The Sooner the Better (11 page)

At some point in her childhood, her mother must have made a conscious decision not to move to Mexico. Since she was a devout Catholic, divorce was not an option for her. She must have made peace with herself and her past, and for whatever reason eased herself out of Thomas's life.

None of this explained why she'd never told Lorraine the truth. And now Lorraine would never know, could only speculate.

Thoughts of her mother were complicated enough, but what she felt toward her father was completely confusing.
All those years her mother had remained faithful. But Thomas hadn't. For all Lorraine knew, he could have fathered dozens of children. She didn't want to think about him, didn't want to dwell on his infidelities. Didn't want…

Lorraine wasn't sure when she fell asleep. Next thing she knew, it was morning and the sun shone down like a blessing from heaven. She opened her eyes and blinked at the brightness—and noticed that Jack's eyes were open, too. For a long time they simply looked at each other, as if taking in the fact that they were both alive. The urge to touch his face the way she had earlier was almost overpowering. She longed to put her arms around him, hold him close. She wanted to tell him how desperately afraid she'd been that he'd die and how she couldn't have borne the guilt of it. She wanted to tell him that beneath his disreputable exterior, he was a good man. What higher praise was there than that? A man who was honorable and good.
A man she was beginning to love.
But she told him none of these things.

Instead, she whispered, “Good morning,” in an unsteady voice as she struggled to conceal her relief and the accompanying rush of emotion. “How do you feel?”

“About what you'd expect.”

“That bad?”

His grin was brief. “That bad. What about you?”

“I'm okay.” She ached in places she hadn't known it was possible to ache. But then, she wasn't accustomed to sleeping in an upright position.

“The gunshot,” he said hoarsely. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough.” She wouldn't lie to him. “But not nearly as critical as it could have been. The bullet's still there. Removing it would've done too much damage. You'd lost a lot of blood as it was.”

“The bullet's still there?” He arched his brows. “Does this mean I'm going to set off airport metal detectors?” He gave her an infectious grin.

“I guess you'll have to find out.”

His eyes held hers. Then he reached up and pressed his hand to her cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered. The gesture was one of tenderness and unspeakable warmth. Her hand joined his and she blinked back tears, wishing she knew how to tell him that she admired his courage and his honor. That she was grateful he'd taken it upon himself to help her when it would have been just as easy to refuse. She closed her eyes, wanting to savor this moment, hold on to it forever. Her pulse steadied. Reality returned.

During the worst of his fever, he'd called for another woman, someone he obviously loved and cared for deeply. A woman who was—or had been—an important part of his life.

She considered asking about Marcie. And she considered correcting the impression that she was a married woman. But for his sake, as well as her own, it was better to let him believe she had a husband back in Louisville.

The feelings between them were too intense. And the situation was far too difficult. This relationship had no hope of any future, and rather than allow it to follow a path that would only bring them pain, she regretfully removed her hand from Jack's. He seemed to realize what was happening and lowered his arm to his side.

“I shot Carlos,” she told him, thinking that would cheer him up.

“Did you kill him?”

“No, but not from lack of trying. I got off six shots,” she added proudly.

He grinned at that.

“Best I can figure, though, I only grazed his upper arm.”

“I hope he's in more pain than I am.”

“Me, too.”

“How'd you get us away from Pucuro?”

She turned away. “You don't want to know.”

“Ah, but I do.”

“It's a story for another day,” she said firmly. Suddenly tears blurred her eyes again, no matter how hard she tried to blink them away. “Let me see about making you more comfortable.”

“Raine.”

“Don't call me that.” She sniffled and wiped her cheeks with one hand.

“You're crying,” he said, ignoring her protest.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Then these are tears of…of joy.”

“Joy?” His question was accompanied by a frown.

“You're going to live, Jack. You're going to be okay.”

 

Carlos Caracol cursed and gritted his teeth as Camelia cleaned the blood from his upper arm. “Stop,” he commanded. He jerked with the pain. He'd gone three days without medical care, and infection had set in. The throbbing in his arm was bad enough to bring him to Camelia, a woman he knew he could trust.

“I said stop,” he growled.

“Do you want to lose that arm?”

“No.”

“Then let me finish,” she said with perfect calm.

This was what he liked most about Camelia—he didn't intimidate her. He'd known the first time he met her that this was a woman worthy of his attention, and he'd been right. It was of little concern to him that she was married—and it didn't seem to bother her, either. Her youn
gest son, a three-year-old, looked a lot like him. Carlos didn't want any family responsibilities, but it pleased him to know he'd fathered a child with her.

Squirming on the chair in her kitchen, he submitted his arm to her again. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the tantalizing scent of meat and spices simmering on the stove. It'd been the better part of a week since he'd enjoyed a decent meal. Longer since he'd enjoyed the pleasure a woman could give.

He grimaced as Camelia dabbed some sort of stinging liquid on his arm. The throbbing was worse than ever. But the pain Carlos felt was more than just physical sensation. That American bitch had done it to him again. Whenever he found her, her male friend wasn't far behind. Those two were becoming a nuisance, but what they didn't realize was that no one made a fool of Carlos Caracol and lived to tell about it.

“Be still,” Camelia said, her voice sharp.

His eyes flew open.

“You're tense. Relax.”

“Give me something to take away the pain.” He eased his free hand under her blouse and reached for her breast.

“Not now,” she said, and slapped his wrist.

Carlos frowned. To hear her talk anyone would think she was married to
him.
“Do you have a headache?” he scoffed.

Her saucy grin was enough to assure him that wasn't the case. “With you? Never.”

His mood lifted. “Good.”

“Later, after your arm is clean.”

“And I've eaten.”

She continued to dab at the wound. He swore she used
straight whiskey. Every place she touched him, his skin burned.

“Are you going to tell me who did this?”

“No.”

“Man or woman?”

Carlos hesitated before answering. “Woman.”

Camelia's reaction told him he should have lied. She broke into a hearty laugh and shook her head. “I always thought a woman would be the end of you, except I thought it would be me. Did you want her?”

“No,” he growled, deciding to lie. He did want the bitch, but only to show her what it was like to be with a real man. And to punish her.

“You lie.”

The problem with Camelia was that she knew him too well. He grabbed a thick swatch of her hair, twisted it around his fist and yanked hard.

“Ouch.” Her eyes widened.

“That American is going to regret the day she ever laid eyes on me.” Each word was distinctly pronounced.

He was gratified to see that Camelia got his message. “I pity her,” she whispered.

He grinned, his ego bolstered by her words. “I'll make sure that when she dies, she's grateful for it.”

“W
hat's this?” Jack demanded as Lorraine spoon-fed him broth.

“Soup.” Jack wasn't a good patient, but she'd expected that. He was impatient with the time it took to regain his strength. His complaints were constant. He hated being incapacitated. Hated relying on her help. Hated being weak.

“Pretty sorry excuse for soup if you ask me,” he muttered, opening his mouth for another spoonful.

“You appear to be eating it.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.” She grinned, and to her surprise he did, too. Their eyes met, and neither seemed willing to look away. It had been like this from the moment he'd regained consciousness. This awareness, this appreciation. Countless hours she'd remained at his side, nursing him, lending him her will, her strength…her heart. He didn't need her determination to survive; his own was strong enough. But her heart—that he kept, and although they never mentioned the growing awareness between them, they both knew it was there.

Jack's eyes roamed her face, and Lorraine started to
tremble at the warmth in his gaze. She made herself return to the task of feeding him, but her hands shook too badly and she had to stop for a moment.

“When can I have real food?”

“Soon,” she promised. Without antibiotics to help combat infection, his body required more time to heal. He needed a great deal of sleep, too, and it frustrated him that he only seemed able to stay awake an hour or so before drifting off again.

Time lagged for her while he slept. In the past few days she'd read every piece of printed material on board. Twice. She'd laundered all his clothes and appropriated a couple of shirts and a pair of drawstring cotton shorts for herself. She'd cleaned, scrubbed and reorganized the entire living quarters. It was apparent from certain things she'd found while cleaning—small gifts, cards she shouldn't have read but did—that Jack maintained a number of ongoing relationships with women around the Caribbean. This confirmed the decision she'd already made: It would be best to let him continue believing she was married. Besides, she couldn't come up with an easy way to tell him there really
wasn't
a husband. He'd assumed it—she let him—and now she preferred to leave things as they were. And Gary…well, she'd agreed to marry him. She loved Gary, she truly did. She had no business contemplating for even two seconds any kind of liaison with another man. She'd taken to wearing Gary's engagement necklace outside her shirt. Jack's shirt.

Jack would've been more comfortable belowdecks in his own bed, but he'd rejected that idea, choosing to soak in the sunshine and fresh salt air. Lorraine made a bed for him on a chair that partially reclined, and he spent his time there.

“You forgot to untie
Scotch on Water
from the dock!” He chuckled.

Lorraine knew it had been a mistake to tell Jack how she'd managed to escape from Pucuro. He'd teased her about it more than once. Those were the only times his face showed signs of color. He'd lost a lot of blood and was still deathly pale and very weak. She supposed she ought to be grateful that Jack seemed to find the tale of their escape so amusing.

He finished the soup, and Lorraine watched as he fought to keep his eyes open. “Sleep, Jack,” she urged, ready to retire for the night herself. She slept belowdecks in his bed.

“I want to talk,” he insisted, and clung to her wrist to keep her from leaving.

“Later,” she promised.

“Don't go for a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I'll just rest my eyes for a little while and then we can…”

Whatever he was about to say was lost as he fell asleep. She didn't know what he wanted to talk about, and in some ways was grateful he'd been too weak. Her fear was that he'd bring up something better left unsaid.

The subject of her assumed marriage was like a lit fuse thrust between them. At times Lorraine wished she'd set him straight on the first occasion he'd mentioned her “husband.” But then she'd remember Gary, or something would happen to remind her how far removed Jack's world was from hers. There could be no future for them.

She should leave now, she realized, and go down below. Still, she stayed at his side, watching the moon's reflection on the water. She might simply be rationalizing her feelings, but really, it was logical that under these
circumstances, she'd be attracted to Jack. He'd saved her life and she'd saved his. Such a bond between two people couldn't be ignored.

They'd created a genuine friendship during these past days. Or so Lorraine believed, anyway. They'd talked about many things, and he'd given her glimpses of his life before
Scotch on Water.
It didn't surprise her to learn he'd been a mercenary. He'd worked with a group of men who'd called themselves Deliverance Company. Apparently he'd had deep friendships with these men.

Lorraine did her share of talking, too. She told him about her childhood, growing up without a father, and about her mother. But describing her life with Virginia made her sad, and she quickly changed the subject to her favorite movie plots. He hadn't seen many movies in the past few years, and she delighted in recalling the ones she treasured and watched again and again. She'd thought about some of them recently, so retelling
The African Queen
and
Casablanca
was—admittedly—a chance to show off. His reactions were everything she could have asked for. These movie sessions were the most fun she'd had since before her mother died. She particularly enjoyed narrating the plot of
Romancing the Stone,
which he'd never seen. It wasn't hard, somehow, to imagine the two of them in the lead roles….

There were more personal stories, too. That very afternoon, in fact, she'd asked him about his scars. He explained his injuries from the years he served with Deliverance Company and then wanted to know if
she
had any. Only one, she'd told him, from a broken arm that had required surgery. She'd been horsing around with friends, demonstrating her skill sliding down a staircase railing. Unfortunately she'd toppled and tumbled down a
whole flight, landing on her right arm. That experience had taught her a certain caution.

Lorraine waited, watching him sleep. His breathing evened out and she started to ease away from his side and slip belowdecks. To her surprise his grip on her wrist tightened.

“Don't go,” he whispered, but his eyes remained closed.

The night, with moonlight glowing on the water, was almost unearthly in its beauty. “Lie with me awhile,” he urged. He slid over to give her space.

Resting her head against his good shoulder, she lay beside him. Jack placed his right arm around her and she draped hers across his middle.

This quiet intimacy between them was exquisite. Without speaking of it, they both seemed to recognize that this was time set apart. Even when she was certain Jack had fallen into a deep sleep, she didn't leave. She hadn't been this content in days. Weeks. She'd found a haven in this stranger's arms.

Except that he wasn't a stranger anymore….

 

Lorraine awoke and the world was dark. The boat pitched aimlessly about the gulf, going wherever the currents took her. Stars glittered in the inky sky—more stars than she'd ever seen.

She'd lain there for some time, soaking in the beauty and peace of these moments, before she realized Jack was awake, too. His arm was around her and her head was tucked beneath his chin, which he rubbed softly against her hair. It was the kind of thing a lover would do. Tilting her head back, Lorraine looked at Jack. Their eyes met, and the way he stared at her filled her with longing. She wanted him to kiss her.

He wanted it, too. She saw it in his eyes, in the avid way he studied her mouth. She swallowed, almost groaning with the need to feel his lips on hers. His hand, which lay gently against her ribs, rose slowly until it reached her breast…. He paused. Held his breath. So did Lorraine.

Neither pretended that touch hadn't happened. Neither looked coyly away. He did nothing to disguise his own body's reaction. He wanted her, and her heart rejoiced.

He lowered his head as if to kiss her, but stopped himself just before their mouths touched.

“Tell me about your husband,” he whispered.

Lorraine wasn't sure how to answer. If she told him the truth now, she feared the temptation would be more than either of them could resist. He'd kiss her and she'd welcome his touch. Before long, they'd be lovers and that would be a mistake she couldn't afford. There was too much she didn't know about Jack. Too much she didn't
want
to know. He had a wild and dangerous side, like the heroes in her favorite movies. A relationship with Jack could never last. She'd end up being just another of his women. Nor would she betray Gary….

“What…do you want to know?”

“His name.”

She hesitated. “Gary. Gary Franklin.”

“You kept your maiden name? Dancy?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Does he call you Lorraine or Raine?”

“Lorraine.” She didn't want to discuss Gary. Her fiancé seemed very distant from these weeks with Jack. Out here in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico everything about her life in Louisville, including Gary, seemed unreal.

“What does he do?”

“He's a manager for a medical-supply company.” She recognized what Jack was doing. He was trying to create
a sense of Gary as a man, as a real person and not merely a name, in an effort to stem the potency of their attraction. It wasn't working. Had she offered him her lips just then, he would have kissed her. It was what they both wanted, their hunger so strong it seemed to pulse between them.

“Does he love you?”

She had trouble forming the word, and it came out sounding scratchy, uncertain. “Yes.”

“Enough?”

It hadn't been easy for Gary to stand aside and let her search for her father on her own. He'd wanted to travel with her, but she'd discouraged that. As it turned out, she wished he
had
come, then none of this would have happened.

“Does he love you enough, Lorraine?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and her voice broke.

Jack eased his hand away from her, slowly, as if he knew he'd never touch her again.

Lorraine worried her lower lip. There was no going back now. Continuing the lie had sealed their future.

Lorraine refused to make the same mistakes her mother had. In a way, it was that simple. When the time came, she'd return to Louisville and go through with the wedding. She'd have Gary's children and live a good honest life. It was what she wanted. What she needed. Her mother would have approved.

 

Jack awoke to find Lorraine no longer at his side. It was just as well, he acknowledged, but he couldn't quite make his heart believe it.

Ever since Marcie, Jack had avoided emotional entanglements. There were a couple of women he saw on an occasional basis, but both were the type who neither wanted nor expected any kind of commitment. Jack was content
with his life. He didn't know why he found it necessary to keep reminding himself of that. Until recently he hadn't even
liked
Lorraine. He'd considered her prissy, stubborn and self-righteous. Furthermore, she was married.

Lorraine hadn't changed. And she was still married. The difference was in how he viewed her. In the days since they'd left El Mirador, he'd come to know her and realize she was caring, generous, amusing, brave, beautiful—with each day the list grew longer. But she was the same person she'd always been.

The physical differences were more noticeable. Her fancy linen jacket had been replaced by one of his shirts, the ends tied at her waist, revealing tantalizing glimpses of midriff. The linen pants were gone, too. Instead, she wore a pair of his shorts and walked barefoot. Half the time it was all he could do to keep from staring at her legs.

Her hair, once so perfect with every strand in place, was gathered into a ponytail. Over the past few days she'd acquired a rich golden tan. Rarely had he seen any woman more physically appealing.

While he'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, she'd stayed continually by his side. Jack couldn't remember any time he'd awakened and not found her there. Her smile was gentle, her words encouraging, her touch tender. The truth was, in all his life, Jack had never had anyone care this much about him.

And sometime during the past few days, he'd fallen in love with her. In love with a woman already married to another man.

In a different situation, he would have made his escape. Fled temptation. Gotten the hell out of her life before he screwed it up. But now there was no place to run. They were trapped on this boat together.

One option was to make her hate him, freeze her out, be cruel. Say or do something that would keep her at arm's length. But Jack discovered he couldn't. He was half-inclined to credit his lack of resolve to his weakened condition, but that was a lie and he knew it. He was in love with Lorraine, and loving her prevented him from saying or doing anything that would bring her pain. That included what he wanted most, which was to touch her the way a lover would. Kiss her, make love to her, cherish her.

He cursed his weakness the night before, when he'd touched her breast. He'd wanted to do a lot more and was fully aware that she would have let him. He also knew that in time she'd come to regret it. When she returned to her husband, he vowed she'd go undefiled, without remorse, free of guilt.

What made his love for Lorraine beautiful, Jack reflected, was its purity. His relationship with Marcie and every other woman in his life had its existence primarily in the physical.

Not so with Lorraine. Their relationship had a physical dimension, but more than that, it had an emotional depth, even a spiritual one. He was a man who'd lived his life on the edge, emotionally distant; now he found himself in unfamiliar territory.