Cat watched suspiciously as her strange intruder walked to the dresser—uncannily as if he knew where he was going—and picked up a piece of scrimshaw. Upon the piece of ivory was delicately etched the fine lines of an old clipper ship. The stranger began to prowl again, palming the ivory and moving it in his hand with his fingers. He approached the window and stared out. Cat was about to lose her cool when he spoke again.
“I hear you’re about to marry Jules DeVante. Is that true?”
Cat bit her lip but couldn’t keep the impatience from her voice. “Listen, I’m getting tired of this. I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but if you don’t get out of here I’m going to scream and get Sam in to throw you out.” And, she added silently, in two seconds I’ll rip off those glasses. …
He turned back to her—that constant, annoying, amused smile still clearly etched into his unperturbed features. “Really?” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t bother if I were you—Sam is nowhere around, and if he were, he wouldn’t throw me out. Oh—don’t touch the glasses. Remember? Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Go to hell,” Cat snapped, irritated that he could so easily read her and chagrined with his certainty concerning her employee. So Sam did know him! And whoever this thorn in her life was, Sam respected the man.
“Don’t count on that,” Cat snapped out. “Sam may like you, sir, but this is my bedroom—” She broke off, suddenly furious with his mystery and games. “Who the hell are you?”
“Answer my question first.”
“If you’re writing a book on the islands,” Cat drawled, her eyes sparkling with venom, “I don’t care to be a chapter.”
“If you want answers from me, Mrs. Miller, you should give some.”
“All right,” Cat replied dryly. “Jules is no secret either. Yes, I intend to marry him. You’ve got your answer. Now, who are you and what do you want? You say you don’t want the cay—quite bluntly, it’s the only thing I’ve got that comes near that sum in value. Unless, of course, you’re willing to give me some time to raise the money—”
“Until you marry Jules?”
Cat hesitated. “Yes.”
He paused for a minute. “No, I’m not willing to wait.”
“Then what do you want?” Cat didn’t exactly break, but her cool was gone. Her question was much more of a semi-hysterical hiss than she had intended.
“Oh, Mrs. Miller, for all your apparent savvy, you are naive. What am I after? You—of course.”
She was sure her jaw dropped. It felt as if it fell all the way to the floor. Lord, she was naive. But then the whole thing was so ridiculous. Incredulously, she began to laugh, recovering a modicum of brittle composure.
“Surely you must be joking,” she managed. “I value my self-esteem, but really, I can’t imagine your considering having me for one night to be worth five hundred thousand dollars!” Cat sobered uneasily as she realized the man was still smiling.
“You’re right,” he said, not unpleasantly. “You do look rather tempting in that towel—but one night, definitely no. I was thinking more along the lines of two months—maybe three.” He paused a second. “Really, Mrs. Miller, I do think you should sit down. You’re whiter than the sand.”
Was she white? she wondered vaguely. Quite possibly. The realization that he was serious seemed to have drained her blood … her strength. A chill reverberated down her spine, then she blinked, mentally stiffening.
“I don’t want to sit down. Your proposal is absurd—out of the question.”
“Oh?” He moved a few steps toward her from the window, and she was fully aware, despite the darkness of the glasses, that his eyes were searing into hers. “You were willing to sell out for a night, but not for two months?”
“I never said any such thing,” Cat grated. She suddenly realized that she was close to tears; she was finding it difficult to breathe. Belated remorse filled her. How did I get myself into this? she wondered desperately. She knew how to handle herself, but he was corroding the self-confidence of a lifetime. Nothing she said daunted him. He was like a cat playing with an unwary mouse, fully aware that the mouse was trapped while the mouse still believed in an escape hole.
“Will you please get out of my bedroom!” she demanded, not caring that her voice held a note of beseechment.
Something about her plea seemed to touch him. His voice gentled. “Soon,” he promised. He began to stalk the room again, the scrimshaw still in his hand, still being idly massaged by his fingers.
“What about Mr. Miller?” he suddenly queried, fingers tense around the ivory.
Cat was too overwrought at the moment to sense the depth of the question. “What about him?” she asked through clenched teeth. The stranger said nothing and she uneasily blurted, “Mr. Miller is ancient history.”
“Oh,” the stranger said lightly. He finally returned the scrimshaw to the dresser. “Think it over, Mrs. Miller. You have until tonight. All I want is two months.”
“There’s nothing to think over,” Cat told him. “I’m not for sale. I’ll think of something.”
“Well,” he warned, his deceptively low tone carrying a husk of danger, “I wouldn’t go to Monsieur DeVante if I were you.”
“Oh, and why not?” She shouldn’t have asked him, Cat realized, she should have just let him go.
“Because you won’t be marrying him.”
“I certainly will.”
The stranger shook his head. “Correction,” he said firmly, and a tone that was low, carrying a strange combination of bitter sadness and mockery, suddenly sent eerie shivers through her. Even before he slowly slipped the glasses from his eyes, a part of her knew. As Sam had said, she should have known all along!
Pinwheels in black exploded in her mind; her limbs grew as weak as liquid. How could she have known? Clay Miller was a ghost, a ghost of the long-forgotten past. Almost seven years had passed since she had seen him, almost six since she had accepted his death. If he really were before her now, he had to be a ghost.
He had changed. Drastically. He was a good twenty pounds heavier. The years had changed his frame from that of pliant youth to that of well-defined maturity. She had never seen him with a beard, never seen his hair long enough to curl over his nape, wave past his forehead, the color changed by the bleach of the sun. The mustache had hidden his mouth, the glasses, his eyes.
But now that she could see those fathomless eyes, she knew there could be no mistake. No one had eyes quite like Clay. Their brown so dark … so incredibly dark. When he was angry, they seemed as black as jet. They could pierce the soul, sizzle and burn the heart. And sometimes, sometimes touch upon one with such tenderness that the entire earth might have been swept into an ocean-blue hole, leaving only the delight of that strange mesmerization.
But, oh, God! She had been married to him, how had she failed to recognize him?
Because he is a ghost … a ghost … a ghost.
Cat’s hand moved to her throat; it jerked before her, fell back to her side. Quicksand. Drowning hadn’t been in the water. This was drowning, in a quagmire of emotions that crippled and stunned. What was she feeling? Everything was whirling. This man had used her; their lives had been hell. When he had disappeared, she had wanted to die. She hated him; she loved him. She didn’t feel anything because it had been so long. …
He was alive!
“I think you’d best sit, Catherine,” he said softly. “I assure you, I’m not a ghost.”
He reached out to touch her and the spell of the shock was broken and the emotion that prevailed was rage. Once, long ago, a girl had wanted to die because she thought he no longer existed. She had cried until her eyes had run dry remembering their stormy parting, spent years, years, learning to live again, convincing herself she could love again.
And now here he was, obviously in the peak of health, waltzing in to hand her further torture, further humiliation … But, oh, dear God, yes, he was alive. For a second, years slipped away. She wanted to fly across
the room, hurl herself into his arms, touch him, feel him, cry and hold him.
He is alive, her mind murmured over and over again. Thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you, God. …
Cat closed her eyes for a moment, silently hearing a mental screech of agony that shouted out, “No!”
Yes, he was alive. In her prayers and dreams she would never stop being grateful, happy that he walked the earth. But he was her past. She didn’t, couldn’t, love him anymore because she loved Jules, because her life was back together. She had her own strength and she couldn’t lose it because she couldn’t bear a repeat of what had happened before.
And he was very obviously in excellent health, in excellent financial shape. She was shaking with joy that he was alive, but also with rage because this meant that he had simply deserted her. She had spent a year in tears over a man who had walked out on her cold … nights in agony, longing, praying … burning, tossing. …
A man who was still reaching for her.
He could never, never know what he had done to her, how it had taken her years to want to breathe again, how just seeing him now brought back the ecstasy they had shared with a deafening torment that almost obliterated the hell he had put her through.
“Don’t!” Cat rasped out. “Whatever you do, don’t touch me.” She took a deep breath.
He stared at her a long moment; the strong, sun-browned hand he had extended dropped to his hip and he shrugged. “Sorry—I thought you were going to keel over.”
“For you?” She couldn’t keep the bitter venom from her voice. “Hardly. As I told you, Mr. Miller, ghost or real, you’re my ancient past.”
His brows, high-arched over the hellfire eyes, rose slightly. “I’ll admit, Cat, I wasn’t expecting you to shower me with kisses. But out of normal human decency I hadn’t expected you to resent the fact that I was alive. You might have had a question or two about what happened.”
“I don’t care what happened. You didn’t come home. That shouldn’t have been a tremendous shock to me. It was probably foolish for me to assume you dead. I was certainly never the driving force in your life.”
“Cat—”
“Clay, I’m serious. I don’t want to know what happened, or where you’ve been. You’re not dead. Fine. I mean wonderful, really. I’m very happy for you. But don’t expect me to feel much of anything else. I’m a very different person now. And I’m in love with another man—one I still intend to marry—”
“Cat!” The slash of his voice cut across her full-speed monologue. “You can’t marry that damned Frenchman. You’re still married to me.”
“The hell I am!” Cat protested.
Clay sighed and patiently scratched his bearded chin. “You can’t have declared me legally dead—you have a few more months before that could have been done. And you haven’t divorced me.”
“How do you know?” Cat demanded, stalling for time. Why hadn’t she divorced him? Because she had thought him dead! And though engaged, she hadn’t applied for a marriage license and therefore hadn’t thought of declaring him legally dead. She couldn’t grasp the fact that she was still legally tied to a man she hadn’t seen in years.
“I know everything about you at the moment, Cat,” he told her, his tone now a little weary, a little harsh. “You’re still my wife and indebted to me as well. I want my two months, Cat. If you want a divorce after that time, I’ll see to it that it’s quick and easy for you. And in the meantime, I’ll keep my identity secret—your fiancé won’t know a thing.”
“No! I don’t need to bargain with you! I can get a divorce right now with no deals,” Cat interrupted. “Desertion,” she added, “is considered excellent grounds.”
“Not, Mrs. Miller, if the judge is willing—where you are not—to hear what did happen and where I’ve been.”
Icicles suddenly seemed to form in Cat’s bloodstream. He was so certain. For a moment her heart lurched heavily against her chest. Some secret part of her was crying out, a part that had never forgotten how she loved him. Where had he been? Dear God, what had happened? Was there a legitimate excuse for disappearing for almost seven years?
No. She clenched her eyes tightly closed. She had made a new life. She was strong, she felt a comfortable love for a man who gave her everything so gallantly … a man with whom she had only ever had one argument … a man with whom she could reason.
“Clay,” she said coldly. “I’m in love with Jules.”
“Are you?” He appeared only mildly interested. “Then I suggest you agree to humor me. Two months. Then I’ll disappear quietly, if that’s what you wish, DeVante none the wiser.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cat protested, lifting her chin. “I’ll tell Jules you’ve made an appearance—”
“Will you?” Clay asked, his incredulity lacing the two softly spoken words. “I think not. Mrs. Miller.” He took a step toward her on a lynx-light tread. “I told you, dear wife, I know everything about you at the moment—that includes a tremendous amount of information about Monsieur DeVante. The man has no backbone—”
“How dare you judge Jules!”
“—and when I saunter up to introduce myself as your husband, he’ll be long gone with the wind.”
“You’re wrong!”
“No.” Clay shook his head, almost sadly. “You’re too much of a woman for him, Cat,” he added softly. “I’m not wrong, but take your chances, if you choose. You’re my wife, and you owe me. The next step is yours. One way or the other, I’ll get my two months.”
Cat stared at him, and then the sound of his voice permeated her system. A wave of heat assailed her, striking from deep within her, spreading furiously throughout. Memory of her marriage had become a distant blur, shrouded with the misery of tears. But suddenly she could remember lying in his arms, responding to the fever of his wild demands … touching him … feeling his lips, hot, fervent, moist, seeking all her pleasure centers. She could remember that more recent feeling in the water simply because he breathed … because his lips touched her ear.
“No!” she said again, aware that the flame of her feelings had crimsoned her face. “You can’t force me—”
“Into my bed?” He chuckled lightly.
She couldn’t prevent herself from blushing, but she could will her chin to remain high, her eyes to lock with his. “I really can’t see the need. I’m sure you must have tremendous success elsewhere. To the unwary, those eyes must be magnets and you know damned well you’re built like a brick wall.”
“Glad you approve.” He laughed, the jet light in his eyes taking on a rakish twinkle, “even if the approval is totally objective!” He turned from her, heading for the door, and his voice changed again, losing amusement, becoming harsh. “I don’t remember saying anything about forcing you into bed, Cat I simply want your time. However, if memory serves me, I wouldn’t even need to be persuasive … for long.”
“Get out of here!” Cat gasped.
He paused, turned around, and smiled. “That is what I was doing.”
She stood silent, her eyes glittering emerald antagonism.
“I will see you later, Cat. And tomorrow. DeVante comes in sometime in the afternoon, doesn’t he? We’ll see where we go from there.”
He turned to leave again, but not knowing exactly why, Cat was compelled to stop him.
“Clay?”
He turned again, brows lifted in query.
“Just suppose I listened to this ridiculous bribe of yours. What in hell would I tell Jules anyway. How could I disappear or whatever for two months?”
“That, Cat,” he told her, “would be your problem.” He spun on a heel and placed his hand on the doorknob.
“Why?” Cat exploded. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Why?” He returned the question, and then paused. Emotions raced swiftly through his dark brown eyes that Cat could neither pinpoint or fathom. He shrugged suddenly. “Treasure, Cat, why else. We’re actually going to give to one another. We’re going
after the Santa Anita.”
The door opened and closed. He was gone, and Cat was left staring after him, her heart and mind torn asunder, scars of old wounds ripped and raw.
The Santa Anita. He had come back for treasure.
The Santa Anita, the coveted mystery galleon, the one great secret that her father had kept and she had unraveled. …
Clay hadn’t changed. Not at all. And not enough. …
The pain of memory suddenly came cascading down upon her.
She had been racing down the beach when she met him, laughing with the sheer joy of being home after obtaining her Master’s that her father insisted she needed. Not that she hadn’t loved school, or the fascination of Boston, and except for the short summer vacations and holiday breaks, she had been away from the island for five years. In the last year, she had strenuously crammed to complete her courses in half the allotted time, and now there was sheer joy in the damp grains of pink sand beneath her feet, in the breeze, so clean, so fresh, stinging her face. She was sure there was no one near on the secluded beach near the north end; most of the islanders would be busy with their day-to-day lives, any tourists would be hovering closer to the lodge. Only the sun and endless blue sky were there to watch as she ran, laughing delightedly, pausing occasionally to spin beneath the sun and then take flight again.
Hands and face uplifted to the striking teal of a cloudless day, arms outstretched, Cat again felt laughter bubble through her, erupting like the northern streams when winter lifted her tenacious icy hold. And then her laughter abruptly ceased; she had the uncanny feeling that she was being watched.
Hours to Cherish Page 4