Dead Man's Hand Page 2

  “Hang in there, dude. I’ve got you.”

  If only.

  He would love for someone to swoop in and take care of him for a change. To feel loved again. Hell, just to feel safe.

  Without asking, the swimmer he’d set out to save wrapped a powerful arm around his waist and helped him the last few yards to shore. It galled him to allow it, but it wasn’t as if he had the strength to fight the guy off.

  Left to his own devices, Collin would have collapsed onto the faintly warm sand to rest and catch his breath. But swimmer dude was having none of that.

  “You’re hypothermic as hell, man. We’ve got to get you inside and warmed up. No resting for you. Upsy-daisy, English.”

  “Upsy-daisy?” he echoed wryly.

  “Hey. Whatever gets the point across, dude. One foot in front of the other.”

  “My jacket. Jumper. Shoes. That way…,” he mumbled, gesturing at the veranda to their left.

  “My room. Hot shower. This way,” the swimmer disagreed. “C’mon.”

  With that shockingly strong arm pulling him along like the limp rag he was at the moment, Collin didn’t have much choice in the matter. His entire body was so fatigued and cramped with cold, he could barely move of his own volition. The guy dragged him through the lobby of the resort and pushed him into an elevator. If the other guests noticed him or gave a damn for his half-drowned-rat state, he couldn’t tell and didn’t care. The idea of a hot shower sounded better than just about anything in the world right now.

  At the moment, he had no idea where his room key was or what his own room number was. He was only vaguely aware of going to an unfamiliar floor in an unfamiliar wing of the resort and of being herded down a long hallway into a strange room.

  “Can you get your clothes off and get into the shower by yourself, or do you need help?” the swimmer asked.

  “I’ve got it,” Collin mumbled. He shambled into the guy’s bathroom and managed to get the faucet turned on, but the buttons on his shirt almost did him in. He might have torn off the last couple of them, he wasn’t sure. His hands were shaking too badly to control and his fingers too numb to feel what he was doing. But eventually he got the damned shirt off and peeled down his sodden wool trousers and briefs.

  He stepped into the shower.

  Too hot. Too hot! He cringed away from the jet of water.

  He cooled the shower down until his half-frozen skin could stand the temperature, and then gradually warmed up the water as his body could take the heat. Convinced he was never going to feel warm again, he turned the water up hotter and hotter until steam filled the bathroom. Water flowed over his head and beat at his neck and shoulders, releasing the terrible tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The panic of seeing that swimmer go down and then of thinking he was under attack and going to die finally seeped away under the pounding water.

  He hadn’t been there when Steve died. The police said death had been instant when his car was hit head-on, both vehicles traveling at roughly one-hundred-kilometers per hour. But when he’d seen that Jet Ski run over neon-yellow guy… it had brought everything back. His desperation to have been there with Steve, to have done something, anything, to save him, or even to have died with him, to feel something other than utter helplessness in the face of random, unkind fate.

  At length he began to warm up until he felt semi-human. Normal brain function reengaged. He felt waterlogged but reasonably close to the temperature he was supposed to be. He climbed out of the shower, toweled off, and looked down in dismay at his wet, ruined clothing in a pile on the floor. No way could he put that stuff back on. He got cold just looking at it, not to mention it was saturated with salt water.

  Irritated at needing help from the swimmer yet again, Collin wrapped a towel around his hips and stepped out into the hotel room.

  His rescuer had stripped the wet suit down to his waist, baring his entire darkly tanned torso and revealing a tantalizing line of light brown hair running down toward that impressive bulge of neoprene-clad junk Collin also couldn’t help but notice.

  The swimmer was tall, six-foot-two or so, and ran to the lanky side. But he looked hard and fit from head to, umm, crotch. His shoulders were broad and angular, but when he moved, Collin realized they were sheathed in more muscle than initially met the eye. Maybe it was the guy’s height that made him look deceptively lean. Abruptly Collin recalled feeling that hard body pressed against his from the back of his neck to his ass in the water when the swimmer had mistakenly thought he was drowning. Even through the neoprene, he’d been warm. Vibrant. Sexy as fuck.

  Startled at the spark of interest, greater than for any other man since the accident, he went very still inside, unsure of whether to stomp it out or to huddle close over it, protect it, and try to nurse it and grow it more.

  The guy’s blond hair was dryish now, shaggy, and in need of a trim. That lean jaw could use a decent shave too. His beard stubble was blond with a faint hint of strawberry in it. Swimmer Guy hadn’t gotten up close and personal with a razor for several days, at least. He looked like a beach bum—admittedly a hot one—beneath the scruffy exterior, but a bum nonetheless. Collin’s preferences ran to elegant men. Neat, sophisticated, put-together men. Not the rough, natural, outdoorsy vibe this man was practically oozing.

  Those eyes, though. Mother of God, they were the brightest blue Collin had ever seen. The fellow was totally not Collin’s taste, but those electric cobalt peepers were almost enough to make him consider taking a walk on the wild side.

  After clearing his throat uncomfortably, Collin asked, “Any chance I could borrow some dry clothes for long enough to go up to my room and change?”

  The swimmer’s gaze, which had been roaming up and down Collin’s towel-clad physique in open appreciation, lifted reluctantly to meet his stare.

  “Yeah, sure. Help yourself to anything in my drawers.” The swimmer smirked at his own joke, which Collin might otherwise have found mildly amusing but rubbed against his mind like sandpaper now. Christ. Was he actually attracted to this messy beach bum?

  The American, assuming his drawling accent didn’t lie about his country of origin, was not only physically not his type but also not his type in attitude. A casual, loud, far-too-forward vibe clung to the swimmer. Personally, he preferred his lovers intellectual. Civilized. Restrained.

  Apparently, he was expected to paw through the swimmer’s clothing by himself. Reluctantly, he opened a drawer and found a wide selection of brightly colored logo T-shirts and lightweight surfing shorts.

  Bitchin’, dude. Not.

  Hiding his distaste, he picked out a relatively sedate T-shirt in faded pink advertising some professional surfing event at the Banzai Pipeline, wherever that was, and a pair of khaki shorts.

  He retreated to the bathroom to drop his towel and don the beachwear. Wrapping his own sodden clothing in the towel, he stepped back out into the main room, carrying the bundle.

  “Lookin’ good, dude.”

  He glanced up at his rescuer and replied dryly, “Thanks.”

  The swimmer, now divested entirely of the wet suit, wore faded, torn jeans and a ratty T-shirt. The clothing hung just loosely enough to be sexy. One good tug and those pants would slide off those narrow, hard hips, and that killer ass would be exposed. Ten to one the guy was a freeballer….

  “What’s your name, English?”

  “Collin Callahan. You?”

  “Gun.”

  “As in Big Gun?” he guessed. “Top Gun? Going, going, gun?”

  Gun rolled his eyes. “Naw, man. As in long gun. It’s a surfboard used for riding big waves. It’s built long and narrow, kinda like me. Comes from elephant guns, which are long and strong and drop the big ones.”

  “I gather you surf?”

  Gun laughed and replied, mimicking Collin’s British accent when he answered, “I gather I do.”

  Offended but not interested in showing it, Collin said formally, “Thank you for the clothes. I’ll
send these out to the laundry and return them to you by tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” he echoed, a bit flustered.

  “Why wash ’em? You just got out of the shower, and they’ll touch your skin for about two minutes total. And I’ve got more shirts and shorts. Unless you’ve got cooties, just bring ’em back when you’re done with them.”

  “Uh, thank you….” He paused, hinting that he needed an actual name to complete the sentence.

  “Gun.”

  “Right. Gun.” What a jerk. Wouldn’t give up his real name, not even after Collin had jumped into the Mediterranean on a cold-ass day, fully dressed, to save said jerk’s life!

  More irritated than he’d been in a long time, he marched up to his own room indignantly. Ungrateful, arrogant, obnoxious… athletic, hot, mesmerizing… no! Jerk. That was the final word. Gun was definitely a jerk.

  Thank goodness the fellow had shown his complete lack of couth before he’d gone too far down the road of making a terrible mistake with the American surfer.

  By some small miracle, Collin’s room key was still in the pocket of his wet pants. He pulled out the magnetic card and swiped his way into his room. After dropping his soaked shirt and pants on the floor of the bathroom, he immediately and with great distaste stripped off Gun’s clothing and gratefully pulled on his own neatly pressed wool trousers and a freshly starched dress shirt. His normal armor back in place, he headed down to the veranda to fetch his sports coat, cashmere jumper, and Italian loafers. Thankfully, they were still where he’d left them in a pile on the porch.

  Now to return Gun’s shirt and shorts, and he would be finished with this whole unpleasant little episode. And the hot swimmer could take his smug attitude and shove it.

  Chapter Two

  OLIVER “GUN” Elliott opened his door at the knock and stared. Day-um. The tense British lifeguard-wannabe looked even better in clothes than he did wearing nothing but a towel. And he’d been freaking hawt, rocking terry cloth that clung precariously to his hips and showed of a six-pack of abs that any surfer would be proud of. Looked as if he worked out a lot. Not a Muscle Beach bodybuilder type… more the running and calisthenics type. Maybe a martial artist. He looked supple enough for something like judo or kung fu. The dude had a seriously cut body. Body fat: none. High-protein diet: totally.

  “That’s why you got hypothermic so fast, you know,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Collin replied, managing to look both confused and uptight at the same time.

  “No body fat.”

  “Um. Perhaps a context for your comments would be helpful?”

  “I was thinking about how you looked wearing that towel before. You’re ripped, dude. No body fat. That’s why you got cold so fast when you jumped in to save me. Thanks, by the way. Square of you to come in after me like that.”

  “Square?”

  English sounded pissed off, so Oliver explained. “Yeah. You know. Square. As in cool. It was cool of you to come in after me.”

  “Ah. In that case, you’re welcome. And thank you for making sure I got back to shore safely.”

  Jeez. The guy sounded like a walking Debrett’s British Etiquette manual. “No prob.”

  “And thank you for lending me the clothing.”

  English held out a glossy paper gift bag, the kind high-end boutiques used, and Oliver took it, peering inside. His Banzai T-shirt and khaki surfing shorts had never been folded so neatly in their entire lives. “Anytime.”

  One corner of—Collin, that was his name—of Collin’s mouth turned up in wry humor. “I sincerely doubt I will be borrowing your clothes again anytime, but thank you for the offer.”

  “Too bad.”

  Oh fuck. The words were out of his mouth before he stopped to consider them. This wasn’t California, where anything went and casual propositions were a way of life.

  For just an instant, he thought he saw a spark of heated interest in Collin’s cool gray eyes. Nah. He hadn’t seen that. It was just wishful thinking. This guy was way too classy to slum around with a guy like him. A pang of disappointment startled him. Usually, he wanted no part of uptight pricks who reminded him of the world he’d left behind for the beach life. Once upon a time, a man like this wouldn’t have been at all out of his league. But now….

  He ran a hand through his long hair that he’d been trimming with a pair of dull scissors for the past couple of years.

  Oddly enough, he didn’t want to run screaming from this uptight Brit. There was something about the guy. Something tragic, broken even, about the man that called to him. Maybe he tuned in to the guy’s pain because he’d lived in a similar headspace until he’d finally ditched the life his family had shoved down his throat for so long.

  “What do you do to work out, Collin? You obviously don’t surf.”

  “I study martial arts. I find that they calm the mind and center my focus.”

  Boom. Nailed it. “Sweet! Which one?”

  “Traditional judo, some tai chi, and a variant of jujitsu taught by the British Special Forces.”

  “You’re not a soldier, are you?” Not that he would’ve been surprised to find out Collin was one. He just would’ve been surprised to find a soldier in this particular location with such an illegal event about to begin.

  “No. I’m not military.”

  “Whew. Had me worried there for a minute. I mean, you could definitely pass for a military type.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He tilted his head, considering. “Well, there’s the short hair and the guy-who-works-out-a-lot thing. But mainly it’s your intense, poker-up-the-ass bearing.”

  The guy’s spine stiffened even more, going ramrod straight. Fuck. Oliver had stuck his foot in his mouth again. Most of the surfers he hung out with were too stoned or too brain-fried from being stoned to give a rat’s ass when he said stupid crap that could be interpreted as insults.

  So touchy, this guy was. Or maybe Oliver had become that big a social klutz when he’d checked out of real life and moved to a shack to surf his days away.

  “Can I buy you a drink or a meal or something to say thank you for trying to save my life?” Oliver asked belatedly. Dropping the invite like that into an awkward silence probably would prove to be colossally bad timing, and he wouldn’t blame the guy for saying no. He had a hard-core zig going every time he should be zagging with this man.

  “That would be nice.”

  Whoa. Wait. What? English had accepted?

  “You sure?” he blurted, incredulous.

  “Is there some reason for me to be apprehensive over or turn down the offer to dine with you?” Collin asked cautiously.

  “Hell no—uh, no. Lemme grab a real shirt. This joint’s restaurant has a dress code and gets picky about it.”

  “You would know,” the Brit said mildly.

  He shot an amused glance at his guest. Nobody could deliver a sarcastic put-down quite like a Brit. Good thing he didn’t have an ego—at least not about his wardrobe.

  He did, however, take pride in his fit physique. He figured English had earned a bit of payback by way of a striptease. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and reached into the closet for a polo shirt with an actual collar, which was about as formal as his attire ever got. He’d heard that the El Rocca was old-school European, though, so he’d broken down and invested in a few garments that actually passed as not T-shirts.

  A sharp breath sucked in behind him.

  Hah. Take that for popping off about my shitty clothes.

  His face emerged from the polo shirt’s neck, and he grinned over at Collin. “Like what you see?”

  Collin’s facial muscles twitched infinitesimally. Just enough to indicate a frown without actually being one. So damned British polite, this man was. Which gave him an irresistible urge to poke until he got a rise out of Collin.

  “Either you’re straight and my gaydar has gone completely haywire, or else you’re gay and severely upti
ght. Which is it?”

  “Those are not the only two alternatives to explain a startled reaction to a strange man undressing in front of oneself,” Collin declared, a shade defensively.

  “Doesn’t it get uncomfortable having that stick up your butt all the time?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No reason to ask for my pardon. I’m pretty hard to offend.” He knew damned well that wasn’t what Collin had meant, but the guy really needed to loosen up. Or more accurately, he had a perverse urge to force the guy to loosen up. Weird. Usually he didn’t get into debauching the closeted and uptight homocurious members of the male population. But damned if this one didn’t make him think all kinds of lecherous, cherry-popping thoughts.

  “While you’re changing, you might want to consider a less… well-ventilated… pair of pants. I doubt they’ll let you into the restaurant in those jeans,” Collin said.

  “Well-ventilated?” He looked down at the holes in his knees and the worn spot on his thigh, where only the white cotton cross threads remained, and grinned. “I paid good money for these holes. They’re designer fashion, you know.”

  “On what planet?” Collin snapped.

  Oliver burst out laughing. “It’s called California. It’s in a galaxy far, far away about a hundred years in the future from your existence.”

  “Just change, will you?”

  “Me? Change? Never.” Just enough of a pause to let indignation build in those sexy gray eyes, and then Oliver added, “If you mean I should change the pants, sure thing.” Oliver unbuttoned his pants and dropped the offending jeans then and there before reaching into his drawers for another, less worn pair. Too bad he hadn’t gone commando today.