Sharing Sunrise (9 page)

Dammit, there was that word again. She looked beautiful. She looked delicious.

And she looked all of sixteen.

“Oh,” he said again. “So you’re finally here.” Marian smiled. The gruff tone belied the expression in his eyes. He was looking at her exactly as he had when he’d told her not to look at him like she wanted to be kissed, as if in the next twenty seconds, he was going to do exactly that.

She feasted her eyes on him. He wore a freshly pressed fawn-colored suit, a light green shirt and a deeper green tie. He carried a briefcase in one hand and held a sheaf of papers in the other. If his eyes had looked like pickled beets half an hour before, there was no sign of it now. He looked terrific, strong, energetic, masculine, incredibly virile … and totally, gratifyingly stunned.

She swallowed, meeting his gaze, reveling in the knowledge that he’d noticed her new hairstyle and color, that he liked both. “Yes.” Her smiled deepened. “Did you forget I was going to Southland?”

Rolph gave his head a quick shake. “No. Of course not.” He had forgotten. Looking at her, he figured he was lucky he could remember his own shoe size. He’d been waiting for her to show up for over an hour, going crazy waiting, needing to know if what she’d done to him Friday evening had passed like a forty-eight hour virus, maybe even vaccinated him against further infections.

It hadn’t. He was just as susceptible this morning as he’d been Friday night. Maybe more.

He dropped his briefcase onto the coffee table, looked at the sheaf of papers in his hand and shoved them in the general direction of Kaitlin’s desk. They fell to the floor. He didn’t appear to notice. Still looking at Marian he said, “I, uh, listen, you take over for the day, okay? I’ve got to—I’m going—I’m … leaving.”

“But—” she said as he bent, grabbed her briefcase from the table and shouldered past her. “Rolph, you’ve got my—” He didn’t seem to hear, just went out the door like a man pursued by something big and dangerous. He loped down the ramp to the wharf below and she saw that one of the marina crew had
Sunrise VII
already untied, the engine running, stern swinging out into the harbor. Rolph leapt aboard, briefcase, suit, tie, city shoes and all, said something to the kid, and the boy jumped back to the wharf, scratching his head in perplexity, then stood there, staring at the boat as it angled away from the wharf.

Marian was only peripherally aware of that as she tore down the ramp, her purse flopping against her hip, his briefcase, heavier than her own, banging on her knee, as she called, “Rolph, dammit, would you wait? I need that stuff you swiped!”

She ran after him, and as he disappeared down into the stern cockpit of his boat, she kicked off her shoes and leapt aboard the bow just as it swung away from the float and the engine kicked from reverse into forward.

If she had planned it she couldn’t have done it better, Marian thought a moment after she landed, sprawling, on the curved bow deck, fighting her body’s tendency to slide toward the edge. As she caught the rope rail in one hand, her feet found purchase and slipped through the open hatch onto the V-berth below. She followed, hauling shoulderbag and briefcase in with her. She flopped sideways as the bow swung in a tight arc, banging her head on the bulkhead, then pushed herself erect, looking out the porthole at the rush of foaming water going by only inches from her nose.

Where the heck were they going in such an all-fired hurry?

Rolph McKenzie was going to get picked up by the harbor police for sure, if he didn’t slow down. He was booting out of the marina as if he thought she were still running down the ramp calling his name. He was—or thought he was—escaping her. With a small, excited laugh, she settled back onto the berth, crossed her ankles one over the other and wiggled her toes. She didn’t know where they were going, but wherever it was, she was going without any shoes.

But it didn’t matter; she was going with Rolph.

Maybe it was time he learned that once she had made up her mind about something, there was no escaping Marian Millicent Crane.

“Oh, Lord,” Rolph said, shrugging out of his suitcoat and kicking off his shoes. He glanced at the highly varnished mahogany and saw a couple of scratches from the hard soles of those shoes. Never mind. It wouldn’t hurt him to do some sanding and varnishing. It was worth it to have got away before he made a complete fool of himself. If he’d stayed around another minute, he’d have swept Marian into his arms, carried her back into his apartment and ravished her.

Poor Brewster. The kid must be wondering what the hell was going on. Given orders to take
Sunrise
over to the fuel dock and top up her tanks, he’d been doing just that when Rolph had come flying down the walk, across the float and leapt aboard, bellowing at the kid to forget it, he’d do it himself.

Guiltily, he glanced astern at where the fuel docks were fast disappearing, and even farther astern, almost expecting to see Marian standing there on the wharf looking lost and forlorn, abandoned. He also glanced just as guiltily at the wash creaming away from the hull as he traveled far too fast through the harbor. He throttled back and undid his tie, sliding it from under his collar. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, tossing it into the same heap where his jacket lay.

He wasn’t sorry he’d bolted, but he was glad there was no sign of Marian standing on the dock. He’d hate to have seen her looking sad and abandoned. But leaving like that had been the only sane thing to do.

One look at her and he’d known he couldn’t hang around the office for even the few minutes he’d planned to take telling her what he wanted done today while he flew down to Seattle. He didn’t dare ask himself what would happen when he came back from having settled arrangements for his booth at next year’s boatshow. That wasn’t something he was ready to face just yet. Maybe, if he stayed away for a day or two, that forty-eight hour virus would run its course. Ninety-six hour virus? Six hundred and forty-four? Incurable? Hell!

What he wanted to do was sail, as far and as fast as he could, the wind whistling in the rigging, spume hissing by, waves rollicking against the hull, the shore sinking farther and farther behind, and with it, what he was quickly beginning to see as in insurmountable problem: His growing desire to make love to Marian Crane.

Well, what was stopping him from sailing away, letting the wind cleanse him of his insane fantasies? He wasn’t expected in Seattle until late afternoon. What was to stop him sailing down? Nothing. He got up, picked up his shirt and jacket, shook them out and hung them from a hook on the mast. Peeling off his socks, he rolled them into a ball and stuffed them into a corner of the seat where they wouldn’t pick up too much spray. Then, with his suit pants folded neatly, wearing only his underwear, he cut the motor, quickly set the self-furling sails, trimmed them, fastened the sheets and took his seat at the helm. Leaning back, crossing his bare, outthrust legs, he gave the tiller a nudge with an elbow and felt the bow lift to meet the chop rolling in from the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

For today, at least, he was free of Marian and all the incredible things she did to his libido.

Whew! Marian wiped her brow with the back of her hand. In spite of the open hatch and the salty wind blowing in, it was hot in the cabin. She had to get out of her office clothes. Surely, there’d be something she could wear stuffed into one of the lockers. Moving carefully so as not to disturb the trim of the boat and alert Rolph that he had a stowaway, she slipped off the berth, stood erect and shrugged out of her jacket. Of course he’d have to know sooner or later that she was aboard. She’d just prefer it to be later, preferably when they were so far from port that he’d think it not worthwhile to turn back and put her ashore. She’d like a day out on the water with him, and she had the perfect excuse—he’d taken off with her briefcase, hadn’t he? Didn’t she have a right to chase it down?

So what was her reason for not having told him immediately that she was aboard? She shrugged, rubbed the small lump on her head and decided that if he actually asked, she could always claim to have been knocked unconscious.

She stripped out of her jacket and slacks, put them together on a hanger in the boat’s only standing locker, and grimaced, discovering that the locker held nothing she might use to replace them. A quick and careful search of the remaining lockers in the bow provided nothing in the bow lockers other than sleeping bags, slickers and several unidentifiable pieces of machinery, plus one full, unopened case of sardines.

Moving into the galley area, Marian searched each locker or bin she came to, coming up empty each time. Clearly, Rolph wasn’t in the habit of inviting ladies aboard, at least not ladies who conveniently forgot their clothing. However, under one settee, she struck gold. Rolph’s swimming trunks made adequate shorts she discovered, tugging the elastic briefs up over her hips. One of his T-shirts would complete the costume if only she could find one.

Not in that locker, but surely, in the one opposite?

She knelt on the deck and opened the bin under the seat, bending over to see and then frowned, reached in and withdrew one of the dozens of books she found neatly stacked there.

Well! Maybe his ladies didn’t leave their clothing behind, but they certainly left their reading material. She riffled through the stack. Good. There were a bunch of new ones by some of her favorite authors. What a treasure trove.

Forgetting all about T-shirts, sitting sailor fashion on the deck, Marian continued digging through the stack, opening a book here and there at random, and then stopping when she came to passages and phrases marked with yellow highlighter.

One of the contemporary romances had a passage underlined in which two women were discussing their ideal man: Strong, tough, macho, yet sensitive and wise and understanding. Another, a historical romance, showed a scene in which a pirate was introducing the virgin heroine to passion, and she was loving it, loving him, even while she pretended to him that she thought he was foul and beastly. It was her thoughts which had been highlighted, her reactions and responses to the feel of the man’s hard muscles, the scent of his skin, the sound of his rasping breath, his impassioned words, all of which enhanced the woman’s excitement.

Intrigued, never having analyzed romances in this manner, Marian continued flipping through the books, stacking them on the deck beside her, piling them on the settee behind her, and nearly every one had sections emphasized, outlining what different women perceived as necessary attributes in a man, what thrilled them, what turned them off, what they wanted. Some even had penciled in notes:
This is a paradox!
And:
How is a guy supposed to be both gentle and strong? Sounds like toilet paper.
And:
Hell, this being a romantic hero is impossible. These guys are unreal!

“Rolph?” she whispered finally as a glimmer of light came through the confusion. “Oh, Rolph!”

She sat there with a book open on her lap, staring at it, not really seeing the words, but trying to make sense of what Rolph must be attempting. Attempting to learn from books what he believed he’d never learn from life? Trying to be a fictional hero, or a blend of all these fictional heroes he’d studied? If he thought women really wanted heroes such as these, the kind of man who always knew what to say and what to do, and could do it seven times a night, then no wonder he wasn’t happy with his success rate! No wonder he couldn’t find the right woman! If he wanted to be someone completely fictional, then he probably also wanted to find someone completely fictional, a composite, a dream-figure, larger than life and twice as beautiful.

Surely he recognized these characters as wonderful fantasies, the stories as pure, delightful escapism?

But what if he didn’t? Oh, God, what if he didn’t? What if he thought that this was the way it really was between men and women, or that women wanted only what they read in books? What hope did she have of ever becoming his ideal woman with all these glorious heroines to compete with? Dammit, she was real! She was nobody’s fantasy!

But, oddly enough, Rolph was hers. She could see him, aspects of his personality, in every one of the heroes her favorite authors created, and much, much more, besides. He was real, and for all that, the hero she’d dreamed of for years, the fantasy that had lived in her dreams since she was a girl, even though she hadn’t recognized him. He was the measure she’d held up to all other men, only to watch them fall short.

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl out there on deck to where he sat alone and curl up in his lap and convince him he was the most romantic hero she’d ever known, if only he’d see it. She wanted to tell him that to her, he was both gentle and strong, loving and kind and tough and wise and stupid, so damned stupid she’d like to shake him until his ears fell off!

It wasn’t his ears that fell off, but the towering stack of books she’d piled on the settee, they tumbled to the deck with a resounding thud as the boat heeled far over to port, and she was on her knees trying to gather them up again when the hatchway slid open and Rolph swung in to land with his bare, hairy toes only inches from the stack on the floor.

He looked at her kneeling there, eyes wide, mouth ajar, a book in one hand, another pressed to her heaving breasts, guilt spreading over her pale face.

“Hi,” she said. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you.”

“What are you doing with those?”

It told her a lot, his asking, not What are you doing here? Or How did you get aboard? but What are you doing with those?

“Putting them away,” she said evenly. “I was looking for a T-shirt. I’d hate to ruin a silk blouse kicking around on a sailboat.”

He crouched and gathered up several books, not meeting her eyes, a bright flush over his high cheekbones. “You were looking at my books.”

“Yes.” It pleased her for some obscure reason that he didn’t try to pretend to her that they were someone else’s books. “I haven’t had a chance to read that one yet.” She pointed to the last one he had picked up. “May I?”