by Anne Stuart
“But I didn’t—”
“There’s a third alternative,” he continued, riding roughshod over her protests. A habit he was going to have to learn to break, she thought fondly. “We live on the island. You have to understand that every now and then even that much civilization is too much for me, and I have to get away. The Australians call it a walkabout. I just need to disappear into the bush for weeks and sometimes even months until I get my bearings back. When that happens, you could go back and spend time in the city. Actually, you could go back any time you wanted, but this way, it would work out best for both of us.”
“You have been putting a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?” She didn’t let her voice give away a thing.
“Have you come up with any alternatives? If you’re worried about the cost of flying back and forth to the States, I wouldn’t if I were you. For one thing, I have pretty much more money than I can ever use in a lifetime. And I’m willing to bet that Hunnicutt decides granting you a generous severance package is the proper thing to do.”
“That’s all he has to do?”
“I’m expecting he’ll deed Ghost Island and the research facility to the University of Cairns and promise never to set foot in Australia again. Of course they won’t hold him to it—he’s got deep-enough pockets that he’ll be welcomed with open arms in a couple of years. Maybe by then he’ll have developed a new hobby. So what do you think?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Fine?” he echoed. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Fine, I’ll come back to the island with you, fine that I’ll stay with you until you decide you need to wander off, and that’s when I’ll get my fix of civilization. It sounds very practical. But actually that wasn’t what I was asking you.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No,” she said. “I mean, what are we going to do now?”
His surprise was only temporary. He glanced back at the door. “There’s a lock. Not that Roger ever comes below when he’s piloting the Katie O. The engines make a hell of a noise—covers up almost anything. Though he said he could hear you crying on the way to Johnson Harbour.”
“He was lying,” she said flatly, daring him to contradict her. “Then we’ve got four hours to kill. Why don’t you start by taking off that damned suit?”
His grin was slow, seductive. “You mean you don’t like my Armani?”
“Why in heaven’s name would you need Armani?”
“I teach classes every now and then.”
“No one teaches in Armani, trust me on this. Lose the tie.”
He unknotted it, slowly, his long, dark fingers working the knot loose. He pulled it free from the collar and draped it around her shoulders, then stepped back to look at it speculatively. “You know, there are some entertaining things we can do with that tie….”
“Not now. Take off the coat.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stripped off the jacket, laying it across a chair.
“Now the shoes.”
“These are specially made Italian leather. I’ve spent so many years of my life barefoot that I can’t wear ready-made shoes.”
“I like you barefoot,” she said. “Take them off.”
He kicked out of them, then peeled off his socks. “What about the shirt? Egyptian cotton?”
“It’ll make nice dish towels. And don’t start telling me you can think of entertaining uses for your leather belt. I have my limits.”
“Coward,” he said, laughing. “Do I get to keep my pants on?”
“Oh, most definitely not. Lose ’em, sailor.”
He unzipped them and shoved them down, kicking out of them.
“You’re wearing boxers?” she said in disbelief.
“Hey, I was in disguise,” he protested.
“I don’t think Hunnicutt and his goons were going to check your underwear.” Her voice was caustic.
“You never can be too careful,” he said, moving toward the bunk. “I think I’m getting a little ahead of you. Why don’t you get rid of that T-shirt?”
“Oh, damn!” she said suddenly.
He knelt on the edge of the bunk. It was narrow, with barely room for two. “What?”
“I forgot to get my clothes when we were at Ghost Island! I didn’t even get anything at Johnson Harbour! I have nothing to wear when we get back to the island.”
“Somehow,” John said, “I don’t think that will be a problem.” And he pushed her down on the mattress, covering her body with his.
Captain Roger stopped singing long enough to take a healthy slug of beer. He’d been smart enough to bring a few up to keep him company for the trip back to the island—he knew perfectly well he wasn’t going to see hide nor hair of John and his young lady for the duration. Already he could hear muffled laughter drifting up from the cabin.
“Looks like you’re finally showing some sense, mate,” he said, raising an invisible toast to the cabin.
And once more he began to sing.
Three months later
THEY’D HAD A FIGHT, and Libby was miserable. It wasn’t their first fight—John had spent too much of his life alone, not taking anyone else’s opinions into account, for it to be smooth sailing, but each time the battle raged they worked it out, first verbally, then physically.
But that wasn’t possible this time. He was gone. No warning, no apology, no nothing. She’d slept in that morning, exhausted after an energetic night, only to find him in the kitchen, dressed in what she could only think of as his Wild Man clothes, and she knew he was leaving.
She had two possible reactions—tears or anger, and she decided to go with anger. She was already feeling far too vulnerable, and crying in front of him would only make it worse. So she’d taken refuge in sarcasm, he’d responded in same, and eventually he’d stormed out of the house without saying goodbye.
And then, even worse, he’d stormed back in, picked her up and kissed her so thoroughly she could still feel it days later, and then left again. All without a word.
That was when she’d cried. And then she became calm and practical. He’d return, he said he would, he always did, and this would give her time to go back to the city, to see the old places and the old friends. To shop, to visit museums, to be in the hustle and bustle of city life.
Which no longer interested her. Her friends had been Richard’s friends, not really hers, and in the year since he’d dumped her she’d been too obsessed with work to make new ones. She could buy anything she wanted on the Internet, and the very thought of the hustle and bustle and noise and crowds filled her with horror. But she dutifully made her reservation, had Captain Roger pick her up, and got as far as Johnson Harbour.
This time it wasn’t Mick and Alf who stopped her. And when she turned back to the Katie O., Captain Roger simply grinned and held out a gnarled hand to help her back on board.
He’d been gone a week. A week alone in that big bed, a week of solitude and silence that wasn’t half-bad once she got used to it. She’d grown to love the quiet noises the jungle made, the sound of the waves lapping on the shore, the cry of the night birds. It was a better place with John there, but even without him it was a better place than anywhere else.
But God, she missed him.
It was just past dawn when she woke up suddenly, jerked out of sleep by an unexpected noise. She sat up in bed, pulling the sheet up around her, her heart racing. She slept in one of John’s oversize T-shirts and nothing else, and her robe was in the bathroom. She could hear someone moving around in the front room, making no effort to be stealthy. Whoever it was must have thought they were both gone.
John didn’t even own a gun. He said he didn’t believe in them, and neither did Libby, but right at that moment she was ready to convert. She slipped out of bed, yanking the sheet off after her and draping it around her as she tiptoed toward the door. She could always sneak out the back and hide. Whoever it was would have to leave sooner or later, and Captain Roger said he’d come by and check o
n her every couple of days.
She opened the bedroom door just a crack, listening. She could hear a voice, low-pitched, familiar, and relief swamped her. It was John. But who the hell could he be talking to? Had he brought someone back here?
She pushed open the bedroom door, ready to kill him if there was a woman in the living room. His back was toward the hallway, and she realized he was alone. Talking on the cell phone he’d acquired when she moved in.
She didn’t move, just watched him as calm well-being flooded her body. She wasn’t right without him. It didn’t make sense, it was weak and ridiculous, but it was fact. She needed him to feel whole.
“I need to send a cable. It’s for Dr. Elizabeth Holden, Drake Hotel, Chicago, Illinois. Yes, I’ll hold.” He ran a restless hand through his hair. It was tangled, his beard had started growing again, and he looked exhausted. “Yes, I’m ready. The text should read ‘Come back to me.”’
“I never left,” she said.
He spun around, staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost. And then he dropped the phone, crossed the room and picked her up in his arms. His grip was so strong it almost hurt, and he was trembling. “Don’t,” he whispered in her hair. “Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” she said, holding him. “I love you.”
The sun was coming up, blazing into the front windows of the small house, filling it with light and warmth. And there was nothing more to be said.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-0070-2
Copyright © 2007 Harlequin Books S.A.
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
Night of the Phantom
Copyright © 1991 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge
One More Valentine
Copyright © 1993 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge
Cinderman
Copyright © 1994 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge
The Soldier and the Baby
Copyright © 1995 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge
Wild Thing
Copyright © 2000 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge
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About the Author
Anne Stuart
Anne Stuart loves Japanese rock and roll, wearable art, Spike, her two kids, Clairefontaine paper, her springer spaniel Rosie, her delicious husband of over thirty years, fellow writers, her two cats, telling stories and living in Vermont. She's not too crazy about politics and diets and a winter that never ends, but then, life's always a trade-off.
For more information please check out Anne's Web site at www.anne-stuart.com.