true; that if she didn’t take this spot someone else would. And she would be right. It was perfect and she couldn’t wait to get started.

She could already envision the space as a full-time operation with a staff. She grinned, knowing that she was getting way ahead of herself. The first thing she needed to do was make a list and then go shopping for supplies before she started reviewing resumes.

Layla switched off the lights and locked up, her mind on the task ahead as she came around the short corner and came face-to-face with Maurice Lawson.

She came up short, and started to apologize for nearly causing a collision, but the words hung somewhere in the back of her throat, stuck there with all the air that refused to move of out of her lungs and fuel her brain.

Her center ignited and she could feel the fine hairs on her arms and along the back of her neck begin to rise. Good Lord, the man was…was…

It was her. The woman that he’d spotted yesterday. She was real. “Sorry,” he said.

The two-syllable word sounded like a love song in her ears.

“No, you’re fine…it’s fine. Really.” Did she just say that? “I’m always in a hurry,” she babbled. She couldn’t think straight, not with those haunting dark eyes staring at her and that chiseled upper body encased in a sleeveless white T-shirt that outlined every muscle that begged to be touched.

Maurice shifted his walking cane from his right hand to his left and shook hers. “Maurice.”

Her hand was enveloped in the warmth of his. “Nice…to meet you I mean. You’re a guest?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yes and no. I’m a working guest. I’m the new massage therapist. Layla Brooks.”

“Hmmm.” He nodded his head.

They stood there momentarily frozen in that “what now” moment that was mercifully broken by another guest needing to squeeze by in the narrow corridor.

“Nice meeting you,” Maurice said.

“You, too.”

He moved past her and tried to ignore the pain in his leg and limped away with as much dignity as he could summon. He wanted to vanish and not have her watch him as he tried to pretend that he was as whole as any other man.

Layla didn’t realize that she’d stopped breathing until a burst of air rushed from her chest. Her heart was beating triple time and although she was much too young for hot flashes, her entire body was flushed with heat.

“Humph, humph, humph. That is one specimen of a man, cane and all,” she whispered. She definitely wanted him to sign up to be on her client list so that she could see for herself just how hard those muscles really were. She gave a short shake of her head to clear it.

It was still a little too early to drive into town. She took a slow stroll around the property, reacquainting herself with the layout and then around to the back of the main building to the outdoor lounge, drawn by the aroma of breakfast. Her stomach responded.

A few of the white circular tables were occupied and the waitresses were busy filling juice glasses and coffee cups. She found a table that was near the buffet, put down her bag and walked over to check out the breakfast offerings. She started down the length of the table and filled her plate with fresh fruit, eggs and wheat toast. She walked back to her table and was thinking about her close encounter with tall, dark and handsome Maurice when the plate in her hand rattled. He was on the other side of the buffet table.

Maurice was settling down in his seat. Alone. He braced his cane against the table and she could see from where she stood the relief wash over his expression as he took the weight off of his leg.

She wondered what had happened to him. Was it an accident? Surgery? She watched the expression on his face tighten. For a moment he closed his eyes while he massaged his thigh. What would that thigh feel like under her expert fingers? She knew she could take the pain away.

“Um, excuse me.”

Layla blinked. A smile flickered across her mouth. “Oh, sorry. I’m daydreaming,” she said to the couple standing behind her that was waiting for her to move along. She walked with her plate back to her table, taking furtive glances in Maurice’s direction.

He was reading the paper and sipping on a cup of coffee. Maybe she should go and join him. No sense in the both of them eating alone, she thought. A dozen different scenarios played in her head on how she should approach him and what she should say and what he would say to her in return. The minutes ticked away.

Maurice put down his coffee cup and turned slightly in her direction then away before doing a short double take and looking back again. He lifted his chin in salute. Layla waved. Her heart pounded. Maybe he would come over. Maybe he would ask her to join him. Should she go over and sit down? What if he was waiting for someone and she looked silly?

Maurice folded the paper, finished off his coffee and reached for his cane.

He was going to come over. She could hardly breathe. She swallowed over the tightness in her throat.

Maurice stood slowly offered her a brief smile and walked out.

Layla felt as if she’d been pumped full of air and then suddenly stabbed with an ice pick. As the air in her balloon dissipated, so did her appetite. She pushed her food around on her plate until it was sufficiently cold then gathered up her things and went out to get her car for the drive into town.

Maurice returned to his room. He’d wanted to say something more to Layla. But what was the point. He tossed his cane into a corner. He plopped down on the couch. Even if he was attracted to her, what would she want with him? She probably felt pity for him just like everyone else.

He stretched out his injured leg and absently massaged the never-ending ache.

It had been longer than he would have liked since he’d been with a woman, through choice as well as circumstance. After his injury and then rehab he continued to struggle with what happened that night. The guilt was almost as painful if not more so than the injury that ended his career. The therapy sessions helped, but only so much. He still could not get beyond the feeling that had he done something differently, lives would have been saved and he would be one hundred percent man. Without his career as a Navy SEAL, the job he’d worked so hard for, trained for, lived for—all of that was gone. Being a SEAL defined who he was. The loss of that combined with his debilitating injury was almost more than he could stand. He didn’t feel like a man anymore. And if he didn’t feel it, what woman would feel it? He leaned his head back against the cushion of the couch and closed his eyes against his inescapable realities.

Layla spent the better part of the morning shopping for supplies for the suite. Her car’s trunk was loaded and it took several trips back and forth to unload and get everything inside the suite. She’d purchased plants, artwork, oils, lotions, CDs, mats, small bowls, oil burners, hand sanitizers, disinfectant, cases of fruit juice and water, and soft lightbulbs. She’d placed an order for a dozen terry cloth robes and shower slippers. The boutique where she’d made her purchases promised that her items would be delivered within the next two days.

She spent the next couple of hours organizing her supplies and rolling towels to be stacked. She hung pictures and poured the aromatic oils into the burners. Aromatherapy was just as important in creating the perfect atmosphere as the treatments.

Layla took a look around and was finally satisfied with what she’d accomplished. She took some pictures of the space for the flyers, then locked up and walked back to the main building in search of Desiree.

“It looks fabulous,” Desiree was saying. “Let me download them to my computer.”

Layla touched a few icons on her iPad and sent the images to Desiree.

Within moments Desiree was loading them into her graphics program. “You’ve been busy,” she said while she worked.

Layla laughed. “To keep my mind off of other things.”

Desiree looked up at her friend for a moment. “Other things like what? Don’t tell me New York.”

Layla sat on the edge of Desiree’s desk and folded her arms. “No. Not New York.” She leaned closer. “Do you know that guy…with the limp?”

Desiree frowned in concentration. “Limp?”

“Yes and gorgeous.”

Desiree grinned. “Oh, Maurice Lawson.”

“Him.”

Desiree crossed her legs. Her right brow rose with her question. “What about him?”

“What do you know about him?”

“Hmm, not much. He checked in about three days ago. Booked his cottage for six weeks. That’s about it really. I see him around from time to time.” A slow smile moved across her mouth. “And you want to know all this because…”

Layla blew out a breath. “I wish I knew. Well, maybe I do know. It’s hard to explain. I mean, I only saw him for a minute a couple of times…but…” She looked away as if searching for the answers somewhere in the corners of the room. Finally, she shrugged. “No big deal. Forget it. He looked like he’d rather be alone.”

Desiree stared at Layla’s profile. “Hey, this is the twenty-first century, girl. If a woman is interested in a man she doesn’t have to stand on protocol and wait for the man to make the first move anymore.”

Layla slowly shook her head. “That is so not me. In my head I’m bold and aggressive. But then reality sets in.”

Desiree reached out and touched Layla’s hand. “Bold and not standing on protocol is you. Brent screwed up a perfectly good relationship. But you can’t let what he did diminish you. Every man is not like Brent.”

Layla hopped down off the desk. “I know that. I’m over Brent.”

“Are you? Really? I’m not saying that you still have feelings for him, but I am saying that what he did messed with your confidence, challenged your womanhood.”

Layla snapped her head away. She tightened her arms around her waist. The words to refute Desiree’s assertion were on her lips. They lingered on her tongue. She couldn’t say them. What Desiree said was true. It was painfully true. It had been a year since she’d come home to have him tell her that he was leaving, that he no longer loved her. But there wasn’t a day that had gone by that she didn’t remember how small and insignificant she’d felt; how could he so easily stop loving her. It wasn’t until months later that she found out why.

She’d gone over that night a million times. In some versions she threw a lamp at Brent and then dumped all of his clothes out of the window. In another he came running after her, begging her to forgive him. But in all the versions, in the end, she was alone. Probably what stung the most was that she’d heard from their mutual acquaintances that Brent and Grace—his assistant—the woman he’d stopped loving her for—were still together and there was talk of them getting married the following spring.

There was no way that she could get around the feeling that it was something she’d done or didn’t do or that she wasn’t appealing enough. Something. The feeling of inadequacy was not as bad as it had been, but it hovered and sat on her shoulder waiting patiently to whisper in her ear.

“I remember the Layla Brooks that would walk into a minefield with high heels and a smile on her face, who could step into a room and every head would turn, who could have a conversation with the Secretary of State as easily as the woman who owns the dry cleaner on the corner. That’s the Layla that I know.”

Layla lowered her head for a moment. Had she really changed that much? She looked at Desiree. “So I should just walk up to him and what?”

“Hand him one of your flyers for starters,” she said pressing the print button on the computer. Moments later a color-printed flyer announcing the new massage therapy services slid out of the printer. Desiree lifted it from the tray and handed it to Layla with a “now what’s your excuse,” look on her face.

Layla tilted her head slightly to the left and eyed the flyer. “Not bad. I’ll see what I can do with it,” she said with a lift of her chin before turning away and waving goodbye on her way out.


Chapter 5

Layla made it a point to be on the lookout for Maurice, but it had been three days since she’d seen him last. Desiree assured her that he hadn’t checked out. Maybe they simply kept missing each other, she’d suggested. Or maybe it just wasn’t meant to be, Layla concluded.

Whatever the case may be, her massage services were officially open for business and from the moment she turned on the lights, she was busy and she didn’t have much time to dwell on the illusive Maurice Lawson.

* * *

The nightmares had begun again. He awoke that morning with his entire body aching, damp from sweat and his head pounding. The dark, twisted images began to recede as the sun rose over the horizon, but the feeling of helplessness lingered. He’d been caught in the clutches of his deepest fears for hours, listening to the explosions and the screams and the heat from the flames that seemed to go on into infinity. He couldn’t get away because he couldn’t wake up until a soft glow could be seen in the valley of the dark mountains where his Black Hawk had gone down. It beckoned him, getting brighter when he seemed to lose his way. He could feel the bands of darkness that held him down begin to loosen as the light grew brighter. It felt as if he was being lifted from a deep pit. And then he woke up.

For a while he simply lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and watched the blades of the fan turn in slow, hypnotic circles.

Would it ever end? Would he ever feel whole again? Some days it almost seemed possible and then there were others, like today that had him believing that this endless dark road was his future. But it couldn’t be. He couldn’t live like this day after day. He would go out of his mind.

He sat up in bed. His T-shirt clung to his upper body. Gingerly he eased his legs over the side and closed his eyes for a moment as the pain dimmed enough for him to think about getting up. With some effort he pushed himself to a standing position, took a deep breath and limped into the bathroom.

Even after a long hot shower, the pulsing aches in his body persisted, beating like his heart. He took his time getting dressed and finally stepped outside onto the front porch of the cottage.

Another magnificent day. The sky was clear for miles. The air hinted at the summer just beyond the horizon. The sun was at that perfect angle. Faint sounds of laughter and life could be heard in the distance. He should be enjoying it. He should be diving into the ocean or jogging along the sandy beach, lounging with friends in the late afternoon, sipping drinks with island names and sleeping with his arms wrapped around a beautiful woman at night.

He drew in a long breath as he leaned against the pillar that supported the overhang. The caw of seagulls wafted in the breeze. He turned his attention to the path leading to the main building and wondered if the woman he’d met—Layla—had opened her massage spa yet. The idea of her hands on his body stroking away the tightness, releasing the tension that coiled in his limbs and down his spine, caused an inadvertent moan to escape. He imagined the pressure of her fingers playing across his neck, massaging his biceps. Her scent filled his nostrils and the sudden tug in his groin heated his blood.

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs of lust that had ensnared him. It was as if she’d cast some kind of spell over him. From the moment he’d caught sight of her walking along the pathway, he’d been unable to shake her from his thoughts.

It was her image, her light that finally led him out of the grip of his nightmare. Although he could not see her in his dream, he understood that it was her. How, he was not certain. But he felt it in the depths of his being.

Layla had been open for business since nine a.m. It was nearing one o’clock and she’d been going non-stop. Although she loved what she did, she knew she couldn’t keep up the pace and still maintain her high standards of quality. As soon as she shut down for the day, she was going to have to take some time and plan a schedule that was going to work for her and not shortchange the guests.

She’d put the “Out to Lunch” sign on the door and was in the middle of resetting the massage room when there was a knock on the front door.

“Go away,” she muttered under her breath as she rolled a fresh towel and put it on the shelf. She picked up the basket of used towels and walked to the front. “Whoever it is obviously cannot—”

Her throat went dry. She went to the glass door and turned the lock.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Uh, sorry to disturb your lunch…but I wanted to make an appointment.”

She couldn’t stop watching the movement of his mouth and the way his lips reminded her of summer fruit—sweet and juicy. Too bad she didn’t read lips because she had no idea what he’d just said.

“I probably should come back,” he said when he got no response. He started to turn away.

She reached out and touched his arm. Big mistake. It was like being hit with a jolt of electricity. Her breath hitched for an instant. “No…you have to excuse my rudeness. Please come in. I guess I’m a little tired and not thinking clearly.” She held the door open wider and smiled up at him. “Come in.”

Maurice looked at her for a moment then stepped past her and inside.

She allowed herself an instant of mental happy dancing before she closed the door and followed him to the middle of the waiting lounge.

“Please, have a seat.” She extended her hand toward one of the mauve-print club chairs.

“It’s easier if I stand.”

“Hmm, okay. So…what can I do for you?” She rested her hip against the side of the reception desk.

“I was interested in what you offer…your services.”

Her throat went bone-dry. He had the longest lashes. Were those flecks of cinnamon in his eyes? Every time that he said something the rich timbre of his voice vibrated inside her like a tuning fork.

She ran her tongue across her lips. “Umm, I could show you around, give you the ten cent tour. I’m sorry that I haven’t had brochures made up yet, but the list of services are posted on the wall.”

He turned slightly to the left and glimpsed the whiteboard with the list. Slowly, he walked over, trying to minimize his limp. “You do all of this?” He turned his head toward her and his eyes seemed to sparkle above his yummy smile.

“Yep.” She stuck her hands out and wiggled her fingers.

His laughter filled her with a wild sense of gleeful abandonment. “Take your pick.”

“What would you suggest?”

She crossed the short space to stand next to him and folded her arms. She scanned the board and made a mental note that she reached his shoulder. “Hmm, I would start you off with a steam for ten minutes, followed by a full-body massage and some aromatherapy.”

He angled toward her and glanced down into her upturned face. She seemed to be lit from within. A warmth radiated from her and embraced him in a soothing cocoon. He felt…peaceful. That was it. She took all the noise away.

Maurice cleared his throat. “I know you’re probably booked.” His dark, smoky eyes rolled slowly over her face, down the long column of her neck and…

“I have an opening…” She coughed into her fist. “’Scuse me.” Her face was on fire. “At the end of the day. If five o’clock works for you.” She swallowed and wondered if he could actually hear her heart hammering in her chest.

“Five is fine. Do I need to bring anything?”

“No.” She offered a smile. “Just yourself.”

He grinned at her and she noticed the small dimple in his right cheek.

“See you at five.”

She probably should have run over and opened the door for him or something, but she just stood there like Lot’s wife—a pillar of salt.

She snapped out of it when the chime over the door signaled his departure and she actually breathed in and out. She sat down on the side of the desk and stared at the empty space that Maurice had filled moments ago. What the hell was it about that man that made her all un-Layla? She knew the pitfalls of sexual magnetism that drowned out everything else. Because what else could it be but a crazy sexual attraction? He was a stranger albeit a tall, dark, gorgeous stranger that had her libido on overdrive. Meanwhile, the man only wanted a massage, not a long, lusty, sweaty roll in the sack.

She shook her head and pushed up from the side of the desk. “Yeah, it’s been too long since you’ve had a man.”

The next four hours crept by. In between each application of oil, or deep tissue pressure onto the backs and thighs of her clients, Layla checked the clock. Was it really possible what they said about time standing still?

Mercifully her last client walked out of the door. It was 4:30. The speed of her heart began a steady spiral. She busied herself with reorganizing, restocking and making sure that the perfect combination of oils were on hand. She lit two of the oil burners in the massage room and within moments the dimly lit room was awash in a heady, soothing scent of ylang-ylang.

At precisely five on the dot, the chimes over the door jingled. She drew in a breath and walked out front.

Her spirit dropped to her ankles but she still plastered a welcoming smile on her face.

“Hello, how may I help you?” she asked the young blonde woman who stood in the door looking very much like Reese Witherspoon.

“Hi. I wanted to find out about the services.”

“Sure. Let me show you the list of what I offer.” They walked over to the whiteboard and Layla began explaining the services.

“Pretty extensive.”

“I want this to be as full-service as I can manage,” Layla said with a smile. “What brings you to The Port?”

The woman took off her dark shades to reveal startling green eyes. “Needed to get away. I lost my husband a little more than a year ago. This time of year is very difficult.” She forced a tight smile. “I hoped with a change in location…it might be easier.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

She waved off the remark. “Thank you. I’m sure you don’t need to hear my sad story.”

The door chimed again. Layla’s gaze snapped in the direction of the opening door. Maurice stood in the frame of the doorway and she felt all the alarms go off at once.

The woman glanced over her shoulder wondering who or what had caused Layla to stop talking midsentence.

Layla’s breath hitched for an instant. “Hello.”

The woman’s gaze moved between Layla and Maurice. She put her shades back on. “Do you have a card?”

Layla blinked. “Oh, yes. Of course.” She hurried over to her desk and retrieved a card from the silver plated holder and handed it to the woman.

“How far in advance do I need to make an appointment?”

“You can always call when you’re ready. If I have an opening I’ll be happy to immediately accommodate you. But if you want an appointment if you can call at least the day before, I can usually work something out. It’s been pretty busy since I’ve opened.”

The woman nodded. “Thank you for your time. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from me.” She extended her hand. “My name is Kim by the way.”

“Hope to see you again, Kim.”

Kim walked toward the door. She gave a slight nod of her head and started to walk out but then stopped. She frowned just a bit as she looked up at Maurice as if trying to get him into focus. “You look familiar. I know it’s a big world, but are you any relation to Rafe Lawson?”

Layla noticed the subtle tightening of his expression.

“Cousin.”

Kim beamed and wagged her finger. “I knew I spotted a resemblance.” She stuck out her hand. “Kim Fleming. I haven’t seen Rafe in ages. Please tell him hello for me.”

“Sure.”

She opened the door. “Thanks again,” she said to Layla. “You two have a good afternoon.” She offered a knowing smile and walked out.

Layla folded her hands in front of her. “Small world, huh?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Listen maybe we can do this another time.”

He finally focused on her and the raw anger that was reflected in his eyes and the set countenance of his face caused Layla to take an inadvertent step back. His thick brows were drawn tightly together and his full mouth had tightened into a flat line. His chest rose and fell much too rapidly.

Layla’s eyes moved over his face and down to his hand that clenched the handle of his cane in a death grip. She dared to reach out. She covered that hand with her own.

“I can guarantee that after an hour whatever it is that’s bothering you won’t seem quite as important,” she said softly.

Maurice’s gaze dropped down to their hands then slowly up to her face. By degrees the knot in his gut began to loosen. He rocked his jaw from side to side. The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “You must be very good.”

She grinned full out. “I am.” She propped her hands on her hips. “And if you are not one hundred percent satisfied…dinner is on me.”

Maurice laughed from deep in his chest. The corner of his eyes crinkled. “You’re on.”

“And I promise not to gloat over how incredible you will feel when I’m done.”

She turned to lead him to the changing room.

“If you’re that good, then dinner and drinks will be on me.”

She nearly stumbled over her own two feet but had the presence of mind to keep walking. “Mojito is my drink of choice,” she said and tossed him a quick look over her shoulder.

Maurice chuckled and followed willingly in her wake.


Chapter 6

“You can change in here,” Layla said, opening a door to a small changing space that included a locker, a bench for sitting and a hook for hanging clothes. “It’s not the Ritz but it’s cozy,” she added with a smile.

Maurice offered a half grin. “It’s more than fine. Thanks.”

“When you’re done, walk straight down this short hall to the steam room.” She indicated the direction to her right. “I’ll have it all set up for you.” She turned and the saloon door swung closed behind her. As she walked toward the steam room all she could think about was that gorgeous man was in the process of taking off his clothes, and the next time that she set eyes on him, there would be not much between them other than a white towel…of surrender, her sex-starved brain whispered. Goose bumps shimmied up her arms.

Layla shook off the tempting visual and hurried into the steam room that housed three spaces for clients. She selected the room on the end and set the temperature, made sure that there were towels and water. She came out and shut the door behind her. When she turned Maurice was standing in front of her and they both heard her gasp.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She ran her tongue nervously across her lips. “It’s nothing…really. Just a little jumpy today for some reason.” In a nanosecond her gaze licked across his face to his muscular bare chest, to the tight stomach, to the hidden gems behind the white towel and down to his legs and back up again. She swallowed. “Your room is ready.”

“Thanks.”

“You can adjust the temperature if you need to. Everything is set for ten minutes. Press the red button on the wall and the steam will start.”

He nodded his head.

She took two steps back. “Shout if you need me…for anything.”

“I will.” His eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled at her.

“Okay. Good.” She took two more back steps then spun away before she really made an idiot out of herself. She had the clarity of mind to point herself in the direction of the massage room. Once inside she sat down on the low-slung chair and dropped her face into her palms. What in the world was wrong with her? Her entire self was behaving as if she’d never been in the presence of a sexy man before. She couldn’t think straight, her heart was racing a mile a minute, and every other word out of her mouth was laced with a sexual undertone. Pushing out an exasperated breath she stood and began preparing the room for her client. This was business, she continued to remind herself as she set out towels, an extra robe, and lit the oil burners to scent the room. She put on a CD that captured the hypnotic sounds of rainfall and the rush of waves against the shore. She checked her watch. Maurice had about three minutes. She dimmed the lighting and went to check on her client.

When she returned to the steam room, Maurice was already out. She could hear the shower water running and her imagination shifted into overdrive. As clear as a spring morning she could see him beyond the frosted glass doors in the outfit that the Lord had given him…long, hard, sleek and drenched in milk chocolate.

The rushing water of the shower stopped. She could clearly hear him humming a soft tune now. Her heart thumped. She couldn’t just stand there like a dummy. But what if he came out with nothing on for instance? Not even the towel. But her feet were stuck on the wood floors.

The frosted glass door swung open. Maurice was securing the towel around his waist. He glanced up. His entire body still glistened from the heat and the water and for a moment Layla refused to breathe, certain that if she did it would disturb the delicate balance between them.

“Oh, hey there. All done.” He used the end of the towel that was draped around his neck to wipe his face.

Layla pushed out a breath. “Great. We can get your massage started.” She turned on her heels and walked back in the direction of the massage room. She could feel the heat of Maurice’s body wrapping itself around her from behind. The massage room was up ahead. She opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit interior. Immediately she busied herself with arranging oils and cloths. Anything to keep her eyes off of Maurice.

“Is the room comfortable enough?”

“Fine.”

“You can get up on the table. If you loosen the towel and turn on your stomach we can get started.” She looked away as he loosened his towel and then stretched out on the massage table.

Layla walked around to the head of the table. “I want to make sure that you’re comfortable. Stretch your arms down your sides, palms up and rest your forehead in the opening of the headrest. Get comfortable.”

Maurice followed her instructions. “Good?” he asked, his voice muffled by the cushion of the head support.

“Perfect. I’m going to begin with a light full-body massage and then a deeper tissue stimulation. I’ll be using a variety of oils. If I’m applying too much pressure or you feel uncomfortable please let me know. If there is an area on your body that you want me to devote special attention, let me know that as well.”

“Hmm, ummm,” he mumbled.

Layla poured some oil onto her palm and rubbed her hands briskly together. For a moment she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Slowly she lowered her hands to his shoulders. Her hands splayed across the heat of his flesh. Her thumbs pressed and connected with hard muscle, and his rugged sigh made her own spine tingle. She forced herself to concentrate on what she did so well—bring heaven to earth through her touch.

She covered every exposed inch of his body with her hands, infusing into every sinew the heat of release. Her trained hands moved down his back, up again and across his wide shoulders. She kneaded his arms, and she’d swear that she heard him almost whimper in rapture when she stroked the inside of his palms.

Applying more oils onto her hands, she started on the odyssey of his upper thighs and then took a slow trip down along his calves to the soles of his feet and back up again. She lingered for a moment along the thick scar that ran like a river down his right leg from above his knee to his midcalf. She felt his body tighten and his easy breathing hitch when her fingertips came in contact with the thickened tissue. But under her gentle manipulations she heard his breathing level off and the tension dissipate.

The soft candlelight bounced off his glistening dark skin, casting enticing shadows along the dips and curves of his body. Layla drew in a slow breath separating his natural scent from that of the oils. A smile of satisfaction teased her mouth.

She let her lids lower to almost closing as she worked. She loved what she did, bringing pleasure and relief to others through the skill of her touch. But this was different. She’d always been able to remain detached from her clients. She simply read their body needs through the tips of her fingers and gave the body what it desired. But this time it was her body that was in need, her body that longed to be touched.

Without effort or apparent intent Maurice had awakened her sleeping sexual giant. And it needed to be fed. The pulse between her thighs quickened. A fire lit in her belly. Heat infused her. Her breathing escalated. She saw herself standing before him. Her robe dropped to the ground. She stretched out her arms. He came to her in the dimness. His mouth brushed the pulse that fluttered at the base of her neck. Her nostrils flared as she tried to breathe. His head moved lower down along the swell of her breasts…

Maurice groaned every so softly.

The sound rippled up her spine. She blinked. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession. She ran her tongue across her dry mouth.

The room came into a hazy kind of focus. Damn, she muttered under her breath. She glanced down at the sculpted specimen beneath her fingers.

“All done,” she said softly. “How do you feel?”

“Like I could stay here forever.”

Layla expelled a nervous laugh. “There’s a robe hanging on the back of the door. After you get your things and get dressed I’ll meet you up front.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured unmoving.

Layla slipped out, closing the door silently behind her.

There was one thing that Maurice was totally thankful for, he thought, slowly rising to a sitting position on the table, and that was that she hadn’t asked him to turn over onto his back. He glanced down at the rock-hard rise beneath the towel. That could have been embarrassing for both of them. Or maybe not.

While she ran her hands all over him he was able to forget that he wasn’t whole—forget that he was crippled and scarred. Under the expertise of Layla’s fingertips he felt complete, came alive again, things he had not felt since he woke up in the hospital more than a year ago.

Gingerly he got down off of the table, expecting the usual pain to shoot up his leg into his hip. But nothing happened. All he felt was a soothing warmth deep in his muscles. He took a step and still no real pain. He reached for the robe that hung on the hook and shrugged into it. He took a quick mental inventory of his body. A hint of a smile moved his mouth. It didn’t hurt. He didn’t hurt. His throat clenched and his eyes burned. He didn’t care if the relief only lasted for a minute. But for right now…

Layla was sitting in front of the computer screen when Maurice came up front.

She stopped what she was doing. “So…how was it? Can I add you to my list of satisfied customers?”

He crossed the space and sat down on a stool in front of the desk. “Oh, most definitely.” He grinned.

Layla tried to stay focused on whatever it was she should say next rather than memorize the way his lips moved when he talked and wonder if they were as soft and sweet as they appeared.

“Looks like I owe you a drink and dinner.”

She laughed over her nerves and waved her hand. “Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“A deal is a deal.”

Layla didn’t breathe for a second. “Drinks and dinner?”

“Mojito, right?” His eyes glowed.

“Um, yes.”

“How about eight?”

She swallowed the last lump of hesitation. “Eight is fine. I can meet you…by the bar.”

Maurice bobbed his head. “See you later.” He started to turn then stopped. “Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

Layla sat transfixed until the sound of the chimes over the door signaled Maurice’s departure. She shook some sense back into her head. She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth. Dinner with Maurice Lawson! She had a little more than an hour to get ready and it would never happen with her sitting there with a goofy grin on her face.

And maybe over dinner and after a drink or two he would tell her a little bit about his very famous family and why that woman’s mentioning them seemed to get under his skin.


Chapter 7

“Hey, Layla!”

Layla glanced over her shoulder to see Desiree hurrying in her direction. “Hey. Whatsup?” she asked barely slowing down.

“I wanted to know how your day went and if you wanted to join me and Lincoln for dinner.”

“Oh,” she stopped short, turned to look at Desiree with a grin on her face. “I’m having dinner with Maurice Lawson.”

Desiree’s brows shot up in perfect symmetry. “Mr. tall, dark and broodingly handsome?”

“Yep.”

“Get outta here. You must have put some of that massage mojo on the brother. I haven’t seen him with a soul since he’s been here. To be truthful other than spotting him alone on the beach or maybe grabbing a drink…” Her voice trailed off.

“Did you know that he was a Lawson cousin?”

Desiree frowned. “No, I didn’t, but I see that you do,” she added with a wry grin. “How did you find out?”

They reached the end to the path before it split up toward the cottages.

“One of your guests, Kim Fleming, came into the salon while he was there. She recognized the family resemblance. Of course she mentioned Rafe.”

Desiree laughed. “Who doesn’t mention Rafe if they know him?”

“Touché. Anyway, it seemed to upset him for some reason.”

“Hmmm, I could probably ask Melanie. She would know. She’s close with the Lawsons. Funny, I never put the family thing together. Like I said, I haven’t really seen him that much and one of the staff checked him in. But even from a distance I can tell that the man is fine—with a capital F.”

Layla laughed. “You are so right.” She checked her watch. “I gotta run. We’re meeting up at eight.”




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