Chapter 1

Half-naked men with sexy six-packs playing volleyball on the white sand beach—check. The pale ball flying through a sky that looked like it had been dipped in Gauguin’s most brilliant blue—another check. Howls of laughter as the men spiked the ball against the backdrop of the South Pacific surf—check again.

Abby Haines smiled. It was a good day to be a PlayGal photographer. And while this remote island job lasted, it was a welcome respite from the crazy shit she’d been dealing with for way too long.

Her day had started early.

Just a few hours ago, she’d shot early morning frames, carefully set up against the rising sun. The men had been deliciously naked, raw.

Jake had been draped against a palm tree, his hands behind his back. Breathtaking. She’d directed his brother Jordan to kneel beside the surf as he brooded off into the distance, his thigh and butt muscles gloriously firm. Just as if Michelangelo had sculpted him, added putty, in all the right places.

And the hottest pose of all? Chase, that charmer with the sexy yet sweet personality, gazing up at her from the sand. He was sprawled back on his elbows, the banked fire in his eyes telling her he had only one thing on his mind.

If only.

But the men had stopped playing and were waving to her, as one of the guys ran off to grab the ball from the surf.

“Hey, Photographer Lady! Come on down! There’s a spot here, for you!”

She smiled. They really were a great group of guys. Most were single. She should grab her camera, run down to the beach, and…

A movement in the rainforest, not far from her large work tent, caught her eye. A shadowy figure appeared, then the tropical sun hit him. Something familiar panged, deep within her.

Huh?

A thousand thoughts cascaded through her. Her pulse stopped dead for one, long, shaky breath, then pitched into overdrive.

She narrowed her gaze at the figure, and the tell-tale movements. Then he moved out of the sunlight with that stride she’d know anywhere, and vanished.

Her world flipped. Her breathing accelerated. Worse, her spirit began that old familiar slide downward, hovered just above hell and mumbled oh no.

Shi-it. Double, triple, damn-it-all to hell.

It couldn’t be. Not him.

Dare Logan. Not the man from Jack’s Bay.

The hottie who made torn jeans and a leather tool belt look like a gift from the gods. The man who’d cleaned up his life, gone off to war in Afghanistan, and returned a soldier. She’d heard the stories from a few of their close friends, the breathless wonder in their voices.

Who’d’ve thought? Dare. Part of the Delta North Team. Now he’s got his own business, he’s still in the reserves, and he’s doing the volunteer fire-fighter thing, too. Holy hell. Did he ever turn his life around.

Yeah. He was the sexiest, most compelling man she’d ever met in her life…

…and her ex.

She pummeled the feeling of panic down as she ducked inside her tent’s large interior and headed to her table. She reached for her equipment. She had to do something to stop the trembling of her fingers. Maybe it wasn’t him.

There had to be a better explanation for this crazy bodily reaction, right? Maybe the after-effect of the tropical sun on her head for hours while she’d shot pictures of naked men all morning. Overheated brain circuits, something like that.

Yeah. She could get behind that.

And, of course, it wouldn’t be Dare, anyway. What would a reserve soldier and the owner of a small renovation business be doing on an uninhabited island, thousands of miles out in the Pacific?

She forced herself to her task. Angling one of her beloved DSLR cameras, she worked to dislodge any rogue grains of sand that might have snuck in from the glorious white sand beaches Chandelle Island was famous for. Yet the pulse pounding in her throat didn’t lessen.

Damn, she had to get past this. Everything depended on her focus, and she didn’t have the luxury of taking her time. Working for McMaster was a nightmare, and the debt thing? She couldn’t even think of that or she’d lose the calm, yet phony demeanor she worked so hard to project.

She had to chill. She stopped, deliberately breathed in the ocean-infused air. The scent of the tropical gardenias massing against her tent mingled with the ocean scents, and she inhaled deeply.

Ahhh. There.

Relaxation flowed through her. Enough to stop her feverish movements for a second, letting her think. Reason.

It wasn’t Dare out there. Couldn’t be. Everything was fine. She was fine.

Especially since she’d landed this gig in a tough job market. The job itself felt like the pinnacle of achievement. Shooting sexy six-packs all day, scrutinizing flexing muscles, wicked white-teeth grins, and miles of tanned skin on handsome men was so not a problem. Ordering hunks around in their birthday suits. For a girl from small town Ontario, Canada, it wasn’t just a pinnacle.

It was a freakin’ space-shuttle launch into the stratosphere.

Unfortunately, the gig was ending all too soon. The regular shooter would be back from leave, and her very existence was going to be in doubt. Again.

Unless she contacted her parents.

Her gut wrenched.

That? She’d never do.

A movement at the entrance to her tent jarred her, and her attention shifted to the canvas doorway. The tent flap rippled and was peeled back, slowly, by hands clothed in the worn leather of workman’s gloves. The rest of the man followed as he bent and entered, then straightened slowly to his full height inside the canvas enclave.

Double, triple, quadruple shit. Abby’s breath caught as the embodiment of all her teenage lusts entered her photographic sanctum.

Dare Logan.

In the flesh.

His blue eyes fixed on her, and her stomach dipped. He continued to watch her, and her skin pulsed. His eyes dipped, scanned her quickly, then met hers again, and her throat went dry.

The scent that always seemed to surround him, that of fresh-cut wood, drifted to her, and she breathed it in, automatically. Deep. He focused his gaze on her with the intensity that had always melted her resolve and turned her knees to jelly.

The words dropped from his mouth as casually as if they’d just been talking about photo layouts a minute ago. Not like they hadn’t spoken a word to each other in three years.

“McMaster wants you on the beach to review yesterday’s shots.”

What was it they called the body’s automatic reactions? Muscle memory, something like that?

So was this sexual memory?

Whatever it was, his voice unleashed a cyclone of it whipping through her body. Abby flinched, even as she felt. Damn. This was so not happening.

She swallowed deliberately, and hoped he couldn’t tell how much she’d had to concentrate on that single, solitary swallow.

“Dare. It’s been a while.”

No smile. His tanned face, sporting the rough stubble of five-o’clock shadow—stubble that had once caressed every inch of her willing body, explored every hill, valley, and nook with the thoroughness of a master—didn’t crack a smile of recognition. “Yeah.”

Emotion coursed through her, memories tangling with anger. Resolve strengthened in her. Fine. If that’s how he wanted it, fine. It was how she wanted it too. She’d been able to get through the last three years without him, and there was no reason to think she needed his goodwill now.

Slapping the lid of her camera case shut, she shoved her feet into canvas runners. The words flowed surprisingly well. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Tell him yourself. I’ve got work to do.” Dare’s gaze locked on hers for a further second. Then snatching the canvas flap off the sand he bent to leave, giving her a glimpse of light blue jeans smoothed over an ass to dream about. An ass that, once seen, lodged in the viewer’s mind, and never left. She should know.

It had never left hers.

Watching him stalk away on the dirt path between the mandevillas and swaying coconut palms, she let out a shaky breath. That was Dare. As cool and smooth as a tall, icy drink of rum.

Or whisky. Wasn’t that the Delta North Team’s official drink?

Bastard.

She wiped her hands forcefully down the front of her shorts, dug her palms into her thighs. So he was here. Hell. She’d just have to deal.

Though he hadn’t been that cool. Wasn’t that a muscle she’d seen working away beside his jaw? One he’d had to strain into submission?

A smile dashed across her face and her eyes narrowed. Yeah. He hadn’t been that unaffected at seeing her. At having to speak to her.

The jerk.

Scooping up the bag of proofs for McMaster, she fastened the clasp on the case securely to protect the shots that were going to solve all of the nasty problems she’d fought for the last year, and gave it a protective tap.

“Well, girl. If he’s heading west, you damn well better head east. No matter how much everyone else seems to love him.” Even if all her body’s cells had practically rioted inside her, urging her closer to him. “No way. Not happening. Ever again.”

Maybe telling herself that would get rid of these automatic reactions. Because there could never be a him and her again. Giving in to the intense pull of attraction that had existed between them in the past had, in the end, hurt her. Scraped her soul raw. Almost obliterated her as a person.

Never again.

Memories she’d long ago forced deep swelled upward, and her hand stilled on the handle of the case. The blood drained from her knuckles as she clutched the unyielding leather.

Standing in his living-room, the dawn’s early light filtering over the well-worn furniture where they’d planned their lives together. Eager to tell him the wonderful news that they were, completely unexpectedly, going to be a family. It was touchy, because she’d been away, and they’d had a fight. Knowing full well she’d been part of that fight and had steered it actually, saying they needed a break. That she wanted one. That things hadn’t been going well.

Though the pain she’d felt when he stuttered, then agreed, had shocked her.

That was before he’d become a solider. And then, a Delta North Team Special Ops soldier.

At the time, though, she knew they’d be fine, even with the issues facing them. She’d wondered how they’d manage with both of their careers barely started and their bank accounts bare, but she’d known they would. Because they were a team.

And then, it happened. The silky voice, out of place. So god-fucking-awful out of place. Calling his name from the bedroom.

Abby swallowed, grateful no one was around to note the sudden sheen that glazed her eyes as she wiped the back of her hand over them.

There. Done. All traces of the past or of any stupid emotion gone. She gulped oxygen in from the large workspace, which had somehow become oppressive. And remembered.

It had cut her in two. The heel of her hand skimmed to the table edge, pressed hard into the scarred metal top for support.

It’d simply cut her in two.

But she’d recovered, damn it. And made the second-smartest decision of her lonely, invisible life, despite the fact she’d been born to privilege and the type of wealth others only dreamt about.

Yeah. She’d made the decision, and walked away. Regardless of the fact that it meant she was on her own.

Truly, irrevocably, on her own, for the first time in her life.

And she was going to stay that way. She was way too busy working endless hours to survive, too busy to play the games a relationship required.

She was determined, too, that he’d never have the satisfaction of knowing what he’d cost her. Of knowing he’d hurt her, and that she’d been devastated. No. She’d learned how to do stone-cold from the best of them, had taken painful lessons in it as a child.

She just never thought she’d be doing it with Dare.

Love affair of her heart…delete.

Her gaze flicked to her laptop, the sea and landscape images she’d shot earlier in the day, brilliant on her screen. Additional shots to add to a growing portfolio, one that didn’t made her look half-bad in a competitive industry, and something snagged in her chest.

Yeah. She’d made something of herself. On her own. With no money, no family. With less resources than her poorest university mates. They, at least, had mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles cheering them on, even if they barely had two cents to rub together.

Not one of them had the type of wealth she’d been born to. And yet—she’d still found herself scraping the bottom of the barrel. Financially and worst of all, emotionally.

Well, she was proud of herself, damn it. And Dare Logan being here or not being here—nothing was going to change her focus. He was part of her past and he was going to stay that way.

She stiffened, straightened. Hoisted the bag over her shoulder. If he thought she’d grovel, or even talk to him except for necessary business, he had another think coming. She’d never think of him again.

“Haines! Are you still preening in there? Move that sweet ass and get the hell over here!”

McMaster’s bellow rang down the peaceful beach, shattering the island serenity. Until he got what he wanted, Michael McMaster was unrelenting.

Problem was, the stuffy, self-absorbed industry icon wanted a hell of a lot more than proofs. And worse…expected it.