Lynnette Kent - Luke's Daughters

Sarah stared at him as she asked the question.

“Yeah.” Luke’s answer was soft. Then he added, “But for the record, it’s not as tabloid as it sounds. She was engaged to Matt first. He went missing on a classified army assignment and they told us he was dead. We got married, Erin and Jen were born. Then after five years he came back.”

“Five years!”

“He was a POW the whole time. Kristin hadn’t ever stopped loving him, and…and it was tearing her apart, being with me when he was around. That’s the whole story.”

“You’re very honorable to set her free.”

“A regular white knight.”

“Do your daughters live with you?”

Luke ran out of brittle comments. “Not full-time. We’ve been sharing custody since I moved out a year ago. But now that they’re married…” Luke couldn’t bear to think about the changes in his life.

How could one translate anguish into words?

Dear Reader,

I remember being awakened at midnight, when I was six or seven years old, so my brother and I could climb into the back of our big station wagon and fall asleep again while my father drove straight through the night, heading east.

Sometime the next afternoon, we would park on the deck of a ferryboat that took us to the isolated Outer Banks of North Carolina. We camped just behind the dunes in a canvas tent and cooked on a gas Coleman stove. Showers were optional—we spent most of the day in the ocean. Cape Hatteras Island became a dear friend we looked forward to visiting each summer. I still find my greatest sense of peace and freedom when I can sit and watch the sea.

So I’ve written a book set at the beach. Police officer Luke Brennan and photographer Sarah Randolph have lost the people they care about, the people who cared for them. The joining of these two solitary souls requires courage, determination and, of course, deep and abiding love. I hope you enjoy your time with Luke and Sarah as much as I have. They are very special people.

As are all the Superromance readers. Please feel free to write me at: P.O. Box 17195, Fayetteville, NC 28314. Thanks for reading!

All the best,

Lynnette Kent

Luke’s Daughters

Lynnette Kent

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my mom,

who showed me the wonders of the beach,

the glory of the mountains,

and all I know of love.

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

EPILOGUE

SARAH HEARD his voice first.

Not the words, not even the sense of what he was saying, just a warm, smooth rumble counterpointed against the never-ending crash of the waves. The timbre of that voice resonated inside her, making her push back her hat and open her eyes.

She couldn’t have designed such a picture in a thousand years. The owner of the voice wore a starched white shirt, a black bow tie and vest, and the satin-seamed trousers of formal dress, rolled halfway up his calves. He’d left his sleeves buttoned; they shivered crisply over his arms in the afternoon wind blowing off the ocean.

Just as her eyes focused clearly, he tugged the band out of his shoulder-length hair, letting it blow free with that same wind. Putting up a hand, he pulled the straight, black strands out of his face and laughed as he glanced down at his companions.

Creatures from a fairy tale they were, two princesses in rose-and-green flowered gowns, with puffed sleeves, high necks and long, full skirts. Sunlight glinted on their blond heads, one a bit darker than the other, both braided neatly from crown to nape. As they looked up at the man, Sarah could see flowers woven into those braids…baby’s breath and pink sweetheart roses.

Automatically, she reached for her camera.

She captured the gentleness with which the man held each little girl’s hand to help her down the sandy bank, the care the children took to hold up their skirts as they crossed the shallow inlet separating them from Sarah. The setting sun and the contrast of such formal clothes against a backdrop of sea and sky and sand provided near perfect composition.

As the trio came close, Sarah relaxed into her chair and let the camera rest in her lap—their awareness of what she was doing would spoil the effect. She stared back the way they’d come, across the rocks and the deep green grass that separated the public beach from the exclusive Sandspur Country Club. Light flashed behind the club’s tinted windows, silhouetting the impression of a crowd.

Now she understood—they’d been to a grown-up party of some kind. The man must have taken pity on two bored little girls and brought them out across the manicured grass to look at the ocean.

But looking obviously hadn’t been enough, not for the girls and not for him. With just a little pleading on their part, he’d agreed to an adventure no anxious mother would ever allow—a walk on the beach in all that finery. Sarah could just discern the white-and-black splotches of their socks and shoes, abandoned at the brink of the lawn.

When her camera lens found them again at the edge of the ocean, the girls were bent over a fisherman’s bucket, inspecting his bait and his catch. But their companion stood straight and tall, staring north along the shoreline. His hair blew back, leaving his profile stark against the sky. Sarah snapped the picture, thanking all the saints that she’d brought the zoom lens—and thinking that, for a party guest, he didn’t look much like he was celebrating.

After a few minutes, he turned and spoke to the girls. The children pranced and danced across the beach, heading back toward the club. But the man lagged behind, head down, hands in his pockets, dragging his bare feet in the sand as if reluctant to return.

Reluctant or not, he was leaving. Sarah jammed the camera into her bag, dredged up a couple of business cards and a pen, then struggled out of the low sand chair to her feet. By the time she clambered up the opposite bank of the inlet, the girls had nearly reached the rocks. But the man had just come level with Sarah.

“Excuse me,” she called.

He stopped and looked over, his dark, straight brows lifted in question.

Up close, he was bigger than she’d realized, taller. Not thick or brawny. Just…strong. “My name is Sarah Randolph.” She extended a card. “I’m a photographer.”

“That’s…nice.” He stared, expectantly.

Suddenly she felt intrusive. She gathered up the remnants of her professional nerve. “You must know—the three of you made an exceptional picture on the beach in your formal clothes.”

“I didn’t think about it,” he said. The hint of a drawl flavored his voice, like a ribbon of caramel through milk chocolate.

“I did.” Sarah gathered her thoughts. “And I took pictures.”

His gray gaze darkened. “And you want me to pay you for them? Sorry.” He lengthened his stride to catch up with the girls. “Not interested.”

“No!” She jogged after him, reaching for his arm to slow him down. His muscles felt like carved driftwood. “No, I don’t want you to pay me.”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What do you want, then? I need to get them back inside.”

Something in his face made her let go of him. Quickly. “Are they your daughters?”