Her satisfaction was short-lived, however, as an agonized groan brought her on the run. Pulling her heavy woolen sweater into place, she returned to the bed. The man within had rolled onto his side; his shivering was evident even through the thick covering layered about him. Sitting quickly, she resumed her rigorous massage, rubbing his back and arms, then moving to will warmth to his legs. His eyes remained shut, his face half-buried in the pillow.
“You'll be fine,” she murmured to herself, as much as to him. “It's warm here now. Please feel it ⦔ The words fell victim to her work as she put all concentration into the rubdown her hands mechanically maintained. When he moaned again, she moved closer. “Can you hear me?” she begged softly, soothing the dark swath of hair from his temple, relieved to see that the gash there had begun to crust. “Are you awake?”
No answer met her plea. Her hand was warm against his cheek, and she felt his returning warmth with gratitude.
Gently, her fingers slid down the column of his neck to the blanket edge, sliding beneath to rest lightly on the reassuring warmth of his chest. That he was strong of build was no surprise to her, considering the reserve of strength he must have called upon to withstand his ordeal at the hands of a merciless ocean's fury. That he was also extremely good-looking now became very clear.
Her soft brown-eyed gaze touched his rugged features, examining them one by one as though to piece together the puzzle of his identity. There were neither scars nor marks, save those from his present trial, and even in his present spent state, the power of the man was evident. His scent, as his skin warmed to a more healthy tone, was clean and male. To her dismay, there was nothing at all offensive at the thought of this total stranger lying in the middle of her own large double bed.
Raking tapered fingers through the dampness of her chestnut hair, she chided herself at the irrelevancy of her thoughts.
No time to get romantic, April Wilde,
she told herself sternly, then pivoted toward the kitchen for a pot of steaming soup.
To her chagrin, however, her patient was unable to take a drop when, a few minutes later, she returned and tried to spoon-feed the hot liquid through his firmly shut lips. Commanding as he may have been in other times, exhaustion was clearly his master now. There seemed nothing for her to do but let him rest.
Gingerly, she placed his dark head back on the pillow, only then noting that the blankets had fallen to midchest, where a fine coat of salt crusted the light furring of dark hair. The breadth of his shoulders startled her, drawing her fingertips inexorably downward. Palm resting on his heart, she reveled in the strength of its beat, and the muscled wall surrounding it. For a water-logged sea rat, she mused, with her first semblance of a smile since spotting his bobbing head several hours before, he was quite
a figure of a man! If only there were something she could do to make him more comfortable ⦠.
On impulse, she headed for the bath, returning with a small basin of warm water which she placed on the stand by the bed. Her hand reached for the blankets before she stopped it midair. What
was
she doing? Was she really about to
bathe
a total stranger? Wasn't it enough that he was dry and warm? Did she have the right to go further? Just who was this man? Where had he come from? What sort of accident had cast him upon her shore?
The persistent howling of the wind and stubborn belligerency of the rain was sufficient answer for the last, yet the others remained an enigma. And
she
was no Florence Nightingale, she reminded herself with a start. Yet, seemingly of their own will, her fingers were once again at the edge of the blanket. Did she dare? Should she? After all a man's body was not foreign to her. She grimaced, conjuring up images of the classic perfection of one Shane Michaels. And hadn't she stripped this man of every stitch of his clothing before safely tucking him into her bed? Her eye strayed to the wet garments strewn about the floor atop ever-widening puddles. They should be washed and dried, she musedâbut later. Her gaze settled on the taut features of this nameless mariner, lost now in his internal battle for survival. Anything,
anything,
she might do would be better than nothing. Determination behind her, she began.
Squeezing the excess of warm water from her cloth, she lowered the blanket and bathed him gently, coaxing the last remnants of sea salt from his body in soft, steady strokes. The wide span of his chest, rising and falling in thankfully even rhythm, tapered beneath her hands to a narrow waist. His arms were long and well-corded, the grace of lean hands and fingers marred only by vivid red welts on his palms, which untold hours of clutching to life adrift in the tempest had bestowed. Perhaps he was a
pianist, she mused, wrapping the cloth around each of his fingers separately. There were no seasoned calluses such as a laborer might bear, yet every digit held a fine-tuned, if latent, strength.
Carefully, she towel-dried him, mindful that some injury may have been hidden from her scrutinyâa scrutiny that saw little but raw masculinity in every pore. Satisfied with her progress, she paused, riddled anew with unsureness. But he
was
in her bed and he should be clean as well as comfortable, she reasoned. The shudder that shook the house in the crunch of the hurricane winds echoed in her chest as she draped his upper body to retain its heat and, with only a moment's additional hesitation, lowered the blanket farther. Catching her breath, she nearly rethought her plan. For if his maleness was evident from the waist up, what lay in her sight below was even more so. In her haste to undress him earlier, there had been no time for speculation. Now, as she bathed him slowly, there was no doubt as to his virility. The blush that warmed her cheeks was steadfastly ignored, though she spared a quick glance to assure herself that her patient was oblivious of her exploration. Then, with a prod of diligence, she proceeded with her task, washing and drying his flat abdomen, his lean hips, and seemingly endless stretch of hair-roughened legs. His skin was mercifully warm to the touch; the shivering had subsided momentarily. And again, there were no visible bruises.
Her eye noted the tan lines of summerâmore vivid where a bathing suit had been, less marked though still apparent at ankle, thigh, and upper arm. A tennis player, her wayward thoughts suggested, as she drew the blanket back over his length. Perhaps he was a tennis player; that might account for the prime condition of his body. After all, muscles did not develop from disuse, nor was one born with themâPopeye and Swee'pea notwithstanding. And
he swamâperhaps a long-distance swimmer? Or was he simply a worshipper of the sun?
Deep in thought, she sat by his side, studying the silent features, wondering at his origin.
Not
a pianist, she concluded, in light of the tan that, with the lessening of the surf-splotched pallor, came increasingly to the fore. Yes, an athleteâbut by profession? Her eye traced the outline of his hair, now full and vibrant. It was too long for the military, too short for the art world. And the tanâits very specific markings would be foreign to either. Perhaps he was a business tycoon, a corporate wizard, even a politician; any of these could most possibly acquire such a tan. What
would
she find when he finally awoke from his life-renewing sleep? There was nothing to do but wait and see.
A sigh of resignation slipped through her lips as she gathered together the cloth, towels, and basin, and returned them to the bath. Back in the bedroom, she collected the sodden clothing that had been discarded haphazardly on the floor, loaded it into the small washing machine in the mud room off the kitchen, and wandered back into the living room to sit out the storm. With the trusty transistor propped on her lap, she rested against the cushions of the ancient sofa and closed her eyes, mindful with poignant force of the toll this unexpected rescue mission had taken on her.
Weary fingers fumbled at the dial of the radio, finding frequency after frequency of static until one weak signal finally came through. “The storm ⦠centered ⦠south of Nantucket ⦠of noon,” the broken voice informed her. “It appears ⦠stalled in ⦠area, lashing ⦠last strength against the Cape ⦠offshore islands.”
Hmph!
she grimaced.
You needn't tell
me
that!
Her eyes shot open as a gust of wind seemed to penetrate the sturdy rafters of the house she had thought to be so secure at the time of its purchase last summer. Slowly, her eye perused the decor she had inherited with the sale, taking in early
American furniture, a myriad of crammed bookshelves, regional artwork, scattered rugs. As the lights flickered for an instant, she wondered where kerosine lamps might have been stored by the previous owner. Praying that they would not be needed, she nonetheless searched the kitchen pantry and the dank basement, finally emerging with two vintage lamps and a tin of kerosine. Filling the lamps as a precaution, she placed them on the low wood table in the center of the room before peeking in on her visitor.
He hadn't moved since she'd left him and seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Reassured, she returned to her perch in the living room.
If they could only see me now.
She laughed at the irony. From the lap of luxury to the edge of the world, in one fateful moveâyet she felt not one ounce of regret. The move was one she had chosen herself. The jet set, into which she had been born, held no lure to her; the fast crowd of New York, which she had left with such firm resolve, offered no greater attraction. She had deliberately chosen this spot, 'Sconset, on the far end of Nantucket, for its inaccessibility. Wasn't that what it had been touted for? Wasn't that what the wealthy exiles from the seaboard cities had sought when they had fled here summer after summer? Now she was a year-round resident of this small communityâon a trial basis, of course. Her avenues were all very open. If she could continue her work from this isolated spot, aided by her Apple and several understanding colleagues in New York, she would stay. She loved it so farâ
despite
the whims of the elements!
A stirring from the bedroom brought her quickly to her feet, stockinged now in the thick wool legacy of her skiing days. Padding across the polished oak floor, she entered the bedroom to find that her mysterious stranger had thrown back the covers and was enveloped in a sweat totally out of sync with the chill of hurricane winds that enveloped the house.
“What
have
you done?” she scolded him softly, racing to the bed and retrieving the blankets, lowering the heat of the electric one before replacing them. Her hand felt his forehead, dotted now with moisture. “And you're running a fever. Terrific!” Her sarcasm was lost on the patient, who, in his dazed state of sleep, was oblivious to her concern. “Aspirin. Two aspirin tablets.” Instantly, she ferretted the pills from the bathroom medicine chest, grabbed a glass of water, then pondered the best way to get the medicine down. Lifting the heavy head was the least of her worries; coaxing the pills home was the worst.
“Come on, whoever you are. Open up. This will curb that fever.” She wedged one arm behind his neck to prop up his head and forced the tablets between his lips, chasing them quickly with water. When he tried to turn his face away she held it fast, pleased that there was no sign of either pill.
“There! That's my good fellow!” Her soft voice crooned her praise as she eased his dark head down.
“Now
you can go back to sleep.” But he already had, his senses dead to the world once more.
How long she sat, bathing his forehead with a cool cloth, pulling the covers over him as he shifted and displaced them, she didn't know. In the midst of Ivan the Terrible's fury, time lost all meaning. When he was calmer and cooler she left him, but only to retrieve her transistor.
“Extensive flooding ⦠reported ⦠Connecticut shore.” The crackle came through in broken phrases.
“You don't say,” she mumbled caustically, nestling into the rattan chair from which she could monitor her patient's condition as well.
But the voice had more good news to report. “Hundreds of telephone lines ⦠knocked down ⦔
“Tell me something I
don't
know,” she whispered in facetious challenge, which, to her horror, the faceless announcer promptly seized upon.
“ ⦠and tens of thousands ⦠left without electricity ⦔
“Uh-oh,” she moaned, her fearful eyes skittering to the pale shaft of light that filtered in from the living room. “Spare me that. Anything ⦠but that!”
The crackle went on blithely. “Damage estimates from ⦠storm ⦠worst in thirty years ⦠put in multimillions ⦠wind and rain rage on. Trees ⦠uprooted, windows shattered ⦠roofs have caved in ⦔
Every muscle in April's body tensed. “I take that back,” she countered contritely, her husky voice faltering. “I'll do without lights for a while, if this old house will just stay in one piece.” Her eye ranged over the ceiling and walls, built over a century before to withstand the ire of the Atlantic. As though to second her plea, the house groaned in loud torment as it fought the force of the hurricane, then was still ⦠but intact. The breath she'd been holding was slowly expelled. “Thank you,” she whispered in heavenly appreciation, before turning her attention to the bed.
How nice to sleep through this,
she mused, then caught herself at the realization of all else this man had
not
slept through. Once again, the jumble of questions assaulted her; once again, she came up empty-handed.