David had a knack for speaking with the animals. He understood that food wasn't their only reward, and that they liked human contact, human voices.
Shania, like the others, began to nudge him, asking for attention.
Traitor, Alex thought, but at the same time, she was glad. Shania was a very special creature. She needed more than the others, who had never known the kind of injury and pain that Shania had suffered.
When the dolphins had finished their fish, Alex started down the dock. He walked along with her in silence. She moved fast, trying to keep a bit ahead. No way. He had very long legs.
"If you're trying to run away, it's rather futile, don't you think?"
She stopped short. "Why would I be running away?"
"Because you're hoping to lose me?"
"How can I lose you? We're on a very small island, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Not to mention that my legs are longer, so I can actually leave you in the dust at any time."
"Go ahead."
"You have the key."
"You have your own place here."
"But I'm not leaving you alone in yours."
His tone had been light and bantering, but the last was said with deadly gravity.
"This is insane," she murmured, and hurried on. She knew, though, that she wasn't going to lose him. And in a secret part of herself—physical, surely, not emotional—she felt the birth of a certain wild elation. Why? Did she think she could just play with him? Hope to tempt and tease, then hurt…?
As she felt she had been hurt?
No, surely not. Her decision to file the papers hadn't been based on a fit of temper. She had thought long and hard about every aspect of their lives.
But wasn't it true, an inner voice whispered, that jealousy had played a part? Jealousy, and the fear that others offered more than she ever could, so she couldn't possibly hope to keep him?
Despite his long legs, she sprinted ahead of him as they neared the cottage. She opened the door, ignoring him. She didn't slam it, just let it fall shut. He caught it, though, and followed her in.
Inside, she curtly told him to help himself to the bath in the hallway, then walked into her own room. She stripped right in the shower, then turned the water on hard, sudsing both her hair and body with a vengeance. Finally she got out, wrapped herself in a towel and remembered that the maid never left anything but hand towels in the guest bath.
Cursing at herself, she gathered up one of the big bath sheets and walked into the hallway. He was already in the shower. She tapped on the door. No answer.
"David?"
"What?" he called over the water.
"Here's your towel."
"What? Can't hear you."
Why was she bothering? She should let him drip dry. No, knowing David, he'd just come out in the buff, dripping all over the polished wood floors.
"Your towel!" she shouted.
"Can't hear you!" he responded again.
Impatiently, she tried the door. It was unlocked. She pushed it open, ready to throw the towel right in.
The glass shower door was clear, and the steam hadn't fogged it yet. She was staring right at him, in all his naked glory.
"Your towel," she said, dropping it, ready to run.
The glass door opened, and his head appeared. He was smiling. "Just couldn't resist a look at the old buns, huh?" he teased. "Careful, or you'll be too tempted to resist."
She forced herself to stand dead still, slowly taking stock of him, inch by inch. She kept her gaze entirely impassive. Then, her careful scrutiny complete, she spoke at last.
"No," she said, and with a casual turn, exited the bathroom. She heard his throaty laughter and leaned against the closed door, feeling absurdly weak. Damn him. Every sinewy, muscle-bound bit of him. But as she closed her eyes, it wasn't just the sleek bronze vision of his flesh that taunted her.
It was all the ways he could use it.
The door opened suddenly, giving way to her weight as she leaned against it. She fell backward, right into his very damp, very warm and very powerful arms.
Chapter 8
It probably wasn't strange that he refused to release her instantly.
"You were spying on me!" he said.
"Spying—through a closed door?" she returned.
"You were listening at the door."
"I wasn't," she assured him. His arms were wrapped around her midriff, and they were both wearing nothing but towels. "I was leaning against it."
"Weakened by the sight of me, right?" he whispered huskily, the sound just against her ear and somehow leaving a touch that seemed to seep down the length of her neck, spread into a radiance of sun warmth and radiate along the length of her.
"I divorced you, remember?" she said softly.
"I've never forgotten. Not for an instant." There was something haunting in his voice, and his hold hadn't eased in the least.
"Would you please let me go?"
"Damn. You're not charmed, standing there, me here, my body, your body…memories."
She fought very hard not to move an inch, certain he was just taunting her, and afraid she was feeling so much more than she should.
"I never denied that you could be incredibly charming," she said, trying for calm, as if she were dealing with a child. "When you chose."
"I'm choosing now."
"Too late."
"Why? We're still technically married, remember? Here we are…together, you know I won't leave this cottage, and I think you believe my concern for you is real. And you are my wife."
In a minute she would melt. She might even burst into tears. Worse, she might turn around and throw herself into his arms, then cry out all her insecurities and her belief that they'd never had a chance of making it.
"David, let me go," she said.
"Whatever you wish." He released her. The minute he did, she lost her towel.
She turned to face him, deciding not to make a desperate grab for it. Standing as casual and tall as she could, she shook her head. "That was a rather childish trick."
"It wasn't a trick. I let you go and your towel fell off. Not my fault."
"Well, thank God you still have yours."
He grinned and dropped his towel. And his smile, as well.
For a moment he stood there, watching her, with no apology at all for the visible extent of his arousal.
He took a step toward her, reaching for her, pulling her into his arms, hard and flush against his length. She knew, though, that if she protested with even a word or a gesture, he would let her go again.
She meant to say…something.
But she didn't. His fingers brushed her chin, lifting her face, tilting her head. Neither of them spoke. His eyes searched hers for a moment; then his mouth met her lips with an onslaught that was forceful, staggering. It took only the touch of his lips, the thrust of his tongue, the simple vibrant crush of his body, and she felt the stirring of sexual tension within her so deeply that she thought she would scream. If he had lowered her to the tile floor then and there, she wouldn't have thought of denial.
But he did no such thing. His lips and tongue met hers with a flattering urgency, and his hands moved down the length of her back, fingers brushing slowly, until they had cleared the base of her spine, curved around her buttocks and pressed her closer still. She felt the hard crush of his erection against her inner thighs, equal parts threat and promise, a pulsing within, creating a swirl of pure sensuality that possessed some core within her. Weakened, shaking, she clung to him, still intoxicated by the movements of his lips, teeth and tongue.
And his hands, of course, pressing, caressing…
She drew away as his lips broke from hers. She needed to say something. Married or not, they shouldn't be here now. She had moved on. For the first time she had felt chemistry with another man. With…
She couldn't even recall his name.
David's mouth had broken from hers, only to settle on her collarbone, where his ton
gue drew heated circles, then move lower.
"David," she breathed. He didn't answer, because the fiery warmth of his caress had traveled to the valley between her breasts, and with each brush of flesh, she felt the need for the teasing to stop, for his lips to settle, for his body to…
"David…"
Her fingers were digging into his shoulder then. His tongue bathed her flesh, erasing any little drops that remained from her shower. Everywhere a slow, languid, perhaps even studied caress, everywhere, until those areas he did not touch burned with aching anticipation. Her abdomen was laved, thighs caressed, hips, the hollows behind her knees, her thighs…close…closer…
"David…"
"What?" he murmured at last, rising to his full height, still flush against her, yet meeting her eyes. "Don't tell me to stop," he said, gaze dark and volatile, "Alex, don't tell me to stop."
"I—I wasn't going to," she stuttered.
He arched an eyebrow.
"I was going to tell you that I couldn't stand, that…I was about to fall."
"Ah," he murmured, watching her for the longest moment as heat and cold seared through her, heat that he held her still, cold, the fear that had come before, that he would leave her, that her life, like her body, would be empty.
"I—I don't think I can stand," she said, swallowing, lashes falling.
"You don't need to," he said, and he swept her up, his arms firm and strong, his eyes a shade of cobalt so dark they might have been pure ebony. He moved the few steps through the hall, eyes upon her all the while, pressed open the bedroom door and carried her in. And still he watched her, and in the long gaze he gave her, she felt the stirring in her quicken to a deeper hunger, urgency, desperation. It was almost as if he could physically stroke her with that gaze, touch every erogenous zone, reach inside her, caress her very essence.
She breathed his name again. "David."
At last he set her down, and though she longed just to circle her arms around him, feel him inside her, he had no such quick intent. He captured her mouth again, kissed her with a hot, openmouthed passion that left her breathless. And while she sought air in the wake of his tempest, he moved against her again, mouth capturing her breasts, tending to each with fierce urgency. She felt the hardness of her own nipples, felt them peaking against his mouth and tongue, and then the cold of the air struck them and brought shivers as he moved his body against hers. This time he didn't tease, but parted her thighs and used his mouth to make love to her with a shocking, vital intimacy, until she no longer arched and whispered his name, but writhed with abandon and desperation, unable to get close enough, unable to free herself, ravenous for more and more.
Sweet familiarity. He knew her. Knew how to make love to her. Time had taught him to play her flesh and soul, and he gave no quarter, ignored the hammering in his own head, the frantic pulse in his blood, a drumbeat she could feel against her limbs. She cried out at last, stunned, swept away, crashing upon a wave of physical ecstasy so sweet it left her breathless once again, almost numb, the beat of her own heart loud in ears. But before she could drift magically back down to the plane of real existence, he was with her, as she had craved, body thrusting into hers, their limbs entangled. The roller coaster began a fierce climb once again, driving upward with a frenetic volatility that made all the world disappear and, in time, explode once again in a sea of sheer sensual splendor, so violent in its power that she saw nothing but black, then stars…then, at last, the bedroom again, and the man still wrapping her with his arms. Shudders continued to ripple through her, little after currents of electricity, and as they brought her downward, she couldn't help but marvel at the sheer sexual prowess of the man and the almost painful chemistry they shared.
He rose up on his elbow, slightly above her, and used his free hand to smooth a straying lock of damp hair from her face. She was startled to see the tension that remained in his eyes as he studied her. And she was more startled still by the husky tone in his voice when he suddenly demanded, "Why?"
"Why?" she repeated.
"Why did you do it? You didn't call…you didn't write. You sent divorce papers."
She stared back at him. Why?
Because I couldn't bear the thought of you having this with any other woman—ever. Because I was losing you. Losing myself. I was happy at your side, but I needed my own world, as well. And I was sure that one day you would realize I wasn't the kind of woman you could spend forever with.
She didn't speak the words. It wasn't the time. She was far too off balance. She moistened her lips, desperately seeking for something to say.
"Sex doesn't make a marriage," she managed at last. He frowned slightly, staring at her still.
She pushed him away from her. "David…you're heavy," she said, though it wasn't true.
But he shifted off her. She rose and sped into her bathroom, where she just closed the door and stood there, shivering. Finally she turned the shower on and stepped beneath it. If they had really still been married, he would have followed her. He could do absolutely incredible things with a soap bar in his hands, with suds, with water, with teasing, laughing, growing serious all over again, heated…
He didn't follow her. She didn't know how long she stayed in the shower, but when she emerged, he had left her bedroom.
She found a long sleep shirt and slipped into it, then paused to brush out the length of her now twice-washed hair. She realized that she was starving, yet opted not to leave her room.
She set the brush back down on her dresser and noted that her array of toiletries was out of order. The women in housekeeping never touched her dresser, which she kept in order herself, or her desk and computer, in the spare bedroom. Had David been going through her things?
She had a dolphin perfume dispenser. It wasn't valuable, but it was pretty and meant a lot to her, because her parents had given it to her for her tenth birthday. It was porcelain, about five inches high and beautifully painted. She always set it in the middle and arranged the rest of her toiletries around it. Now the dolphin was off to the side and a fancy designer fragrance was in the center. By rote, she rearranged the perfumes, talcs and lotions.
No big deal. Just…curious.
She shrugged, still thinking about making love with David. One part of her wondered how the hell she had lived without him, without being together like that, for an entire year. The other part of her was busy calling herself the worst kind of fool in the world.
Then she reminded herself that she shouldn't be dwelling on personal considerations at all. A man had died today. This time there was no doubt that she had found a body.
In her own mind—and, apparently, in David's—there was no doubt that she had found a body on the beach, as well. And in David's mind, that body had belonged to Alicia Farr. His friend? His sometime lover? Either way, it had to disturb him deeply, and yet…
And yet, there they had been tonight.
She set her brush down, completely forgetting that the toiletries on her dresser had been rearranged.
Then she crawled into bed. Somehow, she was going to make herself sleep.
Alone.
She really could look like an angel, David thought, opening the door to her bedroom. She was sound asleep in a cloud of sun-blond hair, her hand lying on the pillow beside her face. Just seeing her like that, he felt both a swelling of tenderness…and a stirring of desire.
Determinedly, he tampered down both.
He had the coffee going; he'd returned to his own place in a flash for clothing, and then put out cereal and fruit for breakfast. He hadn't forgotten that he'd promised Zach that he would show him—and his mother—the Icarus, and mentioned to the boy that they might meet for breakfast, but it was too early to meet them, and if Alex had maintained her old habits, she would forget to eat during the day, so she needed to start out with something.
And he needed to talk with her.
He walked into the room, ripping the covers from her and giving her shoulder a firm shake. Sh
e awoke instantly and irritably, glaring at him as if she were the crown princess, and he a lowly serf who had dared disturb her.
"Breakfast," he said briefly.
She glanced at her alarm. "I don't have to be up yet," she told him indignantly.
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
"Trust me, you do."
She groaned, resting her head in her hands. "Really, David, this is getting to be too much. Listen, last night was…nothing but the spur of the moment. You need an ego boost? It was just the fact that you do have nice buns and you've managed to ruin my one chance for a nice affair here. At any rate, you can stay here if you want to, so knock yourself out. But I've just about had it with you acting like a dictator."
"Then maybe you should quit lying to me."
"About what?" she demanded, looking outraged.
"Danny Fuller."
She groaned. "Now I really don't know what you're talking about."
"Get up. There's coffee. That always seems to improve your temper."
"I don't have a temper."
"I beg to differ," he told her, and added, "Come on, out here, and you can eat while you talk."
He didn't let her answer but exited the room. Just after he had closed the door, he heard the pillow crash against it.
He turned and opened it. "No temper, huh?" he queried.
She still wasn't up. Tangled blond hair was all around her face, and she was in a soft cotton T-shirt that didn't do a thing to make her any less appealing. It should have been loose, but somehow it managed only to enhance her curves.
He closed the door quickly before she could find something else to throw.
In the kitchen, he poured two cups of coffee, then hesitated where he stood, tension gripping his abdomen in a hard spasm.
What the hell had gone so wrong between them? He'd never met anyone like her. He loved everything about her, from her eyes to her toes, the sound of her voice, her passion when she spoke about dolphins, teaching, the sea, and the way she looked when they made love, the way she moved, touched him, the smell of her, sight, sound, taste…
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