Sympathy for the Devil (International Bad Boys Book 4) by Kelly Hunter Read Free Book Online Page A

undergrowth on either side of black bitumen. Tourists came here to see the lighthouse and stay at the local B&B. Locals came here to walk the bush tracks along the headland and to fish from the beach. The beach was unpatrolled and unpredictable. Few swam or surfed here, and when they did they often had a couple of people on a surf ski with them, ever-ready with a tow back in to shore.
    Wildlife flourished here, kangaroos and wallabies, hawks, sea-birds, quolls, the occasional koala and everything under the sea. You could see Shark Rock and Green Island from here in the daytime, and long beaches punctuated by headlands to the north and south.
    Come night-time the light from the lighthouse fanned out over the ocean.
    It was as close to paradise as any earth-bound soul could be.
    And then there was Caleb Jackson and his hips at her fingertips and his throbbing badass bike between her legs.
    Plenty of purely mechanical reasons for Bree to be turned on as she slid from the bike and wondered what on earth she was doing up here with him. They hadn’t come here often as teens—none of them had. There were no memories of kisses or parties or late-night get-together’s to recall. The lighthouse keepers had never encouraged nocturnal happenings up at the lighthouse and maybe, just maybe, the elder Jacksons would have skinned their boys if they’d ever used it as a playground.
    Let the Jackson boys get a little rowdy on land, but never ever bring it to sea.
    Caleb stood the bike and unhooked his helmet before lazily easing from the bike.
    “Lighthouse lookout?” he asked and she nodded, because that was where the light-show shone its best. They walked up past the three silent cottages. One for the lighthouse-keeper and two for his assistants—although it had been a long time since they’d been used as such. The lighthouse was fully automated now and as far as Bree knew, the National Parks service ran the cottages as a B&B.
    Tonight they stood dark and empty, unused, with an air of neglect about them. “What happened to the B&B?”
    “It’s closed for renovations. They’re getting rid of the lead pipes and paint.”
    The footpath wound ever steeper and Bree was grateful that she wasn’t wearing the strappy sandals she’d worn earlier in the evening. Not that knee-high black leather boots were much better. He’d said jeans and boots. They were the only boots she’d brought with her from Sydney.
    He stopped and turned to watch as she tried to stop the leather from cutting in at her ankles.
    “Want a hand?” he asked finally.
    Bree didn’t know which course of action would be the more foolish—taking the hand he held out to her or taking off her boots.
    She took his hand and knew instantly that she’d made a huge mistake when her body responded with a fierce kick of need. Not a soft and manicured male hand, she’d shaken plenty of those, but a broad and capable hand bridged with nicks and callouses. One that anchored her effortlessly in place. Apparently, she had one hell of a kink for those.
    She tried to keep pace with him, but there were steeper places where Caleb went first and gave her a tow. By the time they reached the little wooden lookout platform below the lighthouse, she was slightly out of breath and her fantasies concerning what those big, capable hands might wring from her were running rampantly out of control.
    “That one was from a stingray tail,” he said gruffly, and she realized that she’d been tracing the ridges of an old scar on the back of his hand with her thumb.
    “Oh.” Abruptly, she let his hand go. “Sorry.”
    “The others are from fish-hooks, fins, claws and the occasional knife. Doesn’t matter how many gloves we wear, something always gets through.”
    Part of her wanted to catalogue those nicks and ridges. To put them in front of a lens and add contrast for better emphasis. A kitten, maybe. Or a baby.
    “They’re good hands,” she found herself saying quietly. And nothing