Island Hearts (Jenny's Turn and Stray Lady) (41 page)

If he asked, would she come?

If she came downstairs, she would sing his love songs. He could watch her fingers stroking the guitar strings, her eyes dropping as her voice took on a husky seductiveness.

She was filled with the contradictions the best songs were made of. His stray lady. Wild lady, with love spilling over for everyone she came near. Stray lady, afraid to love again.

The next song would be for her. She was filled with the contradictions the best songs were made of. His stray lady. Wild lady, with love spilling over for everyone she came near. Stray lady, afraid to love again.

Stray lady, let me love you.

He went outside, walking the island in the dark, the notes of his love song for George ringing in his mind. When he came back, the house was dark. He looked in on Robyn, found her sleeping with her lips parted and the headphones on her ears. He took the headphones off and covered her. She’d be nine in a few weeks. Did other nine-year-old girls live with their music plastered to their ears?

George said he should get off this island, take Robyn back into the city. He shivered, remembering too clearly the last weeks of their time in town, Robyn’s withdrawal from everyone but him, her certainty that everyone was watching her, revolted by the accident of birth that had crippled her leg. Perhaps it
was
time to go back, but he was frightened of failing, more frightened of seeing Robyn hurt.

He went downstairs, to listen to the recording George had made with him. He’d built it up with his multi-track recorder. The drums… then the bass guitar. Layer on layer… then George’s husky voice blending with the instruments. It was good. He had to listen hard to pick up the faults that came from recording in an imperfect studio. When he got it mixed down, it would be a superb recording. A winner.

He was afraid this tape might be all he’d ever have of her. He had already made a copy of it, in case something happened to the original. Now, he connected the cassette recorder and made another copy, this one for George.

What else could he give her to remember him?

Her recorded voice was fading to an echo in the room when she opened the door and slipped silently inside. She was dressed in the jeans and light T-shirt she’d been wearing under her cruiser suit when he’d pulled her out of the ocean. He remembered the feel of her, wet and unconscious in his arms. She leaned back on the door, her weight pushing it closed. Motionless, silent, she stared at him.

Had his own need brought her? Or was she awake from dreams of another man, another love? She was breathing quickly, her breasts rising and falling, the soft, unrestrained swell revealing that she wasn’t wearing her bra. Her nipples were erect, thrust against the fabric. His mouth went dry.

She moved one small step further into the room.

His voice was hoarse as he asked, “Do you want to sing?” His shaking fingers threw a switch. Drums beat softly in the silent room. A bass guitar strummed. She shook her head silently. Her eyes surveyed the room, taking everything in as if she were seeing it for the first time. He watched her rub her palms down along her thighs and realized that she was at least as nervous as he was.

George. She was an assertive lady, accustomed to speaking her mind, asking for what she wanted. Right now she was frozen, speechless. Shy.

“What do you want, George?” He could hardly talk.

“I—” Her tongue just touched the pink fullness of her lips as he watched. She took a deep breath. Her breasts strained against the shirt, the nipples still rigidly erect.

He found himself standing, pushing himself away from the console. He saw her eyes take in the length of his body, the evidence of his own need as he stood.

He watched the motion of her throat as she swallowed with difficulty. “Lyle,” she whispered, her eyes finding his. “Please— touch me.”

She hadn’t known what she was going to say, had hoped words would not be necessary. As if her voice had released him, he took two long steps towards her. Her breath came short, almost panting as he approached. She was trembling, waiting for his touch, but he lifted only her hand, brushing his lips softly across her knuckles.

“Touch you?” he asked softly, his breath warm on her wrist. “Like that?”

She wanted more, his arms around her, taking her close. She wanted to close her eyes and give herself up to his touch.

“Is this what you want?” he asked again, some instinct urging him to hold back. He turned her hand, pressed his lips against her sensitive palm, traced the lines of her hand with his damp tongue.

“Lyle,” she whispered, shuddering.

He had both of her hands in his, his hands gripping hers to stop his own trembling. He was pressing soft kisses against her palms, licking gently at the inner sides of her wrists, making her tremble with a terrible need that surged like fire through her veins.

His lips traced up the inner surface of her forearm to her elbow. Her blood was turning to flames. A groan escaped her lips, a wordless plea for his lips hard against hers, his arms holding her.

“What are you doing?” she asked desperately, as he pulled back. He kept hold of her hands, but he was a foot away, his eyes touching the swelling of her breasts. How could he step back when she felt this terrible wild need? Her tongue touched her lips and found them swollen as if he had been kissing her.

His eyes held hers. She couldn’t conceal her arousal. She felt nervous, vulnerable, but she wanted him to see her need. He let go her left hand and slowly, softly brushed the palm of his hand over the thrusting nipple of her right breast. She gasped and bit her lip to stop from groaning aloud.

His voice was a harsh whisper as he said, “I’m trying to make you want me, George.” Both his hands covered the swelling of her breasts in a fleeting erotic caress. “I want to make sure you know whose arms are holding you.”

She shivered at his reminder of the heated dream she’d woken from only days ago.

“Lyle, I—” Her words were lost as his lips touched hers. He brushed a gentle kiss on her lips, then traced the fullness of her parted lips with his tongue. Her lips parted farther, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he drew back.

She shivered, standing alone. “Lyle, what do you want from me?” She could hardly breathe. She needed his touch, his hard arms, his hands on her naked flesh. “It’s you,” she whispered. “I can’t sleep for dreaming about you. I— Please, I’m not good at this. I’ve never— I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted helplessly.

“Then kiss me,” he ordered roughly. “Don’t talk.”

She reached her hands up, threaded fingers through his waving hair and pulled his mouth down to hers. Then his arms slid around her back and pulled her close as his lips took hers… softly, then harder, drawing her shyness away. Her hands were moving, tracing the contours of his heavily muscled shoulders, her lips open wide to his kiss. She moved, feeling her breasts pushing hard against his chest.

When she felt him moving away, her need had grown so great that she didn’t hesitate to whisper a plea, “No, please! Please don’t stop. Lyle…”

His husky laugh turned into a groan. “Honey, I’m not.Come here.” He urged her down onto the thick, soft carpet, whispering, “With you touching me, your body soft against me, I’m shaking so badly I don’t think I can stand up a moment longer.”

She trembled, feeling the heat of him as he drew her close in his arms. A hot pulse was beating somewhere near the center of him. He was leaning back on a cushion, with her cradled against his chest. Her hands fumbled against his shirt, then slipped inside, feeling the roughness of the hairs growing on his chest, spreading out to feel his shirt against her palms, her eyelids dropping with passion as she touched him.

He groaned aloud as her fingers glided over his tight, male nipples, then his arms were hard around her, pulling her up over him. His hands slid up under her thin shirt, exploring the shape of her back, his fingers rough and callused on her white skin. When he pushed the shirt up, she found her arms lifting to help him.

Then her swollen breasts felt the roughness of the hair on his chest and she lifted her hands, pulling his head down to her lips again, the tension of her lifted arms pressing her softness hard against him.

Spinning… music soft in her ears… heated lips on her face, her neck. His lips left her skin, and she dragged her eyes open to see his face only inches away, bathed in the soft light from a lamp on the other side of the room.

She saw him watch her mouth, as her tongue moistened her swollen lips, felt some wanton part of her respond to what happened in his eyes as he saw her arousal. When he leaned back from her, his skin pulled against hers and his eyes followed the curve of her throat, the rising swelling of her breasts. She pulled a deep breath in, feeling her chest rise and his own breath catch in his throat as he watched her.

She was amazed at the excitement growing in her, just from watching his eyes watching her, wanting her. She whispered his name and touched his face softly, fleetingly with her fingers.

“Cold?” he asked as her flesh trembled.

“No,” she breathed, her eyes telling him why she trembled.

“George,” his mouth formed the name, his lips coming closer, brushing her throat, then lower to the swelling his eyes had caressed so heatedly. “I love calling you George,” he said, his lips drawing one rosy peak into his mouth. She writhed in his arms, clutching at his shoulders, thrusting herself against him. His hands dropped to her hips, pulling her close against him as his tongue drew softly over her aching flesh. “You’re so damned feminine,” he whispered, his lips moving to the lobe of her ear. “All woman… soft and hot and loving…”

She lost track of the words. There was only heat and needing… his hands… his lips… her own hands boldly fumbling with the belt buckle at his waist… the rough feel of her jeans being pushed down over the flesh on her legs. The shuddering sweet agony of his leg thrust against the hot, naked skin of her thigh.

There were no words, only soft sounds of need from her throat and from his. His hands… Oh, God! His hands touching places she had never known were for touching, for loving… and his kisses everywhere… his skin warm and man-rough under her lips and her fingers.

He was driving her beyond sanity with his touch and his breath on her skin. She was wild, writhing in his arms, need exploding through her and giving words to her impassioned moans.

“Please…” Her fingers dug into the knotted muscles at his back. She couldn’t open her eyes, but she could feel what would be in his deep blue gaze. “Now,” she whispered, the restraint that Scott had taught her long forgotten.

She gasped as he shifted over her, trembling, waiting, needing.

There was a terrible stillness, then his hand resting on the trembling flesh at her waist. She felt a shudder run through his body, then he drew back from her.

“George, you— honey, you’re not prepared for this, are you?”

“What?” The air seemed abruptly cool. He was staring at her, some pain deep in the blue eyes. She shivered. “What do you mean?”

His hand moved along her soft skin, settled on the gentle curve of her abdomen. “You’re not on the pill, or— or anything like that. And, out here— I don’t have any way to protect you.”

She closed her eyes briefly, painfully sucking in a deep breath. He pulled her heated flesh closer and she felt him all along the length of her. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. She found his hand and brought it against her breast, shuddering as he touched her.

He jerked away, staggering slightly as he got to his feet. He stared down at her and she felt her arms coming up to cover herself from his eyes.

“It matters.” His voice lashed her harshly.

“I’ll have your child,” she whispered. “Give me your child, Lyle.” She felt the fullness in her abdomen, a sudden overwhelming desire for the knowledge of life growing in her.

He moved away from her, jerked his jeans from a tumbled pile of clothing on the floor. His face was hard, but she saw his fingers tremble on the belt. “Don’t talk,” he ordered harshly. “You’re a passionate woman who’s been alone too long. Right now you’d say anything. In the morning you’d be running for that helicopter.”

He laughed harshly. “I’ve made one mess already. My daughter has no mother. I’m damned if I’ll father a child I might never see.”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t bring her arms up to cover herself. She couldn’t take in his words. Later, their meaning would come to her, hard and painful with the daylight. His eyes were on her and he could see everything. She knew she should be scrambling for her clothes, covering herself, but she still needed his possession of her with a pain that was growing into a hard knot at her center.

He managed to get the belt of his jeans fastened. He gave her one last harsh stare and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him and leaving her alone on the carpeted floor, staring at the jumble of his shirt mixed up with her own clothes.

Chapter 8

“…announces that the arrival of flight 302 from Victoria will be delayed…” The loudspeaker was drowned out by the clatter of dishes from a nearby cafeteria, concluding with “…five-twenty.”