The Great American Bachelor

by Adrienne Staff

  She wandered from bow to stern, from leeward to starboard, not knowing a single nautical term but enjoying every step. A steward scared the life out of her by materializing without a sound at her elbow with a steaming cup of coffee, but the coffee was wonderful, freshly brewed and flavored with cinnamon, and she thanked him profusely. From then on she kept a semi-watchful eye on the portholes and hatches, but no one else was stirring.

  Shading her eyes with the flat of one hand, she checked the sun. “Cock crow or earlier,” she decided. Six-thirty, maybe seven. Early. A lovely, early, have-the-world-all-to-yourself time.

  “A penny for your thoughts?”

  The husky, not yet familiar sound of Michael’s voice caused her to spin her around. A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “A dollar, then. Deal?”

  “My thoughts are my own, to keep or give away.” She tipped her head, wide eyes shining. “But you’re welcome to my observations.”

  “If they have to do with last night, I think I’d rather pass.”

  Cathy blinked. Did he really care what she thought, this man of contradictions, this gorgeous playboy, this confirmed bachelor? Or was this just a move in a game she had never played? Hiding her thoughts behind a smile sweet as a Hershey kiss, she answered, “These are strictly early morning observations. Minted fresh with the sunrise.”

  “Okay. Then I’m ready. What does an Indiana girl see here?” He swept an arm out to the horizon.

  Cathy leaned both arms on the rail and rested her chin in her hands. “I see dolphins dancing on the waves, and waves tossed by the wind, each wearing little white bonnets with their strings flying loose behind, and more colors of blue and green than I ever thought existed. What makes all those blues?” she mused, pointing a slim hand down toward the water.

  “Water currents. Rivers that flow through the ocean just as rivers do on land. And changes in depth. There are mountains down there, and valleys. Plains. Outcroppings of coral and huge reefs made from the minuscule bodies of millions of tiny creatures.” His voice was soft yet powerful, and so utterly serious that Cathy turned to look at him.

  He loved this, she realized with a start. Something here was special to him. Cherished. Whether he admitted it or not.

  Feeling her gaze on his face, Michael turned. His grin was sudden, boyish, and unexpected. “Hey, you’re supposed to be looking out there. And you’re supposed to be doing the talking. That was the deal.”

  “And I’d never welsh on a bargain.” She grinned back. “Observation number two: We are definitely heading for that island, the one with the candy-cane lighthouse, which suits me just fine, since I’ve never seen anything so pretty. Oh—” She squinted into the distance. “It’s not just one island, is it? More like a string of beads on a necklace, pearls in a turquoise sea …”

  “Cays,” he said, pronouncing it “keys.”

  “Ah. Cays. And do they have names?”

  “Together they’re called the Abacos. It’s a chain of islands curving about one hundred thirty miles north to south, from Walker’s Cay to Hole-in-the-Wall.”

  “Great name!”

  “There’s more: Strangers Cay, Green Turtle Cay and Whale Cay, Treasure Cay, and that, right ahead of us, is Hope Town.”

  “That’s a nice destination.” She nodded, smiling at the rightness of it.

  “Optimist!”

  “Maybe.” She laughed. “But if you think I’m going to start singing ‘I’m as corny as Kansas in August …’ you’re mistaken.”

  “Wrong ocean,” he teased.

  “Wrong girl.” She tossed him a wink.

  “Okay, so at least I know they have theater in Indiana.”

  “They have everything in Indiana.”

  “Not islands.”

  “No,” she conceded, “not islands. And certainly not tropical islands with palm trees and white sandy beaches. Which makes it a perfect ending for my adventure.”

  “I’m glad you’re satisfied.”

  “Oh, I am!”

  “Good. And you’ll be glad to be heading home?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and stared out at the ocean, frowning. “So …”

  “Sew a stitch,” she quipped, and a grin stole up to her sparkling eyes. “That was one of Gap’s favorite sayings whenever I stood around and sulked.”

  His jaw dropped. “I am not sulking.”

  “Oh. Pardon me. It must be one of those high-powered stress-induced mood swings I’ve read so much about in Psychology Today.” Her chin trembled with laughter. “Of course,” she added as though to the gulls, “back home in Indiana we call it sulking.”

  “I—am—not—sulking.”

  “No. Now you’re yelling.”

  “I am not yelling,” he insisted, and though his eyes were fierce, the corner of his mouth had twitched up in a grin. He stared at her, eyes narrowed, his gaze jumping across her eyes, mouth, cheeks, chin, forehead. As if his eyes were steel and her face a magnet.

  Cathy let him look, refusing to acknowledge the heat that rushed to her cheeks. Why, if she were granted a wish, she would find out what it was like to fall in love with a man like this. She would let her heart pound like a drum, and feel her blood surge like the tide. She would step inside the fairy tale, all right. After all, Cinderella did marry the prince.…

  “What are you thinking?” he demanded, his gaze locked on hers now.

  “None of your business,” she answered, spinning around and laughing up at the gulls.

  Michael stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Tell me,” he whispered in her hair. “Tell me.”

  The heat of his breath sent shivers racing down her spine. Her nipples tingled and her knees went weak. Crazy! She thought. This is crazy, some game he plays.

  “Tell me.”

  Crazy. Crazy. She turned in his arms and looked up into his face. There was something, something in his eyes, some feeling, some need glimpsed like a fish in deep blue seas … something reaching for her.…

  Before she knew she would, she rose on tiptoe and kissed him, fitting her mouth to his, tasting his lips, his breath, his sweetness.

  Michael was too surprised to kiss her back. In a second she had pulled away and the salt breeze was on his lips where her kiss had been, and his throat was dry. He stared at her. It was as if the sun had risen at night, or the ship leapt up and sailed through the sky. The world had gone mad.

  “Sorry,” she said, eyes round as marbles. “Sorry!” She started to laugh with embarrassment, her shoulders shaking. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what made me do that.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” His voice was rough and low.

  “But I am! I’m not that forward. Honest I’m not.”

  “That’s not what I think—”

  “Then you must think I’m crazy.”

  Laughing at her echo of his own thoughts, he answered, “Crazy, yes. Crazy and wonderful. Cathy—” He caught her in his arms and pulled her tight against him, the narrowness of her trapped within the circle of his arms. “Cathy—”

  “Michael.” She struggled, flattening her palms against his chest. “Forget it ever happened! Let me go.”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  “Michael.” She gasped, half laughing, half frowning, “This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “For once I don’t care. For once I don’t want to make sense. I don’t want to be logical and calculating, weighing all the possible gains and losses. Not this time. For once maybe it doesn’t have to make sense to be right.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Michael Winters I saw last night,” she teased, tipping her head back to watch the play of light on his face.

  He tightened his hold. “Good! Then maybe—”

  A door clicked shut behind them. “Mr. Winters? Excuse me.”

  Michael spun away, his body tense, his face wiped blank.

  It was the first mate,
eyes dropped politely to the deck.

  “Yes? What is it?” Michael demanded.

  “Fax for you, sir.” He held it out in a sealed envelope.

  “Thank you. Excuse me one minute, Cathy.” He ripped open the envelope and scanned the message. His dark brows furrowed in concentration.

  “Bad news?” Cathy asked.

  “What?” His eyes flicked to her face. “No. Just a confirmation of a meeting. No problem. And there will be no reply,” he added to the mate. “Thank you.”

  He folded the fax and slipped it into his pocket. “So … where were we?”

  “Heading into Hope Town,” she answered, her eyes lit with amusement.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He had moved nearer, near enough for his breath to stir the hair at her temples as he leaned down, near enough for her to feel his heat through his shirt. “Let’s try that again, Cathy. This time I’ll lead—”

  “And we should get in about half a waltz before they throw the anchor. No, Michael.” She slipped out from under his arm and leaned back against the rail. “I’m not a half-a-waltz kind of person.”

  He studied her like a contract, top to bottom, reading every detail, eyes cool and evaluating. Then he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, drew a breath, and smiled. “Take a later plane, Cathy. Meet me for lunch when I’m done with my meeting. Will you?”

  The first mate stepped back into sight. “ ’Scuse me, sir. Captain asked me to tell you—”

  “Just a minute.” Michael waved him to silence. “Will you, Cathy? Please?”

  She wanted to argue, or at least explain why it was silly. The earliest plane out was the one to catch. Get home. Find a job. Leave this dream behind her. But he had a presence, a power that flowed like an invisible electric current from him, through the salt air and up through her fingertips and from the soles of her feet straight to the back of her skull. Zap! She could not think. Could not argue in front of this wide-eyed first mate even if she got her thoughts together. She opened her mouth to say no. “All right,” she said softly.

  “Good,” he said, and then turned around. “Yes? The message?”

  “We’ll be docking in ten minutes, sir. Less now.”

  “Thank you. I’m ready.” When the mate left, he swung his electric-blue gaze back to her face. “And thank you, Cathy. I’ll meet you at noon over at Marsh Harbor. I already had the captain wire ahead for some clothes for you, so you can take your time here on board, or look around Hope Town, and then someone will bring you over to the restaurant in one of the small boats.”

  “But what if your meeting runs late—”

  “It won’t.”

  “What if you get tied up?” she insisted, picturing herself marooned on this tropical island with a yachtful of the rich and famous.

  “I’ll untie myself.” He laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Good.” His teeth flashed in a reckless grin. “And you won’t be sorry.”

  Did that come with a guarantee, Cathy wondered as the ship swung sharply to port on its final approach to the harbor. The captain sounded the ship’s horn, and the cabin doors slid open to a sudden flurry of reporters and photographers. Cathy was swept aside by the rush and babble.

  “Mr. Winters, can we come along for a quick interview with the sheikh?”

  “No.”

  “How about just a few pictures?”

  “No.”

  “We won’t—”

  “I said no. This is business.”

  Without another word Michael spun on his heel and stalked inside. The crowd followed.

  Cathy was suddenly left alone … just her and the candy-striped lighthouse guarding the entrance to Hope Town. The engine quieted to a purr. The yacht nudged gently into its slip. Everything else could have been a dream, some waking fantasy of Michael and the kiss and the promise. Was it a dream? Had any of it happened?

  Moments later his dark head appeared below as, with long, smooth strides, he stepped off the yacht and across the wooden pier to a waiting car.

  Cathy leaned out and waved, already smiling, certain he would turn and look for her up on deck. He never turned. He vanished into the car and was gone.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered to the gulls, feeling foolish and transparent. “Caught with my hand in the cookie jar!” Heart thumping, she hurried back to her cabin.

  She would call her credit card company, call the airport, arrange a flight. She would leave a note, go back to Orlando, where she belonged. And never see him again? The thought sent her heart tumbling to her feet. That would happen soon enough. Why hurry it along?

  Instead, she lingered in the bath, dawdled over breakfast. Then there was a steward at the door with an array of boxes, and she spent the next half hour trying on clothes. She settled on a sundress in hand-painted cotton, a pair of sandals to replace those the sea had stolen, and a wide straw hat. Standing in front of the mirror, she looked very islandish, not at all like herself. Feeling carefree, she went up on deck.

  The first mate materialized at once. “ ’Morning, ma’am. Mr. Winters asked me to take you over to Marsh Harbor in the Whaler before noon.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Those are my orders.”

  He was so formal, he made her nervous.

  “Well, I—I was just going to wander around for a while. Take a look at the lighthouse, maybe walk down on the beach.”

  All of a sudden he was looking nervous.

  “Don’t worry,” she assured him, “I’ll be back on time. We wouldn’t want to keep Mr. Winters waiting.”

  “No, ma’am, we wouldn’t. I’ll have the boat ready at eleven forty-five.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks.” And then she made a quick escape.

  She spent the next hour strolling around the lighthouse. She shaded her eyes against the bright tropical sun, read the historical markers, marveled at the vivid profusion of flowers. The sun was warm on her head and shoulders, and her skin prickled with anticipation.

  “Ms. Stephenson?”

  It was the first mate, polite but determined.

  “Oh, hi! How are you?”

  “Fine, ma’am,” he said, touching his cap. “We’re running a few minutes late.”

  “Are we? Sorry. The time just flew. I’ve never seen any place so pretty.”

  “The Whaler is tied up back at the pier, ma’am.”

  “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s go.” Holding on to her hat, she hurried to keep up with his quick pace.

  The poor young man did not say another word, he was so unglued. He helped her into the little outboard, started the engine, and raced them across the crystal-clear waters of Great Abaco Sound. They pulled up to the bustling Boat Harbor Marina and he helped her out and then, holding tight to her elbow as if afraid she’d get away and he’d have to face Michael Winters empty-handed, he hurried her toward the Great Abaco Beach Hotel.

  Michael was not there yet, and a little color crept back into the young mate’s cheeks. “Here you are, Ms. Stephenson. Have a nice lunch.”

  He was gone before she could thank him, or ask him to wait in case Michael never showed.

  “Oh, well,” she said to herself, and followed the hostess to a table near the window. Outside, the sunlight was pouring down upon the street, the marina, and the sound beyond. Incredible! Here she was island-hopping like a pro. Now, where was she? Oh, yes, Marsh Harbor. Was that the name of the town? The cay?

  “Excuse me,” she ventured as the hostess reappeared with someone’s cocktail. “But what is the name of this cay?”

  The hostess smiled and placed the drink in front of her. “This is Great Abaco Island,” she answered in an English blended of proper British and warm Bahamian. “Think of it as a mother duckling, and the cays are all her little ducks swimming along in a row nearby. And this”—she winked—“is a Bahama Breeze, specialty of the house, and meant to be sipped slowly until Mr. Winters arrives. He
regrets his delay.”

  Cathy chuckled appreciatively. The man did not miss a move. Was someone born knowing exactly the right thing to do at the right time with just the right style? Or did it come during infancy along with milk if one was raised in New York City or Paris or Rio or somewhere equally exotic?

  She rested her chin on her palm and looked out the window.

  There was Michael Winters, striding down the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder with a sheikh in full flowing robe and head covering, trailed by six narrow-shouldered, slim young men in dark suits and fierce scowls, and they were all turning in at the front.

  Cathy caught her breath in amazement.

  Before she could let it out again, Michael was there, standing tall beside her chair. “Cathy Stephenson, I’d like to introduce Sheikh Hamoudi. Sheikh, Ms. Cathy Stephenson from Indiana.”

  “Charmed.” The sheikh smiled, kissing her hand.

  “The same here.” Cathy grinned, wide-eyed and biting back her laughter. “Will you be joining us for lunch?”

  Michael’s dark brow rose, but the sheikh was already bowing low over her hand. “Thank you, but I must hurry back to the ship. There are arrangements to be made.” He turned to Michael. “I will be in touch as soon everything is settled.”

  “Fine. I enjoyed our meeting.”

  “As did I. And,” he said, his smile reappeared, “Indiana must be lovely place.”

  He turned and strode out the door, six bodyguards in his wake.

  Michael had settled into the seat across from Cathy and was studying her with a mixture of pleasure and amusement. “Sorry about that, but somehow I let slip the fact I was meeting you for lunch, and there was no deterring him.”

  “Understandable,” she teased. “Outside of Indiana, I’m best known here in the Abacos.” Her laughter bubbled in her throat like the fizz in fine champagne. Her eyes sparkled. “Honestly, Michael, why in the world did he drag that whole parade in here?”

  “I think it was because I said you were waiting and that I wouldn’t be late.”