"And I'm not anybody's 'baby' sister. Linc is my brother, but I'm a grown woman, not a child. I make my own decisions."
"You—"
"And one of those decisions was not to have sex until it felt absolutely right."
"God, Shiloh, don't do this to me…"
She went on as if he hadn't spoken. "And this feels … right. For the first time in my life."
"It's not that simple, damn it. This is no good—"
"It felt pretty good to me."
He sat up sharply. "Don't make a joke out of this. Not this. You—" He had to stop for a moment, swallowing tightly. "You waited this long … for what? To throw it away in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and sure as hell with the wrong man? You deserve more. You deserve better than…"
He stopped, looking away, but his unspoken "better than me" echoed as if he'd said it.
"And you're the one who gets to decide? That I get what I 'deserve' and not what I want?" She saw him suck in a breath, saw his stomach muscles quiver as if she'd hit him. "That's not your decision, Con. It's mine." She lifted her chin, not even bothering to wipe at the traces of tears. "Your decision is simple. Do you want me or not?"
"Damn!" He rolled out of the bunk in a convulsive movement. He stood beside it, staring down at her, aware of his own body as he never had been before, and knowing she was watching him. "Do I look like a man who doesn't want you?"
He saw her eyes lower, could almost feel her gaze brush his swollen, engorged shaft. It was too much. He turned on his heel and strode out of the small cabin. He unlocked the hatch and grabbed the cabin roof, lifting himself up without even touching the steps in a fierce, angry motion. He hoped the cove would stay deserted, because he had no intention of catering to anyone's modesty right now. He stepped up on the gunwale and threw himself naked into the chilly ocean.
Sometime during the night, fog had rolled in. It lay thick and gray and damp all around, obscuring the sun even as it accented the slightest sounds. The gentle slosh of the water in the cove as the Phoenix rode the slight swell was louder, the creaking of the rigging louder still. More than ever they seemed in a fantasy place, only now it was a place that, for the moment, would not release them; Shiloh was not about to try leaving in this.
She had too much else to think about, anyway. She had stayed awake last night, after having crept back to her bunk in a mood teetering between thoughtfulness and hurt. She had tried to resurrect some of her analytical powers, but had found them useless in contemplating the mystery of Connor McQuade. All she had to go on were the instincts she hadn't even known she had until he came into her life.
Trying to ignore the clamoring of a confused body that didn't understand why it had been denied, she had sat curled up against the bulkhead, wrapped in a soft, heavy blanket. Her mind had heard what he'd said, that she was Linc's sister, that he'd thought she could get pregnant, that she was a virgin. But her instincts told her that the real reason ran much deeper, and she had gotten her clue in that last emotional exchange.
Quite simply, he didn't think he was good enough for her. The thought made her hurt for him, that he thought so little of himself, and at the same time made her feel a half-guilty sense of pleasure that he thought so much of her. But most of all it assuaged her spirit and the pride that had been sorely battered; he hadn't stopped because he didn't want her.
No, she could never believe that. A flush had spread through her body as she remembered him, standing beside the bunk, gloriously, magnificently naked, aroused and utterly male. Lord, she thought, feeling her ignorance as never before, did it really work? Could she really take that potent, throbbing flesh inside her, all of it? She supposed she must be able to, the human race was still here, but oh, it seemed impossible.
She had shuddered, pulling the blanket up closer around her, her body loath to surrender the last clinging remnants of the pleasure he'd brought to her. He wanted her, she was certain now of that, and she was equally certain that he wasn't going to do a thing about it. He was caught up in some tangle of male honor and cynical self-deprecation. He'd said it was the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong man. Then why was it the first time, the only time, in her life that it had felt right?
She almost laughed at the irony of it. More than one relationship she'd been in had ended because she'd declined that last step, thinking there had to be more than just a quiet affection. And now that she'd found the man who had proved her right, it was going to be over before it began because she wanted to take that last step. It figures, she thought dryly. You spend your whole life building your control and then fall for the first man who blows it away.
Fall for? She sat up stiffly at her own thought. Had she? For this dark, mysterious man who lived in shadow, who moved in that same grim, dangerous world her brother did, that same world that had almost taken her beloved father from her? The same world that had made survival a facet of her childhood, disguised as the imaginative "black hats" game?
Her thoughts had been interrupted then by the sound of Con's return to the boat. She had relaxed a little; she'd been half-afraid he would try to spend the night on the beach, and despite the warmth of the days, the nights knew winter was approaching, and he wasn't that long over the virus that had felled him.
She had heard him come below, then go back up, then nothing. She tried to regain her train of thought, but by then the emotional strain of the night was beginning to take its toll, and the warmth of the blanket was beginning to sap her strength. The last thing she remembered before waking to the fog was reaching for her pillow.
And now she sat looking out a porthole at a world that was gray and blurred, as if it, too, felt the pressure of something unfinished. She shivered, rubbing her bare arms, realizing that she had left her clothes in Con's bunk. She leaned over and tugged up the nylon suitcase, reaching hurriedly for a thick, warm sweater and a pair of jeans.
Barefoot, she went forward, pausing to flip the heater on low, trying to keep everything dry as well as warm. She would check the batteries later, although she knew the big 12-volt storage units had more than enough to keep them going for three or four days without having to turn on the generator.
She moved quietly in the galley, choosing hot chocolate over coffee on this shrouded morning. Should be pea soup, she thought wryly, a little surprised that she was able to joke, even with herself.
A few minutes later, steaming mug in hand, she eased open the hatch Con had left unlatched and started up on deck. She stopped dead on the third step when she got her first look at the cockpit. There, curled awkwardly on a hard bench too short for his long body, was Con, asleep under one of the blankets from his bunk.
Why on earth had he slept up here? she wondered. Obviously that trip below and then back had been for the blanket, but why hadn't he just gone back to bed? Was the thought of staying below with her, even nearly a boat length apart, so impossible? Once more she battled the hurt that rose in her.
Slowly she went up the rest of the way. Slowly, and she thought silently, but his head came up, his long, lean body coiling instinctively. Then he saw her and the tension faded, and he started to smile at her.
As if she could read his mind, she saw the memories flood back, sweeping that half-formed smile away before them. He jerked his head away, staring at the blanket he was wrestling with as he sat up. He had put on the pair of jeans she'd washed with her shirt yesterday; she wondered if he had meant to complete his rejection of her by rejecting her brother's clothes and returning to his own.
He shivered slightly before he could control it. He hadn't put on a shirt, and he pulled the blanket up over his chilled, bare shoulders. Shiloh tried not to remember what those shoulders had felt like beneath her hands, or how that muscled expanse of chest had felt crushing her breasts. With a steadiness she was proud of, she wordlessly offered him the steaming cup of cocoa.
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes shuttered and unreadable. Then he took it, nodding silently, wrapping his hands aro
und it, savoring the heat. Shiloh went to pour a second cup, and when she came back he was propped against the cabin, sipping at the warming liquid. She slid the hatch closed; the little heater should have things nicely warm soon. She sat on the bench opposite him, curling her long legs under her.
The silence stretched out uncomfortably, made thicker by the eerie grayness around them; there was nothing to distract them from the fact that neither of them had said a word, nothing to even pretend to be looking at. Finally Shiloh worked up her nerve. She cleared her throat.
"Con?"
"Mm." It was the barest grunt of acknowledgment that she'd spoken. Here it comes, he thought. The hurt, the anger, the recriminations. And he couldn't blame her one damned bit.
"What were you dreaming about?"
His head snapped up. "What?" Couldn't she just once do what he expected?
"Last night. When I … you were dreaming. A nightmare."
"I … was?"
"You were talking. Saying 'no,' over and over. That's why I woke you."
He stared at her. "You … woke me … for that?"
She stared back at him, puzzled. "Yes. What did you think I—" She broke off abruptly. He had looked away quickly, but she had seen him flush, had seen the look of guilty chagrin that had overwhelmed that shuttered look in his eyes. "Oh, Lord," she murmured.
He'd thought she'd come to him expecting him to make love to her. No wonder he'd looked at her so oddly at first. And no wonder he'd been so surprised, even angry, to find she'd never been with a man before. He'd been expecting experience and found a virgin.
And he had run like hell from the responsibility of being her first. And it would be a responsibility to him; she knew now how much like her brother he truly was. Deep down, beneath all the ice and behind all the walls, despite his own low opinion of himself, there was an honest, honorable core that was as untouchable in him as it was in her brother, in her father. It was why, she supposed, she had fallen in love with him.
She nearly gasped out loud at her own thought. Somewhere, sometime, during that long, restless night, some quiet little part of her brain had been working on the question she'd asked herself. And come up with the answer. Yes, she had fallen. Hard. Had lost control as she had sworn she never would, and it had happened so subtly, so quickly, she hadn't even realized it until it was too late. Much too late. She loved Connor McQuade, and there was no turning back from it.
She stared down into her own steaming mug, afraid to look at him for fear that her newly dawned knowledge would be clear on her face. She had no illusions about the problems she had just brought down on herself. Having him find out what she'd just realized would only add to her troubles. He felt guilty enough already, she thought, without piling that on him, too. Besides, she added with a note of silent disgust, he was so set on thinking of her as "Linc's baby sister" that he would probably just write it off as some childish infatuation.
Well, she'd been dealing with some harsh realities when other kids had been playing on swings. She'd never really been a child, and she wasn't going to start acting like one now. She wasn't going to wear her heart on her sleeve or play games with him; she had that much pride left, at least. She swallowed once, forcing down the lump that had tightened her throat; then her chin came up. She was a woman, not a child, and he was damned well going to find that out.
Con had been watching her from the corner of his eye. He saw a string of emotions he couldn't fathom cross her delicate features, then saw that defiant chin come up in a movement he had already come to know. She'd made up her mind about something, and he could only hope it wasn't to hate him for what he'd nearly done. And for what he'd assumed, when in truth she'd only meant to free him from whichever one of the chronic, recurrent nightmares had gripped him last night.
She got to her feet, and he braced himself, not even trying to guess at what she would do; he'd been wrong every time so far.
"It should be warm below by now."
"What?" Was that all he could ever say?
"I turned the heat on. It should be warm by now. Unless you like the fog?" She raised an eyebrow at him.
She was going to play it perfectly, he thought. Like nothing had ever happened. Letting him off the hook.
"Shiloh…"
She looked down at him with an air of calm patience. "All right. Let's say it and get it over with. I hate big emotional scenes. So you're sorry, I'm sorry, each for our own reasons."
"But—"
"But what? You want to feel guilty?"
"I don't want to—I do." His lips tightened. "I almost took something I had no right to."
"Who does have the right?"
He looked at her, puzzled by the odd, husky softness that had come into her voice. "Who?" she repeated.
"The man … you'll fall in love with, someday."
A soft smile curved her lips, bewildering him. "You're absolutely right," she agreed, and turned to slide open the hatch. He stared after her, caught gaping when she tossed casually over her shoulder, "And 'almost' only counts in horseshoes."
He sat there, staring into the unrelenting grayness. His effort to figure out the meaning behind that enigmatic smile soon surrendered to the vivid image of Shiloh finding that man he'd spoken of, the man who would have the right to claim what she had nearly given him last night. That man would take that gift, and Con hoped to God he realized how priceless it was. He'd damned well better put a ring on her finger and give her the rest of his life, he thought furiously. She deserved nothing less.
A vision formed in his head of Shiloh naked beneath that faceless figure, entwining her long, lithe legs with his, her fingers stroking his back, wanting. As she had wanted him last night.
A strangled groan escaped him, and he shuddered. He wanted to kill that nameless, faceless man he'd created, wanted to strangle him with his own hands for touching her, for taking her.
Damn! He swore softly, bitterly, jerking himself to his feet in a sharp, angry movement. He was going crazy, he had to be, threatening characters he'd dreamed up himself. By the time she found that man, he would be long gone and would never know. Until, maybe, someday when Linc might casually mention that his little sister had married, or had had a baby…
Something wrenched and tore deep inside him at the thought. Shiloh round and glowing and pregnant with the child of that nameless, faceless man from the future. And Linc, the happily proud uncle of some no doubt brightly blond youngster with Shiloh's emerald eyes.
"Are you coming in, or shall we try to heat the whole island from here?"
He froze, not daring to look over to where she stood in the hatchway. He had the strangest feeling that what he'd been thinking about would be crystal clear to her.
"Yeah," he muttered, steeling his features to careful blandness before he turned and went down into the golden warmth.
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
The fog burned off by early afternoon, but the weather channel told them it would be back soon. Shiloh had spent the rest of the morning puttering around, checking various items of gear she hadn't had time to check before their hasty departure and hadn't taken the time to yesterday.
Yesterday. It seemed weeks ago instead of merely hours. And the night when she'd come home to find him on her bed seemed years ago, not merely days. Five days. Was it possible to fall in love with someone in five days?
It must be, she thought as she recoiled and hung the mainsail halyard, because you've done it. You, Miss Cool, Calm and Collected. Wouldn't Mandy love to see you now? She'd always said there would come a day…
Con was trying his hand at fishing off the stern with the one rod Wayne kept aboard. They had reached a tentative peace, mainly due to Shiloh's refusal to act as if anything were wrong. Her determination faltered only once, when she found her clothes folded neatly on her bunk. With a sudden flash of insight, she knew that finding the clothes he had torn from her still in his bed was what had driven him abovedecks last nigh
t. But she recovered quickly and said nothing when she went back on deck.
He had been wary at first, the memories of last night seared into his brain, but she ignored the undercurrent and returned to the lighthearted banter they'd indulged in before. Finally he accepted it, knowing he had little choice, yet unable to shake the cloud he sensed hovering between them. He had never liked loose ends; they had a way of snapping back and knocking you out when you least expected it.
He cringed at his own words; thinking about her as a loose end made his stomach churn. He was trying to put her in one of the slots he made for people while he was working: helpful, nonhelpful, enemy, unknown, loose end. And friend. He'd had to add that one after Linc had come along. But no matter how he tried, Shiloh Reese just wouldn't slip neatly into any slot. Unless he invented a new one just for her.
Unpredictable, maybe. She was certainly that. And stubborn. He stared down into the water, thinking over the last five—God, was it only five?—days. So add brave to the list. And gutsy and smart and quick, and strong and tough … and soft and warm and beautiful—and sexy. Oh, yeah, McQuade, don't forget that. As if his body would let him.
He rather gruffly declined her offer to join her in a swim when the sun finally broke through. He didn't trust himself within ten yards of her in that damned scrap of a bathing suit. But it didn't stop him from watching her, from admiring her smooth, effortless stroke, or keeping his eyes glued to the slim, graceful figure that strolled along the narrow strip of beach.
He saw her approach a large patch of brush, then jump back, startled. He dropped the fishing rod, careless of where it landed, and stood up. He relaxed when she laughed, then wondered how on earth he could tell from here. Had he been studying her so closely that he knew from the tilt of her head, the set of her slender shoulders, that she was laughing?
He hadn't been aware of it, not in the way he knew he studied the people who were the suspects in his work, or the ones he might have to use. Yet he seemed to know her every expression better than he'd ever known anyone. Now if he could only figure out how that agile brain of hers worked…
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