“He told me to go.”

I’m sitting at Brody and Stacey’s kitchen table sipping coffee and reliving my moment of extreme mortification.

“Well, what did you expect?” Brody asks. “That he’d strip you naked and bend you over his desk?”

I try very hard not to whimper simply from the mental picture of that very thing.

“For goodness sakes, Gregory.” Brody’s given name is Gregory Allan Brody, but god forbid anyone but Stacey should ever try to use it. “You’re the one who put this crazy plan in her head. Now you’re saying you expected it to backfire?”

Since Stacey is currently my ally, I don’t point out that she had seconded the crazy plan.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “But come on, Jane. I’ve never even met the guy and I know he won’t do anything to hurt you. Not on purpose. And you aren’t just two people deciding to have a good time. He’s your brother, which makes it a big fucking deal, no pun intended.”

“We don’t share a drop of blood. I don’t care what the law or our parents or all of society says. It’s stupid.”

“Doesn’t change the fact. Doesn’t erase the taboo.”

I glance up at Stacey and then over to Brody. “Then let me just second what your wife said. You’re the one who suggested this in the first place.”

“And I stand by my suggestion. I’m just saying that my take on this guy is that he’s a gentleman—”

“Do you read the tabloids?”

He narrows his eyes at my outburst. “As far as you’re concerned, he’s going to tread carefully.”

I resist the urge to throw my arms up in defeat. “So where does that leave me?”

He spreads his hands and shrugs, looking more like a Jewish mother than a half-Irish bartender-turned-dom. “You want a fuck, you’re going to have to make the first move.”

I scowl. Because frankly, I thought I had.

“There’s my pretty girl!” Grams, my dad’s eighty-year-old mother, holds out her hands to me and urges me over.

She moved to Florida three years ago after Gramps died, and I don’t see her nearly often enough. Now I hurry into her arms and give her a big hug. She seems more fragile now, and the knowledge that I will probably lose her soon keeps my smile from blooming all the way.

She peers at me with eyes that seem tiny now, lost in a wrinkled face that has never seen plastic surgery. “These are my battle scars,” she told me once after a friend pointed out that Grams could easily afford the best. “Do you know how much work it was to live a good life? Why should I hide it?”

“What’s that frown for?” she asks me now, her hands cupping my cheeks.

I shake my head and glance over at my mom. “I just miss you, I guess.” I lean over and give her another big hug.

“Well, that’s because you don’t visit often enough. Millions of dollars in a trust fund and you can’t hop a plane to Florida once in a while?”

She’s grinning when she says it, and I know she’s only teasing. But she’s right. And I make a promise right then and there to visit more often.

“Where’s the guest of honor?” I ask. Poppy is Grams’s father-in-law, and although he’ll be one hundred years old tomorrow, he still does the New York Times crossword puzzle every Sunday, even though his hand shakes too much for him to write the answers in himself.

“Your dad told Becca to take a little break and took him down the boardwalk to the beach,” my mom tells me. Becca is Poppy’s live-in nurse and crossword helper, and has been for the past twenty years. Which pretty much makes her one of the family.

“Oh. I guess I’ll go catch up to them.” I look around the room. There are five bungalows on Barclay Isle along with the main house, which is where we are now. It’s the most understated of all the Sykes family homes, which isn’t saying much. It’s six thousand square feet with walls that actually open so that the entire downstairs can be converted into an outdoor living area that flows out onto the flagstone patio.

I’ve always loved it here. The water is beautiful and warm. The sky is blue, and there’s privacy. So much privacy.

Even on a weekend like this where there are over a dozen people in the house, there’s still always room to get away. As far as I can tell, that’s what people are doing, because while I see my great-uncle talking with his oldest son by the window, I don’t see my uncle’s wife or any of their three grandchildren, all of which are about my age.

I wave to them, but don’t pause to talk as I head toward the patio, intending to follow the boardwalk until I find Dad and Poppy.

My mother’s voice stops me. “You should grab a bite before the staff takes the buffet away.”

I nod, then apologize again. “I didn’t mean to be so late,” I say. It’s already after noon. I dropped my bag at my bungalow—the one I’ve used ever since my parents said I was old enough to have my own space—and then headed to the main house. “I left New York before dawn, but I had to wait for the helicopter in Norfolk. Mechanical issue.”

“You’re here now,” Grams says. “That’s what matters.”

I smile, thinking how comfortable it is to just be hanging with family. How different than the way it felt with Dallas at our game night. He’s family, too, but it wasn’t easy like this.

No, Dallas Sykes is in a category all by himself. Brothers with Benefits, I think, then curse my own stupid, sick sense of humor.

I draw in a breath, because now that he’s on my mind, I have to ask. “What about Dallas?”

“He’s been here all morning,” Mom says. “I think he was disappointed you weren’t here yet. He went back to his bungalow about an hour ago. Said he had to make some calls.”

I nod. “Did Mrs. Foster come with you?”

Mom smiles. “Of course. And Liam’s coming this afternoon, too.”

I don’t even try to hide my pleasure. I haven’t talked to Liam in weeks, and it’s been even longer since I’ve seen him, and I really do miss him terribly.

“What about Archie?” He and Mrs. Foster are the two family employees with the longest tenure.

“He’s here, too, of course. How would your brother survive without him?”

Frankly, I think Dallas would survive just fine. But I don’t say it. Dallas may be a fuckup, but there’s more to him than he likes to show, I’m certain of it. What I don’t understand is why he’s so willing to let people see the screw-up and not the competent man.

That, however, isn’t a question I’m going to contemplate right now.

“I’m going to go meet up with Dad and Poppy and then go catch some sun and read.” The idea sounds like heaven, actually. I don’t get the chance to veg as much as I’d like, and I’m looking forward to a few hours of downtime.

“Have fun. Dinner’s at six. Poppy eats early,” she adds in response to my raised eyebrow.

“And the party’s tomorrow at noon, right?”

She tells me it is and I give her another hug, and then one more for Grams before I grab a couple of wine coolers for my tote bag. Next, I head onto the patio and then over to the wooden boardwalk. I’d taken the opportunity to change when I’d dropped my luggage at my bungalow, so I’m already set for my beach outing.

I have a paperback in my tote bag, along with a towel, a water bottle, and some sunscreen. And now I have the wine coolers, too, which is always a plus. I’m wearing a pink V-neck T-shirt over my bikini top and a scarf wrapped around my hips like a sarong over the bathing suit bottom. I take off my flip-flops and tuck them in the tote, because it’s much easier to walk on the beach in bare feet. I’m not worried about splinters. The boardwalk is well-trafficked, and after so many years, it’s as smooth as stone.

I see my dad at the end of the boardwalk standing beside Poppy’s wheelchair and hurry down to them and give them both a hug. Poppy’s smile is wide and toothless, and he reaches out a shaking hand for me. I take it, then wish him a happy birthday.

I stand there for a while, just talking with my dad and great-grandfather, and the conversation is light and easy. For a while after the kidnapping, I was uncomfortable around my dad. I’d been so angry that he’d kept the authorities out that it had caused a rift between us. He’d seen the change in me, of course, but I’d never explained myself, and I know he thinks that I was just dealing with the horror of being kidnapped.

Over time, I’ve learned to deal with it. My dad is who he is. Rich and arrogant. A man who likes his privacy. And I get that he thought he was protecting us by keeping the whole thing out of the papers. I don’t agree—I think he holds as much blame for Dallas’s extra four weeks of torment as I do—but I came to terms years ago, and I’m glad. Because even though we disagree at a fundamental level about his hiring vigilantes, I do love my parents and I don’t want a wedge between us.

The thought makes me sigh. Because there’s still one potential wedge, and it’s a huge one: Dallas and me and the secrets we are keeping.

I chat a bit longer and then say my goodbyes. I walk in the surf for a few minutes, then cut back up toward the house to get the little golf cart I’d left in the driveway. The bungalows are scattered over the island so that every space has privacy. Mine is at the very end of the island, with an amazing view of the southern coastline and the wide vista of the Atlantic.

It’s also just a few hundred yards from my very favorite spot, a small cove that Dallas, Liam, and I discovered when we were kids. It’s difficult to access, as that beach is surrounded by small, rocky hills instead of the dunes that are so prevalent on this island. We’d climbed over looking for tide pools, and when our parents had realized where we were they’d banned us from returning.

Too dangerous, they’d said. We could twist an ankle and end up stuck. We could scrape a knee on the sharp rocks and get blood poisoning. We could get trapped when high tide came in.

Of course we swore we’d stay away.

Of course we returned almost daily.

It’s the best beach on the island, in my opinion. And as I carefully navigate the rocks to get to the cove, I feel a pang of melancholy. I miss my best friends, and I don’t know how to get either of them back.

I haven’t really lost Liam, of course. But distance and his crazy work schedule mean that when we see each other it usually feels like a drive-by encounter.

But I’m terribly afraid that Dallas may be a lost cause, and soon I may have to accept the horrible truth that we can never be more than family. Not friends. And certainly not lovers.

I don’t want to think of that now, though. I just want to relax and soak up the sun, and as soon as I’m over the rocks, I find a place for my towel and spread it out. I take off my T-shirt and untie my sarong, then put them both in the tote bag so they won’t get horribly sandy.

As the sun arcs over the island, I devour half the book along with my wine coolers. I want to keep reading, but the heat and the alcohol are making me sleepy, and I close my eyes and let myself drift, my mind filling with those particularly vivid dreams that come between sleep and wakefulness.

These dreams, of course, are all about Dallas. His touch, his kisses. Fantasies mix with memories, and by the time I drag myself back to the present, my skin is tingling, and not just from the warmth of the sun.

I stay on my stomach for a minute just to re-orient myself after my nap, and that is when I realize he is there. I don’t see him—my head is down—and I hear nothing but the crash of the waves against the shore.

Even so, I am absolutely certain, and I very slowly lift my head and look around.

He’s standing perfectly still on the sand, just this side of the rocky barrier, and he is looking at me with such fierce longing that my body trembles from the force of it.

He’s wearing a faded blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. Like me, he’s barefoot. He looks both casual and confident, a man at home in his own skin. A man who knows what he wants and is used to taking it.

But even so, he doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t say my name, doesn’t walk to me. He just watches me, as if there is no place he’d rather be and nothing he’d rather be doing.

You’re going to have to make the first move.

Brody’s words fill my head, as if brought to me on the ocean breeze. He’s right, of course. I know he is. Isn’t that what I did in the cabana when I turned his chaste kiss into something wild and hot? And didn’t we come damn close then to what is now my ultimate goal?

My stomach flutters, but those butterflies are inconsequential compared to my wine cooler–induced boldness.

I know what I want. More than that, I know what we need. But oh, dear god, if he pushes me away again . . .

He won’t, though—I know he won’t. I recognize the heat in his eyes. The same heat I feel. That same grinding, consuming desire.

He’s just waiting for me to make a move. It would, of course, be rude not to comply.

Slowly, I stand, the bikini top barely covering my nipples as the triangles of material hang loose from the string tied around my neck. I reach up and I pull the bow, then let my top fall free.

Even from this distance, I can see the way his throat moves. Emboldened, I take a step toward him, then another. I look nowhere but at him. At his eyes that are watching me so intently.

“Don’t pretend this is a chance encounter,” I say. “We both want the same thing.”

He doesn’t answer, but when I raise my hands to my breasts and tug on my own nipples, I can see the way his cock strains against his khaki shorts, and just knowing that I am making him hard sends a surge of power through me.

I take my hands from my breasts then reach for the ties on either hip that hold the front and back triangles of my very tiny bikini bottom together. Just two simple bows, and I release each in unison, then shift my stance, spreading my legs so that the material falls to the sand, and I am left standing in front of him completely naked—and completely vulnerable.

“You know what I want,” I say as I slide my hand down my belly to my pubis. I’m waxed, and so there is nothing at all hidden to him. I go lower still, and my fingers touch wet, swollen flesh. Standing here, exposed like this, has not only set my nerves on fire, it has made me more aroused than I have ever been in my life.

“You want it, too,” I say boldly, then bite my lower lip as I slide a finger deep inside.

Dallas’s eyes never leave me, but his hand is at his crotch, and I gasp a little as he unzips his fly and pulls out his huge, fully erect cock.

I feel a tightening in my core—a visceral reaction to the sight of Dallas stroking himself. Of Dallas watching me. My pussy throbs and my fingers slide over my too-wet clit.

He’s stroking his cock hard and fast, and I can hear the sound of skin against skin, of his low groans, and it just makes me tighter. Closer. I press harder, moving my fingers in small circles, concentrating on my clit. I’m desperate now, and I don’t think I could stop if I wanted to.

So help me, I don’t want to.

I let my gaze flick from the heat in his eyes to his hand on his cock, stroking and tugging. I see the muscles in his lower abs tighten, and I feel my pussy clench around my fingers.

He’s watching me.

The thought is so damned erotic, and I’m close—so close. I know he is, too, and I want to shatter. Hell, I need to, and when the first tremors ricochet through me, marking a coming orgasm, I whisper his name.

That is all it takes. He explodes in front of me, shooting thick streams of come into the sand, as he arches back, his body tense, and his eyes never leaving my face.

I cry out, too, my knees going weak as my own orgasm rips through me, shattering me, and I fall down to the ground, not quite believing we’d just done that, but unable to escape the simple truth that it was one of the hottest, most erotic things I’ve ever done in my life.

“Dallas, oh, Christ, Dallas. That was fu—”

“Fucked up,” he finishes. “Yeah. That was most definitely all fucked up.”

There’s an edge to his voice, almost anger.

“I’m sorry, Jane. I’m so damn sorry.”

I don’t reply—I haven’t got a clue what to say. I just sit there and watch—in shock, in surprise, in absolute total disbelief—as he tucks his now-soft cock back into his shorts, turns around, and climbs out over the rocks, leaving me alone and naked in the cove.