Humiliated and furious, Lucy pulled at her beer-drenched shirt, which was plastered all over her.

Taking one look at Lucy, the bartender passed an entire roll of paper towels over the counter. Lucy began to blot her shirt.

Meanwhile Duane and the other bikers had reached them. Duane’s massive hand grasped the back of Paul’s collar and nearly lifted him off his feet. “You dumped beer on our Lucy?” Duane demanded. “You’re going to pay, dumbass.”

The bartender said urgently, “Do not start a fight in here!”

“I didn’t do anything,” Paul sputtered. “She was reaching for the beer, and it slipped out of my hand.”

“I wasn’t reaching for anything,” Lucy said indignantly.

Someone pushed through the crowd, and a gentle hand settled on her back. Stiffening, Lucy began to snap at him, but the words died away as she looked up into a pair of blue-green eyes.

Sam Nolan.

Of all people to see her in these circumstances, did it really have to be him?

“Lucy,” he said quietly, his gaze taking swift inventory. “Did anyone hurt you?” He cast a bladelike glance at Paul, who cringed.

“No,” Lucy muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. The fabric of her shirt was clammy and nearly transparent. “I’m just … wet. And cold.”

“Let’s get you out of here.” Reaching for her bag on the counter, Sam handed it to her and said over her head, “How much is the tab, Marty?”

“Her drinks are on the house,” the bartender said.

“Thanks.” Sam glanced at the bikers. “Don’t maim the kid, Duane. He’s too hammered to know what’s going on.”

“No maiming,” Duane said. “I’m just going to drop him into the harbor. Maybe push him under a couple of times. Give him a mild case of hypothermia. That’s all.”

“I don’t feel good,” Paul whimpered.

Lucy almost began to feel sorry for him. “Just let him go, Duane.”

“I’ll think about it.” Duane’s eyes narrowed as Sam began to guide Lucy through the crowd. “Nolan. Watch it with her, or you’re next in line.”

Sam gave him a sardonic smile. “Who made you prom chaperone, Duane?”

“She’s Justine’s friend,” Duane said. “Which means I’ll have to kick your ass if you try anything with her.”

“You couldn’t kick my ass,” Sam said, and grinned as he added, “Justine, on the other hand…” He accompanied Lucy as she plowed through the clusters of people.

Emerging from the building, Lucy stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face Sam. He was as vital and good-looking as she had remembered. “You can go back in,” she said abruptly. “I don’t need any help.”

Sam shook his head. “I was leaving anyway. Too crowded.”

“Why were you there in the first place?”

“I went to have a drink with my brother Alex. His divorce was final today. But he left as soon as he realized there was going to be a Pig War party.”

“I should have done the same thing.” A soft breeze hit the soaked front of Lucy’s shirt and caused her to shiver. “Ugh. I’ve got to go home and change.”

“Where’s home?”

“Artist’s Point.”

“Justine Hoffman’s place. I’ll walk you there.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather go by myself. It’s not far.”

“You can’t walk through Friday Harbor like that. The souvenir shop next door is still open. Let me buy you a T-shirt.”

“I’ll buy my own shirt.” Lucy knew that she sounded ungrateful and rude, but she was too miserable to care. She went into the shop, while Sam followed.

“My goodness,” the elderly blue-haired woman behind the counter exclaimed when she saw Lucy. “Did we have an accident?”

“Some drunk jerk spilled a beer on me,” Lucy said.

“Oh, dear.” The woman’s face brightened as she saw the man behind her. “Sam Nolan. It wasn’t you, was it?”

“You know me better than that, Mrs. O’Hehir,” he chided with a grin. “I always hold my liquor. Is there a place in here where my friend can change into a new shirt?”

“Right in the back,” she said, indicating a door behind her. She gave Lucy a sympathetic glance. “What kind of shirt are you looking for, dear?”

“Just a regular T-shirt.”

“I’ll find something,” Sam told Lucy. “Why don’t you go back there and start washing up while I look around?”

Lucy hesitated before nodding. “Don’t pick out anything weird,” she said. “Nothing with skulls, stupid sayings, or dirty language.”

“Your lack of trust wounds me,” Sam said.

“I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”

“Mrs. O’Hehir will vouch for me.” Sam went up to the elderly woman, braced his hands on the counter, and leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Come on, tell her what a good guy I am. An angel. A sunbeam.”

The woman said to Lucy, “He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“What Mrs. O’Hehir was trying to say,” Sam informed her, “is that I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

Lucy bit back a smile, her mood lightening as the diminutive woman gave her a meaningful glance and shook her head slowly. “I’m sure she knew exactly what she was saying.”

She went into the closet-sized bathroom, pulled off the wet shirt and dropped it into the wastebasket. Since her bra was also soaked, she tossed that as well. It was an old bra, the elastic shot, the straps raggedy. Using hot water and paper towels, she began to wash her arms and chest.

“How did you end up with a biker entourage?” she heard Sam ask from the other side of the door.

“They commissioned me to do a stained-glass window for their church. And now they’ve sort of … well, taken me under their wing, I guess.”

“Is that what you do for a living? You’re a glass artist?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It can be, at times.” Lucy threw away a wad of damp paper towels.

“I found a shirt. Ready for me to hand it to you?”

Lucy went to the door and opened it a couple of inches, taking care to keep herself well concealed. Sam reached in to give her a dark brown T-shirt. After the door closed, Lucy held up the shirt to view it critically. The front was decorated with a diagram of pink chemical symbols.

“What is this?”

His voice filtered through the closed door. “It’s a diagram of a theobromine molecule.”

“What’s theobromine?” she asked blankly.

“The chemical in chocolate that makes you happy. Want me to find something else?”

In spite of the rotten day she’d had, Lucy couldn’t help but be amused. “No, I’ll take this one. I like chocolate.” The stretchy knit fabric was soft and comfortable as it settled over her damp torso. Opening the door, Lucy came out of the bathroom.

Sam was waiting for her, his gaze sweeping over her. “Looks great.”

“I look like a geek,” Lucy said. “I smell like a brewery. And I need a bra.”

“My dream date.”

Sternly suppressing a grin, Lucy went to the counter. “How much is it?” she asked.

Mrs. O’Hehir gestured to Sam. “He already paid.”

“Consider it a birthday present,” Sam said as he saw Lucy’s expression. “When’s your birthday?”

“November.”

“A really early birthday present.”

“Thank you, but I can’t—”

“No strings attached.” Sam paused. “Well, maybe one string.”

“What is it?”

“You could tell me your full name.”

“Lucy Marinn.”

He reached out to shake hands, and she hesitated before complying. His grip was warm, the fingers slightly roughened with calluses. A workingman’s hand. Heat chased up her arm, as if her skin was coming alive, and she pulled back instantly.

“Let me walk you home,” Sam said.

Lucy shook her head. “You should go find your brother and keep him company. If his divorce was final today, he’s probably depressed.”

“He’ll still be depressed tomorrow. I’ll see him then.”

Mrs. O’Hehir, who had been listening from behind the counter, said, “Tell Alex he’s better off without her. And tell him to marry a nice island girl the next time.”

“I think by now all the nice island girls know better,” Sam said, and followed Lucy from the shop. “Look,” he said when they were outside, “I don’t want to be a pest, but I have to make sure you get home safely. If you’d prefer, I’ll follow at a distance.”

“How much of a distance?” she asked.

“The average restraining order, give or take a hundred yards.”

A reluctant laugh escaped her. “That won’t be necessary. You can walk with me.”

Obligingly Sam fell into step beside her.

As they proceeded to Artist’s Point, Lucy noticed the beginnings of a spectacular sunset, the sky glazed with orange and pink, the clouds gilded at the edges. It was a sight that, under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed.

“So what stage are you in now?” Sam asked.

“Stage?… Oh, you mean my postbreakup schedule. I guess I’m near the end of stage one.”

“Sarah MacLachlan and angry text messages.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t get the haircut,” he said.

“What?”

“The next stage. Haircut and new shoes. Don’t change your hair, it’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Self-consciously Lucy tucked a long, dark lock behind her ear. “Actually, the haircut is stage three.”

They paused at a street corner, waiting for the light to change.

“At the moment,” Sam remarked, “we happen to be standing in front of a wine bar that serves the best mahi in the Pacific Northwest. What do you think about stopping for dinner?”

Lucy glanced through the window of the wine bar, where people sat in the glow of candlelight and seemed to be having a perfectly wonderful time. She returned her attention to Sam Nolan, who was watching her intently. Something was hidden beneath his nonchalance, not unlike the effect in a chiaroscuro painting. Clair-obscur, the French called it. Clear-obscure. She had the feeling that Sam Nolan wasn’t quite the uncomplicated character Justine had made him out to be.