I mean, come on. She didn’t have cleavage—at least not much to speak of. And she certainly didn’t have big, fluffy Texas hair. In fact, she hardly had any hair, thanks to her impetuous nature and her ready-for-anything stylist. She’d told Eduardo she wanted “the Michelle Williams look,” but she was pretty sure he’d saddled her with a Justin Bieber ’do, circa 2009, instead. That belief was only compounded when her brothers started calling her a Belieber.
Not that she was an ogre or anything. Her youngest brother assured her she was still “passable.” Gee, thanks. And she’d had her fair share of male admirers who called her “cute.” But the fact remained that she’d never been the kind of gal to inspire insta-love or even insta-lust, so what the heck was wrong with Ranger Rick that he—
Now, hang on a cotton-pickin’ minute here! Don’t sell yourself short, sister. Did you forget about Bran Pallidino?
And the answer to that question wasn’t just no, but H. E. to the double L hell no, she hadn’t forgotten him. Forgetting him would be impossible. For one thing, and to quote her dear paternal grandmother, he was handsome as a hatchet. With his wavy, mink-colored hair, flashing brown eyes, and pirate smile, Bran Pallidino could beat any of Hollywood’s hunks for the top spot on People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive list.
For another thing, he had saved her from the crazed terrorist who had hijacked her father’s yacht. Yessiree, Bob. So that happened.
And lastly, in the months following the hijacking, he’d helped her deal with the onset of delayed shock, nightmares, and what some might diagnose as a mild case of PTSD. Through hundreds of emails and the occasional satellite phone call, he’d been her sounding board, her sympathetic ear, her support and her light when the memories threatened to get too heavy and dark.
Yep. Bran Pallidino was many things. Brave. Funny. Sometimes taciturn. But one thing he was not was forgettable.
He is also not here…
She’d tried not to let the emptiness of her email account—the glaring, insolent, taunting emptiness of her email account—get to her. She’d tried telling herself he hadn’t responded because he was too busy hunting for the mighty Santa Cristina. But now that she was here, so close to Wayfarer Island, so close to him, she couldn’t help but wonder if the reason he hadn’t answered her invitation was because she’d read too much into their little online exchanges.
Perhaps what she’d thought was a solid friendship—and what she’d hoped was a burgeoning romantic relationship—was, in fact, neither. Perhaps he’d simply helped her through a difficult time because he was Bran, heroic and gallant and unable to countenance the thought of a damsel in distress.
Ugh. And here she’d planned this whole trip just to get close to him. Just to see him again.
Oh, sure. She’d tried to convince herself she’d done it because the girls deserved something special to celebrate their scholarships. But even her father had seen through her ploy. When she’d told him about the trip, he’d rubbed his big, bushy Magnum PI mustache and said with a considering frown, “Is this really for the girls? Or are you doin’ this so you have an excuse to go see that treasure-huntin’ man your momma tells me you been emailin’?”
Busted. I should have my philanthropist’s license revoked.
“I know who your father is,” Rick said, seeming to read her thoughts. “I saw him on TV once. Some news special or something. He was talking about how he’d gone from roughneck to oil tycoon by relying on spit, grit, and a get’r’done attitude.” Rick’s lips twitched.
“It was 60 Minutes.” Maddy shook her head with affection. It’d only taken her father ten minutes to have Morley Safer eating out of the palm of his hand. “And that’s not an act. My daddy still wears Wranglers with Skoal rings worn through the back pockets and his favorite sweat-stained Stetson to work every day. I guess you can take the man out of the oil fields, but you can’t take the oil fields out of the man.” And I wouldn’t have him any other way. She didn’t have to say that last part aloud; it was obvious in her tone.
Still shielding her eyes against the last glowing rays of the sun, she watched the floatplane disappear over the horizon. And that’s when she felt it. The remoteness. The…aloneness. There was nothing around them but miles of waves that glinted silver in the dying light. No sounds except for the chatter of the girls and the waves lapping against the sand. The isolation was profound. Absolute. Scary and exciting and exhilarating all at once.
Okay, so Bran or no Bran, she was going to make this experience a great one. For the girls. For herself. Because they deserved a vacation. An adventure. And, by God, after what she’d gone through three months ago, so did she.
And maybe you can use this time unplugged from all your gadgets and away from your empty email account to reassess your feelings for one former Navy SEAL turned treasure hunter, her conscience whispered.
Sure. Okay. That’s totally what she’d do, and—
“Were you expecting company?” Rick asked.
“Why? What’s…”