Sinful Seduction by Ann Christopher Page A

ambulate when the waistband of your baggy jeans only came up to the bottom half of your butt—she sure hoped his poor belt never gave out, because otherwise they’d all be seeing a lot more of this kid’s paisley silk boxers—and the bottom four inches of the legs pooled behind the flapping tongue of your boat-size athletic shoes.
    He was tall but lanky, having grown into his height but not his musculature, and he possessed a younger version of his father’s face, which made him quite handsome.
    All resemblance ended there.
    He wore an unbuttoned plaid shirt over a T-shirt that said, in big letters, “Don’t Hate,” and he had at least four glittering studs running up the rim of one ear. The end of one of his heavy black eyebrows had been shaved and now consisted of three or four stripes, and his hair was…interesting. He sported a Mr. T mohawk of unruly dark curls, and the back half of it was—honest to God—red.
    His glittering eyes were pure attitude, although she could tell he was putting on his polite expression for the houseguest. For now.
    Wow. She could just imagine how this rebel youngling went over with his straight-as-an-arrow, former-soldier father.
    Can you say World War III?
    Reaching the side of the bed, he nodded down at her and gave her one of those hard teenage stares. “’S up?”
    Skylar made a quick decision to play it cool. This kid was clearly all about shock value; ergo, she would not be shocked by anything he said or did.
    So she adjusted herself into a sitting position against the pillows, ignored the throbbing complaint in her side and leg, and stuck out her hand. “Hi, Nikolas. Great to meet you. I’m Skylar.”
    “Hey.”
    Nikolas had a deep voice, a firm grip and great eye contact, which put him way ahead of many of the mumbling teenagers she had crossed paths with in her practice.
    “My dad said you’re a vet. He told me to call you Dr. Lawrence.”
    She snorted. “Oh, well, if the Captain told you to call me Dr. Lawrence, then you need to call me Sky. He’ll love that.”
    His brows (brow and a half?) rose in surprise, and he treated her to part of a begrudging smile before he caught himself and reverted to sulky.
    “So you’re…what? Thirteen?”
    He shrugged. “Yeah.”
    “Eighth grade?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Do you go to school here in Sagaponack?”
    Uh-oh. Wrong question. His face tightened down.
    “Not an option. I board. My dad prefers me as far away as possible.”
    There was a world of bitterness there, so much that it made her heart ache for both father and son. She studied him hard, trying to get another bead on him.
    “I’m thinking you’re not the sports type. Which means you must be in a band. Or a rapper. Which is it?”
    He stood a little straighter, fighting that reluctant smile again. “I paint. A little. And I’m a drummer. In a, ah, drum circle.”
    “ Drum Circle? No way! I saw one of those at Faneuil Hall back in Boston last summer. All these drummers just, I don’t know, came together and started riffing off each other. It was amazing. Do you play djembe or doumbek or…”
    He hesitated, clearly trying not to show his surprise that she knew the names. “Ah…both.”
    “I’d love to hear you play sometime. Maybe before I leave?”
    “Ah…sure.”
    “What about the piano I saw? Who plays?”
    “My, ah, dad used to, but he hasn’t in a long time.”
    “Oh.” That made her sad, for reasons she couldn’t identify. “So…is there anything on that tray for me to eat? I’m starving.”
    “What? Oh. Yeah.” Taking great care, he lowered it onto her lap. “Here you go.”
    Her stomach had launched into an urgent growl—she hadn’t eaten anything since she had had a protein bar in the car yesterday afternoon—so she had high hopes for a hearty meal. And then she saw a cup of milk, a spoon and a bowl filled with a bunch of rainbow-colored sugar chips. No bacon, no eggs or toast, not even a glass of orange juice or a banana.
    Was this