Eden's Spell (19 page)

She didn't move. She closed her eyes, vowing that she never wanted to even see a bottle of vodka again, and prayed that Michael Taylor and the entire night might disappear when she opened her eyes again.

But he was still there, his expression masked by the night as the dinghy streaked out into the water.

T
HE BREEZE FELT GOOD,
almost as good as the salt spray that licked Katrina's face as the launch moved through the night. She had been born by the seaside, had learned to swim before she had walked, and spent her entire life with boats.

She'd never been seasick in her life. She felt like absolute hell now, tempted beyond all measure to throw herself over the side of the speeding launch.

She didn't move. She didn't like Mike's shadowed expression, not one bit. She didn't want to think of herself as being a coward, but at this moment she was. What a mess! Al, back there somewhere in the sand. Mike, furious. Nancy Denver having come upon the whole scene. Oh, God! How could she have hurt her mother-in-law so?

“Oh, you macho idiot!” she suddenly raged. “It was your fault! The whole damn, humiliating thing was your fault!”

The tail end of her shout filled her ears like ringing bells; she hadn't realized that they were so close to the island, and Mike had cut the motor.

“My fault?” he said in a deathly quiet voice.

The dinghy scraped bottom. He leapt past her, landing neatly in the damp sand, pulling the dinghy high onto it before reaching out a hand to help her from it. She didn't want to take that hand; she wasn't given a chance to refuse. She was suddenly standing on the sand, sand that swayed miserably beneath the moonlight. Out on the water she could see the Navy cutter, alive with light. The island seemed to offer only darkness, but the darkness didn't relieve her mind, it just swayed along with the sand.

He dragged her along at a furious pace. One of her heels caught, and she cried out, staggered by the pain in her ankle.

He swung around to pick her up, and she instantly wished that she were a larger woman, so that she couldn't be tossed about so easily—like baggage!

“Let me down, I can walk!” She pitted a blow against his chest; his eyes didn't even fall to hers.

In another minute they were at the house. He knew she never locked her door; it slammed and reverberated when he closed it behind them. She found herself gracelessly set on the couch, her skirt riding too high, her feet a tangle beneath her. She scurried to rectify her position, but it didn't matter; he wasn't looking at her. He was pacing the floor behind her, one set of fingers threading through his hair, the other white-knuckled in a grip on his hip.

“My fault? My fault, Mrs. Denver?”

His eyes were on her again; she decided that she had been much better off when he had been staring distractedly at the walls.

“Yes!” she flared. “You bastard! If you hadn't been there—”

“If I hadn't been there, you'd have been raped. Oh, excuse me—unless you were egging him on purposely?”

Even through her haze of pain it was too much. She muttered a curse that told him exactly what he should do with himself, slamming both her fists against the chest that prevented her escape.

He captured her wrists and sat at her side, the bite of his fingers like steel around her, his wrath increasing so that he leaned again, forcing her back into the soft cushions of the sofa.

“I'm more than willing to be corrected if I'm wrong, Mrs. Denver!” he told her angrily. “Please, do tell me! Did I interrupt the high point of your evening?
How was I at fault?”

By being there!
she wanted to scream.
By being there with a tall and beautiful brunette! By wrenching me apart….

But she couldn't say that.

“Where on God's earth do you get off being so righteous!” she cried, tears stinging her eyes. “So Al Stradford was using muscle! So—”

“For God's sake, he was going to use you, nothing more!”

“And where is that any less than what you did? You and your damned drugs!”

He released her, so abruptly that she sank into the soft cushions on the sofa. And then he was standing again, pacing behind the sofa. She scrambled to sit up, but she was too late. He was behind her, his fingers curling over her bare shoulders, the heat of his mocking whisper feathering onto her shoulders.

“My drug, Mrs. Denver? Is that what it was in this house, the night you walked into my bedroom?”

A little wildly she began to babble. “Your bedroom! You forget this is my house! My house, my island! Mine! And you invaded the island, the house—and me! So I ask you again, what was your problem with Al?”

To her horror she started to laugh, heedless of the bite of his fingers against her shoulders. “But then, that wasn't really over me tonight anyway, was it? That was just a fight that had been brooding between the two of you for years! I was just a damned convenient excuse, and nothing more!”

“Don't be more of a fool than you've already made yourself out to be!”

“What is it to you? Can't you just please, please leave me alone?” A sob suddenly choked against her throat as she remembered Nancy Denver's expression of anxiety and concern.

Katrina buried her face in her hands, totally heedless of his touch as she groaned. “Nancy saw the whole damn thing. Oh, God!”

“She could have seen you with Al. Half undressed. Or before, when you were exercising your lips with such finesse!”

“I hate you!” She swung at him, to little avail. He clutched her hands again, leapt over the couch, and pinned her back down to it.

“Will you quit, Katrina!”

“Will you just get out of here, please?”

She couldn't bear the pressure of his hard body against her, the vise of his fingers, the scent of him, his flesh, brushing hers. Memories were evoked too easily, memories of those strong, tapered fingers moving upon her with gentleness, stroking her needs to flame, making her feel so vital and alive.

She twisted her head, her eyes burning again with the promise of tears.

“Please!” she begged him again in a husky whisper. “Oh, God, what is the difference? You, Al, or the whole damn fleet!”

She'd meant to anger him, to send him away. She was startled by his silence, by the easing of his fingers around her wrists. Still, his chest was against hers; her slim legs were entangled with his. She could feel his muscles, sinew by sinew, honed and taut and wired with emotion.

His hand caught her cheek, drew her eyes to his. He studied her long and hard, until she ached with wonder, wanted to scream and demand to know what he found in his assessment. She wanted so very badly for him to release her so that she could run, hide, bury her face into her pillow, ease the humiliation and misery of the evening.

“There's a tremendous difference,” he said suddenly. “I'm going to marry you.”

“Why, Captain? Because a wife can't testify against her husband in court—or something like that? To keep me from spewing your precious experiments all over the newspapers? Forget it, Captain. I've been married. Really married. You egotist!”

And then the tears that she had fought so strenuously to hold back spilled forth, streaming down her cheeks. “You are not James! You're nothing like him! And I—”

“You're doing your damn best to live in his grave with him, Katrina, but it just doesn't work and you just can't stand it. But where is your problem, then? You're so worried about everyone's opinion! Marry me. Sure—we solve my problems. And we solve yours. No more teasing, overzealous men—you can get what you want right at home, no recriminations from the world. It's a sorry thing to have to admit, Katrina, isn't it? But you are human. You can't live either on a pedestal or in a grave.”

“Let me up! Get out of here! I don't want—”

She stopped suddenly, aware that the vodka and the little bit of dinner that she had consumed were warring in her stomach

She stared at him, pitiably. “Oh, God, please! Let me up!”

Warily, but touched by the sincerity of her plea and the ghostly white pallor of her complexion, Mike moved. Katrina bolted up, raced into her bathroom, and was violently sick.

Shaking, trembling, barely able to stand, she washed her face and furiously brushed her teeth.

He was banging on the door. She stared at her white face with its huge blue-green eyes in the mirror above the sink. She was going to start crying all over again. All she wanted to do was pass out and forget the night.

“Katrina!”

“Go away!” she faltered out, and she gripped the sink, holding on to it tightly.

There was a shuddering sound; had she locked the door to her bedroom, and had he broken it? Or had he just opened it with such force that it had sounded that way?

It didn't matter; her head was spinning and he was suddenly standing in the bathroom doorway, frowning intensely.

“You're sick?”

The query made her feel like laughing—or crying.

“No,” she retorted. “I feel like running the Boston Marathon.”

He started to walk toward her; she lifted up with horror a weakly defensive hand. “Oh, please! Can't you just go away?”

His reaction then startled her, so much so that she couldn't even protest his touch when his arms came gently around her.

“No, I can't go away.”

He eased her around, making her sit on the toilet. Then he turned on the water in the bathtub.

“What are you doing?”

“You can climb into the bathtub and soak a little of it out while I fix some juice and coffee.”

“No.”

“Trust me, you'll be glad in the morning.”

“You told me to trust you once before! And I'm not—I'm not getting into that tub with you here!”

“I don't take advantage of innocents—or seductresses, whichever you choose to be for the moment. Come on let me help you.”

“No,” she protested, but to no avail. He was on his knees beside her, stripping away her shoes, hiking her weight against him to slide his fingers up to the top of her pantyhose.

“Please!” She was almost in tears again. “I don't want your help. I can help—”

Her voice muffled away as he pulled her dress over her shoulders. She sat there, shaking and bare and miserable, while he checked the warmth of the water.

“Mrs. Denver,” he said softly, his back to her, “I do believe that you can help yourself. But sometimes it's just not necessary.”

He turned around, and she instantly hunched her shoulders, causing him to laugh. “Katrina, I've memorized every inch of you. Every inch. And I swear, I'm not about to take advantage of you now.”

“Now!” she retorted, eyes downcast. “So you admit that you did before!”

“Oh, let a dead dog lie, will you?”

She had little choice; the next sound she issued was a gasp as his arms wrapped around her naked flesh. But she didn't feel his searing touch for long; he very carefully deposited her in the tub, catching the length of her hair dexterously before it could hit the water, winding it into a knot above her head.

She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them swiftly, afraid to admit that the warmth of the water had already enveloped her, made her feel much, much better.

Inadvertently, she stared at his face while he finished securing her hair. And once again she felt the urge to cry. No, he wasn't James. But he was so very strong and assured and competent, sometimes hard, sometimes so tender. Rugged planes, lean features, determination, handsome, sensual lips, and silver eyes that could both pierce and caress.

It was disloyal to love … but she did love him, and it was terrifying.

His eyes caught hers, so tremulous on his own. “Don't drown on me!” he warned her softly; then he was up. At the doorway he paused, frowning again.

“Where's Jason?”

“At—at Harry's,” she murmured. “Spending the night. Harry will bring him back early.”

“Good,” he muttered, and was gone.

She allowed the steam to envelop her; she tried not to think, and not to feel. Not on the inside, anyway. She tried just to let the water soothe away the pounding in her head, and in her heart.

And then he was back, ready with one of her massive towels, wrapping it around her as he lifted her from the tub, not setting her down, but carrying her straight into the kitchen, and even then, holding her on his lap as he produced a glass of something red with a pair of aspirins.

“You can put me down.”

“Swallow.”

She did, sipping his red concoction. There was tomato juice in it, and something else. She wasn't sure that she wanted to know what else, so she didn't ask.

“Drink the whole thing.”

She did, but then accused him weakly, “I know. You're trying to poison me into silence!”

He shook his head, grinning a little wistfully. “No.”

He took the glass from her fingers and set it on the counter. She was so tired now; she couldn't help but rest her head against his chest, couldn't help but appreciate the gentle feel of his fingers massaging her nape, her head.

It seemed that he sighed softly, or was it only a ripple of breeze? It didn't really matter much. She was just so tired—tired, and suddenly content, comfortable, and secure.

“Katrina?” He was calling her from a long way off. She murmured something, curling closer to his chest.

“I'm going to get you into bed.”

She didn't even have a rejoinder for him; she just wanted to sleep, as sweetly comfortable as she was.

She felt as if she were floating on air. But she wasn't, of course. His arms were around her; she felt their steel.

She opened her eyes and felt his gaze so intently that she quickly allowed her lashes to flutter down once again.

Something soft greeted her; her bed. His warmth was gone; she clenched her pillow, but then he was sitting beside her, and she tried to close her mind to him once again.