Tie Me (One Night with Sole Regret #5), Page 2

  He shook his head. “No,” he shouted up at her. “I live next door. I was just enjoying the”—with an outstretched hand, he indicated the churning sea behind him—“view.”

  “Normally, I’d believe you, but the view is a little violent at the moment,” she yelled back.

  Thunder crashed overhead, and the wind blew cold rain against her. She stepped back from the railing. The storms here didn’t mess around. Palm fronds slapped against tree trunks, rattling like a nest of angry snakes. The surf slammed into the beach with increasing retaliation as the storm advanced ashore.

  The man cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Was that you pla—”

  Lightning broke the darkness, announcing another rumble of thunder. Dawn could see the man’s lips were still moving, but the wind robbed her ears of his words.

  “What?” she yelled.

  “That melody I hear—”

  She shook her head and pointed to her ear. “I can’t hear what you’re saying!”

  He scowled and glanced around before turning and running for the wooden walkway that had been built over the sand dunes. Soon she couldn’t see him at all and wondered if she’d imagined him. At least he’d found the sense to get out of the rain, even if it was rude for him to dash off without so much as a see ya.

  Dawn shrugged and went back in the house. Perhaps that little interruption would wake up her muse. The lazy twit wasn’t cooperating with her at all tonight, and Dawn had a deadline to meet. She had to find the rest of this song by morning or she was in deep, professional trouble.

  She flexed her aching fingers and had just sat down at the piano when the doorbell rang.

  Had Neptune come calling? Her heart rate kicked up. She was here in this strange house by herself, and she was pretty sure the nearest cop was ten miles away. What if that soaking wet hottie was a psycho? He had to be a little crazy to be standing out in a storm in the middle of the night, didn’t he? That was the curse of having an overactive imagination. It served her well in her song writing, but damned if it wasn’t a burden whenever something a little out of the norm came her way.

  She hesitated for just a moment and then went to the door, drawing the shade up so she could look through the glass pane. The shadow of a broad-shouldered figure loomed outside. She switched on the porch light. Yep, there standing on her deck, dripping water and looking sexier than any drowned beast had a right to look, was her Neptune.

  “Can I help you?” she yelled through the door. She wasn’t about to unlock it. She’d seen a lot of horror movies in her day, and she knew what happened to women alone on dark, stormy nights who were stupid enough to open doors to strangers. Real killers didn’t warn you of their intentions by wearing frightening masks and revving a chainsaw on your doorstep as they asked for entry.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said, his voice muffled by the glass door. “I hope I didn’t scare you. I just wanted to know the name of the song you were playing when the storm hit. I won’t trouble you further.”

  “The song I was playing?”

  “Yeah. It really spoke to me. I was hoping you could tell me what it’s called so I can look it up.” A particularly loud crash of thunder caused him to flinch. “This is stupid. I’ll go. Sorry for bothering you.”

  He took a step back, his gaze trained on the staircase that led to the ground. Like all houses along the shore, the rental was perched high on thick wooden stilts to keep it above the flood zone. Dawn reached for the lock. She no longer cared that he might be a little crazy. He’d complimented one of her songs at a time when she was feeling pretty down about her talent. She tore open the door and stepped out on the damp deck. Her feet found a puddle Neptune had left behind, and she curled her toes to avoid the cold.

  “I’d tell you what the song’s called, but I haven’t named it yet,” she said.

  He paused at the top of the steps and turned. He’d been gorgeous at a distance in the dark, but up close and in the light, he stole her breath. Strong, rugged features—so masculine, it should be a crime—surrounded captivating dark eyes that captured her gaze and refused to allow her to look away.

  “You haven’t named it?” His voice was deep and as smooth as silk. It played on her nerve endings like a bow drawing magic from a violin.

  “I haven’t named it because I haven’t finished it. Do you really like it?” she asked. “I was about to scrap it and start over.”

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “It’s amazing. You composed it?”

  “I’m trying to. It just isn’t cooperating with me.”

  The lights flickered as another bolt of lightning snaked from the clouds to the ground. Dawn glanced at the open front door with longing. Neptune might not mind being caught in the storm, but she wasn’t so hardy. The skirt of her dress whipped around her legs in the gusting wind. She hugged her arms around her body for warmth and started to creep back toward the threshold.

  “Sorry for taking up your time,” he said. “I’ll just go… home.”

  Something about the way he said home made her heart twist.

  “Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?” she asked accidentally. Sometimes her impulsive mouth said stuff she immediately regretted. She wasn’t sure if she regretted this particular outburst or not. Maybe if he accepted, she’d wish she’d gone mute. But if he refused, she knew she’d be bummed.

  He bit his lip and stared at her with the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. She could drown in those eyes and wouldn’t even fight sure death.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She hesitated as they stared each other down. “Turn around first.”

  He lifted a slim, black eyebrow at her, but turned slowly, arms extended at his sides, to show her his back (and perfect ass). An amazing tattoo covered the left side of his back and shoulder. The black-and-gray-toned rearing stallion looked so realistic, she half expected it to kick her with one of its flailing hooves. Even the feathers braided into the horse’s mane seemed to be dancing on the breeze.

  When he’d completed a three-sixty and his eyes met hers again, she said, “I was just making sure you aren’t hiding a giant ax back there.” She didn’t mention she’d enjoyed his gorgeous ass, muscular back, and the magnificent tattoo decorating the expanse of smooth, bronze skin while checking for deadly weapons. She might be a lot of things, but tacky wasn’t one of them.

  “I assure you,” he said, “I’m not an ax murderer. Or any kind of violent criminal.”

  “Yeah? That’s what all the soaking wet, ax-wielding, violent criminals say.”

  A corner of his sensual mouth turned up, and he traced one eyebrow with a fingertip. “I can only imagine what you must think of me, standing outside your house in a storm. I swear it was your pretty song that drew me to your window.” His smile widened, softening his strong features, and every shred of Dawn’s apprehension vanished. “What kind of soaking wet, ax-wielding, violent criminal would admit to that?”

  She offered him a return smile and stepped into the house. “Come in. You must be freezing.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but I’m okay. The cold doesn’t bother me.”

  “Then you must not be from around here,” she said. She’d only been in Texas for a few months and had already acclimated to the warm climate. Sixty degrees felt cold to her these days.

  “Not from Galveston, no. I’m from just outside Austin—born and raised.”

  “Then you must be naturally hot-blooded.”

  Her Neptune chuckled. “Maybe a little.”

  He entered the house and stepped to the side while she closed the door. Water dripped from his body and left quite a puddle on the tile floor.

  “Stay there,” she said. “I’ll grab a towel.”

  “I don’t usually make such an ass of myself,” he said, and then chuckled. “I leave that to Owen.”

  “Owen?” she called as she hurried toward the hall closet, which held a stock of beach towels.

  “Friend of mine.�
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  “Is he a god too?”

  “A god?”

  “You’re Neptune, right?” she asked. “Lord of the sea who washed up on the beach during the storm? Do you perform miracles? Because I could use a couple of them tonight.”

  He laughed again and took a towel from her to dry his straight, black hair. It was a bit longer than shoulder length and dripping water down the hard contours of his chest and belly. Dawn dropped a second towel on the floor to collect his puddle and forced herself not to gawk at his body.

  “Sorry to disappoint you—I’m not a god. Just a man who sometimes loses his way.”

  “I’m trying to get you to reveal your name without asking directly,” she said to his thighs as she squatted to collect more water.

  “I seem to have misplaced my manners,” he said, drying his chest and arms. “I’m Kellen Jamison. And you are?”

  “Dawn O’Reilly.” She slowly rose to stand straight and found that even though at almost six feet she towered over many guys, Kellen still had a couple inches on her.

  “Your name sounds familiar.” Gnawing on his fingertip, he examined her face thoroughly.

  “I’m sure there are plenty of people who share my name.”

  His eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers. “But not any other Grammy-winning composers. You wrote the music that won for best movie theme song last year. Am I right?”

  She flushed. He knew who she was? No one knew who she was. Well, a few people knew who she was, but composers didn’t have fans. Pop stars had fans.

  “It was actually the award for Best Instrumental Composition, but yeah, one of my works happens to accompany the rolling credits of a certain blockbuster movie. How do you know who I am?” Her suspicions were coming to a head again. Maybe he was one of those creepy stalkers who saw someone on TV and trailed them to the ends of the earth. Except no one knew she was here but her family, closest friends, and her agent. It wasn’t public knowledge that she’d rented this beach house for a couple of months, hoping to spark her creativity. After her Grammy, several producers had contacted her to write music for them and like the star-struck novice that she was, she’d accepted every job that had come her way. Big mistake. Huge! Apparently her creativity was completely quashed by any sort of pressure or expectation.

  “I saw you accept your award,” Kellen said. “I don’t remember your speech, but I remember your beautiful hair.”

  She touched a hand to her waist-length red curls. They were all sorts of frizzy due to the humidity in the air, but on Grammy night, the hairdresser had managed to make the loose curls smooth and elegant. “You saw me on TV?” She was pretty sure everyone in America had taken a bathroom break when she’d started thanking every person she’d ever met and even a few she hadn’t.

  He laughed. “I was in the audience.”

  She took a step backward. This was too freaky. “Are you stalking me?”

  He paused and draped the towel around his shoulders, dropping his arms to his sides in a non-threatening stance. “Am I frightening you again? Dawn, you really don’t have anything to worry about from me. I was there because my band was nominated for Best New Artist.”

  His band? Well, with all those tattoos and the leather cuff on his right wrist, he did look the part. “Did you win?”

  “Nope. Some rapper won—Jizzy Wizzy Def Jam Grill Face.” He made a fake gang sign and grinned wide to show off his grill—a set of straight, white teeth. “Or something like that.”

  She laughed, her defenses dropping again. “Wow, small world. What a bizarre coincidence to meet like this.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said.

  His intensity caused her heart to falter and butterflies to flitter through her stomach. “What do you believe in, Kellen?”

  His dark brown gaze held hers for several poignant seconds. “Destiny.”

  The charge in the air between them had nothing to do with the electrical storm raging outside. She covered her pounding heart with her fist, wondering why she felt suddenly awake. She’d tossed open a window for air so she didn’t fall asleep as she prepared for another unproductive all-nighter. When that hadn’t perked her up enough to get the music flowing, she’d stepped out on the deck. Then she’d seen Kellen looking all wet and wild, and there was no way she’d be nodding off over the keys for the rest of the night. In his presence, she felt that she could run marathons and wrestle sharks. And maybe write a song.

  “Can I hear your composition?” he asked. “Well, what you have written so far.”

  She glanced at the baby grand piano in the family room to her right. Sheets of score paper littered the floor and the piano bench. Unfortunately, most of the paper was blank or had only a few music notes scattered across the top few staffs. Crumpled wads of paper overflowed from her wastepaper basket. False start after false start. It frustrated her that music didn’t come easily to her these days. Before her Grammy, piano compositions poured from her like the rain gushing from the angry clouds outside the window. Now? Writing music was like trying to wring water from a dry sponge.

  She was so afraid to fail that it suffocated her.

  “I…” She licked her lips, suddenly nervous. It was one thing for a complete novice to want to hear her unpublished work and a completely different animal that a Grammy-nominated musician wanted to hear it. It was true that as soon as she created a piece of music, it was copyrighted by law, but ownership was hard to prove.

  “Let’s have a cup of coffee first,” she said. “I need a little break.”

  His features tightened with disappointment, but he nodded.

  “Decaf?” she asked and turned toward the kitchen, which was beyond the large family room. The house’s open floor plan made it easy for the piano to mock her if she let it sit silent too long. Maybe that’s why she spent so much time walking the beaches. “It’s pretty late for caffeine.”

  “I probably won’t sleep tonight anyway,” he said.

  “Is that why you were standing out on the beach when the storm hit? Insomnia?”

  “Something like that,” he said.

  She wondered if he was being mysterious on purpose or if it came naturally to him. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a canister of coffee. “If I’m up all night on a caffeine high, you have to stay and keep me company.”

  He shoulders sagged with relief. “I can do that.”

  “And since you’re a musician, maybe you can help me with my writer’s block.”

  He smiled, and the temperature in the room must have increased twenty degrees because even though she kept the thermostat at a cool seventy-two, Dawn was suddenly sweltering.

  “I’d be happy to help,” he said in that low, smooth voice that did distracting things to her girly bits. “Or try to. Were you B.O.I?”

  “B-O-I?”

  “Born on Island? I guess not, if you don’t know the meaning.”

  She shook her head. “Just renting for the summer. I came here to get away from the chaos of the city and to seek inspiration.” Or hide. She was totally trying to hide from impending failure. Unfortunately, it had followed her to Galveston.

  “You find inspiration on the shore?”

  “The voice of the sea speaks to the soul,” she said, trying not to be obvious about checking out his flexing biceps as he dried his face and she filled the coffee carafe in the sink. “Chopin said that.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “The wildly talented nineteenth-century Polish composer and pianist.”

  “Yes, I know who Chopin is. I might be a metal guitarist, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect the classics.”

  A metal guitarist? She and Kellen were about as far apart on the musical spectrum as possible. There was no way in hell he’d be able to help her with her writer’s block. She wrote classical compositions, not wailing noise. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m a huge fan. Of Chopin’s. His nocturnes.” She shuddered in bliss at the thought of his stirring piano pieces.

  Kellen chuckled.
“So you’re not impressed by my fiddling with guitar strings, I take it?”

  “I’m sure I’d be very impressed, but I do sort of have a thing for the piano.”

  Once Dawn had the coffee percolating, she turned toward Kellen. He looked incredibly uncomfortable in those sopping wet jeans.

  “You should get out of those clothes,” she said.

  A crooked grin graced his handsome features. “Are you coming on to me, Miss O’Reilly? It is Miss O’Reilly, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s Miss O’Reilly, but no, I wasn’t coming on to you.” Though she probably should have been. “You just look wet. I can find you something to wear.”

  His gaze settled on the flowing white skirt of her loose dress, and he chuckled. “I suppose the jokes I make about wearing skirts have finally caught up with me.”

  “You wear skirts?” It went against the laws of nature for a man as unquestionably virile as Kellen Jamison to wear a skirt. A kilt was an entirely different matter, of course. She could see him in a kilt. She had Scottish blood in her heritage but Kellen appeared to be of Native American ancestry, and she’d much rather see him in a pair of buckskin breeches. Or skintight leather. Leather would work.

  “Not really. It’s a lame joke I share with one of my bandmates when we’re on stage.”

  “Owen?”

  His jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

  “It’s the only name you’ve mentioned.”

  “Right.”

  “I have some boxer shorts you can borrow.” She couldn’t take her eyes off his wet jeans. His crotch specifically. What was wrong with her? She was offending herself with her lewd behavior. Maybe getting him out of those wet clothes would get her mind out of his pants.

  “Are they yours?”

  She nodded, still staring south. “I usually sleep in them.”

  “You wear men’s underwear and you criticize me for wearing skirts?”

  She glanced up to meet his eyes. “In case you haven’t been paying attention, there is a bit of a double standard in this country.”

  “And sometimes there’s a good reason for that. I’d look like a complete tool in a skirt, but you’d look sexy in men’s clothes. A pair of boxers and nothing else.” His gaze rested on her chest, and she resisted the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. “Or in a man’s long-sleeve dress shirt and… nothing else.” His stare shifted to her legs, which were complete covered by her maxi skirt, but felt hopelessly bare. And suddenly hot. Why were her legs hot? Feeling foolish, she fanned them with her skirt.