by Anne Stuart
She was still shaking, racked by stray spasms, when he withdrew from her and pulled her into his arms. She buried her face against his chest, hiding, weeping, as he held her. He kissed the top of her head, her cheekbones, every place he could reach.
And finally, when she’d stopped crying, when she could breathe again, when she could move without another orgasm shimmering through her, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes.
“Yes,” she said.
Chapter Fourteen
The night was endless, over in moments. He pulled the mosquito netting around them, closing them in a curtained wonderland, closing out the world. And she talked to him. She told him of silly things, of things that mattered. And he talked to her. Things he said he’d never told anyone else, and she believed him. And they made love. Endlessly. He took her body beyond limits she hadn’t even realized existed, and he coaxed her past fear and shyness until, by morning, she was a glorious, brazen vixen. He pulled her onto his lap, letting her find him, fill herself with him, and he sat back, not moving, under iron control, while she learned what pleasured her, how to bring herself to the very edge and then hold back, just slightly, to make it more powerful. And he lay back against the pillows, watching her out of half-closed eyes, and this time it was his fists that clutched the sheets until they ripped in his hands, while she moved against him, taking him deep inside her.
She could feel the heated tingles dancing against her skin, feel the shuttered darkness begin to close in, and she slowed, clutching his shoulders, pleading. “Finish it,” she gasped. “I can’t…”
He shook his head, but she could feel the fierce tension running through his body, and she knew the price it cost him to deny her. “You do it,” he said. “You tell me when.”
“I can’t,” she said, but she began to move again, unable to stop herself, needing more of him, needing all of him, needing what he was holding back, and when she felt herself begin to fly apart she cried out.
“Now!” she gasped, and he was with her, immediately, joining with her as they tumbled into oblivion.
She collapsed against him, breathless, sweating, and she kissed his mouth, laughing. He reached up to cup her face, holding her still, when there was a sudden noisy pounding at the front door.
They both froze. Libby tried to pull away from him, but he caught her and held her, still inside her. “Who is it?” he called out, sounding about as welcoming as a wild boar.
“Who the hell do you think it is, mate?” A voice called back. “It’s your old pal Roger, here to pick up a young lady and deliver her to the mainland. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
Dead silence. He tilted his head back and looked up at her. “No,” he said finally. “I haven’t changed my mind. Give us a half an hour and I’ll bring her down to the dock.”
“Make it fifteen minutes. I’ve got a schedule to keep.”
John didn’t try to stop her as she pulled free, sliding off the bed. “I’ll be ready in ten,” she said, grabbing her discarded clothes and heading for the door.
“Libby…”
She turned to look at him. “Yes?”
She didn’t know what she expected him to say. To beg her to stay? Not likely.
She hadn’t even realized how light it was. It must be midmorning. The candles had guttered out sometime during the night, and the mosquito netting lay tangled around the bed. She couldn’t even remember when they tore it down, though she had vague memories of the two of them being tangled in it.
“Nothing,” he said.
She stood there with her clothes held to her naked body, looking at him. He’d done exactly what he said he was going to do and no more. He’d given her the best night of sex she could even begin to imagine. He hadn’t offered anything else.
She turned to go, thanking God that she’d wept enough during the night, only to step in something soft and gooey. She looked down to see that she’d stepped in her discarded pan of brownies. Right at a time when she really needed chocolate.
She took the fastest shower on record, threw on the clothes she’d brought with her, shoved her feet in her battered sandals and started out the door to the dock, hoping against hope that she’d get out of there without seeing John again. She was halfway to the small, compact steamboat when she realized he was standing there talking to the captain, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. And that her shirt smelled like him.
She looked down. There was a spaghetti stain on the front, and she hadn’t had spaghetti last night. She’d accidentally taken his shirt from the floor, and there was nothing she could do about it at this point, short of ripping it off and going topless to the mainland.
She could handle it, she told herself. She’d faced worse things and survived. How much worse could it get?
John had his back turned to her, deep in conversation with the weather-beaten, sandy-haired man who seemed to be the entire crew of the disreputable-looking steamer. John had a bite mark on the side of his neck. Scratches on his back. A love bruise right above his hip. She could only imagine what else was covered up.
Miraculously she didn’t blush. After last night she was past blushing. “There’s the little lady now,” the captain said. “Now, don’t you worry, miss, old Roger will see to everything. There are not many people John Hunter trusts, but I’m proud to say I’m one of them. I’ll see you safely on your way back to your people.”
She smiled at him, studiously ignoring John as she climbed aboard the boat. “You’re very kind.”
Roger gave her a gold-toothed grin. “Always glad to help a damsel in distress, I am. Though I think John’s a damned fool—”
“Thanks, Roger.” John interrupted him calmly, forestalling his comments. “I’ll see you when you get back. Libby…?” He turned to her, but she’d moved carefully out of his way. She had no idea how he planned to say goodbye to her, but she wasn’t taking any chances. If he touched her, kissed her, she’d probably throw herself at his feet and beg him not to send her away. And that would be excruciatingly horrible for both of them.
So she scurried behind Roger, out of reach, and gave him a bright, cheery smile. It didn’t reach her eyes, but John was, after all, a man. He’d believe what he wanted to believe, and not look for hidden meanings.
“Thanks for everything, John,” she said breezily. “I’ll send you a postcard when I get back to Chicago.”
He stared at her, an odd, arrested expression on his face, and for a long, breathless moment she thought he would do just what she wanted. Take her by the hand and drag her off the boat, back to the house. He’d kidnapped her twice already—why couldn’t he make it a nice round number like three?
“Goodbye, Libby,” he said. And he turned and jumped off the boat, walking back up the wooden walkway to the house. A moment later he’d disappeared inside, without looking back even once.
“Well, I’d say he’s a right fool,” Roger said, untying the boat. The engine was already running, and it took him less than a moment to steer the craft into the water. “But then, I expect you know that, don’t you, miss? Sun’s pretty bright out here, ain’t it? Don’t blame you for squinting.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you go below and get yourself a nice cuppa while I make some distance between us and that miserable old hermit. Nothing grieves me more than a man who doesn’t appreciate what he’s got.”
She tried her absolute best to manage a breezy smile, but it fell far short, and Captain Roger knew the difference. “Go below, miss, and take a little nap. You’ll feel better once we hit the mainland.”
“How…long will it take?” It was only a slight hiccup, and he couldn’t have known she was trying desperately not to cry. Or at least, he couldn’t be certain.
“Three or four hours, depending on the tides,” said Captain Roger. “No time at all, miss. You’ll be there in time for a late lunch. A little food and a cold beer always makes things look better. As a matter of fact, there’s a cold beer or two below if you’re feeling the
need.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. But I—” hiccup “—think I will lie down for a while.”
“You do that, miss. I’ll call you when we get near land.”
She disappeared down the companionway, and Roger shook his head. Most people were damned fools, but he’d always figured John Hunter had more brains than most. Guess he was mistaken, and he had every intention of telling him so once he got back.
And maybe it wouldn’t be too late for that sweet little thing sobbing her heart out down in the cabin.
JOHN WALKED STRAIGHT through the house and onto the porch that ran along the back of it. He didn’t hesitate, diving into the forest that surrounded his place with a single-minded determination. He broke into a run, covering the ground swiftly, barely aware of his surroundings. It wasn’t until he’d reached the top of the cliffs that he realized what he’d been doing. He’d been running away from Libby.
Because if he’d stayed back at the house, stood on the porch and watched her leave, he wouldn’t have let her go. And that would have been crazy for both of them.
He could see the little steamer moving down the coast, and there was Roger at the helm, probably singing some bawdy song like he always did, John thought. Or maybe not, out of deference to his passenger.
There was no sign of Libby, and he cursed beneath his breath. If he’d any idea that this hilltop had been his eventual destination he would have stopped and grabbed some binoculars.
She must be in the cabin taking a nap. It would be little wonder—she’d had a very energetic night with only a few catnaps.
Catnaps. She’d curled up against him, practically purring, and a wave of longing that was only half-sexual and entirely emotional washed over him. He wanted her back. He wanted her sleeping with him, whispering with him, loving with him.
And he was being a damned fool. He wasn’t made for cohabiting, and she wasn’t made for the wilderness. They were completely mismatched, and it was far better to end it after a great night of sex.
The best sex of her life, he’d promised her. But the damnable thing was, it had been the best sex of his life as well, and he’d had a lot more to compare it to.
He watched until the boat steamed out of sight, hoping irrationally for one last glimpse of her. But there was no one on the deck but Roger, and eventually it was no more than a tiny speck in the distance. And then it was gone.
He was half tempted to just keep walking, straight into the forest, but he controlled the need. Instead he headed back down to the cottage, at a much slower pace, in no hurry to go back.
It was just as he’d left it. The first thing he had to do was clean up. She was gone, and it wouldn’t do any good to have reminders all over the place.
He started with the bedroom. The sheet was ripped and stained, and he supposed he ought to just toss it in the trash. Instead he put it in the hamper. He grabbed the mosquito netting and wrapped it into a ball, tossing it in the closet, trying not to remember what they’d been doing when she’d pulled it down around them.
This was going to be fine, he told himself. No problem. He wasn’t even missing her, just a little leftover sexual angst, but that would pass, and he could settle in and get back to his research….
And that’s when he saw the brownie pan on the floor, with her footprint as clear as day. He picked it up, staring down at it as if it were some miraculous prehistoric artifact. And for some damned fool reason he set it on the kitchen counter rather than tossing it.
He was sitting on the lanai, on his second beer and feeling about as cheerful as a martyr on the way to the stake, when he heard the sounds of the steamer on its return trip, and he felt a sudden stirring in the pit of his stomach. What if she’d flat-out refused to leave? What if she told Roger she was coming back, and he couldn’t stop her?
Not that Roger would stop her. He thought John was a damned fool for letting her go, and he would have happily carted her all the way back. Roger was a sentimental old fool. He still believed in true love and all that garbage.
What would he do if she came back? He’d have to make certain things clear, of course. There’d have to be ground rules—he wasn’t used to living with anyone else, and she wasn’t the type to just fade into the woodwork. She was even more obtrusive when she was being silent.
But he could manage to put up with it, quite nicely, as a matter of fact. She hadn’t said anything about wanting to stay, but he’d only had to take one look at her face from across the boat to know that she would. If he’d only asked.
Roger was right, he was a damned fool sometimes. But Roger didn’t know Libby. She may have let him send her away, but sooner or later on that five-hour trip her temper was going to get the better of her, and he’d be willing to bet anything that she was coming back to him, right this minute, ready to give him a piece of her mind. He just had to talk her into giving him a piece of her heart.
She wasn’t on the deck as Roger pulled up to the dock, but he didn’t let that discourage him. She was probably still below, trying to figure out her best plan of attack.
Except that Roger didn’t look particularly happy as he tied up the boat and hopped out. Not happy with life in general, and not happy with John in particular.
“You got another one of those beers, mate?” he called out. “I’ve had one hell of a day.”
“I’ve been saving this one for you,” he said, handing him one. Still no sign of life at the boat. How was she going to handle this?
“What the hell are you looking at?” Roger demanded irritably. “You think the Katie O. is going to sink?”
He turned to look at Roger. “Are you alone?”
“Of course I’m alone, you great stupid fool! You think she’d come back after you kicked her out and didn’t even kiss her goodbye? She spent the whole damned trip down in the cabin crying her heart out. You’re one right bastard, you know that.”
John took a long drink of his beer, ignoring the chill, sick feeling that hit his stomach. “Yeah, I know,” he said evenly.
“Lucky for you she found some old friends of hers. I wouldn’t have wanted to leave her alone in town, but she met up with a couple of blokes and went off with them, arm in arm….”
“She did what?”
“No need to get your knickers in a twist!” Roger said. “You let her go, you know. Besides, they weren’t anything more than friends. One big, ugly guy and a little weaselly fellow. Can’t imagine where she knew them from, but they were as thick as thieves, rushing her out of there before I could even say goodbye.”
“Hell and damnation,” said John. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes for what, mate?”
“We’re going after her.” He was already heading for the front door.
“I’m not making a special trip all the way back to Johnson Harbour because you happened to screw up your love life. You’ll just have to wait—”
“I can’t wait. Those weren’t her friends, Roger. They’ll kill her.”
Roger stared at him blankly. “Well, what are you waiting for then? Let’s get the hell back there.”
“NOW, AIN’T THIS CONVENIENT?” Alf said jovially as they hurried her along the narrow streets of Johnson Harbour. “Here we were, ready to hire a boat to go checking some of the outer islands for any trace of you, and you walk straight into our arms. Must be bloody fate, don’t you think, Mick?”
“Must be,” Mick mumbled.
“And don’t think of making a noise, missy. I can break your neck so quickly no one will even notice, and we’ll tell people you’ve got sunstroke. You’re not ready to die yet, are you?”
“No,” Libby mumbled.
“Then you’ll do as I say. There’s the car up ahead. You climb in the back seat, all nice and ladylike, and don’t make a peep, or Mick will have to hurt you.”
She turned to look at Mick. He had an utterly miserable expression on his face, but she didn’t for one moment doubt that he’d do what Alf told him to do.
The car was an anonymous rental. Alf was taking no chances—he blocked the door as he helped her in, so she had no chance of escape. Mick had climbed in the other side, and she was well and truly trapped.
She had two seconds to plead while Alf walked around to the driver’s seat. “Mick, you don’t want to do this,” she said urgently. “You don’t want to hurt me, you know you don’t.”
“No, miss,” he said miserably. “And I promise you, I won’t. I’ll make sure Alf does it neat and tidy. No pain at all. Trust me.”
It didn’t warm the cockles of her heart. Alf got in the driver’s seat and the car sagged. He glanced at Libby in the rearview mirror, and she glared at him, resisting the childish impulse to stick her tongue out at him. For some reason the idea of sticking her tongue out at her future murderer seemed a bit…ludicrous.
“Looks like our little lady’s been having herself some fun while she’s been gone,” Alf observed. “Doesn’t she have the look of someone who’s been royally shagged? Where is he, Doc?”
“Go to hell,” she said sweetly.
“I tried to be reasonable,” Alf said with a sigh. “You can tell Old Ed that, if he asks. Give her the shot, Mick. We want her nice and peaceful while we bring her back to Ghost Island.”
“No!” Libby cried, but Mick had already jabbed her arm with a syringe. She recognized those syringes—they were the ones she’d emptied and filled with water, dumping out the potent tranquilizers. It was a perfect chance. All she had to do was fake it and they’d stop watching her, and she’d be able to escape, and…
She could feel her hands and feet growing numb, and she realized with horror that, by sheer luck, they’d gotten one of the syringes she hadn’t sabotaged.
“Hell and damnation,” she muttered thickly as the darkness closed in around her.
Chapter Fifteen