“Get back here, Mrs. Miller,” Clay ordered in the autocratic tone that so irritated Cat. She turned and stared at him, brows lifted in coolly rebellious query. “Your gear,” he said curtly. “Rinse it.”
Sam cleared his throat a little nervously. “I’ll take care of it, Clay.”
“No, you won’t,” Clay said curtly. “Divers take care of their own gear. No exceptions.”
Eyeing Clay with venom, Cat moved swiftly to collect her diving gear. He was right, she thought; only his comment had made her forget to care for her things. Not that it would have killed someone else to do her the favor, but she didn’t want Sam in the middle of their arguments. Procuring the deck hose, she set to thoroughly spraying her mask, flippers, regulator, and tank.
Clay watched her silently, taking the hose when she finished. “Leave your tank,” he said abruptly. “I’m going to refill it.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Cat protested. “I wouldn’t dream of having you do anything for me.”
Clay gripped her arm. “Leave the damned tank.”
Cat shook off his hold. “Whatever you wish, captain.”
Sam, miserably feigning interest in a snagged fishing line during the exchange, looked up. “There’s a pot of hot coffee on, Cat. And sandwiches in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Cat murmured, escaping through the cabin doors. Seawater was dripping down her nose and she hastily grabbed a towel from the counter and blotted her face, breathing deeply and then whistling out a long sigh. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sank into the vinyl booth that served as dining table and desk. Why were things going so badly? she wondered. They had started off with a certain degree of cordiality. The first few days had been enjoyable. She had forgotten what it was like to dive with Clay, forgotten the touch of his fingers upon hers so that he might point out something special, a rare fish, an especially beautiful display of coral. She had forgotten his secure and possessive touch when he wished to warn her of danger, fire coral within a too easy touching distance, the tentacles of a man-of-war, which could float far below the surface of the water.
Face it, she told herself, the problems that had arisen between them were of her own making. She had turned to rudeness because she was afraid of his touch. Even his casual touch. They loved all the same things. It was too easy to dream that they could really have a life, and it was stupid to dream of it. Clay apparently had no intention of telling her any more about his years of absence, and, after all that time, he was, essentially, a stranger. He might comment that he had made mistakes in their marriage, but he certainly never suggested that he was interested in resuming a relationship in which he changed his ways. He had returned because of the Santa Anita, and nothing more.
But if that were the case, her mind taunted her, why had he returned like a whirlwind, trapping her, cornering her? Why hadn’t he just come and asked her about a joint salvage venture?
Because she would have turned him down flat, Cat thought dryly, and he would have known that. Wives didn’t tend to bend over backward for husbands who disappeared, leaving those who loved them thinking them dead. Clay might have suspected that she could have used his arrival for a bargaining point with Jules … help me, or I can turn to this other man. …
Why Clay did what he did made no difference. Her dreams were absurd because one thing was certain: a relationship with Clay meant nothing but pain. He was, despite the fact that he enjoyed people and could be personable and cordial, basically a loner. There was a part of him that he held back. In the best of times, Cat knew, she had never really held any influence over him. He forged his own destiny. And that destiny had landed him in prison.
For what? she wondered. And where? For how long? He refused to talk to her. Perhaps if he had, she wouldn’t have been so determined to let him nowhere near her. But he had said enough to damn him if she had any sense. He had apparently been free long enough. The Sea Witch II was definitely a luxury craft. Clay had been free long enough to accrue much more than financial security.
A chill suddenly seized Cat and she shivered, clutching the warmth of her cup miserably. She absolutely couldn’t feel anything for Clay, she kept telling herself. No one stayed in love that long, and she had been so sure about Jules.
But whether her love had actually stayed alive, or whether it was simple chemistry, Cat couldn’t deny to herself that reason and logic and even memory of all that happened were doing nothing to quell the raging physical attraction that Clay held for her. Her misery had been in his nearness, in the effort not to touch.
If you touched fire, you were burned and she had already been burned by Clay Miller.
But although she had a comfortable cabin and studiously worked to avoid Clay at all times, it was impossible to live with a man on a boat and not be near him at times. In the water things were fine. In that mystical fantasyland, they both dropped the barriers that sprang between them in the normal world. But aboard the Sea Witch II they had to meet, and they had to clash: When this was over, Cat wanted her divorce. She wanted Clay to sail away again. She wanted to forget that there was a man who could send her senses soaring just by speaking, just by hovering near. She wanted to forget Clay Miller again, forget the crippling pain that came from loving.
“Ahoy there!”
Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the cheerful call from the deck. Frowning, Cat set down her coffee cup and stood, then, curious, opened the cabin door.
They were broadside of another boat, and Clay—a disgustingly virile-looking specimen in white swim shorts that contrasted with the sinewed bronze of his tall form—was cheerfully introducing Sam to the three men aboard the second vessel.
“What took you so long?” Clay demanded of a handsome Bahamian, obviously the captain of the cruiser similar to their own.
“Hey, mon, you wanted provisions!” the Bahamian smiled back, obviously very familiar with Clay. He hunched his shoulders and lifted his hands. “It takes a while to get provisions. Besides, you said not to hurry.”
“Did I?” Clay queried dryly. “That was a mistake on my part!” As if a sixth sense had suddenly alerted him to Cat’s presence by the cabin door, Clay turned abruptly to her. “Cat, come here. I want you to meet the main men of my salvage crew.”
Curiously, Cat stepped forward, ignoring Clay and smiling sweetly for the newcomers. But ignoring Clay was not easy to do. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, as if their relationship was a very friendly one, if not truly intimate.
“Cat, this is Luke, Billy Bo, and that blond fellow over there is Peter Gruuten. He’s an amazing man with a blowtorch and underwater explosives. Gentlemen—” Clay paused only momentarily. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Catherine.”
Cat’s smile became a bit stiff and her shoulders tightened beneath his touch. “How do you do?” she murmured.
Luke, the Bahamian captain, allowed his grin to deepen wickedly. “Whew!” he murmured. “How do you do! We’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. Miller, and apparently it’s all true. …”
“Eh! That’s enough, Luke!” Clay interrupted, his tone light but the touch of warning in his voice sincere. “I want to keep a distance of about a half mile between us,” he said, becoming strictly businesslike. “I don’t want any other boats cruising around to know we’re connected.”
“How much territory have you covered so far?” the hearty-looking blond man, Peter, queried.
“About a mile,” Clay responded. “South of here. We’re moving northward. And it’s a real hassle because there’s so much down there. Finding the right wreck is the real problem.”
“I don’t know. …” Peter countered. “Finding a real galleon … it’s going to be a real treat, really worth the effort.”
“I agree,” Clay said simply, once again changing his manner to smile easily. “Why don’t you guys take Sam aboard for the night? He can fill you in on our dives so far. And he must be half bonkers after spending the last two weeks with us.”
�
�Clay—” Cat began to protest. What was he up to? She didn’t want Sam off the Sea Witch II. If Sam were gone, she would be alone with Clay.
“Cat,” Clay interrupted her firmly, “Sam needs a break. Luke needs to know what’s going on. You and I need to decide where we’re going to start tomorrow.”
“What are you talking about?” Cat demanded impatiently. When had they ever decided anything? And who the hell were these crew members of his. He had never mentioned bringing anyone else in on the search, although she had assumed he had a crew in mind once the vessel was found.
“Sam?” Clay queried, ignoring Cat.
“I could go for a change of scenery, all right,” Sam said, half grinning, half sighing.
“Sam!” Cat hissed. Some protector. He had been as loyal as a brother for years. Reenter Mr. Clayton Miller and suddenly she was out on a limb.
“I’ll just get my gear,” Sam said.
Cat watched in frustration as Luke handed supply boxes to Clay and as Sam disappeared into the cabin only to return and hop with agility from boat to boat. “Let Sam take her around for a while,” Clay called to Luke, referring to the second boat, which was also apparently his. “You’ll enjoy her, Sam, she has a real souped-up motor!”
Sea Enchantress. Cat noted the name of the second cruiser as it motored away. A witch and an enchantress. … Pity it was the first that had been named for her. …
Cat spun on Clay. “What was that all about? You never told me we were supposed to meet another boat. You never mentioned anything about a crew!”
“Don’t start, Cat,” Clay warned, suddenly sounding tired as he hefted a supply box into his arms and headed for the cabin doors. “You knew damned well we’d need a salvage crew to begin to bring anything up.”
“Yes,” Cat protested, “but you keep talking about secrecy! How well do you know those men? How much do you trust them?”
“I’d trust them with my life,” Clay interrupted coldly. “And that’s that, Cat. I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”
“Great,” Cat said sarcastically. “We’re going on my knowledge and theory, and we’re pretending to be pleasure divers, watching out for every little rowboat that goes by, and you’re bringing people in whom I have never met before!”
The cabin doors swung shut behind Clay, but not before she heard his “Caatttt!”
“Damn you!” Cat hissed, but not loud enough to be heard beyond the doors. Why couldn’t he ever simply explain anything? He was evidently very close to the men of the Sea Enchantress. There seemed to be some type of bond between the lot of them. Where had they met? And how had they sealed their friendship with such allegiance that Clay trusted them completely?
Cat’s eyes turned to the other vessel, moving away in a spew of foam. She squinted, frowning. On the bow now stood a woman. It was difficult to see her clearly, but she appeared to be very blond, very fragile, and very pretty. Why hadn’t she presented herself for the introductions? Did Clay know she was aboard the Sea Enchantress?
Thoroughly irritated, Cat followed Clay into the cabin. Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned against the closed doors. “This,” she said firmly, “is getting out of hand. First of all, you and I don’t have a damned thing to discuss. You know you’re going to do whatever the hell you please in the morning. Second, I’m not at all pleased with your surprises. You could easily have told me you were expecting others to join us. And third, I definitely do not like being introduced as your wife!”
Clay stopped arranging the new box of supplies in the galley and stared at her, hands on hips. “You are my wife, Cat,” he reminded her dryly.
“Merely because of an oversight on my part,” Cat said stiffly. “And I won’t be your wife once this is over.”
“Oh, I see,” he murmured on a note that sounded indifferent. “So you’re still determined to make it up with the Frenchman.”
Stung by the tone of his voice, Cat replied, “Of course. You did promise to set Jules straight on the situation.”
Clay poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip, watching Cat over the rim of his cup. “Yes, I did say that. But this isn’t over. So for the moment, Mrs. Miller, you are still my wife. And in all honesty, I do find it rather difficult to believe that you really want to make anything up with DeVante. You haven’t acted terribly upset, you know. The man you supposedly love walked out on you. I haven’t seen a single tear, Cat. A lot of rage, yes, but only because I had the audacity to tamper with your life.”
Cat lifted her brows slightly. “I don’t run around crying, Clay. It’s a rather unproductive thing to do.”
“Oh, unproductive,” Clay agreed, still studying her as he sipped his coffee. “Of course.”
Cat decided to change her vein of questioning. “There was a woman aboard the Sea Enchantress—which I assume is your boat too. Who is she?”
Did he hesitate slightly, or did Cat imagine a slight wince, an expression of pain, before his features returned to a fathomless state.
“Ariel,” he said simply, setting his cup down and returning to the task of storing food. “She’s Peter’s wife,” he added.
She might be Peter’s wife, Cat decided, but Ariel must also be more, someone special to Clay as well. Why else hadn’t she appeared for the introductions? A little stab of pain caught Cat in the midriff. Jealousy, she thought. It came with the territory. After all this time, logically knowing full well that this man who couldn’t reasonably still mean a thing to her, she couldn’t prevent feeling the pain of jealousy.
“Why did you make Sam get off the boat?” Cat demanded sharply.
Once more Clay stopped and stared at her. Where on earth had those eyes come from, Cat wondered bitterly. So deep, so jet, bottomless bits that compelled and threatened. Nowhere on earth, she decided. His eyes, framed by the high-arched brows, were the devil’s own.
“I didn’t make Sam get off the boat. Whether you’ve noticed it or not, the man’s been between the devil and the deep. He deserves a break. Living with the two of us can’t be easy.”
What had she been expecting him to say, Cat wondered. That they really did need to talk, that he had wanted to be alone with her?
Clay stuffed away the last of the supplies, picked up his coffee cup and refilled it, and moved toward the doors. Cat froze as he approached her, then flushed as she saw amusement riddle his eyes and quirk at the corners of his lips. “Excuse me,” he murmured, indicating his desire merely to pass through the doors.
Cat moved quickly so that he could get by her. As the door closed behind him, she felt a spasm of disappointment. Why should she feel disappointed? she wondered wearily. All their conversations ended this way, neither one ever really telling the other a thing.
Cat sighed and moved down the hallway to her small private room. If Sam was gone, they were evidently done diving for the day, and the salt water that had dried upon her flesh was now giving her an uncomfortable sticky feeling. Cat peeled off her bikini and crawled into the tiny shower stall. She paused, hands in the shampoo lather on her head, as the soft sounds of a guitar filtered through the rush of the water.
Clay’s accomplishments with the instrument had surprised her from the first day. He had never played before; music in general had always been something he vaguely appreciated but could live without. Cat remembered her astonishment when she had first seen the instrument leaning carefully against the booth in the salon. “Do you play?” she had inquired incredulously.
“Of course I play,” he had responded impatiently. “I would hardly keep such a thing around for ornamentation.”
And during their weeks at sea she had learned that he did indeed play rather well. And that his deep velvet tenor could also play soothingly upon the soul, touching the chords of the heart.
Cat rinsed out her hair and stepped from the shower, drying herself quickly with a rough white towel. She had intended to stay in her cabin, reading and resting, but she suddenly felt too agitated to do so. Clay was playi
ng Jimmy Buffett tunes, soft, light, and inviting. Cat slipped into a knee-length terry robe, belting it securely around her waist, grabbed her hairbrush, and walked out on deck.
Clay was balanced on the bow, one leg on the deck, the other crooked so that the guitar rested on his knee. He glanced up at her appearance, lifted a brow, and with a small curious smile of surprise finished out his lightly strummed “Margaritaville.” Cat sat cross-legged in a deck chair, brushing out her wet hair as she listened.
“You’re not bad,” she said as he finished playing and watched her with that curiously amused expression.
He shrugged. “Thanks. Got any requests? Don’t get too carried away,” he added in warning, “my repertoire isn’t great.”
Cat couldn’t help laughing at his sheepish apology. “How will I know what I can request, then?”
Clay laughed. “Pick out about ten songs, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“Okay.” Cat listed a number of songs; Clay shook his head with a rueful grimace after each.
“Hold it!” Clay interrupted her. “I can handle ballads, a little calypso, and a little reggae. Find something in there.”
Suddenly, Cat couldn’t answer. He had started her laughing, and now she had laughed so hard that her sides hurt.
“Forget it!” Clay groaned with mock exasperation. “I’ll think of something myself—and I’ll give you a request instead. This half-baked minstrel could really go for a glass of wine. Would you mind?”
Cat stopped laughing, a little unnerved by the enjoyment they were sharing. She paused a second, then shrugged. “Sure,” she murmured, rising quickly. Dropping her brush, she slipped through the cabin doors. Why am I doing this, she asked herself. Why am I taking these chances with him? There was no answer, but as she reached for the plastic cups they normally used up on deck, she hesitated. There was a set of long-stemmed wine crystals in the cabinet above the sink. She found herself reaching for one of those rather than the plastic cup.
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