Eden's Spell (10 page)

“I
WANT TO HEAR
about this phone call,” Mike told Katrina, watching her stir cream into her coffee. “Or rather, start at the beginning for me. You agreed to rent out the island, right?”

He wasn't touching her, and it certainly didn't seem as if he intended to, either. His leg was slightly hiked as he sat, his back to the curve of the couch. He sipped his coffee, that was it.

“Yes, I agreed. They said they were working on experimental exercises.” She paused, reflecting dryly. “I thought they wanted to crawl through the foliage or something. Anyway, I received the papers, I showed them to my attorney, he said they were fine, and he returned them for me. Then I got a call from a man named Admiral Riker—”

“Riker?”

“Yes, I'm positive—”

“There is no Admiral Riker; not that I know of. It must have been a prank that someone played on you.”

“But no one knew! I told my parents I was just going over to Islamorada for relaxation. That's the same story I told everyone!”

He stared at her, exasperated. “You just accepted a phone call that it was off and that was it.”

“Well, yes, he was official—”

“He wasn't official!”

“Then it's the damned Navy's fault, not mine!”

He frowned. “So, the Navy will get to the bottom of it, I promise you. But what about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to sue?”

“I—I don't know,” she faltered. “Maybe if you told me more about this project.”

He stared at her a long, long time. “All right. But it is highly classified information.”

“You'll trust me?” she asked dryly.

“I plan on asking you to trust me.”

She inhaled sharply, watching his eyes. “Go on.”

He sipped his coffee, returning her stare so intensely she grew even more confused.

“I'm working on a gas that's a defensive weapon. It can counter a number of chemical and germ weapons, keep them from harming and killing people. It has a side effect, though—”

“Dreams?” Katrina swallowed and asked.

“Yes. Physically, it doesn't do any harm. But—well, it's similar to mind control, which, if used improperly, could be horribly insidious. And this island is a rare biological wonder. Endless small creatures. I intended to study the duration of the drug on animals—”

“Such as humans?” Katrina interrupted tartly, despite herself.

He gazed at her patiently.

“We've calculated,” he said, “that the effect on large animals wears-off in forty-eight hours maximum. On smaller creatures it ranges from three days to a week.”

“And you got a chance to study us!” she exclaimed.

His profile, highlighted by the candles, looked strong and rugged and very proud, and, at this moment, a little haggard.

“I didn't study you,” he said huskily.

“Why not? You're a scientist, aren't you? When opportunity knocks … Besides—you did study us. You had television cameras going all night.”

“Those were to make sure that you were all right.”

She didn't want to go any farther; she was suddenly afraid to ask him what had come of his observations.

“So—so what now?”

“What now?” He finished his coffee and set his cup down, then lifted his hands and looked at her with a grimace. “We're in the middle of a hurricane. It's howling all around us. Rain is pouring down in sheets. That's what's now.”

Something about his wry look caused her to smile. “I realize we're in the middle of a hurricane. But it will end by tomorrow night, or the day after.” She hesitated. “Will you still be able to accomplish anything?”

“Probably. One important thing will be to salvage what I can off the
Maggie Mae.
If she isn't completely broken to bits.”

“Still, how could you use a deadly drug—”

“It isn't a deadly drug!” he thundered.

Katrina was on her feet, moving agitatedly toward the shuttered window. The government had been careless; it deserved her wrath!

And then again, no real harm had come to them. And maybe this thing was some real benefit to science; she didn't understand it, but she felt that she understood Michael Taylor, his character, his soul. And if he proclaimed with such vehemence that it wasn't a deadly drug, then surely …

But why? Why was she giving in so easily? He'd been gentle; he'd also taunted her and teased her. And the night she'd spent aboard his yacht held a mystery that haunted her mind, which would not come clear.

Did she want it to come clear?

She was embarrassed; she was fascinated. But she also had to admit that she didn't really want him to go away. She didn't know what she felt or wanted at all. He was a very definite sexual threat, and she didn't know if she wanted to run, or, after all this time alone, go for that challenge.

He watched her, watched all the conflicting emotions cross her face, and his only thought was that he wanted to go to her, hold her, and swear that by his life he meant no harm; that he would fight man or beast for her, that—he had fallen a little bit in love. Maybe a lot in love. It had begun in a cloud of wafting fog, but the seeds had been real. Her whispers, her fingers pressing against him, the fervor of her kiss and the rhythm of her form … all had invaded him.
So tell her!
he commanded himself.

I can't!

You have to!

I will. Just
—
not now. Soon …

He was standing very near her. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck, the vitality that seemed to wind around her like a caress of strength and assurance.

He was touching her then; his hands were on her shoulders, swirling her around to face him. And his eyes were tense in the candlelight; they gleamed with color as deep as steel, as caring as soft silver.

“Couldn't you trust me?” he asked her. “Believe in me?”

“I barely know you.”

“You know me very well.”

She didn't know how well. She was suddenly very afraid; she wanted to run.

She backed away from him, her fists tightened at her sides.

“Oh, for heaven's sake! I'm not really going to do anything to you! Ask Jason—Mom is a sucker. I've never sued anyone in my life and I'm hardly likely to start with a wayward Navy doctor! Stay on the island, study whatever you can. Just don't you dare let any of that pink stuff of yours get near Jason or me again!”

And then she did run. Not literally. She managed to walk by him with a terse “Good night, Captain Taylor.”

But she knew that she had run. And she thought that he knew it too.

It was a perfect night to sleep. The sound of the high winds was actually lulling. Katrina felt safe; she'd faced this kind of weather before.

The house, she knew, was secure, built with the best and heartiest shutters available. She and James had been young when they'd built it, but young and sensible. Everyone had thought them crazy to live on the island, but Katrina and James had seen their Eden, and they'd known damn well that they were perfectly sane. Her house, his house, their paradise. Strong, strong walls around them …

And you've never escaped those walls have you?
she asked herself, lying there, alone still, with the sounds of the night.

Walls, yes, that she had made. Because it had been so sudden and shocking and painful to be alone. Her marriage might have lasted only four years, but she and James had been together forever. Both native Conchs—or Key Westerners—they had grown up together, gone to all the same schools. In kindergarten he had pulled on her ponytails. In grade school they had tousled in mud puddles. By junior high he had carried her books, and by high school they had known they'd be married as soon as school was out.

She twisted in her bed, pressing her face against the pillow. James was dead. Had been, for almost five years. It had surely been one of the greatest injustices ever; he'd been only twenty-three, carefree and handsome, with his whole life ahead of him. And then he had been killed. And no matter how she had tried to breathe new life into him, she could not.

It had taken her a year to realize that he was really gone, that she wouldn't hear him whistling, coming into the house with a sly smile and a pack of Florida lobster alive and kicking in a net. A year, just to realize that no, he would not return….

Then there were Ted and Nancy Denver, ravaged forever by the loss of their oldest son. How could she ever face them and say,
I'm going on a date?
They were such good people….

And there was no one alive who could love her as James had. She was afraid of caring, of not being cared for in return. It was easier to grow walls of stone all around herself, to devote herself to Jason, and fight the world on his behalf. To be the “coral princess,” cool, aloof, virginal—and independent.

Except that Mike Taylor had changed it all on her. Mike and his marvelous dream machine. Pink clouds that eased away pain and made every fantasy real. Too real.

Katrina tossed again, staring up at the ceiling. Even in her dream she had known that James could not come back from the dead. The man in her dream had not been James. He had been very tall, broad, and muscled. His tender strength had been as steely as his eyes, sword steel, touched by silver magic.

But it was logical. She'd seen Taylor's eyes just before she'd lost her grip on reality. She had turned him into a lover; Jason had made him into a space conqueror. That, apparently, was what the pink fog did to one….

Except that she had awakened blissfully bare.

Ah, that pink dream machine!

But life was not dreams; it was full of truths. Harsh, brutal truths. And the harsh, brutal truth was that she was aching tonight. She was alone, afraid, and confused and she was amazed and incredulous at the strange twists and pleas of her mind.

He was there. In her house. In the very next room. In a fantasy she could see herself rising, drifting to that room. Entering silently, standing above him until he opened his eyes.

Once in his arms, she wouldn't have to explain that she was rusty, that she was afraid that she couldn't possibly please him, that it was totally ludicrous and not in the least moral for her to be there, but …

She wanted him. To be held by him. Loved by him. Even if it was in a dream.

He was like James: tall, ready to laugh, eager to tease, the hint of a devil about him.

Yet he was nothing like James at all. He was much older, a little tougher, a little harder, a little more cynical. His was a handsome face, etched with the character of time, rugged from the sun and wind and the secrets in the heart. She wanted to know him.

Disloyal! What had her love for James been—that love she had clung to so desperately!—if she was ready to crawl to a stranger?

She would never do it. Never in a thousand years. She would twist and toss with the wind, but she would never leave the security of her walls.

She didn't know that it was dawn before she fell asleep. She had no way of knowing, because the island remained under a dark pall.

“Boardwalk! Oh, no! You can't buy Boardwalk!” Jason was protesting dramatically when Katrina left her room the next morning.

Except that it wasn't morning, she noted distractedly, glancing at her watch. It was well after noon.

Jason and Mike were stretched out on the living room floor, playing Monopoly. Mike must have set his clothes to dry overnight, or at least his pants. He was bare chested and barefooted, but his own white trousers stretched over the length of his legs. Her heart began to beat a little erratically at the sight of his naked, hair-roughened chest. This irritated her. After all, she saw naked chests all the time. They were a dime a dozen in this water sport haven, where men seldom went swimming, fishing, or snorkeling in more than shorts.

But they did not have chests like his….

He was propped up on one elbow. He turned to her, as if sensing she was standing there.

“Hey. Want to play? I don't think that Jason would mind starting over.”

Katrina hooked her thumbs into her jeans pockets and shook her head. She averted her eyes from Mike's and looked at her pleasantly smiling son.

“Did you find something to eat?”

“Mike made pancakes.”

She looked back to her uninvited guest. His eyes were enigmatic as he shrugged.

“We left you some.”

“Thanks.”

Stiffly, she walked on past them. They barely seemed to notice; she had hardly been an intrusion on their game.

The thought that Mike had gotten up in time to make breakfast for her son rankled her, especially since it had been his fault she had awakened so late. He'd confused her, he'd made her think all night long, think about things that she had put behind herself….

He'd left more than pancakes. There was coffee, hot and steaming on the Sterno stove, and there was also a plate of crispy, delicious bacon.

What was she going to do with the day? she asked herself dryly as she munched on the bacon. Try to avoid both her son and Mike? Not a good plan. It was a large house, but it seemed very small, now that they were all confined in it.

She stopped chewing suddenly, aware that something was different, not at all sure of what it was.

And then she knew. The wind had stopped.

Katrina gulped down the rest of her coffee and hurried out to the living room. The front door was open. Mike was standing just outside of it; Jason was right behind him.

“Hey!” she called a little anxiously, running up behind her son, then passing him to give Mike a firm tap on the back. “What are you doing? This is probably just the eye—”

He turned around, looking down at her. “I know it's the eye. I'll be right back in. Take Jason and go back inside.”

“What—?”

“Hurry, please. Dammit, will you do as I say?”