Chapter 1

PRESENT DAY

Logan Marsh was in the middle of the longest day of his life. Because that’s how he rolled when a surprise half sister got dropped into his life after twenty-four years. Getting home to meet her became an emergency.

Since he hadn’t slept, and had crossed more time zones than he could keep track of, his day stood at about thirty-seven hours long right now. Middle-of-nowhere Kazakhstan to Washington, D.C., wasn’t exactly a direct flight. And now this fucking hurricane had sent his latest puddle jumper off course in the wrong direction before finally being grounded for the duration of the storm on some random Caribbean island.

He looked around the armpit of an airport. The whole thing could probably fit into a single concourse at Dulles. Plastic chairs. Scuffed linoleum. No bar. Not the worst he’d ever been in, but not someplace he wanted to hang out in for however long it took a hurricane to pass through.

The pretty gate agent with big brown eyes looked frazzled. No wonder, with a couple dozen angry passengers yelling at her like the hurricane was her fault. Idiots. Logan figured she’d be relieved to give him a hotel rec and reduce the line at her desk by one.

Bypassing the line—and ignoring the frowns it earned him—Logan rounded the desk, glanced at her name tag, and slapped on the smile his friend Josh claimed could charm the panties off any woman within a hundred feet. “Angelique? One question and I’ll be out of your hair completely. And it isn’t ‘When does the next plane leave?’ ”

“I like you already, monsieur,” she replied, a dimple forming in her cocoa-colored cheek. “How may I help?”

“Got a decent hotel recommendation? One where my room won’t be jacked while I’m out? Or I’ll be charged for clean sheets?” Logan had been around the world more times than he could count. It hadn’t made him cynical. Just careful.

“Get away from the airport,” she warned. Then she handed Logan a taxi voucher. “My brother Remy drives a cab. Number fourteen, parked right outside. He’ll take you someplace good.”

“Thank you.” Logan took the voucher with one hand. Pocketed it. Decided to push the power of his smile a bit further. Swapped hands to shake hers and palm over a fifty-dollar bill folded around his business card. Money talked louder than all the grumbling passengers behind him put together. He knew. Common sense and decency went pretty damn far, no matter what language you spoke. But money trumped it all. Got things done. And what Logan needed was to get home ASAP. “First plane going to anywhere in the continental United States. Anywhere. You let me know.”

Her expression warmed even more. Probably because she felt the crinkled texture of President Grant against her skin. “Certainly, monsieur. Welcome to Dominica.”

“Thanks.” Logan strode away before the other passengers pitched an even bigger fit. Hey, he knew they weren’t happy. He sure as hell wasn’t. Not with Madison waiting for him—sort of—back in D.C. Not to mention a best friend whose ass deserved to be kicked halfway into next week. But his job had taught him that sometimes you had to accept your circumstances and make the best of them. Hopefully this Remy would take him to a resort with a hot tub, room service, and icy beer. Although a hot shower would be enough to satisfy him at this point.

As he scanned for the door, a redhead caught his eye. Not just because every man in the world appreciated redheads, but because she looked familiar. Which was impossible. Random. Weird. Weird enough to compel Logan to tighten his grip on his duffel bag and cross to her in five long strides.

Holy shit. It really was her. Brooke Gallagher, the captain of Roosevelt Prep’s cheerleading squad, all grown up. Really grown up. Her head still barely came to his collarbone. All that bright red hair still streamed down to the middle of her back. But the eyebrows arched a little more, emphasizing her big green eyes. The teenage softness was gone from her face.

She looked sleeker. Sexier—which was saying a lot, since her curves had been the wet dream of every guy on the team in high school. A turquoise top that looped behind her neck and left her shoulders bare showed off the deep vee between her breasts. Those lips that he remembered always being curved into a smile were pursed into a pout as she frowned down at a sheaf of documents. Brooke must be grounded by the hurricane, same as him.

Well, he couldn’t let a lady stay in distress. As adorable as the pout was, Logan wanted to see her smile at him again. Wanted it suddenly even more than that hot shower. So he angled right in front of her. “Welcome to Dominica, Miss Gallagher.”

“Thank you,” she said distractedly, not looking up from the papers in her hand. “Did the resort send you to…” Her voice trailed off. Probably put two and two together and realized a driver sent to pick her up wouldn’t know who she was in the crowded room. Her pointed chin jerked up. Then her eyes flew wide open, like when you yanked too hard on a window blind. “Logan Marsh?”

Well, that was a relief. Especially with four days of stubble covering his face. “Got it in one. I’ll take it as a good sign that you remember my name.”

“Are you kidding? I’d never forget…I mean…Well, I remember you.” Her words tumbled out haltingly. Pairing that statement with the pink that insta-stained her cheeks, Logan pegged her as flustered.

Over him? Or over the situation? What if she was here on a romantic getaway with a boyfriend? Or a honeymoon? Yeah, Logan needed to dial back his excitement at seeing her after all these years until he got the details.

No subtle way to do it. Or without sounding like a cheesy game-show host. Happy hurricane, Brooke! Will you be riding it out alone or riding someone through it?

Dropping his duffel to the floor, Logan said, “It’s weird running into you like this.”

“Yes.” She shook her head, sending that red hair dancing around bare shoulders. “For a second I both recognized you and didn’t believe it possible. Just when I thought my vacation was ruined, there you were!”

Aha. A sign that she was alone. Because nobody complained about being stuck in a hotel room on a romantic getaway. “That’s me. I travel the world, single-handedly saving women from bad vacations.”

Christ. It was like the hundred and ten percent humidity of the island had sucked out all his mojo. He could pick up any woman, from a cocktail waitress to—his personal best—the spare Swedish princess. Why couldn’t he talk normally to a woman who used to pass him notes in chemistry class?

If Knox were here, he’d probably point out that Logan had always had a crush on Brooke.

Good thing he wasn’t here.

Shockingly, Brooke giggled at his weak-ass attempt at a joke. “Do you have a cape?”

“No need. I do my best work without clothes.” He never would’ve attempted that on a stranger. But Brooke was different. At one point, they’d been good friends. Great friends. In-and-out-of-each-other’s-houses-without-knocking type of friends. Logan knew who she was back then. He just didn’t know who she was now. A moment too late, he realized he should’ve worried about that before making the suggestive borderline-douche bag remark.

She nodded solemnly. “I can see how a cape would hold you back. Hard enough when you get your foot trapped under the covers. A cape would half strangle you if you rolled over once.”

“Exactly. I need freedom to roam in bed. Room to work my magic.”

“So…no cape, but you do have a magic wand?” Brooke covered her mouth with her hand and dissolved into more giggles. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen you in forever. I shouldn’t ask about your magic wand.”

Looked like they were on the same wavelength after all. Falling back into old patterns as if she’d just left her pom-poms at his house yesterday. “Babe, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about my wand.”

The woman with a tight helmet of white curls next to Brooke gave them a sniff/glare combo. They both laughed before she huffed away more than a step. God, it felt good to share even a joke that small with someone. After more than a month of digging out a village from beneath an avalanche of mud and rocks with people who barely spoke any English, this easy back and forth was as much a treat as a slice of pecan pie.

“It’s good to see you again, Logan.”

“Great to see you, Brooke. Almost as great as you look.”

“Are you trying to flirt with me?”

“Don’t have to try. It just comes naturally when I’m with a gorgeous woman.” That wasn’t even a line. Straight-up truth—and the redhead in front of him more than qualified as gorgeous. But talking with Brooke wasn’t just a treat. It was also the most fun he’d had in the past month. Maybe even longer.

This time she didn’t laugh. Or even crack a grin. Instead, she gave him an up-and-down appraising look. Great. Logan wasn’t a style-conscious guy on his best days. Today was far from a good day. He hadn’t bothered to change from his dirt-stained khaki shorts before his mad scramble for transport out of the village. Then he’d traveled at least eight thousand miles getting from point to point to point. Logan didn’t have to glance down to know that his plain green tee was more wrinkled than a ninety-year-old Tibetan monk.

“Any chance you’re jet-lagged? Drunk? Punchy from exhaustion?”

“I’ll take D—all of the above.” Since something he’d said must’ve tipped her off, Logan figured he’d better keep going, to play it safe. “That answer also comes with an apology for pretty much anything that exits my mouth in this condition. I’d give my left…uh, elbow for just an hour in a bed.” And held back from adding with you. He’d already pushed his luck far enough with the suggestive comments.

“How jet-lagged? How far did you come? Because you don’t look like you took the same flight from Dulles that I did.”

Logan thwacked his cargo pocket with the back of his hand. “You mean ground-in dirt isn’t the hot new look this summer? I hate when I’m a season behind the fashions.”

“Very funny.”

“I started off in the Altai Mountains of Kazakhstan. Took a bus. A train. Another bus when the train broke down. All that just to get to the nearest airport, in Almaty. Flew from there to Ankara, Turkey, then to Rome and to Caracas, Venezuela.” He did a game-show sweep with his arm to indicate the airport. “Now I’m here.”

“After all that, I feel selfish for hoping, but please tell me that you’re stuck here, too.”

Until five minutes ago, he’d been pissed about it. Now Logan was more than ready to accept his layover. As long as it included Brooke. “Hurricane Danielle rolled out the welcome mat for everyone in this airport.”

“Do you need a place to stay? I’ve got a reservation at a fantastic resort, less than an hour away. It’s called Beau Rive.”

“By fantastic, do you mean at least better than the plastic molded chairs here in the waiting area?”

“I mean my parents chose it and paid for it.”

That immediately erased cute, quirky, or rustic from the possible description. Probably not even eco-friendly. The Gallaghers, just like his own parents, flaunted their wealth and appreciated all the perks of it. Somehow he and his friends had missed out on that show-off gene. They all had big trust funds but chose to work. Work damn hard. And their only real extravagance was the box they kept at Nationals stadium. From Brooke’s wrinkled nose and embarrassed eye roll, she wasn’t a big spender, either.

“So you figure there are swans in the bathtub. Armani bathrobes. Not just turndown service, but somebody to retuck the covers every time you turn over.”

“All that and probably more. Which means if they don’t have any spare rooms left, there has to be space in mine to squeeze in a cot. Or maybe even a sofa bed. With all these people grounded and looking for rooms, I’m probably your best bet for getting a roof over your head tonight.”

Logan didn’t intend to tell her about the lead he had on a hotel room. Sharing with Brooke was far and away better than having his own room. It was a whole bunch of teenage fantasies come at least partially true. Even if he didn’t talk his way into sharing her bed, too, just her company would be great. Nice to see that her big heart hadn’t changed over the years. “That’s a generous offer. You sure I won’t be ruining any of your vacation plans?”

“Nope. I’m putting all the blame on the hurricane.” Putting her hand to the side of her mouth, Brooke stage-whispered, “You’re saving me. I hate eating dinner alone.”

“Then why’d you come on a solo vacation?”

Her eyes shuttered. Her smile vanished. A mile-long pause hung between them, until finally Brooke thinned her lips and said, “Let’s just say the pros outweighed the cons.”

It didn’t take investigative skills to know there was a story there. Logan wanted to hear it. Wanted to hear everything about her, actually. What she was doing now, where she lived, and yeah, why someone so beautiful and sweet would vacation alone.

There wasn’t anything he could do to get off this island tonight. Which sucked donkey balls. His personal crisis back in D.C. had to be getting worse with every hour that passed…and a lot of damn hours had passed while he made his way halfway around the world. He might as well make the best of being stuck. Try to shove all that in a mental box and enjoy this surprise gift from karma. She owed him after all. The fickle bitch had dumped a shit storm onto his plate in the last week.

He pointed to the navy rolling suitcase at her feet. It had a pink and green paisley scarf knotted around the handle. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“It’s a tropical island, Logan. Bikinis and sunblock don’t take up much room in a suitcase.” Laughter rolled out of her. Again.

Brooke had laughed more in this conversation than he’d heard in all his conversations of the past week put together. Not that there was much to laugh about when cleaning up a disaster site. He’d never before noticed missing laughter while working a site. Of course, the time he spent there sucked out all his reserves of laughter and joy. More so with each and every trip these days.

It was damn hard work keeping a positive face on when everyone around you had had their lives and homes destroyed. But he did. Keeping up a good front helped convince survivors there’d be light at the end of the caved-in tunnel. All that sadness weighed on him as if the Lincoln Memorial sat on his shoulders. Logan usually decompressed for a few weeks after each assignment, surfing off of Costa Rica, hiking the Andes—anything physical that exhausted him into deep, dreamless sleep. Only then was he fit to rejoin the human race.

He’d skipped his reintegration ritual this time around. No time to waste on it. But maybe being with bubbly Brooke would do the trick. Logan stepped closer. Wagged his index finger right in her face in accusation. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

“How’s that?”

“By making me think about how you look in a bikini.” Because it wasn’t a huge leap. Back in the day, they’d been in and out of backyard pools together. Gone to Senior Week at Ocean City together. Logan knew that despite her red hair, that pale skin didn’t have any freckles. Knew it looked as smooth as cream. Now he just wanted to find out if it felt that smooth, too.

This time her laughter was self-deprecating. “I’m not sure it’s that great a mental image for you. I’m not eighteen anymore, Logan.”

“I know.” Grabbing her hand, he pulled it out to the side to drink her all in. Brooke was still toned. Everything just had more curve to it. More sex appeal. And yeah, he let his gaze linger at the shadow between her breasts long enough to show his approval and interest. “Trust me, this is better.”

Licking her lips, she tilted her eyes down, then up, to give him a similar sweeping look. “Ditto,” she said huskily.

Dimly, his mind registered the increasingly loud complaints to the ticket agent. The shove of annoyed travelers walking by. The stench of burned, old coffee. But it all faded into the background. Right then? His whole world was wrapped up in Brooke’s mermaid-green eyes and her slightly parted pink lips.

Logan felt like they were already alone in that room she’d offered to share. Felt like he was home. Which was dangerous. Because he had too much going on to get serious with anyone. All he had the time and energy for was a fling. And after just ten minutes with her, Logan got the impression Brooke could drag him deeper than he wanted to go.

Nope. It didn’t matter. This hurricane was their version—however temporary—of being stranded on an island together. He’d enjoy the perks of it. Then go right back to dealing with the crisis waiting for him in D.C. And then head right back out to the next disaster zone. Brooke would be a memory. A happy way to wash away the last month of sadness and exhaustion from his soul. Nothing more.

Grabbing the handle of her suitcase—and yeah, brushing her thighs with his knuckles in the process, because this sure as hell wasn’t his first rodeo—Logan said, “Let’s get out of here.” As they walked the twenty steps out of the terminal, he asked, “Got any ideas on how to pass the time waiting for the storm to hit?”

“I didn’t before you showed up. Now I’ve got all sorts of ideas.”

Best. Hurricane. Ever.