Blue Velvet

by Iris Johansen

  Seifert nodded. "Right away. I suppose it would be rudely inquisitive of me to ask what she's safe from?"

  "I'll tell you later." Beau's hand on her elbow was propelling her forward. "You'll be sorry you missed it."

  "Possibly," the captain drawled. "Your compan­ions in deviltry aren't generally as charming as Miss Gilbert." He watched Beau open the door to the passage to the lower deck. "But haven't you for­gotten something?"

  Beau glanced over his shoulder impatiently.

  "What?" "Where am I to get under way for? Trinidad?" Beau shrugged. "Just get out of Costellano territorial waters PDQ. We'll decide our destination tomorrow."

  Three

  The master cabin was surprisingly large and luxu­rious for a sailing vessel. The bunk against the far wall was oversized and covered with a denim spread in a cheerful melon color that contrasted with the rich oak of the walls and the brown and beige tweed of the carpet. The built-in bookcase was enclosed with doors that were carved with a fretted openwork design that gave the modern room a pleasing touch of Mediterranean opulence.

  "This is very nice," Kate said, her gaze lingering on the bookcase. "I can see what you mean by being comfortable." All those lovely books. The doors offered tempting glimpses of everything from leather-bound weighty-looking tomes to bright slick jacketed novels. What wouldn't she give for a week with that bookcase.

  Then with a little sense of shock she realized she might very well have that week. That was why she was in this cabin. To make herself available to Beau Lantry in that bunk she'd been admiring so impersonally. Tonight. He'd said he wanted to con­summate their bargain as soon as possible and brought her to his cabin for that purpose. Why wasn't she more nervous at the thought of that consummation with this total stranger? The only thing she seemed capable of feeling was this chill­ing weariness and lethargy that seemed to be seeping into every bone.

  "I'm glad you like it," Beau said crisply. With his hand beneath her elbow, he steered her across the room toward the bed. "Since you'll be spending a good deal of time here in the future. Sit down." He gave her a nudge that reinforced the invitation that was more of a command and she found herself sitting on the edge of the bunk and gazing up at him wearily. His hands were on the buttons of her chambray shirt and he had three of them unbut­toned before she fully realized what he was doing. So soon? Evidently he was too impatient to wait any longer for his payment.

  She looked up into his intent face bent close to her own. She didn't try to interfere with his deft disrobing of her. He was perfectly entitled to claim his rights to her body at any time he chose, she thought tiredly. She just wished he'd given her a chance to rest a little first. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take a shower before we do it," she said qui­etly. "It's been quite an evening in a number of ways."

  His eyes flew up to meet her eyes and she saw a flicker of surprise in their depths. "Do 'it'?" There was a thread of barely repressed anger in his voice. "What the hell kind of men have you been sleeping with, for Lord's sake? Do they all jump your bones when you're so tired and hurt you're practically ready to pass out?"

  She looked down at her half-opened shirt in con­fusion. "But then why—"

  "I'm going to get you cleaned up and into bed," he interrupted harshly. "And not to 'do it,' blast it! But first I want to take a look at your head. That bastard clipped you pretty damn hard in spite of what you said. I wanted to examine it back at the warehouse, but I didn't think you'd let me without putting up a fight and that would have been worse for you than the walk back to the ship."

  "There's nothing wrong with me. I told you ..."

  He finished unbuttoning the blue shirt and pushed it off her shoulders, his hand reaching around to unfasten her plain white bra with expe­rienced skill. "Bull. I was a professional athlete too long not to recognize the signs. You were carrying yourself all the way back here as though you'd break apart at any minute."

  "You were an athlete?" she repeated, surprised. "No wonder you looked so coordinated when you dove through that window."

  "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I wasn't a circus acrobat as you thought," he said wryly. "I was a featured skater in an ice revue for a while and then a coach for an Olympic contender the next six years."

  "And what do you do now?"

  "At the moment I appear to be acting as a combi­nation lady's maid and ship's doctor," he said crisply as he lowered the bra straps over her arms. "But usually I'm a glorified bum. The glory result­ing when you're properly endowed with filthy lucre."

  "I see."

  "Do you?" He glanced up, his eyes narrowed on her face. "No recriminations for being a worthless playboy, no attempts at reformation of my wicked dissolute ways?"

  "I don't have any right to do that," she said gravely. "And you don't seem all that dissolute."

  "Perhaps not in comparison with some of your companions," he agreed grimly. He pulled the bra away from her breasts and then froze. He inhaled sharply. "Liane was wrong. You're not thin at all." He reached out and touched one breast with a hesi­tant, gentle finger. "You're full and beautifully, per­fectly round." His eyes darkened to a smoky hazel. "And so silky." His finger traced a circle about the dark pink nipple. "Golden silk. Lord, I've never seen such skin, warm and soft and silky as a small child's. The first time I saw you in the bar I won­dered if you'd feel like this."

  "Well, now you know," she said shakily. She felt as if that lazy finger were scorching and searing as it moved and suddenly she forgot about the weari­ness and throbbing ache in her temple. She mois­tened her lips. "Have you changed your mind?"

  "No," he said thickly. "My mind is still as resolute as ever, it's my body that's undergoing all the changes. Are you this tan all over?"

  She nodded. "I like the sun. There's a little pool in the rain forest where we keep the Cessna that I sunbathe next to sometimes."

  His finger touched the perky pink tip. "Nude?" he asked huskily.

  "Yes." She could barely get the word out. "There's never anyone around." Her throat was dry and tight and she was sure he could hear the beat­ing of her heart caused by his gossamer light touch. She hadn't realized before how sensitive her body could be, how a tentative caress could send hot signals to her entire body. She didn't have to look down to realize that her nipple was budding and her breast flowering for him. She could see it in the darkening of Beau's eyes. Strange, she felt as if all their responses were now curiously linked.

  "I'm going to watch you do that someday," he said, his voice as velvet soft as his finger. "I'm going to sit and watch the sun pour down on you like golden rain, caressing you and making you glow." His thumb and index finger pinched gently and she felt an aching incompletion in her loins. "And then I'm going to come to you and make you glow for me. I want to feel you open and flower and tremble." She could see the wild cadence of the pulse beat in his temple. "I want to know that everything I do to you will make you shine and melt and flow." He drew a deep shuddering breath and shook his head as if to clear it. "I must be going crazy. For a minute I could actually see you lying there waiting for me to come to you." His hand dropped away and he stepped backward. "Come on, we'd better get you in the shower or I'm going to forget you're not fair game." He pulled her to her feet. "Get out of the rest of those clothes while I find something for you to put on." He strode to the built-in closet and slid back the door. "Tomorrow you'll have to make do with a pair of my shorts and a T-shirt while your own things are being laun­dered. Do you often have to make a run for it with only the clothes on your back?"

  "No, this is the first time." She kicked off her tennis shoes and pulled off her jeans, her gaze fixed on his back as he riffled through the closet. "Actually, we don't move all that often. Jeffrey sets up operations and lets his clients come to him. We've been on Castellano for about four years."

  "You make him sound like a corporate attorney," Beau drawled. "But from what I hear about Castellano, it must have been ideally suited to your friend's occupation." He
pulled out an ice-blue satin negligee trimmed in fine Valenciennes lace. "I thought I remembered seeing this in there," he said, looking at it critically. "Barbara must have forgotten it when she left the ship at Barbados. The blue should be good with your eyes. Do you object to wearing another woman's clothes?"

  Barbara? How many of his mistresses had occupied this cabin and why did the thought of those women hurt so much? "No, I don't mind," she said softly. "I'd be awfully ungrateful to be that petty, wouldn't I?"

  "I'm glad you're so sensible. I know quite a few women who'd. . ." He glanced back over his shoul­der and the words died away. She was totally naked and standing there gazing at him with clear unflinching honesty. No coyness, just the quiet serene acceptance that had so moved him before. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and wea­riness in the slight droop of her shoulders, but it didn't affect the valiant sturdiness of her stance. He must be getting old, he thought cynically, he'd never before looked at a lovely naked woman and only noticed how courageous she was. And she was lovely. Those beautiful full breasts flowed into the supple slenderness of her waist and hips and her long legs were strong and shapely. Her entire body was strong and graceful yet there was a fragil­ity about her bone structure that gave her an air of intense vulnerability. Strength and vulnerability. The ambivalent physical mixture was echoed in her personality and he was finding it a very explo­sive combination, indeed. He glanced at the negligee in his hand and felt a sudden violent distaste he refused to examine too closely. He impulsively hung the robe back in the closet and pulled a white terry-cloth one of his own off its hanger.

  "This will be more comfortable," he said tersely, sliding the closet door closed and tossing the robe on the bunk. "Come on." He opened the door to the adjacent bathroom and stepped into its brown and beige ceramic confines. He adjusted the water in the frosted shower stall to a warm soothing flow and stepped aside with a mockingly gallant ges­ture. "Mademoiselle. I'll join you in a moment as soon as I get out of these clothes." The frosted shower door closed between them.

  She was glad the sudden hotness of her cheeks could be attributed to the steam that was rising from the water. It had been intimidating enough having him look at her for those long moments with that curiously enigmatic expression, but she hadn't imagined he'd be stripping and stepping into the tiny shower cubicle with her. There was scarcely room for one, much less two, beneath the spray. She drew a deep steadying breath and squared her chin. What earthly difference did it make? Now or later both minor and major intima­cies would come at Beau Lantry's discretion. She'd better be prepared to accept that fact.

  "Move a little forward, Kate." The frosted glass door was open and she instinctively obliged as Beau stepped into the shower and closed the door behind him. She could feel the warmth of his chest touching her back as he leaned forward to pick up the soap from the holder. "Let me get a little of this stench off of me and then I'll take care of you. Toss­ing garbage cans around and playing with gasoline and trash piles sure tests a man's deodorant." She could feel him moving behind her, occasionally touching her as he soaped his chest and torso, but she kept her gaze fixed rigidly on the ceramic wall in front of her. "Are you feeling all right? No dizzi­ness or nausea?"

  "No, I told you I was fine," she said quickly. Except for the way her heart was pounding as if it wanted to jump out of her breast. Except for her skin that was becoming so sensitive to the casual brush of his that it seemed to ache and burn with every touch. "He didn't hurt me."

  "The hell he didn't." His hands were at her waist as he shifted her a little to the side so that the full spray of water would hit him and rinse off the film of soap. "I should have cremated the bastard."

  "You almost did," she said breathlessly. His hands hadn't lingered on her waist for more than an instant, yet she still felt them there. "For a second I was almost more afraid of you than I was of them."

  "Afraid?" She could feel his gaze on her but her own remained riveted straight ahead. "You didn't give the impression of being frightened. If I recall, you wanted to bust in there and take them both on by yourself."

  "That doesn't mean I wasn't afraid," she said simply. "It was just something that had to be done. You always have to do what has to be done even if you're not very brave. You simply block out every­thing and get it over with."

  "Do you?" There was an odd note of tenderness in his voice. "Then, of course, I was mistaken. No red badge of courage for you."

  "That was a wonderful book, wasn't it?" she asked eagerly, her face lighting up. "I found an English copy in a used bookstore in Maracaibo a few years ago. I can usually only find Spanish or Portuguese translations and I always think it's much nicer to read a book in the original, don't you?"

  "Oh, indubitably," he drawled. "How many lan­guages do you read?"

  "Spanish and Portuguese," she answered. "I speak a little French, but I can't read or write it."

  "What a shame," he said mildly. "Turn around here and let me take a look at that head." His hands were on her shoulders. "So you're a Stephen Crane fan. Who else do you like?"

  "Everyone," she said with a dreamy smile as she obediently turned to face him. "Shakespeare, Sam­uel Clemens, Walter Scott." His hands were part­ing the short wet strands that were clinging seal like around her face. "I particularly like Shakespeare. There's so much music in his words."

  "You have something against the twentieth century?" He was probing gently at the swelling, his expression carefully impersonal.

  "No, it's just easier to get hold of the classics in a foreign country."

  "This doesn't seem too bad," he said, relieved. "No headache?" His hands fell to her nape and began a gentle kneading massage of the tense muscles of her neck and shoulders.

  "No." She found to her surprise that she was speaking the truth. The painful throbbing had all but disappeared and the combination of the sooth­ing spray and those magical fingers were melting every muscle in her body into a state resembling warm butter. Unconsciously she nestled closer, laying her head on his chest like a contented child. "It's all gone."

  "Good." She felt his lips brush her forehead. "Which Shakespearean play do you like best?"

  "Romeo and Juliet. I know it's not considered his most cerebral, but there's something about it that touches me every time. And the words Her arms linked absently about his waist. "They're like sunlight, all clear and shining and beautiful."

  "Golden rain?" he suggested. His thumb had found the cords of tension in the center of her nape with delicious accuracy.

  "Um-hmm." She nodded, conscious of the damp thatch of hair beneath her cheek and the scent of soap and musk that surrounded him. "I never thought of it quite like that, but it's a lovely way to describe it. A golden rain of words." She moved a little closer. "I love the way—" She broke off as she felt the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against her stomach. Her eyes widened in shock as they flew down his body.

  He chuckled. "What did you expect? Those pretty nipples have been poking into me, and I've been dying to cuddle that pert little derriere since the instant I stepped in here. I'm not an iron man, you know."

  She started to back away. "I'm s-sorry," she stammered in confusion. "I didn't mean—"

  "Hush," he said softly. His hands on her nape tightened as he tilted her head up to meet his eyes. "I'm not an iron man but I'm not a boy either. Of course I want you, but I'm not going to throw you down on the floor and rape you. I can handle it." He case a mischievous glance down at himself and his eyes were suddenly dancing. "As long as you prom­ise you won't!"

  A little smile tugged at her lips. The man was really outrageous. "Ill try to restrain myself."

  She was standing here naked as the day she was born actually joking with this impossibly attractive man, she thought in bewilderment. What was even more unusual was that after that first moment of excruciating shyness, she'd felt perfectly natural and relaxed about it. He was such a strange man. Tenderness and violence, mischief and cynicism, vir
ile lust and almost maternal gentleness. Yet she felt as comfortable with him in this moment as if she'd known him for years.

  "I trust you," he said airily, as he reached for the knob and turned off the water. "You've demon­strated an amazing amount of strength of will in other areas. But I still think I'd better get you out of here and away from temptation." He whisked her out of the shower stall and wrapped her carefully in a towel before turning away. "Run along into the cabin while I dry off. You'll find a hair dryer in the top drawer of the dresser and an electric outlet on the wall by the bunk." He patted her bottom through the terry cloth of the towel. "Be sure to put on that robe right away. The air conditioning in the cabin is turned up fairly high to combat the humidity."

  "I'll do that," she said bemusedly as she opened the bathroom door. His streak of possessive protectiveness was constantly catching her off guard and filling her with strange warmth. She was the one who'd always nurtured and protected. It felt very odd being on the receiving end after all these years. Odd . . . and rather nice.

  She was sitting on the bunk, bundled up in the white terry robe and just finishing blow-drying her hair when he padded out of the bathroom. A towel was slung carelessly about his hips, but he was otherwise nude. His hair was still damp but he'd combed it into its former slightly rakish orderli­ness. Without clothes he looked like the athlete he claimed to be, she thought absently. There wasn't an inch of fat on that lean muscular torso and his legs and arms had a supple whipcord strength that was both symmetrical and graceful. He must have been beautiful when he was skating, she thought dreamily. She would have liked to have seen him then, "Why did you quit skating?" she asked impul­sively.

  "I was through with it," he said as he crossed the cabin to stand in front of her. He reached out a hand as if to test the dampness of her hair, but paused to play with a curl, unwinding it and then allowing it to spring back into its former ringlet. "It was fun for a while but I've never been known for my stability. There's no use sticking around once something has lost its zing."