Page 18 of Moonlit Hideaway
Emma would be disappointed, and his mom would wonder why she left. He had to decide whether to clue them in or toleave them in the dark. Perhaps they would soon forget about the woman with the mismatched clothing and bad hair. It would be safer for Sierra if no one knew she’d been here.
The storm had subsided, and a full moon shone over the point—its light magnified by the arc of the ever-watching lighthouse. Sleep eluded him as he stared at the ceiling of this familiar room he’d once shared with Chloe. The plain gold band around his finger held the weight of those memories, a bittersweet reminder of their happy marriage—at least on his part.
He shut his eyes at the recriminations that flooded his mind. She’d been a restless sleeper, twisting and turning all night, wanting to leave the island—to seek her fame. She was talented, too. He couldn’t deny it, but he’d knocked her up, and her parents had made him marry her, and then Emma came along, and he thought she was happy.
And now, she was gone—been gone four years, leaving a motherless daughter who craved attention. Was it fair to keep Emma back from her dreams? Of course, she was still young, and she belonged here on this island. Chloe was the last Baxter, and after her passing, her parents died of broken hearts, leaving Emma truly the last of the Baxters whose names covered the monument to the rescuers.
That was their heritage.
But was it his?
The ring was too tight on his finger, and he twisted it off, leaving it on the nightstand. He wasn’t getting any sleep tonight, so he tossed himself out of bed, wondering if Sierra was fast asleep or as bothered as he was by her leaving.
Should he have tried to convince her to stay? If she’d been so easily recognized here, she would be recognized elsewhere among larger populations. What was she running from? He sensed grief—like she’d lost someone she loved, but also fear—mainly because of the secrecy. Or was she burned out and unable to face her fans?
It was interesting how the imagination flourished in the deep of the night. Outside, the sea rumbled and swished a constant pulse. The change in the weather did little to settle the restless energy buzzing through him. If anything, the weakening of the wind magnified the bleak emptiness inside his room.
He stalked around the small room, knowing she was on the other side of the wall, in Chloe’s sewing room. But he couldn’t go to her. He had no right. As his footsteps crisscrossed the braided rug, he gathered the courage to take a peek at least—to see if her light was still on.
He stepped onto the small balcony connected to his bedroom and gripped the railing. Taking a deep breath of the salty breeze, he stared at the ocean, trailed by the light of the moon above. The storm had passed, and the waters were once again peaceful. But his heart was not at peace. Hadn’t he suffered enough heartbreak for one lifetime? And yet, whenever Sierra’s eyes met his, the stirrings of something long forgotten both thrilled and terrified him.
He’d come out to see if her light was on, but he was afraid to turn and face the truth—that her room was dark, and she was sleeping soundly, eager to leave this island in her rearview mirror.
The creak of a sliding door startled him, and his gaze lifted to see Sierra stepping out onto the balcony of the adjoining room. She was wrapped in a thick cotton robe, and her flowing hair, now a chestnut brown, hung loosely in waves down her back.
His eyes met hers, and a warm jolt tightened low in his belly. He was raging with pent-up passion, and he desperately hoped the shadows hid the heat in his eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were out here.”
Now was his chance to make his plea, but his vocal cords were paralyzed. He stared at her—the image of beauty and youth and the sharp edge of a woman from another world. He had to remind himself that she was capable and strong. She was street-smart and a multimillion-dollar pop star. She was out of her element in his town, and yet, she held her own.
He, meanwhile, would be lost in her world. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to beg on the streets and hide inside a dumpster. He didn’t want to remember that world. He was sheltered here on this island.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Sierra’s voice was huskier than he remembered.
He shook his head ruefully. “Too many thoughts spinning around. You?”
“Same.” She leaned on the rails and took a deep breath, raising her face to the moon. “It’s peaceful out here.”
“It is,” he agreed, although his heart was anything but peaceful. He swallowed, spurring on his courage to say something—anything, knowing he’d never meet someone like Sierra Rayne in any other circumstance but now. “Are you?—”
“I’m okay. Thanks.” She offered a faint, lingering smile. “Guess I should try to get more rest. Goodnight, Hank.”
And she slipped back inside—so close but out of reach.
Chapter Eight
The insistent beeping of the old-fashioned digital clock pulled Sierra from the fog of her restless dreams. She wanted to be up and out before Emma woke up, and she wasn’t sure if the teen knew of her plans to leave. It would be better this way—before she formed any attachments, although the way she’d obsessed over Hank Whitman told her it was already too late.
It was those eyes of his that got to her—that roiling gray stormy gaze looking on her with emotions she’d never explored in her young life. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw them—haunting, probing, understanding too much.
He saw her—really looked at her. And he observed and noticed and wanted her. So unlike the self-centered young men she’d dated who were more interested in her adorning their selfies or decorating their arms.
She’d stripped the makeup and the clothes. Messed up her hair and tried to fit in—but he’d seen through it all, and likely so had Emma, Howie, and Mabel. By now, Emma would have told her friends, posted that video she’d taken on social media, and alerted Marco of her location.
Yawning, Sierra switched off the alarm, hoping it didn’t wake Hank. She’d soon be out of his hair, and her presence would nolonger trouble him. He was a good man. Caring, concerned, and no doubt intensely loyal.
In another life, she might have been tempted to stay. That magnetic pull, as sure as the moon had on the tide, drew her like a hermit crab to an empty shell. His arms promised a haven and a shelter, but she knew better. She could never fit into his world, and the complications would only end up breaking both their hearts.
