“Annabel.” He whispered her name there in the silence of the room. “Annabel.”
Rob opened both eyes and went to stand by Luis.
Luis scratched the dog’s ears. “Come on, mutt,” he said. “What we need is a walk on the beach.” Anywhere to get the thought of Annabel out of his mind.
She was asleep when she felt the weight on the bed. “On the floor, Rob,” she mumbled without opening her eyes. “Not on the bed.”
Luis put his arms around her. “It’s not Rob,” he said. “And I don’t want to sleep on the floor.”
She opened her eyes. “I... I’m not sure we should do this.”
“Annabel. Annabel, please...”
Please. Had he ever said that before? Had he ever really asked for anything, or had he simply taken what he wanted, what had been offered and willingly given?
This was different. Annabel was different. He wanted her with a need that was more than physical, though Lord knows it was that. But this feeling was something he had never experienced before, this need to hold her and love her went soul-deep.
He tightened his arms around her. Her body was warm from sleep, and soft, por Dios, so unbelievably soft. He wanted to lose himself in her, get lost in her arms, be drugged by her scent.
He buried his face in the fall of her hair and closed his eyes, content for the moment to hold her this way. He whispered her name, “Annabel,” and felt her body quiver in response.
He kissed her, and Annabel felt her body warm to his. But still, as though not sure she should do this, she brought her hands up against his chest to push him away. She curled her fingers in the thick thatch of chest hair and tried to push him, told herself she tried.
But, oh, his mouth was warm, his lips so full and firm. Her hands flattened and smoothed the chest hair, stroked the nipples.
He groaned. She felt his body tighten, and when his mouth covered hers again, her lips parted and she kissed him as he was kissing her.
“Annabel.” A smothered moan. “Oh, Annabel.”
She was lost, lost in the mouth that consumed her mouth, in the hands that stroked her breasts. Flame curled in her body, down, down to that most intimate of places.
He kissed her throat, he breathed her name against her ear and gently nipped a lobe, then healed it with his lips and with his tongue. He slipped the straps of her gown over her shoulders, down to her waist, and turning her onto her side, he began to kiss her breasts.
She tunneled her fingers through his hair and held him there, loving his touch, his kiss. And when, with his hot tongue, he flicked hard against her nipple, she cried aloud because the flame had become a fire and she was burning, burning.
She took his face between her hands and brought him up to kiss her mouth again. “Luis,” she whispered. “Luis, please.”
“Please what, mi amor?”
“You know.”
“Oh yes, I know.” The kiss deepened. She felt his hardness against her thigh, and half in fear, half in passion, she grasped his waist and lifted her body to his.
He was over her then, in her, moving against her, fast and fierce and wonderfully hard. She was wild now, uninhibited and out of control, calling out to him, telling him how good this was.
He plunged into her, then withdrew to plunge again and again.
She followed where he led, giving as he gave, lifting her body to his in total abandon, loving it. Loving him.
He kissed her mouth. He leaned to lave her breast, to take one tortured nipple between his teeth to tease and to pull.
A smothered scream and she was on the edge, climbing higher and yet higher toward an immensity of passion she had never known. As though from a distance she heard him call her name. Then his mouth covered hers. “Yes,” he said against her lips. “Now, yes.” And his body was like thunder over hers.
She opened her eyes and in the faint light that filtered in through the curtains saw him above her, watching her, and his face filled with the agony and the ecstasy of all that he was feeling.
“Oh, love!” he cried. And it happened. Like fire and lightning running through her body, it happened and went on happening as his body exploded over hers, as he took her mouth and took her breath and held her when she wept with all that she was feeling.
Luis couldn’t move, he could barely breathe. He felt her tears against his throat and felt his own eyes smart. For this was Annabel, here at last where she belonged.
Chapter 9
Morning came softly. Luis’s body was curled around her back, his face nuzzled against her neck. In a half-waking, dreamy state, Annabel thought how good it felt to awaken like this, how warm and snuggly. She murmured, “Mmm,” and when he tightened his arm around her waist, she remembered how it had been last night, how mind-boggling, bone-melting good. And more. So much more.
Luis was a passionate and a tender lover who brought her to a height of ecstasy she hadn’t even known existed. And afterward, when she lay quietly in his arms, he had held her and stroked her until her eyes drifted shut and she slept. Even then, on the edge of sleep, she had been aware of his touch, of his hand on her skin, stroking, stroking.
She felt him sigh, and sensing that she was awake, he kissed the back of her neck and said, “You smell good.”
She smiled and, reaching back, rested a hand on his thigh. “Did you sleep well?”
“With you in my arms?” He trailed a line of kisses across her shoulders. “I haven’t slept like that for a long time. Not since... Well, not for a long time.” He ran the tips of his fingers across her breasts, and when she shivered he said, in a pleasantly conversational tone, “If your foot is better we could swim this morning before breakfast.” He pinched one tender nipple. “If you’d like to.”
“I...” Her breath started coming fast. “Yes, I... yes, that would be...” His touch inflamed her. “Mmm, oh, nice,” she managed to say.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” He rubbed his hand across her rib cage, down over her belly, between her legs. “Later,” he said. “A little later.”
“Luis...?”
“Yes, querida?” All the while touching her, stroking her. “What is it, Annabel?”
“Maybe we should get up.”
He turned her so that she faced him. “Not yet, querida. Not quite yet.”
He kissed her mouth and all the while he touched her, touched her until every inch of her was aquiver with the tension of waiting for what she knew was to come.
When it did, when he rolled her beneath him and joined his body to hers, she cried out, clasping his shoulders, seeking his mouth, lost in him and in this feeling that was so new to her she barely understood it. Had it been like this in her forgotten past? Had her body lifted to his like this? Had she whispered his name and said, “Oh yes, oh, darling, yes”?
He moved so slowly, so exquisitely against her. She touched his face and held him close, loving this... the pleasure. Oh yes, the fine pleasure.
He pressed his hands under her bottom to lift her closer. His movements quickened and she clung to him, riding with him, holding him as he held her. He kissed her breast and she cried aloud, wanting to weep because she knew she was close to that glorious moment of release. And when it came, when her body surged against his, she kissed his mouth and took his cry to mingle with her own.
For a long time they held each other, but at last he said, “How about that swim?”
“Swim?” she murmured. “I’m lucky if I can stay afloat after this!”
It was the first time she’d heard him really laugh, a laugh that came from the belly, that sounded rich and free from tension. When the laughter died, he looked at her and said, as though surprised, “You have a sense of humor.”
“Yes, I guess I do.” And wondered why, if they had been married for eight years, that surprised him.
He went to his room to put on swim trunks. They met on the terrace and with Rob beside them went down to the beach and waded into the surf. The water, like clear, clean glass, was
just cool enough to be refreshing. They swam out a hundred yards or so, then came back in to swim parallel to the beach.
When they were tired they treaded water, and when a wave brought them closer and their bodies touched, Luis put his arms around her and, as they had when they swam together off the boat, they sank beneath the waves.
In the cool, clear water Annabel opened her eyes and saw that his eyes, too, were open. He kissed her there beneath the water, a salty, wet kiss, and she thought suddenly that this was the way it had been with Alejandro and Maria. When that last and terrible wave closed over their heads, they, too, had opened their eyes and looked at each other the way she and Luis were looking at each other now.
And strangely, when he kicked to bring them to the surface, she felt a sense of loss.
He brought a newspaper to breakfast with him, a copy of the Miami Herald that had come on the supply boat the day before. But he didn’t say anything about it until they finished eating and the table had been cleared.
Only when they started on their second cup of coffee did he say, “There’s a follow-up story about the boating accident in yesterday’s paper. They’ve identified the boat and the people who were on it. They already had your name, of course.”
She set her cup down so abruptly coffee spilled over the edge of it.
“Would you like me to read it to you or shall I just tell you the gist of it?”
“Tell me.”
He picked the paper up and she saw the headline on the front page: Prominent Miami Family Aboard Mystery Boat.
“Their name was Croyden,” Luis said, watching her. “Louise and Albert Croyden and their son, Mark. They owned a small marina and sales office in Miami Beach. The boat, the Distant Drum, belonged to them. It was a cabin cruiser, a real luxury model.” He looked across the table at her. “They must have been friends of yours. Do you remember them at all?”
“Croyden.” Annabel closed her eyes and tried to remember. “No,” she said at last. “I don’t. But if they were friends of mine, wouldn’t you have known them?”
“Probably not.” He avoided her eyes. “You took a lot of trips to Florida by yourself. You’d lived there before, you still have friends there and you like to visit them.”
“But—”
“Zachary Flynn was on board, too,” he said before she could go on. “It was his jacket the coast guard found. I told you about him.”
Luis waited, hoping for a reaction. When there was none, he went on. “No one can ascertain for sure the cause of the explosion, but it’s assumed it was caused by gasoline vapor in the engine compartment.” He handed the newspaper to her. “The pictures of the Croydens are on the front page.”
She reached for the paper; her hands were shaking. Louise Croyden, age fifty-five. Thin, suntanned face. Short, very blond hair. Her husband, Albert, fifty .eight. Looking affable in a sailing cap, grinning into the camera.
Below them was a photo of their son, Mark, thirty. The picture had been taken on one of the sailboats in the marina. He stood holding on to the mast, handsome and dark-haired, wearing white shorts. Windblown and happy.
Mark? she thought. Mark?
“He liked jazz,” she said slowly. “He was crazy about the old-timers like Jimmy Rushing, Bessie Smith and Louis Armstrong. He’d play an Armstrong record over and over again. ‘Listen to that riff,’ he’d say. ‘Nobody does it like Louis.’”
Luis held his breath. “You remember him.”
“I... I remember about the music. ‘I Get Ideas.’”
“What?”
“That was one of the songs Louis Armstrong sang. ‘I Get Ideas.’ Mark played it over and over again.”
He could see the pain in her eyes, the desperation that trying to remember caused. Because Mark Croyden had been someone she had cared about. Someone she had loved? Her lover?
His jaw tightened, but he managed to keep his voice under control. “Flynn’s picture is on the inside, on page five,” he said.
Annabel took a deep breath, then, as though with an effort, she turned to page five and looked at the photograph of Zachary Flynn. Short but solid body, muscled arms. Gray hair cut military short. He wore tight swim trunks; a diving tank was strapped to his back.
“Anything?” Luis asked. “Does he look like the man in your dream?”
“I... I don’t know. How long ago did he work for you?”
“Four years ago. I’ve been trying to find him ever since. After he quit he headed for Mexico. I almost caught up with him in Cancún, but by the time I knew where he was he’d disappeared again. Somebody told me he was in Peru, somebody else said he was in Panama.” His voice hardened. “I’m sorry the sharks got to him before I did.”
Annabel stared at him, her eyes wide with horror. “Sharks?” She thought of the photographs she’d just seen of the Croydens, Louise and Albert. And Mark. “Oh, no,” she moaned. “Oh, no.” And with a sob she covered her face with her hands.
He knew it had been a stupid thing to say. Whether she remembered them or not, the people who died in the explosion had been her friends. Mark Croyden had probably been her lover.
“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “That was a thoughtless thing to say. I know that the Croydens must have been friends of yours, even though you don’t remember them.”
“I want to remember!” Tears stung her eyes. “I’m trying so hard to remember.”
“I know you are. The doctor said your memory would come back—”
“When?” She looked at him then, knuckling the tears away. “When? God, Luis, you don’t know what it’s like not to remember anything. Anybody.” She fought for control. “Does the paper say anything about me?”
“They repeated most of what was said when you were found. It’s there,” he said, pointing. “Next to the story about the Croydens.”
She began to read.
“Annabel Alarcon, wife of entrepreneur Luis Alarcon, was the only survivor. Picked up near Eleuthera by the coast guard after what was believed to have been three days after the explosion, she was taken to the hospital in Nassau and is now recuperating at her husband’s home on San Sebastián.
“Mr. Alarcon is well-known as an adventurer and treasure hunter. In 1991 he found the English galleon Sir Francis Drake and salvaged a fortune in silver and jewels from the ship that had gone down off the coast of Andros Island in the early 1700s.
“Attempts have been made to question Mrs. Alarcon about the events that happened aboard the Distant Drum, but because of poor health she has not been available for comment.”
“Has anyone tried to reach me?” Annabel raised her eyes from the paper.
“There have been calls on the shortwave from newspapers and magazines and a couple of television talk shows. I knew you weren’t up to it so I put them off.”
She hadn’t known anyone had called. Shouldn’t Luis have told her? Shouldn’t he have let her make the decision about whether or not she wanted to talk to anybody?
She read the article again. “It says that you’re an adventurer, a treasure hunter.”
Luis pushed his chair back from the table and went to stand at the edge of the terrace. “A treasure hunter? Yes, I guess I am.” He pointed out toward the sea. “Beneath those waters are the remains of ships that went down centuries ago. Spanish ships like the Cantamar, English and Portuguese and Dutch ships sailed by sea captains like Alejandro. Pirates and privateers, too. English buccaneers, slave traders and rumrunners. They all plied these waters, Annabel. And when their ships went down, whether in battle or in storms, they took with them fortunes in gold and silver and precious jewels.”
She raised a disapproving eyebrow. “And you go after that gold and silver, the treasures beneath the sea.”
A slight smile softened his mouth. “The treasures beneath the sea,” he mused. “That’s what dreams are made of, Annabel. At least for me. Especially when it comes to the Cantamar. She’s mine. She calls to me like a sea siren.”
He turned away f
rom the railing and faced her. “Perhaps you don’t remember...” He paused, waiting for a reaction, and when there was none, said, “We searched for her together. We sailed in the Bahamas, around Abaco, Eleuthera and Nassau, down through the Windward Passage between Hispaniola and Cuba, all the way to the Lesser Antilles and back up to the Bahamas again. We almost found the Cantamar . You helped me make the charts.”
“I helped you?” There was an expression of disbelief on her face.
“We charted the course together right around Eleuthera before we came back to San Sebastián. After we returned it took me a few months to arrange a salvage crew. While everything was being pulled together, you and I took two months off and went to Spain. When we returned I sailed back to the place you and I had charted.”
“I... I didn’t go with you?”
He looked at her, his silver eyes watchful, penetrating. “No, you didn’t.” His expression was unreadable. “I almost found her then,” he said. “I would have if Andrew hadn’t come along.”
“Andrew? I don’t understand.”
“Andrew was a killer hurricane with winds up to a hundred and sixty miles an hour. It forced us to leave—it probably shifted the Cantamar’s location.”
He debated about whether or not to tell her the truth, watch her reaction, see if she remembered having been a part of the betrayal. “I had a crew,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “It was headed by Zachary Flynn.”
“Zachary...?” Her eyes widened. “The man whose jacket was found floating in the water?”
Luis nodded. “He stole the charts I’d made—the charts you helped me make—that show the approximate place where the Cantamar went down.” He waited, bracing himself for whatever reaction she might have. But she didn’t say anything. She only gripped the back of her chair so hard her knuckles went white.
“The place where they found the wreckage of the Distant Drum was only a few sea miles from where I’d been searching for the Cantamar.”
He went closer, and when he stood face-to-face with her, he said, “What were you doing with Flynn, Annabel? Why were you with him that day? Was he looking for the Cantamar? Were you helping him?”
Long-Lost Wife? Page 10