Montgomery, had overheard.
As he approached, he saw that she most definitely had not. She was deeply engaged in conversation with Mrs. Robinette—the librarian from his childhood!—and the reporter Meschelle Davies, who’d just stopped by her table with—what else—a whole bottle of champagne and several glasses.
John simply could not win with this woman.
Chapter Eleven
Molly
Molly had never been to such a glamorous party in her life.
She was sitting on a soft black leather chair within yards of the beach, listening to the rhythmic pulse of the waves while a gentle tropical breeze stroked her cheek, and champagne—not the cheap stuff she was used to drinking, but the kind in the green bottle with the orange label—flowed like water into her glass every time she drained it. There were open bars scattered all around the island serving anything you could think of, from martinis with blue-cheese stuffed olives to salt-rimmed margaritas.
Then there were the piles—piles—of fresh stone crab claw. This was a delicacy that Molly had rarely tasted in her past life, partly because stone crab claws were only available in season, October through May, and partly because they were so costly to ship to Colorado. Even in Little Bridge, where the crabs were plentiful (they were caught in traps right off the beach and then released again), the claws could cost up to forty dollars a pound. On a librarian’s salary, this put them out of Molly’s budget.
But at the Red Cross Ball the claws were free (well, discounting the cost of her three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar ticket that Mrs. Tifton had paid for), and already broken up for her, and came accompanied by the most delicious honey-mustard sauce Molly had ever tasted. She’d already eaten six large ones and was on her seventh when she looked up and saw a group of party guests headed toward the far side of the beach, the women barefoot, their high heels abandoned, champagne flutes held delicately in their manicured fingers, the men wearing determined expressions and clutching beers.
“What’s going on?” Molly asked, wiping her mouth and hands on a napkin in the hopes that no one would notice her gluttony.
“Oh, God.” Meschelle had eaten a fair amount of crab, as well. The broken shells lay all over her plate. “The games have begun.”
“Every year the ball holds a game of skill to raise money for local charities, as well,” Phyllis Robinette explained, “so that we can share the love, so to speak.”
As Phyllis spoke, Molly noticed a tall man in military uniform moving swiftly across the room and toward the beach. It took a second for her to realize that the man was Sheriff John Hartwell, and that he wasn’t in military uniform but dress uniform.
Her heart skipped a beat. Her heart actually skipped a beat, because he looked so good. She was used to seeing him in the beige uniform he wore daily, in which he didn’t look bad—he was an attractive man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw and of course those disconcertingly blue eyes.
But there was something about seeing him in his dress uniform—dark gray trousers with a perfectly tailored black long-sleeved jacket, beneath which he wore a white shirt and black tie—that made her suddenly aware that he wasn’t only attractive—he was extremely attractive. He looked as good as the crab she’d just eaten, succulent and sweet but with a sharp tang, the kind that made you keep eating even after you knew you’d had way too much, because you wanted more and more.
Good Lord, what was wrong with her? It must be all that champagne.
He didn’t notice her, because he was so intent on getting to the games on the beach.
That’s when Molly knew that she, too, had to get over there. Not to join the games. Molly had always been miserable at games. No, Molly needed to keep an eye on the sheriff in his dress uniform. She simply didn’t have any other choice.
“Excuse me,” she said, quickly abandoning her napkin and chair. “I’ll be right back.”
Then she hurried as quickly as she could after the sheriff, slipping off her heels so they wouldn’t sink into the sand, and bringing her champagne flute along—it was still more than half-full, after all, and it would be a shame to abandon such good champagne.
Lit by tiki torches—though there was still plenty of light in the lavender sky—were several raised wooden platforms sitting well away from the reach of the waves. Cut into each platform was a small hole. Beside the boards were