Jill Sorenson: Stranded With Her Ex

Every time she looked at him, she was reminded of the way he’d touched her last night. Her body ached in secret places, hungry for more, and her heart swelled inside her chest, burdened with an impossible longing.

She loved him so much.

And she knew it was too late. She couldn’t ask him for a second try, or another chance. But maybe he would grant her some…closure.

Taking a deep breath, she snuggled closer to him, twining her arms around his neck. Beneath her fingertips, his muscles were tense. She could see the pulse point at the base of his throat, beating strong and fast.

They both wanted this.

Dear Reader,

A few years ago I came across a fascinating book by nonfiction author Susan Casey. The Devil’s Teeth chronicles her visits to the Farallon Islands, a National Wildlife Refuge best known for its great white sharks. Her chilling account of this extreme, isolated location sparked a story idea of my own. In the summer of 2008, when I traveled to San Francisco for the RWA National Conference, I made plans to see the islands with my agent. We braved damp weather, rough seas, and a crowded charter boat. It was an unforgettable experience!

Using the Farallones as my backdrop, I sat down to write Stranded With Her Ex , a story about facing fears and overcoming obstacles. Although this is an unusual setting for a romance, cold and inhospitable, it is here that my characters find love again. Hearts thaw and sleeping bags heat up. I hope you enjoy the journey.

Warmest regards,

Jill Sorenson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JILL SORENSONwrites sexy romantic suspense. Her books have appeared in Cosmopolitan magazine.

After earning a degree in literature and a bilingual teaching credential from California State University, she decided teaching wasn’t her cup of tea. She started writing one day while her firstborn was taking a nap and hasn’t stopped since. She lives in San Diego with her husband and two young daughters.

Also Available from Jill Sorenson:

Dangerous to Touch Tempted by His Target Risky Christmas–with Jennifer Morey

To my agent, Laurie McLean, for booking the charter boat to the Farallones, and for getting the Dramamine. You are my lifesaver.

To my editor, Stacy Boyd, for tweeting about how much you loved this story, and for your unwavering enthusiasm.

To my husband, my rock, who loves me for better or for worse.

To my daughters. I couldn’t have written a story about loss without acknowledging what I’ve gained. I love you both with all my heart.

To my mom, as always, for reading to me.

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

Epilogue

Daniela Flores tightened her grip on the cold, wet aluminum railing. Keeping her eyes on the horizon and her feet planted on the deck, she took a series of calming breaths.

She wasn’t seasick. She’d been on smaller boats in rougher water than this more times than she could count. The San Francisco Bay wasn’t known for smooth sailing, and many of the other passengers were feeling poorly, but Daniela’s discomfort had nothing to do with a rocking hull, unsteady surface or brisk salt spray.

Her ailment was more mental than physical. Since the accident, she disliked cramped quarters and confined spaces.

Across the crowded cabin, past whey-faced day-trippers and sturdy-legged sailors, the open sea beckoned, mocking her with its infinite expanse. Although a boat this size wasn’t as restrictive as the crushed cab of a car, neither did it offer a convenient escape route. The water below was a chilly fifty degrees.

She much preferred the cool blue waves of San Diego, her hometown, where ocean temps hovered at an agreeable seventy degrees. Or southern Mexico, her birthplace, where the sea was as warm and sultry as a hot summer night.

Here, the cold water wasn’t even the greatest deterrent for swimmers. Her destination, twenty-seven miles off the coast of San Francisco, was a seldom-visited place called the Farallon Islands, an infamous feeding ground for great white sharks.

The captain’s intercom crackled with distortion as he made an announcement. “Devil’s Teeth, dead ahead.”

The Farallones had earned this moniker a hundred years ago from the fishermen and egg collectors who dared eke out a living here. With no docking facilities, the rocky crags were inhospitable to the extreme, rising from the sea in a jumble of sharp, serrated edges. Although teeming with animal life, every nook and cranny filled with birds and seals and sea lions, the surface area was devoid of greenery.

During the spring, the islands were grassy and lush, dotted with small shrubs and speckled with wildflowers. Now, in late September, the salt-sprayed granite was noticeably bare, picked as clean as old bones.

Daniela watched the godforsaken place materialize before her with a mixture of dread and anticipation. On this cold, gray day, the islands were shrouded by fog, cloaked in mystery. If anything, the landscape was even less appealing than the pictures she’d seen. And yet, she could make out the pale brown coat of a Steller sea lion, the subject of her current research project. He was reclining near the top of a cliff like a king lording over his realm.

Her heart began to race with excitement, thudding in her chest. The Farallones were a wildlife researcher’s dream come true. Surely she could set aside her phobia and enjoy her stay here. Six weeks of uninterrupted study were almost impossible to come by, and she’d been waiting over a year for this unique opportunity.

Whenever she was feeling closed in, she could do her breathing exercises. She would stay focused on the present, rather than letting the trauma of the past overwhelm her, blurring the edges of her vision and squeezing the air from her lungs. She would keep her eyes on the horizon and her feet on the ground.

As they drew closer to Southeast Farallon, the main island, she noticed a single house. It was a large, ramshackle dwelling, built over a century ago for light keepers and their families. The old Victorian stood stark and lonely on the only flat stretch of terrain, an ordinary structure on alien landscape. Like a gas station on the moon.

“They say it’s haunted.”

The deckhand’s voice startled her. She dragged her gaze from the whitewashed house to his wind-chafed face. “The entire island?”

“Nah,” he said with a smile. “Just the house.”

She cast a speculative glance at the simple, no-frills structure. It was the least intimidating feature on the island. And she, like most scientists, didn’t believe in ghosts. If she had, she might have believed in an afterlife, as well. Faith was a comfort she’d been denied in her darkest hour, and she wasn’t going to start being superstitious now.

“I’m more worried about the sharks,” she admitted.

The deckhand grunted his response and jerked his chin toward the shore. “They’ll be coming for you now.”

She caught a glimpse of two dark figures walking along a footpath etched into the side of the cliff, a few hundred yards from the house. With no docking facilities, setting foot on the island was a tricky process. The research biologists had access to a beat-up old Boston whaler, hoisted above the surface of the water by a formidable-looking crane.