A Reckless Heart

By Jennifer Wilck

Meg Thurgood, former society girl, took the blame for her friend and paid a steep price. Now all she wants is solitude and a chance to rebuild her life. She thinks she's found that in an isolated house she rents from a mysterious stranger.

Simon McAlter has hidden in his house on the coast of Maryland since a fire left him scarred. A successful landscape architect who conducts his business and teaches his classes remotely, he's lost his inspiration and is trying to pretend he's not lonely.

Simon's new neighbor is more than he bargained for. When he learns Meg's secret, will he retreat into the shadows or will he learn to see past the surface and trust in Meg's love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Mar 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509235186

Jennifer Wilck

Jennifer Wilck is an award-winning contemporary romance author. Known for writing both Jewish and non-Jewish romances, her books feature damaged heroes, sassy and independent heroines, witty banter and hot chemistry. In the real world, she’s the mother of two amazing daughters and wife of one of the smartest men she knows. She believes humor is the only way to get through the day and does not believe in sharing her chocolate. Find her at https://www.jenniferwilck.com.

Book preview

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Chapter One

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

Meg Thurgood exited her car and shook her head at the ramshackle gate in the stone wall. To her right and below was the ocean. She walked toward it, drawn to the salty smell and the pounding surf. Waves crashed against the sand, and a rocky cove sheltered a small beach. The wind whipped her hair across her face. She’d always loved the beach—especially now after her prison release—but this was wild, untamed, and deserted. Different from the California beach scene she frequented before.

Movement drew her gaze to blue-gray water. She caught her breath as a man arched out of the water. Light reflected off his wet skin, his dark hair was slicked away from his face—he was beautiful. What kind of person swam in the ocean at this time of year, Meg wondered as she walked along the cliff path? Before she could study him further, he disappeared below the water again.

The old Meg—the one who lived to socialize—would have gone and introduced herself, started a conversation, maybe splashed in the water with him. Then again, she couldn’t picture the old Meg in a deserted place like Gull’s Point, Maine. But in the three years since she’d left her former identity behind, she’d learned to value her privacy and embrace change.

Still, her chest ached at the solitary life she’d lived. Her friends deserted her years ago. Not that they were real ones. She repeated her mantra in her mind—repay the last of the money she owed, convince her dad it was time for her to take control of her life again, and announce her innocence.

She opened the gate, climbed into her car, and followed the dirt road. Far in the distance was a burned, tattered roofline of a large building. It reminded her of a setting in a horror movie, or maybe a ghost story. The realtor said her rental house was part of a compound—her gatehouse, a larger home where the landlord lived, and the burned shell of the former estate. She approached a small, weathered, blue-shingled house on her left with a hand-carved driftwood sign: The Gatehouse. There it was, her home for the next three months, with an option to continue afterward. She parked her car and walked up the fieldstone pathway. Tucked inside the front door was an envelope, with a key, and a poorly scrawled note on embossed stationery inside. Despite the bright sunshine, she squinted to read it. After several attempts, she managed to decipher the words:

Heat, electricity, and water are turned on. If you need anything, call the number and leave a message.

Neither warm nor sociable. The realtor said the owner kept to himself. From the equally spaced words, full sentences, and shaky handwriting, she surmised her landlord was an old man. Who was the man in the ocean? She pulled her suitcase from her car and entered her new home, saying a silent prayer this wasn’t a mistake. The inside was dark but clean, and she opened the windows to let in the ocean breeze. The place was sparse and functional, with a sitting room with a fieldstone fireplace, a small kitchen with a breakfast nook, a bedroom, and a full bathroom. She’d have to add personal touches to make it her own.

Her phone rang. She sighed. Hi, Dad. Yes, I’ve arrived. It’s small and clean. No, I don’t want your penthouse in DC. I don’t like the confines of the city. No, I don’t need your money. I’m fine. The quick conversation ended, and she hung up the phone, glad to be done with her familial check-in. Her mom died when she was a small child. Although it had been her and her dad for as long as she could remember, they were polar opposites.

After she unpacked her meager belongings—she’d left most of her old designer clothes and expensive jewelry with her old life—Meg drove the four miles into town to find a grocery store and research possible employment.

She wandered the aisles, chose enough food for the week, and congratulated herself on not worrying about being recognized. After three years out of the spotlight, far from the prying lenses of the paparazzi, the likelihood of recognition in this tiny town was doubtful.

At the cash register, she withdrew her credit card to pay for her groceries and asked about employment opportunities, when a photo in one of the gossip magazines distracted her. High As A Kite. Meg recoiled. Her question, are you hiring, died on her lips as she skimmed the cover. Flashes of her old life played in her mind—the clubs, the crowds, the carnage. She forced herself into the present. Different people, different situation.

The woman tipped her head toward the magazine. Such trash. Can you imagine someone wasting that much money on drugs and parties? She shook her head. Where are the parents?

Meg swallowed, glad she didn’t have to answer.

You new in town? the woman asked as she bagged.

I’m renting for a few months.

Oh, where? She showed no sign of recognition, since Meg wasn’t here with her former friends, the reality stars and socialites. Then again, out-of-the-way places were never their style. It suited her fine now.

The Gatehouse, near the beach on the cliff.

Surprise flitted across her face as she tallied the bill. Awfully isolated.

Meg shrugged, hesitant to talk too long to a stranger. The beach is pretty. She picked up her bags of groceries.

The house stood empty for years. I never thought he’d manage to get a renter. Good luck.

Once again unease snaked through her, as it did when she first arrived at the house. Meg squelched it and paid for her items. I don’t suppose you know of any employment opportunities in town?

The woman examined her, and Meg resisted the urge to squirm. Sorry, I don’t. Maybe try the library.

She returned to her car and considered the woman’s comments as she drove home. She’d look for employment the next time she came into town.

Once home, she inhaled the crisp fall air and pulled out ingredients to make zucchini bread. Humming, she baked for the next hour in her tiny kitchen. The yellow-painted room was cheery, the oak table and chairs comfortable, and the stainless appliances worked. It was far different from a professional kitchen with a home chef, but she could get used to it.

Sweet spices filled the house. Her mouth watered. When she removed the bread from the oven, she held the pan to her face and inhaled. She hadn’t met the old man yet, but it might be nice to give him one of the loaves as a gracious gesture, regardless of the vibe she got about him from the townspeople. She put it on a plate, wrapped it in tinfoil and added a note.

Thanks for renting to me.

~Meg

Outside, she zipped her jacket as the light breeze ruffled her hair. She took the plate and walked along the dirt and gravel road. The exercise warmed her. She peeked behind her once in a while and shook her head over her nerves. There was no sign of the swimmer. No matter how aloof her landlord sounded, no one objected to baked goods. His two-story house was identified by a sign next to the front door The Guesthouse and sported a wraparound porch. She’d live on the porch if this place were hers. She knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she placed the plate on the rocker next to the door. It was time, once again, to start over.

****

After a swim in the same water as always, Simon McAlter returned to The Guesthouse, his home for the past seven years, removed a beer from the Sub-Zero fridge, grasped it with care in one hand, and walked onto his Brazilian walnut-floored balcony which overlooked the ocean. In the past, October was his favorite month. The days were warm but the evenings were cool, the grasses turned from deep green to a washed-out sage, and the water frothed. Soon it would be too cold to swim. For most people, it already was. But he loved the chill of the water, and his scarred flesh prevented him from feeling it as much as others. There was an upside to his injuries.

He stared at the water and breathed in the salt air. The peacefulness didn’t soothe him as usual. Isolated on an inlet, miles from town and farther from any other houses, the seclusion was a balm for his soul. Or it used to be.

Until his seclusion was shattered earlier today.

He had waded into the ocean. As expected, the cold water shocked his system, but he dove under once he was past the shallow shore. Beneath the surface, silence surrounded him. It was supposed to refresh and restore him. It didn’t. He remained there until his lungs protested and he shot out of the water, droplets splashing. When he glanced up, a figure stood on the cliff far above. He’d frozen.

His heart pounded. He ducked under the water before he realized it wasn’t possible for the person, a woman, to see anything from where she stood. The freedom made his curiosity bloom. He treaded water and stared at her on the cliff. From there, he couldn’t make out more than her outline. Long hair billowed around her shoulders. A flowing top flapped around her body and some sort of pants clung to her legs. As if the wind chilled her, she hugged her arms around her waist, retreated a few steps, and disappeared.

Once again, the beach was his. Nothing to see but the harsh beauty of nature. Nothing to hear but the wind, the surf, and the seagulls overhead. Like every other day for the past seven years. Only today, it stifled him.

His beer finished, he changed into gardening clothes and strode toward the mansion. He planned to work on the gardens around the burned-down mansion a few hours today until his hands cramped. In his free time, he experimented with landscape designs and used the mansion’s grounds as his laboratory. He had no plans to ever touch the mansion itself—it reminded him of what he’d lost—but the grounds were another story. Someday, he wanted to transform them into an all-season garden, with acres of walking paths through bushes, flowers, herbs, and trees. Someday would have already come and gone if he’d hired people to execute the work he designed. But hiring people meant daily interaction. So he worked on the gardens himself, in irritatingly slow steps. After digging, planting, and weeding for a couple of hours, his hands, as expected, stiffened.

Flexing his fingers as much as he was able from the scar tissue as a result of the burns, he walked to his house and stopped short. There was an object on his porch that wasn’t there this morning. He jogged up the steps and frowned at the rocker. A foil-wrapped plate sat on it. He hadn’t put it there, which meant someone else had. Wow, you’re a genius, Si. Taped to the foil was a note. He ripped it off to read it. Meg. His renter’s name was Meg, and she’d left him a gift. He unwrapped the foil and inhaled. Zucchini bread. The spicy smell made his stomach growl.

His mother had given baked goods to local people to show appreciation for something. Granted, the cook baked, but it was the thought that counted. He’d left specific instructions with his listing agent to rent the house to an older man or woman who wanted peace and quiet. Apparently this one baked. Striding into the kitchen, he grabbed a knife and cut off a piece of the bread. He took a bite and groaned. It tasted better than it smelled.

He cut a second piece. His hands pained him, and the thought of writing a thank-you note was more than he could deal with right now. Should he call her? He knew her number. But if he called her, he might encourage her to visit. It was bad enough she was his tenant for the next three months. When Larry called and begged him to rent the unused house, he should have said no. He’d have to explain his scars. He hated socializing. That was why he refused to rent to a single twenty-something. There weren’t many of them in this area, but with the beach, the last thing he wanted was all night parties and bonfires and… He shook his head to banish the memories.

The money didn’t matter. The insurance money from the fire, plus his multi-million dollar inheritance ensured he’d never have to work again and could focus on things he loved—like landscape design and online teaching at the local college. And then there was CAST Ltd., an investment group he and his three college friends formed after graduation. Each was an expert in their chosen career fields—he in landscape architecture, Caleb in media, Alexander in architecture, and Ted in computer security—and they’d grown their combined assets to over $200 million in the fifteen years since they’d graduated. While each of them possessed enough individual wealth to live well on their own, they all needed to do something worthwhile with their money. They used their investments for philanthropic projects—healthcare in underprivileged communities or funding the arts in schools. He spoke with them weekly to discuss current and future projects. He should have been fulfilled. Except what should have soothed him frustrated him of late. Whereas he once awoke content with the routine, for the past few weeks he’d faced the day with a sense of dread.

Maybe dread was the wrong word. He didn’t dread his days, but he didn’t look forward to them anymore. He needed a change, but he didn’t know what kind.

You need to hire a crew, his inner voice whispered.

Inner voice be damned, he responded.

Shaking off his thoughts, he turned on his computer and opened an email from Claire, one of his few remaining local friends from his childhood.

Has your tenant arrived?

He pecked at the keys. Yup. He sorted through his mail until she replied.

Met her yet?

Nope.

There were two requests for proposals from existing clients, a few assignments an eager student turned in early, bills to be paid, and invoices to mail.

Probably a good thing, since you only give one word answers. She might think you’re unfriendly.

He cracked a smile. I am.

He looked at the designs he was in the middle of, and his mind went blank.

You’re impossible.

Talk to you later.

He opened another file on his computer and looked at the garden renderings he’d created. His friend Ted, one of his CAST partners and a computer security genius, provided him with the latest technology. Remote design via computer, garden experiments on his own property, and communication by phone or email—nothing required in-person interactions. The situation should have been perfect.

He scoffed at his persistent dissatisfaction. He didn’t need people. He was fine on his own.

Besides, alone, he didn’t have to share the zucchini bread.

Chapter Two

Meg squatted outside her home the next afternoon and examined the placement of her mums. Purple and orange alternated on each step. It looked homey and inviting. Already, the place was prettier than when she’d arrived.

Maybe she should become a gardener, or at least see if the local garden center needed extra help. Ever since her release from prison, she craved the outdoors. Gardening was perfect.

Her soft laugh was bitter. Former socialite turned gardener. What would her friends think of her drastic change in circumstances? She snorted. Her friends wouldn’t care. They’d abandoned her when she’d needed them the most.

Despite the cool fall air, the sun beat on her neck and warmed her. She wiped her brow. The idea of running in the sand and dipping her toes in the ocean appealed to her. She ran into the house, changed into her bathing suit, grabbed a towel, and went in search of a walkway to the beach.

The path to the inlet led right past her landlord’s house, and she glanced at the front porch. There was no sign of the zucchini bread. The beach called to her.

She walked with care along the rocky path and stopped when her feet hit the sand. With a cry of joy, she removed her flip-flops and dug her toes deep into the soft, cool sand. Dropping her towel, she spun around, arms out, before she raced to the water’s edge. Like a sandpiper that approaches the water’s edge and runs away from the water, she did the same and laughed. Finally she stopped and let the water lap over her toes. It was cold, but not unbearable. She waded in to her ankles. The tide rolled in, and the waves splashed as high as her knees.

She took a belated look around. No one was there. Her landlord’s house was visible, but she doubted he watched her. Interest in her died a long time ago. At least, she hoped so.

No one watches me anymore. No one cares.

After ten minutes, she became chilled and walked toward her towel. She shook it, lay down, and closed her eyes. She inhaled and exhaled, and practiced her new relaxation techniques. She focused on the sounds and smells around her. Her body relaxed.

She couldn’t give into unreasonable anxiety. She’d managed to escape her old life and done her time. She refused to live in its shadow.

****

In the week since Meg arrived, Simon discovered two things.

One, his tenant was not a middle-aged lady like he’d thought. Oh no. She was the woman he first spotted on the cliff—young, exuberant, and sexy as hell in a bathing suit. She walked every day this past week from the house across the way to his beach. He admired the sway of her hips each time. Despite her obvious hesitancy due to the cold, each day she’d ventured a little deeper into the water. Every time she retreated or shrieked at the temperature, he’d laughed, much to his dismay.

Two, he’d become a creature of habit. She destroyed his routine. He used the beach first thing each morning or as soon as he returned from work. But with her around, dancing and cavorting in the water at random times, he’d been thrown off his schedule. He wouldn’t risk running into her. As a result, he spent a lot of time at his window. Staring at the beach.

In the future, he’d have to be more specific with his realtor about the type of tenant he’d allow. In the meantime, he needed to determine how to get her off his damn beach.

He looked outside and didn’t see her. Screw it. He’d take a chance, run and take a quick swim and be home before she arrived. The ocean called to him. It drove him crazy to stay away. Before he changed his mind, he put on his trunks, grabbed a towel, and raced to the beach.

As his legs hit the water, he sucked in a sharp breath. The water was cold, colder than the last time he was here. As he waded deeper, his stomach shivered, and he plunged beneath the surface. He swam leisurely, coming up for air as necessary. He enjoyed the weightlessness and silence below the surface. Finally, he dunked once more, held his breath as long as possible, and shot out of the water.

An ear-splitting shriek greeted him as water sluiced off his body.

With a curse, he yanked his hair in front of his face, sank to his neck in the water, and searched for the owner of the offensive lungs.

Meg.

She stood on the shore and quaked as if she’d seen a monster.

As if she’d seen his face.

He stifled an oath, swam backward, and placed distance between them. A long period of silence stretched between her shriek and now. Someone needed to say something. Anything.

Sorry, she yelled as she approached the water’s edge. I didn’t mean to scream.

I won’t hurt you, he called.

I…I know. You startled me. I didn’t expect you to be here. She looked along the shoreline, rubbed her arms, and shifted from one foot to the other. Do you come here often?

Most days.

She turned as if ready to leave. He called out to her. You’re welcome to swim, you know.

With a pause, she glanced at him, eyes wide. Thanks, maybe another time.

His pulse pounded as she raced along the path and out of sight. Spots speckled his vision. She could have at least pretended.

No longer aware of the cold, he stalked from the ocean and dried off before he headed home. Inside his bathroom, he turned on the shower and avoided the mirror. He didn’t need to see his reflection to know how awful he looked.

No wonder she’d screamed.

So much for swimming.

****

So much for swimming. And for being friendly. Meg lay curled in the middle of her bed.

A man swam in her ocean. No, it wasn’t her ocean. She’d gotten used to the privacy, but it didn’t mean she owned the place. If anyone did, it was her landlord, although she suspected he was too old to use it.

She sat up with a start. Was he her landlord?

He’d told her she could swim. Who else would give permission but her landlord? It wasn’t possible. He was too young. He didn’t fit her image of a