Scandalous Mistress. Leslie Kelly

about I hold on for us both?”

      “Pretty confident, are you?”

      “I think I can manage to keep us from being swept overboard.”

      She cast a quick eye over his shoulders, chest and arms. Color finally rose into those pale cheeks, as if she’d at last looked at him and seen the man, not the savior-from-death-by-drowning-or-seasickness. Her throat quivered as she swallowed, her gaze dropping lower, assessing him all the way down to his feet.

      “I suppose you can,” she admitted, her voice thick and low.

      He almost made a flirtatious comment in response, but suddenly the ferry lurched again, making him glad for his strong grip on the railing. But the woman—Lindsey—wobbled on her feet and, for a second, he thought she’d fall. Not even thinking about it, he stepped into her path and grabbed her before she could stumble.

      Their legs tangled, hips bumped and chests collided. He had a chance to suck in a shocked—and pleased—breath, when her fine red hair whipped across his face, bringing with it a flowery fragrance that cut through the briny air and went right to his head. Just like this woman was doing.

      “Whoa,” she murmured, either because of the stumbling or the fact that so much of her was now touching so much of him.

      “I’ve got you,” he said, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. He turned his back to the wind, staying close, but giving her some distance and disengaging the more vulnerable parts of their bodies. As nice as she had felt pressed against him, he didn’t want her to know that his lower half was ignoring his brain’s order to be a polite protector and was instead going straight for horny man. Their new position removed the danger of sensual overload, but also kept her blocked from the worst of the wind. “I won’t let you fall overboard. Now glove up.”

      Not taking no for an answer, he lifted one of her small, cold hands and shoved a glove on it. He forced himself to focus only on the fact that her lips now had a bluish tint, not that they were pretty damned kissable. And that her expression was pure misery, not that her face was shaped like a perfect heart, with high cheekbones and a pointy, stubborn little chin.

      Once her hands were adequately protected, she stepped the tiniest bit closer, as if welcoming the shelter of his body. Mike heaved in a deep breath of cold lake air, but found it tasted of spicy-fragranced woman.

      Nice. Very nice.

      “So, how long have you lived on Wild Boar?” she asked.

      “A few months.”

      “And how’s island life?”

      He considered it, mentally comparing the insanely quiet nights he’d spent on Wild Boar to the lifetime of noise, energy, grime and vibrancy in Chicago.

      “It’s...different.”

      “Obviously you’re getting to know people if they’re already gossiping to you about the new substitute teacher.”

      “Maybe. It could also be because we’re two new unmarried people and they’re trying to set us up.”

      Her mouth fell open. “They’re what?”

      “Apparently your friend—the one you’re substituting for—has let it be known that you are single and available.”

      “Remind me to smack her, would you?”

      “You bet.”

      She licked her lips. “So you’re single, too?”

      He noticed she didn’t add and available, maybe because she didn’t want to sound interested, though he could tell she was. Oh, she might not be looking at him, instead taking every chance she had to study her gloved hands, but he recognized desire when he saw it. During those few moments when she’d landed hard against him, heat had flared between them, instinctive and powerful.

      “I’m very single,” he admitted, not sure why he’d emphasized it. After all, he should be backing away from flirtation or even the tiniest hint of romantic interest. He had no business indulging in either right now.

      “And everybody is aware you’re single?”

      “Yep. Just like they know your relationship status. Or lack thereof.”

      “I can’t believe Callie told everyone that.”

      “Well, to be fair, I suspect she told one person and the other eighteen-hundred residents found out by osmosis.”

      Because that’s how news traveled in a small town. When he’d come to Wild Boar for his job interview, he certainly hadn’t gone around saying he was unattached. By the time he’d moved there to start the job, however, it had been common knowledge to every person he met.

      Of all the things he disliked about his new life, the utter lack of privacy ranked number one. In fact, he hated feeling as if he lived under a microscope, and wasn’t about to give the gossipers any more ammunition if he could possibly help it. He needed to keep his life quiet, sedate and boring. Meaning no leaping off ferries to save gorgeous, impetuous redheads. So she’d better not jump.

      “You’re an expert on osmosis, huh? Why aren’t you the substitute science teacher?”

      He chuckled. “I have a rough idea of what the word means, but ask me to explain the difference between oxygen and iron and I’m in deep trouble.”

      “One you breathe and one you make stuff out of.”

      Another chuckle. “My point is, you’re not getting off so easily.”

      She nodded slowly, and he couldn’t tell if she was relieved by that, or bothered by it.

      “And if it’s any consolation, you’re not alone in the gossip pool. I’m treading water right there with you.”

      She rolled her eyes and gestured toward the waves. “Could we please use another analogy?”

      Damn, he enjoyed her wit. “Okay, let’s say I’m just as big a grape dangling from that huge, gossipy vine. Every day since I arrived, I’ve had cakes, cookies and casseroles brought to my doorstep by the population of single women on the island, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty.”

      “Has it worked?”

      “I haven’t taken the bait yet.”

      Her cheeks puffed out as she feigned sickness. “No fish references, either, please.”

      “Fish aren’t the only ones who eat bait.”

      “But single men often do. Have you? Eaten the food, I mean? There could be secret love potions hidden inside.”

      “That’s possible. There’s one widow, Mrs. Cranston—gotta be seventy if she’s a day—who makes the best lemon meringue pie I’ve ever tasted. I might propose to her even without the love potion.”

      They laughed together, both of them distracted, for a little while, anyway, from the misery of their journey.

      “I wonder what they’ll bring me. I don’t suppose I’ll be inundated with cakes and pies from the single men.”

      “Maybe you’ll get cans of baked beans. Or motor oil.”

      “Small-town hell. Check.”

      “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it hell. More like a really claustrophobic closet in the middle of an island.”

      “With eighteen-hundred people in it.”

      “Exactly.” And didn’t that sound appealing?

      You decided to come here. You wanted a total do-over.

      Yeah. Right. He had.

      He’d been the one who wanted a change, the one so anxious to get out of Chicago—to escape from the darkness, the blood, the anger and the nonstop violence. It had been nobody’s choice but his own to