Chapter 3

Abby stomped through the sand, making her way toward McMaster, a grim look on her face.

Her old boyfriend was unexpectedly on site. The pukey degenerate was still her boss. Yeah.

Life was really looking good.

She steeled herself to meet with the man again.

Ugh. McMaster.

Even though he’d recently slimmed down so the set of jowls he’d had was now a thing of the past, Michael J. McMaster was still not a pretty boy.

It was the personality. Vacant eyes and a predilection for focusing only on himself, openly so, had marked their business relationship as one fraught with difficulty and with constant, brain-draining analysis from the start.

That was only on her part, though. He didn’t break a sweat. McMaster viewed her as an overpaid peon and did his best to demean her in front of the rest of the crew.

And after hours, his chief goal was to get into her pants. Of course, considering it a major perk. For her.

Thankfully, she’d only had to deal with him on a couple of other shoots, and after this one was done, hoped to never see the likes of him again.

The only problem right now, though, was that she actually needed him. Rather desperately. And he knew it.

She had the release form in the bag slung on her hip. Would he sign it?

She strode toward him, but her beeline was interrupted. Jake, the self-appointed leader of the male models, stepped into her path. The golden-haired hunk, whose appearance had no doubt been artfully planned by a consortium of beauty-loving gods, laid a hand on her forearm and pulled her off to the side.

“One sec, Abby.” In response to her glance toward McMaster, he hastened to reassure her. “You’ve got a minute. He’s playing on his iPhone again, the dumbass.”

Abby examined Jake’s expression. But he wasn’t playful at the moment. It was thoughtful concern she read in his eyes as he scrutinized her.

“Just checking to make sure you’re okay.” He tipped his head almost imperceptibly toward McMaster, who was sitting high up in the old lifeguard’s tower. He was flicking through screens on his smart phone. “Boomer told us he harassed you to within an inch of your life yesterday. Then, we saw how he treated you at dinner. Jerk.”

Abby nodded, the mind-space of the previous evening not something she wanted to dive back into. “He wasn’t any too good to Boomer either. The kid was just trying to set up his laptop, connect it to the printer, and he treated him like he was ten years old and stupid.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Jake’s expression turned war-like. “Thanks for the info. We’ll watch the kid, deflect the asshole from him when necessary.” He turned his eyes to the sea, squinted against the brightness, and seemed miles away.

Then abruptly, he was back, focus intent on her. “You know you don’t have to take his shit, right? We’ll stand by you if you tell him to back off.” A knowing look spread across his face. “We can fix it so it seems like a joke, so you won’t come off like a troublemaker. But he’ll leave you alone or look like a jerk. You know?”

Well. She hadn’t expected this. An unexpected rush of warmth flowed through her. “Thanks, Jake.”

She angled a glance toward McMaster, who was indeed now staring at her as if she’d lost her mind because she’d stopped to talk to someone other than him. “Uh-oh. Looks like I better get my ass in gear. But that’s sweet, Jake. Thanks for your concern. I’ll be okay.”

His mouth quirked upward good-naturedly. “Hell, we live for sweetness, me and the guys.” But as quickly, the dark look was back. “Remember, Abby. Don’t let him harass you. He doesn’t have the right, no matter who the hell he is or isn’t.”

A hand curled around her shoulder and she caught a whiff of something citrusy, along with an edge of male.

Jordan, Jake’s twin brother.

Jordan skimmed his hand along her back, then shot a question at his brother. “You tell her?”

Jordan was the quiet twin, the one she’d immediately pegged as not cut out for modeling due to what she’d assumed was his shyness. But when she’d witnessed his talent of unleashing an absolutely killer smile a split-second before the camera flashed, she knew she’d been wrong and was in the presence of centerfold greatness.

Jake kept his voice low, as he nodded. “She knows, bro. Any crime-fighting duties, Abby calls on us.”

Satisfied, Jordan pulled her in for a squeeze. “Good. If that moron pushes you too far, just let us know. ‘K, Abyssinia?”

The affectionate pet name tugged at her heart, but there was no time to enjoy the moment. She had somewhere to be. Fast. Or she’d be out of a job. “I will. Thanks again, guys. Gotta go.”

They nodded and were off, striding down the beach to join the rest of the crew.

It was awfully nice to see that side of them, she thought. Despite the fact they’d just met, they’d been really concerned for her and seemed willing to put the demanding jerk in his place for her. Aww. A warm inner glow suffused her.

And McMaster’s glare could cut diamonds.

She hastened to reach him, thankful her mane of crazy corkscrew curls was tied back. The sea breeze played across her neck. Unfortunately, the trail of sweat snaking down and damping her tank top in front was already going to magnetize his eyes.

The crew, along with the models, were working thirty feet down the beach, scoping an area for the next day’s shots. Her gaze caught, though, on a tidy little shanty that had seemingly sprung up out of nowhere behind the lifeguard tower. The weather-beaten structure, out of place in the isolated setting, was a relic from an old movie shoot on the island. Chandelle had no native population. A pristine environment, sparkling in the midst of the South Pacific and part of a tiny chain of islands that curved upward like a crescent on a map, it had been a favorite spot for years with indie filmmakers and environmentalists who visited sporadically.

But the shanty—where had that come from? Built out of lashed together palm stems around it, the crew’s gear was carefully stacked and protected in it.

McMaster never took pains with the equipment, nor paid his men to do so. His motto was ‘get the damn job done’, without any extras. What was that about?

Her heart fell as Dare moved out from behind the structure.

A jolt shuddered through her at seeing him again so soon, and she glanced quickly at him to see if he’d noted it.

But she might have saved herself the reaction. He didn’t spare her a look, just moved effortlessly into the interior of the shanty.

Damn. It wouldn’t do to have a major panic attack every time she saw him. For crap’s sake, he’d been out of her life three long years now, and really, by her choice, despite the circumstances. She’d dumped him, not the other way around. It was time to toughen up, no matter what leftover stuff she was apparently feeling.

Stupid body.

McMaster’s voice sounded above her and she glanced up. Pontificating with someone on his cell, his attention was off her, once again. She’d need to wait until he was free.

Great. She mentally rolled her eyes at the prospect of standing there, with her ex working a few feet from her. Her hot, solider ex.

To make matters worse, he was naked from the waist up, his discarded shirt tossed in a heap beside a palm. Super.

But as he worked shifting equipment and organizing crates, she couldn’t help but feel a stab of pride at his skill, and strength. Leave it to Dare Logan to get one of McMaster’s disorganized shoots in order.

She’d always admired his work ethic, and his intelligence. When someone handed that man a problem, be it mechanical, engineering, or hell, anything, he’d figure it out. It was probably that crazily inventive mind of his. And the rest, she knew, was sheer willpower and determination.

Yeah. Despite the past and their troubles, she knew it, and knew it well. Nothing had come easily for Dare Logan.

Her eyes strayed over his physique, when he wasn’t looking. On an isolated shoot like this, with no resources, it actually did make sense that McMaster had someone with Dare’s skills and know-how available to deal with the myriad of issues that could crop up and derail things. Timing was everything on a shoot. And since he’d joined the military, she bet he’d honed his skills even more.

Yeah. Dare Logan made problems look good.

He grasped the handles of a couple of heavy canvas bags, then hefted them off the ground, stepping out of the shanty. Sunshine flooded over him, sweeping over his chest, defining his upper arms, forearms and hands. His muscles were beautiful, straining with the heavy load.

Her gaze dipped lower and snagged on the tools hanging from his belt. She sucked in a shaky breath as awareness cascaded through her from her head down to her toes.

Hell.

The rawhide leather of the toolbelt, replete with all the holders and notches for gear, nudged his jeans lower. A hint of black briefs peeked out from below the bullseye of his navel.

A dusting of dark hair pointed the way to…

…was that his hammer?

She swallowed and blew out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Then…continued her investigation.

A sheen of sweat glimmered on his chest and arms, the toffee-hued tan shimmering as his muscles contracted.

That abruptly, she was plunged back into yester-year.

Dare’s skin slick with sweat, flat against her tongue. Sampling the pulse beating in the hollow of his throat and making her way up the strong column of his neck. When she was done there—her lips exulting in his taste as she kissed her way up to the skin behind his ear—she worked back down to the smooth expanse of his chest, his hoarse groans egging her on.

His pecs, the hard muscles twitching beneath her lips. A predatory tease on the flat buttons of his nipples, his breath hitching sharply as he took it on both sides. After that, a damp trail to his abs—yum—through the coarse, dense hair.

Then, she’d head lower. Right to that spot, there. Right where his pants were slipping down, due to that damn, hot, tool-belt.

A seagull rounded the beach with a piercing screech and burst her out of her daydream.

God. What was she doing?

Abby winced. What the hell had that been? A trip down memory lane? No way. This was stupid. Despite the close relationship they’d had once—no.

But something pulled at her and she let her gaze flicker back his way.

And there it was, undeniable. The naturalness of watching him as if he’d never left. The face and the body of the man she’d loved with her whole heart, the contours she’d learned to recognize even in the dark, with only her fingertips.

Dare. Her Dare.

And…crap. He’d caught her ogling. His dark eyes flicked over her in disdain the size of a yawing chasm. Then he bent to place the load at the side of the shanty, the well-worn jeans cupping his ass.

Okay. She shivered, yanked her gaze away.

So definitely, not her Dare. Not anymore.

Snapping fingers interrupted her reverie.

“Pointdexter. Yo. Time’s a wastin’,” McMaster called in an irritated voice from the wooden structure. She cast her gaze upward to see him gawking at her, the spiked fronds of the palm trees shifting airily in the breeze behind him. “Get up here, sweet cheeks. I’m not in the mood to indulge R & R for the help.”

He scowled at her, the balding orb of his head catching the tropical sun and somehow, making that look like crap, too. “Think you can get your ass up here?”