Siren's Call. Debbie Herbert

this time when she came out of the woods she was smiling, not running from a demented coyote. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and grinned and waved, holding up a wicker picnic basket.

      “Hello,” she sang out.

      Nash frowned. He should have guessed it was Lily. Looking as damn beautiful in the summer sun as she had last night under the moonlight. “What are you doing here?” he asked gruffly, tamping down the memory of that scorching kiss.

      Her smile faltered. “Didn’t you hear me sing?”

      What a strange response; the woman made no sense. “Of course I heard. You were so loud you scared off the bird I was stalking.”

      “Loud?” Lily’s eyes widened. “That’s all you have to say about my voice?”

      He cocked a brow. She sounded mildly outraged when he was the injured party here. Although to be fair, Lily might not have realized she was interrupting. “It was...uh...nice, I suppose.”

       “Nice?”

      “Are you going to keep repeating everything I say? ’Cause I’ve got lots of work to do.”

      Blue eyes blinked and she breathed deeply, as if to regain her composure. “You are an unusual man, Nashoba.”

      She didn’t know the half of it. Only Opal might have an inkling that he’d gained fame as a wildlife photographer because of his unnatural ability to sense animals’ thoughts and calm them with his own form of mental telepathy—or whatever the hell it was that gained their trust for the few nanoseconds it took to get the perfect picture.

      Lily held up the basket. “Figured working outside would make you hungry, so I brought us a lunch.”

      She assumed too much from that short kiss. It meant nothing. Nash pointed to the sketchpad in her other hand. “What’s that for?”

      “I come out to the island often and sketch. We’ll probably run into each other lots while you’re here.”

      Nash stifled a groan. “I was—” he held up a thumb and index finger an inch apart “—this close to getting some incredible shots. You scared off my bird.”

      “Ah.” Lily muttered a sound of sympathy but kept smiling. “It’ll come back.” She gave him a coy sideways glance. “You sure you didn’t think my singing was more than nice? I’ve been told my voice is quite...enchanting.”

      “I noticed my shoot was ruined.”

      She tapped a finger on the edge of her cupid’s-bow lips. “Hmm... Sorry, I suppose.”

      An unexpected chuckle rumbled in his throat, like a motor sputtering to life after months of neglect. “You don’t have any self-confidence issues, do you?”

      “Not until you started giving me a complex.”

      “If people say your voice is enchanting, maybe you should have taken up the opera instead of painting.” He imagined Lily onstage—the limelight highlighting that mass of blond hair and white skin.

      “I could have become a prima donna, but it didn’t seem fair.”

      Again, Lily threw him off with an odd answer. The woman was either incredibly conceited or mentally defective. Perhaps both.

      Fair. Was it unfair of him to compete in his field? He’d always thought he’d made a brilliant career choice. Now Lily made him wonder if he exploited his natural gifts.

      “Really, your ego—” He stopped abruptly and bit back his annoyance. Lily was an old friend. He could let it go. A few weeks and he’d be on the road somewhere again. “Never mind,” he said with a casual flick of his wrist. “Who am I to shake your wonderful self-esteem? More power to you.”

      “Power, indeed,” she mumbled, so faintly he wondered if he’d heard correctly.

      She beckoned him with a crook of his finger. “This way.”

      Nash hesitated, scowling. No harm in taking a short break, though. Now that his prey had scattered anyway. He fell in step behind Lily, his gaze involuntarily dropping to the womanly curves of her hips and luscious ass. Now that was impressive. That was power and a temptation he didn’t know if he could resist. It had been too long... His breath hitched like that of a hormonally charged adolescent. Stop it. Old friends make complicated lovers. Next assignment he’d have to do something about his self-imposed celibacy. Find some uncomplicated part-time lover with no expectations of commitment.

      Lily spread out a blanket beneath a gigantic oak and began unpacking plastic containers.

      He hadn’t realized until now he was hungry. And thirsty. “Got some water in there?”

      “Even better. Sweet tea.” She handed him a sealed mason jar with ice cubes floating like crystals in an amber ambrosia.

      Nash removed the canning lid and downed half of it in one swallow. “That’s good,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten how hot it is down here. How do you stand the heat and humidity?”

      “You’ll acclimate to it again. I would think you’d be used to all kind of conditions in your line of work.”

      “Nothing like Southern humidity.” He took off his shirt and used it to wipe sweat from his face and eyes.

      He glimpsed Lily getting an eyeful of his chest and abs. The lady was definitely interested. Nash groaned inwardly. But what did he expect? He’d been a fool to kiss her last night. Of course she thought he was interested in her. Especially since— Well, he didn’t want to think of the last two women he’d dated. Guilt rose in his throat like bile.

      “What you got?” he asked as she opened containers.

      “Fried chicken, pimento cheese sandwiches, pecan pie, shrimp cocktail and lobster salad.”

      He picked up a chicken wing. “I’m going to gain twenty pounds this summer,” he predicted. Nash bit into the buttermilk-soaked and flour-coated goodness and sighed. “But I’ll enjoy every damn minute along the way.”

      Lily laughed and ate a spoonful of lobster salad. “Live in the moment, I always say.”

      Ocean-blue eyes fixated on him and Nash couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but stare into those eyes. Energy crackled between them, every bit as scalding as the noon sun.

      This wouldn’t do. “Show me your drawings,” he commanded, opening her sketchpad without waiting for permission.

      Lily’s hand rested on his forearm and his skin tingled at the light touch.

      “Just so you know, I’m mostly self-taught. I’m still learning and hoping to find a professional tutor at some point. If I can find one that deems me worthy of his time.”

      So the lady’s armor of self-confidence had a chink. “Understood.” A self-taught amateur? He braced himself for convoluted drawings of fruit still lifes, paint-by-number ocean scenes or Victorian-looking flowers and hearts.

      “Let me see what you got there,” he said huskily, conscious of her fingers over his knuckles working magic on his libido.

      Lily released her hand and the tingling ceased. Nash opened the sketchpad and gave a low whistle at the detailed pen-and-ink drawings of birds, sea grass, fish and trees. This was more than mere talent. It was...seeing the bayou through Lily’s eyes. Each composition was vibrant and unique as a thumbprint.

      “What do you think?” Her voice was high and reedy, anxious. She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “If you don’t like them, it’s okay. Like I said, I’m—”

      “I don’t like them.” He paused at a watercolor depicting swirls of light in dark liquid. “I love them.” He studied it closer—saw an outline of individual fishes swimming in a school spiraling upward, their bodies incandescent in an inky darkness, like a lamp lit undersea. At the bottom of the painting was a large chunk