Island Hearts (Jenny's Turn and Stray Lady) (37 page)

She lost her balance, falling against him. He gasped as her softness pressed into him.

“Let me go!” she said sharply, but her arms were still against him, her hands spread over his chest.

“Why would I want to do that? I want a real kiss,” he growled, drawn like a magnet to her parted lips, praying she wouldn’t push him away.

She tasted like honey, sweet and addictive, her lips moving under his, her mouth firming in response as his tongue explored. His hands slipped up over the sweater, feeling the curve of her back as he drew her against him, the soft pressure of her breasts pressed against his chest.

“George,” he groaned softly, dropping his lips to the softness of her throat, feeling her shudder in response to his kisses.

Then the gravel crunched under Robyn’s feet and he remembered where he was, his daughter standing watching avidly. He took a ragged breath and drew his lips away from George’s.

Her eyes were closed. She opened them slowly, her gaze unfocused for a moment. Then her head came up and he saw, for just an instant, her silent admission of desire. If they had been alone…

“Will you sing for me tonight?” he asked. He couldn’t ask for any of the other things he wanted from her: her body against his, warm and welcoming, her lips, her touch, her love.

He was learning to need so much from her – her laughter and her singing, her quick fiery spirit whenever she thought her independence might be threatened. “You will sing for me tonight, won’t you?”

She met his eyes. They were dark and narrowed, seemed to be asking so much more than the words he spoke. She felt a sudden, painful need to say yes, to agree to anything this man wanted of her. He would touch her and hold her, drawing her back into his arms and she could stay forever.

Forever. Nothing lasted forever.

She slipped quickly out from between the man and the log. “Yes,” she said. Then, “Yes,” again, trying to get the husky invitation out of her voice. “I’ll sing,” she added, suddenly afraid he might have mistaken her meaning.

“Good,” he said, but he wasn’t smiling.

“Do you still want that haircut?”

Cutting his hair was harder than she had expected. She made him shampoo it first, then sat him on a chair in the kitchen, a towel wrapped around his neck. The water slid through as she combed his hair, then her fingers lifted and separated and the scissors snipped, but she had to work to keep her hands from trembling, to keep her fingers from exploring the contours of his scalp under the damp, waving hair.

Robyn watched for a few minutes, until Lyle said firmly, “School!” Then they were alone in the kitchen. George stood behind Lyle as she snipped. He couldn’t see her face and she didn’t have to try to wear a mask.

She could enjoy the intimacy of his hair in her hands, knowing he couldn’t see her pleasure.

“Want to go fishing this afternoon?” he asked after a long silence.

She let a damp curl wrap itself around her finger before she carefully snipped it shorter. “Fishing? From shore?”

“No, from a boat.” The curl pulled out of her fingers as his head moved.

What would he do if she moved around to the front of him and sat down in his lap? Would his arms go around her as her hands reached up into that softly waving hair?

“Are you afraid?” he asked softly.

“What?” She sucked in a deep breath. He couldn’t see her face, but her fingers might have transmitted her wanton thoughts. “What do you mean? Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of the water. Of going out in a boat.”

“Oh— no, I don’t think so.” She separated a section of his hair with her comb. He had asked her to cut his hair short, but she was leaving enough of the curl to run her fingers through.

Oh, lord! Was she actually considering having an affair with him? She mustn’t! He was too dangerous, too easily able to stir all kinds of needs that could never be satisfied.

She talked nervously, filling the silence. “I’m not afraid of the water. I suppose I should be, after
Lady Harriet
going down, but— sit still, please, Lyle. You’re going to have a mess on your head if you don’t quit jerking around.”

He caught her hand. Could he feel her pulse thundering under his fingers? She licked her lips. The fingers of her entrapped hand clenched on the scissors. Lyle’s thumb rubbed across the inside of her wrist, then he reached across with his other hand and took the scissors from her.

“If it isn’t the water you’re afraid of,” he said slowly, his thumb caressing the inner surface of her wrist as he watched her intently, “then I think it must be me.”

She couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from his, couldn’t make herself laugh or change the subject. How could she deny it when her heart was pounding, when she desperately wanted him to pull her closer and kiss her again? And all the while she was terribly afraid that he might actually do that, take her and entrap her forever.

“Yes, it’s you.” She couldn’t break his gaze, but she found the strength to pull her hand away from his grip. “Could I have the scissors back? I’ll finish your hair. Then I’ll cut Russ’s.”

“And then?” he demanded softly, laughter and something else in his eyes.

“And then you can take us fishing,” she evaded.

His eyes flashed. “George, do you always pull away when a man gets close?”

“Always,” she said firmly, taking the scissors back.

Look what happened when a man got too close. Scott. And her father.

She took refuge in chatter. “And especially men named Lyle. Now be quiet, or I’ll jab you with these scissors.”

He subsided, but he was smiling when he turned to face forward again. She had the uncomfortable feeling that if they were counting points, Lyle was winning.

Chapter 6

George caught a small flounder. Robyn caught a halibut that was too big for her to reel in on her own, so Lyle took over.

Lyle caught nothing. George thought he wasn’t trying, but he seemed to enjoy leaning back and watching them.

She was enjoying it, too. There was a warm simplicity in their spending time together in a small boat, alone on the water. The wind was light, making only small waves that rocked the boat gently.

George felt good. Warm and excited and relaxed. She couldn’t remember feeling quite like this before.

When they tired of fishing, Lyle opened up the engine and the small boat rose up and raced across the open water towards Dundas Island, two miles away.

George thought she might use the insurance money from
Lady Harriet
to buy a speedboat. Something fast and white, with lots of power. She had an absurd desire to trap this feeling, to keep it forever.

“Do you use your seaplane a lot out here?” she asked.

“In the summer, yes.” He had to shout over the sound of the engine to make her hear. “Stick around a while and I’ll show you something of this country. If you stay, I could arrange to have my plane delivered next week. It’s in Prince Rupert right now. I store it there for the winter, ‘til the spring storms are over.”

Flying with Lyle. High over these islands, looking down on the world. They’d be observers, together in their world and untouched by anything in the world below.

Oh, lord! More fantasies. As if anyone could be untouched. Sharing like that was asking for pain, for loss. She looked away, narrowed her eyes to keep out the wind and stared off at the horizon. “I have to leave on Wednesday!” She let the wind carry her words back. “I have to see my insurance agent, and—” She shrugged, an indication of numerous chores and duties she must do.

Robyn had curled up beside Lyle, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open as she slept.

The boat slowed suddenly, settling down in its own wake, rocking as they came to a silent stop with water all around.

“You could come back,” he said carefully.

The affinity between her and Lyle could never stop at mere friendship. Whenever they came close emotionally, she could feel the strength of his pull. If she got too close, she would never be free.

She shook her head silently, refusing to look at him, but his words kept echoing. She could come back. She didn’t have to go.

She couldn’t lay herself open like that again. She’d be caught, stuck, committed. Terrified, she pushed away the temptation to let Lyle draw her closer.

She helped Robyn with her English assignment, then insisted on making supper for them all. She cooked the fish, making English style fish and chips, something she knew she wasn’t likely to make a mess of.

When evening came, she tucked Robyn into bed while Lyle gave the weather report, then she slipped away as Lyle came into the girl’s bedroom.

She went silently down to the room in the basement, closing the door behind her. While Lyle said goodnight to Robyn, she had this private room to herself.

She tuned his guitar, strumming softly, blanking her mind with the sounds she was creating.

With her eyes half closed, the music came from wherever it was that music lived. She felt the peace sweep over her, then the feeling of power, as if she could do anything, be anything she wanted.

The music was all around her. She half opened her eyes, singing for someone who wasn’t there, and she saw a man’s tall shape beside her, towering over her. She hadn’t heard him come in.

Fear and guilt surged through her.

“What’s wrong?” Lyle asked.

“Nothing,” she said, but her voice was shaking. Her eyes dropped to the guitar. Her fingers started to move again.

“When you saw me, you looked as if you’d been caught with your hand in the cash register. Why, George?”

She shrugged, her fingers creating a discordant sound. Why couldn’t he leave it? Why did he always have to probe at her, seek the reasons for her behavior? She found words to silence him. “I thought you might mind. It’s your guitar, after all. And I didn’t ask if—”

“Why are you lying to me, George?”

She gasped. “I— how did you know I was lying?”

He brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. “Honey, your face is so expressive. It’s always fascinated me, ever since I first saw you last year. When I came in and you saw me, you were back with Scott, weren’t you?”

Scott had never wanted her to play the guitar. Why had that been so hard for her to take? It wasn’t as if she were a great talent. She didn’t need to make music. Her hands fell awkwardly away from the guitar, as if she had forgotten how to play it.

“Only this memory wasn’t a happy one?” She shook her head in protest, but Lyle persisted. “You looked guilty as hell, caught out doing something you shouldn’t. Did Scott object to your music?”

She glared at him, said resignedly, “Damn you, Lyle! It’s got something to do with your eyes, I think. The rest of you looks like a tough outdoors man, but you’ve got dreamer’s eyes. And you always see too much.”

He lowered himself to sit down beside her. The soft chair shifted to accommodate his weight. His thigh pressed against hers. Somehow the contact seemed comforting, not threatening. “Why didn’t Scott like your playing?”

“Can’t you leave it alone?” she asked tiredly.

“No, George. I can’t.” He took the hand that rested on the strings, his fingers uncurling hers, as if to make them relax. “Why didn’t he like it?”