Ahead in the Heat Read online

  Praise for the Pacific Blue Novels

  Riding the Wave

  “Riding the Wave is a book you don’t want to miss! It has it all . . . hot-as-hell hero and heroine, intense chemistry both in and out of the bedroom, and sharp, witty dialogue. Tanner and Avalon’s story will enthrall you one minute, and then tug on your heartstrings the next. I loved this book, and I think you will, too.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Deirdre Martin

  “A sheer delight from start to finish. Brown does a sensational job of getting to the very heart of her main couple. . . . Their chemistry is positively blistering, but what makes this romance unforgettable is the way they challenge and balance each other.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, top pick)

  “Sex scenes suffused with pulse-pounding intimacy nicely frame this escapist love story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] fast-paced read perfect for a summer escape.”

  —Booklist

  Also by Lorelie Brown

  The Pacific Blue Novels

  One Lesson (a novella)

  Riding the Wave

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Cathleen DeLong, 2015

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-698-14626-6

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Lorelie Brown

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from RIDING THE WAVE

  You went away, but you came back. All my love.

  Chapter 1

  Sean Westin had been to physical therapists before. Once, he’d sprained his knee on the North Shore of Hawaii and had to check in with a therapist near his home turf in San Sebastian for three months. But that guy had worked out of a standard, stucco-walled complex across the street from the hospital. The building Sean had just now pulled up in front of was about as far from a medical office as possible.

  Sean double-checked his in-dash GPS. Right address. The California bungalow was where he was supposed to show up. The place looked more like a cottage than an office. There was a shallow porch decorated with white wicker chairs and a multitude of potted plants that bloomed green or sprouted pink and blue flowers. Cupolas peeked out of the shingle roof, hinting at a second story. Lining the front of the porch were bushes with purplish pink blossoms the size of Sean’s fist.

  Getting out of the car wasn’t pleasant. He moved slowly, bracing himself as he reached to unbuckle the seat belt. Didn’t make a difference. A dull ache of pain spiked from his collarbone and radiated down his shoulder. The black sling he wore inhibited movement. The doctors said he’d need to work on mobility if he wanted to be able to regain his spot on the surfing World Championship Tour in time to keep his place in the top half of competitors.

  He wanted to regain his spot.

  He wanted to badly. His entire career had been about consistency and determination. He had the skills, and he also had the means to move up.

  This should have been Sean’s year. The reigning champion, Tanner Wright, had retired to open a surf school and boink his supersweet girlfriend, so the rankings had all been given a sweet shake-up. If Sean didn’t move into the top ten this year, he’d have to take a good long, hard look at what he was doing. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be the ’CT winner.

  Sean wouldn’t allow that. It didn’t fit his plans.

  A six-inch plaque by the doorbell confirmed yet again that he was in the right place. The words SANTA BARBARA REHAB were on the first line, with ANNIE BAXTER, DPT inscribed below. But when he rang the doorbell, there was no response. He rang it again, hearing peals echo through the small house.

  He wasn’t completely surprised, since he didn’t have an appointment. But he did have information that said Annie Baxter could always be found at her offices on Saturday mornings because she ran an unofficial drop-in program for disadvantaged teenagers.

  He sighed, but damned if that didn’t send another spike of pain through him as his shoulders shifted. He ground his back teeth together. He needed to talk to Baxter. It wasn’t too much to expect the doctor to be where she was supposed to be.

  A hollow, wooden sound caught his attention. Even though he hadn’t heard the noise in person for at least five or six years, he’d have known it anywhere. Skateboard wheels rolling over wood. More particularly, over a wooden ramp.

  It was coming from the back of the house. He followed the echo down the porch stairs, then down a path lined with foxtail grasses that were lush and verdant despite the barely waking spring.

  The backyard was skater heaven. The Japanese wave painting Sean could never remember the name of decorated the sloping sides of an empty old-school-style pool. At the far end, a ten-foot-tall half pipe filled the only bit of spare flat area.

  A kid dropped his board from the table into the vert, knees bending into the dip. He slipped effortlessly back and forth, getting higher and higher until he finally launched into the air at the other end. He kept it easy, barely touching his board as he flew. He wore a helmet and dark blue hoodie that swallowed his small frame and contrasted with his slim-cut jeans.

  Sean waited as patiently as he could until the skateboarder came to earth and drew to a stop. “Hey, bro, have you seen Dr. Baxter?” The skateboarder paused for a second before pulli
ng off the black helmet and turning around. Stubby dark ponytail. Delicate features with wide-set eyes.

  Sean immediately rearranged his assumptions. “Sorry, I mean—may I have a moment of your time, Dr. Baxter?”

  One finely arched eyebrow lifted even higher. “I don’t deal with pros.”

  Being recognized wasn’t anything new for Sean. The first time, he had been at the mall in Brea, eating tacos at the food court, when a couple dudes fell all over themselves talking about his first Prime tour win. And that had been before his pro career really took off, when he’d still been biking himself to the beach on the weekends and returning home to his mother’s filthy house.

  He hoped he never really got used to being famous. Because damn, did it still feel good. His chin lifted and he probably smiled some. The hot satisfaction lifted his mood so high that he could almost forget about the constant throb that ached through his shoulder.

  “So you know who I am?”

  She made a soft little psh sound and tucked her helmet under her arm as she started toward the back door of the house. “Everyone in California knows who you are. And everyone who knows surfing knows you were drunk and shouldn’t have been on the water. Not to mention what the fallout could do to your career.”

  That was the downside. Everyone did know what a douche he’d been in Bali. He’d been drinking mai tais with a pretty waitress, and he had taken a rollicking turn toward trouble from that moment. He knew he should never have surfed, but he did it anyway because he was such a fucking sucker for a pretty face.

  His fists curled, but he immediately drew a deep breath as he tried to loosen up. Tight meant pain lately. He’d learned his lesson.

  “Then you know how desperate I am for help.”

  She slanted a gaze at him out of the corners of her eyes, dropping her board to the ground and her helmet to a folding chair. “I’ve heard hints.”

  “I have a tweaked collarbone. It’s causing some shoulder impingement. There’s more technical stuff, but I’d have to have the files sent over to you. I have six weeks. I can’t let recovery take any longer than that.”

  The laugh she dropped into the air between them sounded almost bitter, and completely disbelieving. Her mouth was small but plump. She was kind of small all over. If she stood next to him, she’d come only to his sternum. “Recovery for a collarbone injury could take up to sixteen weeks. Maybe longer if you’re foolish and push yourself harder than you need to.”

  “I can’t allow that long.” He moved toward her, but not too close. Women were delicately balanced creatures, and there was a fine line between charming them and being an icky kind of invasive. “Six weeks keeps me out of competition at Bells Beach and in Rio. I’m missing the Margaret River Pro this very minute. Six weeks means I’m in the water in time for Fiji. I have no choice with Margaret River and Bells Beach, and I’m going to have to choke that up. I can probably even afford zeroing August’s event. Probably. But I have to get back on the ’CT by Fiji. I can’t afford to drop out of the top twenty-two. Considering that I’ll still be in recovery, I’ll have a hard enough time requalifying for next year.”

  “I can give you references to three very good physical therapists. They have a practice on the other side of San Sebastian.”

  “I don’t want very good. I want the best.” And according to every bit of research he’d culled in the week since his injury, that was Annie Baxter.

  But she didn’t give a crap. She wasn’t even bothering to look at him, which was like nails on a chalkboard to Sean. He thrived on attention, and he usually got it. He wasn’t above admitting that.

  She pulled the blue sweatshirt off, revealing a cream button-down shirt with minuscule puff sleeves. Even though the blouse was completely feminine, the way it was paired with slim, low-slung jeans emphasized her distinct lack of curves. She had little breasts and boyish hips. Exactly the opposite of Sean’s type, but that didn’t seem to matter when he looked at that mouth of hers. Adorably filthy. “Then you’re screwed.”

  But Sean knew there was one thing Dr. Annie Baxter cared a whole hell of a lot about. Finding info on that had been dead easy. He tipped his head down, looking at the petite pixie, and he found himself using his silkiest tone of voice when he said, “Do you want your drop-in center funded?”

  Her eyebrows flew up toward her hairline as she whipped back to face Sean. “You’ve got a spare three million sitting around?”

  He smirked. Everyone had a price, even if they thought themselves the noble type. It was only a matter of finding it. “I do. Do you want it?”

  She gave another of those laughs and stuck her hand out, palm up. “Sure. Right here. You can make the check out to the Clear Ride Foundation.”

  “Nothing is free.”

  She dropped into one of the wicker seats, hands resting on the arms. Her legs stretched out in front of her, as short as they were. She crossed them at the ankles and laced her fingers in front of her stomach. Her belt buckle was round and yellow, with a black X on it. “You mean to pay me three million for physical therapy for a collarbone injury?”

  “Sure. Is that an X-Men belt buckle?”

  Bright red washed across her cheeks, making her look both older and younger at the same time in a mix of innocence and chagrin. “I know, I know. I’m a total geek.”

  He shrugged, but instantly regretted it when pain smacked him upside the shoulder again. When he pushed too far, the hurt washed all the way through his chest and upper back. He was gonna be schooled out of shrugging right quick. Fuck, he was tired. “I recognized it. That’s gotta be equally geeky.”

  She didn’t answer for a long moment, and at first Sean wondered if he’d gone too far. He’d never been a hundred percent sure which side of the social lines he walked. It wasn’t like he’d had a normal childhood, which was when most people learned normal human interactions. He’d come from shit. Literally.

  “Do you know why I’m the best?” Her eyes narrowed, and a line knit between her straight brows. “Because I’ll own you. Your diet and your exercise. How many times a week you get to surf. Whether you’ll go running or do a stair stepper. How much you stretch, and precisely when you do it. How often you see me, or any other anything. Including massages.”

  “Deal.”

  “Including sex.”

  “Deal.”

  She scoffed. “You’re fucking full of it. This is one of the reasons why I don’t work with pros. You’re too damn full of yourselves. You don’t even stop to question whether you can handle it.”

  His impulse was to cross his arms over his chest, but of course that was out. He settled for widening his stance and tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “There’s one thing you don’t understand. I will stay in the ’CT this year. The only question is whether I permanently fuck myself up in the process.”

  Her mouth set into a mulish knot, but she pushed out of her chair and stepped toward him. “You’re an arrogant, foolish asshole.”

  “I am.” He grinned, because he knew her body language said she was unwillingly intrigued. “But I’m an arrogant, foolish asshole who’s your patient.”

  Chapter 2

  Annie wasn’t sure why she kept arguing ten minutes more. When one protested too much, it took on the distinctive did-not, did-too flavor of being eight and on the school yard playground all over again. Except that was the problem. Sean Westin made her feel about as self-assured as she’d been at eight. What a massive dork she’d been. Wearing blue kneesocks that were so big on her petite frame she’d had to pull them all the way up to her thighs, and a red corduroy skirt. No girls in the nineties owned corduroy. Ever.

  She’d been painfully aware of her lack of coolness. In sixth grade, Elizabeth Manhein, also known as the Perfect Blonde, had teased Annie because she’d been the last one to shave her legs. The cool kids always made sure the not-cool kids knew their status.
She’d thought she’d made it by the end of her senior year when she was considering her own pro surf career, but then Terry had cleared up those misapprehensions—and set her right back where she belonged.

  So standing less than five feet from Sean Westin—the Sean Westin—made the backs of her knees sweat. It made a ball of nerves twist up and take over her whole stomach. There wasn’t much she could do about it, except hang on to the false bravado she’d cultivated over the past fifteen years.

  But goddamn, was he cute. More than that. Gorgeous. Beautiful in a way that was perfectly masculine. His dark hair was the same length as his artfully scruffy beard. His eyes were so crisply blue, they reminded her of the time she’d been to Cancun for spring break. She’d spent most of the trip dreadfully sober since she remembered all too well how vulnerable alcohol made her, and she’d spent her time watching her friends make asses of themselves in bars. Hanging out at the beach during the day had brought back sharp memories of her own near miss of a pro surfing career. The water had been the same perfect blue as Sean Westin’s eyes, and there was something hauntingly beautiful about them.

  After another minute or two of arguing, Annie threw up her hands. “Fine. I’ll take you on. You might as well come in and fill out the new-patient paperwork.”

  Turning on her heel, she stomped through the back door, wincing when she saw the state of her mudroom. She’d left piles of gear in the corner from the last time she’d led the kids on a hike at San Onofre—and someone had left a stack of swim fins in the giant sink. The laundry room wasn’t much better. She kept donation clothes on hand for any of the drop-in kids who needed them. It was ridiculous how long one of them would wear the same sweatshirt before admitting he didn’t own another one and that was the reason it stank. But that was why Annie hadn’t caught up on laundry in the past nine months.

  And she didn’t think she was projecting, but it seemed like she could feel the weight of Sean’s disapprobation like claws digging into her shoulders. He didn’t like what he was seeing. Well, too damn bad, he was the one who’d come to her.