Island of Second Chances Read online

  Trapped between loss and love...

  Laura Kelly wanted to leave everything back in San Francisco. Her broken heart. The loss of her unborn child. Instead, her grief followed her here...to an island paradise in the Caribbean. Along with a neighbour who, despite his handsomeness, insists on being a complete pain in her city-girl backside.

  That is, until Laura learns that Mark Tanner’s grumpy demeanor is hiding a terrible grief of his own. Instead of declaring war, Laura and Mark work together to restore an old boat, igniting an unlikely friendship—and an attraction neither of them expected. But sometimes all a broken heart needs is a little hope...and the possibility of new love.

  “I’d rather have a seasoned woman any day of the week.”

  Did Mark mean her? Was he...flirting?

  Laura glanced at the bottle in his hand, hesitating. What would one more round really hurt, anyway? Mark seemed to sense her indecision.

  He waggled the beer in front of her. “Come on. How miserable are you, really? Just two beers miserable? Because that’s hardly miserable at all.”

  She had to laugh at that. She was far more than two beers miserable.

  “Fine,” she said and grabbed the bottle from his hand. “You win.”

  He chuckled and took another swig of his beer as she started on hers. She’d just stay for one more.

  Besides...what was the worst that could happen?

  Dear Reader,

  I’m excited to share with you my new book, Island of Second Chances, a story about how sometimes we have to lose what we hold most dear before we find out what’s most important to us.

  After an ill-conceived affair with her married coworker, Laura Kelly winds up pregnant. Her lover abandons her, however, and she’s left to face the pregnancy all alone, but then a tragic miscarriage sends her into a deep depression. Devastated by the loss, she drops out of her high-profile career and decides to take an extended vacation on St. Anthony’s island, where she battles her own guilt and sense of loss.

  Mark Tanner used to work building Tanner ships, but after being betrayed by his brother, he moves to the fictional Caribbean island of St. Anthony’s determined to build a sailboat fast enough to win the local race. He hopes the prize money will help finance a trip around the world so he can heal from a bitter divorce and the tragic death of his son.

  Tanner is skeptical of new neighbor Laura at first, but warms to her when he realizes she’s struggling with grief just as he is. He teaches her how to use her hands and quiet her mind, and maybe how to heal her heart. Just when they discover that they might be able to heal each other’s guilt, fate intervenes as a looming hurricane threatens the coast and everyone on the island.

  I loved the idea of a couple at odds coming together and bonding from their loss. I hope you’ll enjoy this book about how love and losses can be intertwined, but ultimately there’s no more powerful way to heal than through love.

  All my best,

  Cara

  CARA LOCKWOOD

  Island of Second Chances

  Cara Lockwood is the USA TODAY bestselling author of more than seventeen books, including I Do (But I Don’t), which was made into a Lifetime Original movie. She’s written the Bard Academy series for young adults and has had her work translated into several languages around the world. Born and raised in Dallas, Cara now lives near Chicago with her two wonderful daughters. Find out more about her at caralockwood.com, friend her on Facebook, Facebook.com/authorcaralockwood, or follow her on Twitter, @caralockwood.

  Books by Cara Lockwood

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  Shelter in the Tropics

  The Big Break

  Her Hawaiian Homecoming

  COSMOPOLITAN RED-HOT READS

  FROM HARLEQUIN

  Boys and Toys

  Texting Under the Influence

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  Dedicated to my love, P.J. Benoit.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Married...Again by Stephanie Doyle

  Chapter One

  BUZZZZZZT. BUZZZZZZT.

  It seemed Laura Kelly had only had her eyes closed for a minute, and suddenly, the air was full of the sound of some ruckus. A chain saw? A swarm of killer bees? What the hell was that?

  She sat up in bed, her mouth tasting sour, as she glanced around the unfamiliar bedroom, bewildered. Then, she remembered. St. Anthony’s Island. Her escape route. She looked down and saw she wore the same jean shorts and white T-shirt she’d worn through three time zones yesterday to get here. She’d had three flight delays and a taxi cab driver who’d gotten lost twice before she finally reached the island at 3:00 a.m.

  There it was again. The horrendous sound. She clearly hadn’t dreamed it. Yawning, she reached for her phone, but it was dead. She’d forgotten to plug it in. The little clock on the bedside table blinked 12:00. It had to be early in the morning, though the sun trickled in through the vertical blinds near her kitchenette.

  She got up, groggy, and wandered to the patio doors. Her rented condo was on the second story, at the end of the row. She saw that she had two neighbors to her left and three below her, and that was it.

  She’d known from the listing that the complex was remote, the way she wanted it, but now, standing on her balcony, looking out at the blue-green water, she realized her little building was the only one for seemingly miles. Pristine beach spread out in both directions, not a single towel or umbrella in sight, just brilliant white sand under a blazing sun.

  The loud buzzing caught her attention once more, and she glanced down to find its source: a buzz saw in the hands of a man attacking a piece of wood with a steely determination.

  He was shirtless, his back to her, dark hair cut short, and he was wearing cutoff camo shorts and no shoes. The cut muscles of his shoulder and back worked steadily, sweat glistening on them. He was cutting the plank literally steps from the complex.

  Beyond that was a sailboat sitting on the beach. It looked to be old, or at least in desperate need of repair. It sat on a scaffold, lacking a working sail and looking worse for the wear on the bottom. Also, most of the deck was missing.

  She rubbed her face and tried to yell down at the man, but the volume of the buzz saw made that impossible.

  What was so important that the man needed to saw this early? Noah’s ark? She decided she’d have to go tell him kindly to knock it off. Until nine, at least.

&n
bsp; She stabbed her feet into flip-flops, found her way to the condo’s front door and went down the open stairway to the parking lot. Unsure of the fastest route, she wandered to the side and around the back until she found an opening to the beach and the infernal noise. She found the man, bare back and all, hunched over a solid plank of wood, saw at the ready.

  Sawdust flew all over his stone patio and what looked to be a makeshift workshop of sorts—an oversize storage shed with shelves for tools. Beyond, the sailboat in need of TLC sat on its stand.

  She wondered how he’d managed to get the condo board to sign off on this. The boards she knew in San Francisco would never allow such a workspace in the condo common area, which she assumed the beach had to be.

  Laura shook her head at the whole situation.

  The man was taller than he looked from above, and she only barely registered the knot of muscles in his shoulders and biceps as he worked to steady the saw. All she could think about was the horrible noise bouncing through her ears and ricocheting through her skull. What kind of man went on vacation in the Caribbean just to literally saw wood? She glanced at him, and then beyond him, to the rusted-out bow of the boat on risers near the beach.

  “Excuse me,” she shouted, now that she was just feet from the man. “Excuse me!”

  The noise was far too loud for him to hear, even though she was less than two feet from him. Laura, losing her patience, reached up and tapped the man hard on his bare shoulder.

  The man instantly shut off the saw and glared at her over his shoulder, his eyes barely visible through the work goggles he wore. Seeing her, he put down the saw and raised the goggles, revealing brown eyes that almost looked amber in the morning sunlight. He pushed the goggles up to his short brown hair and studied her.

  He had a rugged face, etched a little by the weather, but with that almost ageless quality only middle-aged men have. He could be thirty-five or forty-five. He stayed in shape, clear from the cut of his bare chest. He wasn’t sporting six-pack abs, but his stomach was flat and lean.

  Laura realized with a shock that the last time she’d seen a man wearing this little clothing, it had been Dean. In a hotel room.

  She shook the thought from her mind and tried to focus on the man’s face, trying not to look at the miles of very tanned and very bare skin before her. He was annoyed, that much was clear by the thin slash of his mouth, and the way his brow furrowed.

  “Excuse me,” Laura began, trying to be polite. “Hi. My name is Laura and I’m staying up there in 2-C, and it’s so early, so could you keep it down?”

  A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “Early?”

  “Yes, and I’ve been traveling and could you keep it down...until nine?”

  “Well.” He looked at his watch. “Considering it’s eleven thirty, that might be hard.” He flashed a winning smile.

  Eleven thirty? It was that late? Laura felt a blush creep up her neck.

  “Oh, well... I...” But she was so sure it was so early. Her body screamed that it was six in the morning but the sun in the sky told her it was later. She tried to calculate the time zone changes but her brain felt too muddled for the task.

  “You’re the tourist.” The man cocked his head to one side, as if she might be a new exhibit at a museum.

  “Well, yes, and—”

  “Look, I’m sorry this is loud, but it’s the middle of the day. Next time, maybe you should check the time before you...” He glanced down at her ruffled hair and slept-in clothes. His face showed his disapproval. “Get out of bed.”

  Now, Laura felt her temper flare and she’d all but forgotten her mistake about the time.

  “Could you just please try to keep it down? There are such things as city noise ordinances.”

  The man grinned then, a bit of sweat dropping down his squared-off, tanned face. “City ordinance? Just where are you from?”

  “San Francisco.”

  He studied her with amused, dark eyes. “Well, that explains it.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Now, Laura felt the anger bubble up in her, hot and fluid. Was he calling her a liberal hippie? An alfalfa-sprout-granola-eating leftist? She’d heard all the insults, mostly from her right-leaning family who lived in downstate Illinois. She was proudly moderate independent, thank you very much.

  He just shook his head, and the sun glinted off tiny slivers of silver running through his hair, just the right amount of middle-aged gray. Laura wanted to tell him he was clearly old enough to know better. Or old enough to show a little more politeness to strangers.

  He chuckled to himself then, as if he’d read her mind. Nothing about this was funny, so why was he laughing? She felt off balance with this man. Like somehow this entire conversation was one of his inside jokes.

  “St. Anthony’s doesn’t have ordinances like that,” he informed her, crossing his thick arms across his chest. “So, you’re out of luck.”

  “What about the other neighbors? This noise pollution is—”

  “Noise pollution?” The man put his head back and laughed.

  “What’s your name?” She’d have to report him. To someone. Somewhere.

  “Mark.”

  “Mark what?”

  “Tanner.” He grinned. “And you are?”

  “Laura Kelly.” She raised her chin in defiance. She didn’t care if he knew who she was. She’d be filing a complaint...with someone, somewhere.

  “Well, Ms. Kelly, are you going to call the police? You should know the local chief is a buddy of mine.”

  This wasn’t going well. Not well at all.

  “What about the neighbors?”

  Mark sighed and shook his head, studying her. “Three of the six condos are empty right now. Hurricane season coming and all. There’s you, me and Fred, who’s eighty-three and gets up at six to take his daily walk on the beach, so I cleared it with him to work here.”

  “You didn’t clear it with me.”

  He took her in, glancing at her flip-flops, to her jean shorts and her T-shirt all the way to the top of her head. “No, I didn’t, sweetheart. But, seeing as you’re just passing through, I don’t see a reason.”

  Sweetheart? She wasn’t his sweetheart. Now, that really irked.

  “I cleared it with the owners of your condo.” Mark shook a bit of sawdust from his hair, clearly unconcerned. “So if you’ve got a problem with the noise, I suggest you take it up with them. They should’ve warned you in the rental agreement there’d be...what did you call it? Noise trash?”

  “Noise pollution.”

  He chuckled once more, showing even white teeth. “Right. That.” He shook his head.

  “I’ll be talking to the condo board then.”

  Mark just grinned. “Considering I own the entire first floor, I’m actually the president of the board.”

  That revelation hit her like a ton of bricks. “You own...” She glanced down the way at the entire first floor. Well, that’s how he managed to clear putting a big workshop on the beach in front of the first floor then. He owned it. She couldn’t imagine how much that cost, but knew it was a lot.

  “I...” Laura had nothing more to say to that. He had the police in his pocket and he had a controlling share of the condo building, so complaining to the board would do no good. Hell, he was the board, sounded like.

  Then he turned his back on her, fired up his saw again and began work once more.

  Conversation done, apparently. At least, he thought so. She turned on her heel, fuming. He might think this was done, but, Laura vowed, this little disagreement was far, far from over. She’d been through hell and back, and she wasn’t about to let this man derail her. She was here on this island for a reason—to forget Dean, to find some way to heal—and she wasn’t going to let a rude neighbor get in the way of that. This wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

 
Chapter Two

  MARK TANNER TURNED and watched the feisty woman with the disheveled bob bounce out of his view. The woman needed some sunlight. Her bright white legs looked like neon billboards for the mainland as they furiously walked away from him.

  But, he had to admit, her curves weren’t bad, and if you went for bossy types, she’d probably be a feisty go-getter in bed. She was just his type: small, tight and a handful. He shook his head, figuring that wherever she’d come from, she was used to getting her way.

  But, Mark didn’t spook. She could rail against him all he wanted, but he had to finish this boat. It was the middle of the day, after all, and he had no patience for tourists who wanted to get their beauty rest at nearly noon.

  He glanced back at the rusted-out old hunk of a boat that once belonged to his father. He was behind schedule in fixing her up. That wouldn’t do. This project was too important. He glanced at the small set of bronzed baby shoes that Timothy once wore that hung on a string above his worktable. Beneath them, he’d tacked up a photo of his boy as a baby, grinning a gummy grin from ear to ear.

  He glanced out to the beach beyond. He could almost see his little boy running there, waddling into the water with his chubby, toddler hands outstretched for some shell. When he picked it up, he’d beam with triumph and call for his father’s approval.

  With a sickening dread, Mark realized he couldn’t remember what his boy sounded like. His voice had been sweet and high, but now, in his memory, the voice had faded. The picture of his son stood mute in his brain, like some old-fashioned silent picture reel.

  No. Couldn’t be. Mark squeezed his eyes shut. He would not let the memory of his boy fade. He worked harder to remember his sweet, high-pitched voice but couldn’t bring to mind the exact sound.

  He stopped and pulled out his phone. He had a video of his boy there. He pulled it up and set the video to full-screen and saw his boy running through the sand in the wobbly video he’d taken on his phone.

  “Daddy! Look!” Timothy cried as he pointed to a starfish that had washed up on the shore. It was a treasured find. “A star, Daddy! It’s a star!”