What the Waves Bring

by Barbara Delinsky

  “It was the storm door,” she said softly, as though to herself. Only the slanted porchtop roof kept the rain from her head. “I thought I had locked it, but it must have worked loose somehow.”

  “April.” The deep voice burst into her thoughts. “Get back in here! You’ll cut yourself!”

  Heedless to his warning, she stooped and tossed several larger pieces of glass into a makeshift pile in the corner. Continuing to survey the damage, she turned gingerly. Heath had disappeared from the door and was returning, just as she noted his absence, with his shoes on. Cursing softly, he strode toward her, swept her off her feet into his arms and returned her over the plane of jagged shards to the kitchen.

  “That was a stupid thing to do!” he scolded darkly. “Would you like to permanently scar the bottoms of your feet?” He looked scoffingly at the wool socks that offered but minimal protection, then glanced at a red blot on her finger. “Let’s clean that off,” he ordered, placing her gruffly onto the table, then stooping down to strip the socks carefully from her feet. “And check those for glass while I get a Band-Aid.”

  Throughout his demonstration of force, April had been the stunned victim. Not only had the power of his arms, especially given his recent ordeal, startled her, but she was taken aback by the sense of command he exuded. She spoke more meekly.

  “Heath, that glass is apt to blow around and off the porch if it isn’t cleaned up now. Once it gets into the grass and the bushes, it’ll really be a mess to collect.” Her eyes were wide brown pools focused at the tall figure before her.

  Anger drew his lips into a thin line. “Then you can tell me where I might find the broom,” he seethed with a deep breath, “and I’ll see to it myself.”

  “Just inside the basement stairs.” She pointed, gratitude reflected in her tentative smile.

  “Crazy woman,” he mumbled under his breath, shaking his head as he followed her finger and retrieved the broom.

  April was more than pleased to escape his wrath, taking refuge in the living room with a paper towel wrapped tightly around her finger. Well, she mused, the man certainly had a way about him! Whatever had made him so angry? Her actions were no different than any homeowner’s might have been. Of course, he was right. It had been slightly foolish of her to stampede into the middle of the mess like that! But where was his understanding?

  “Let me see that finger now.”

  Lost in her thoughts, April looked up quickly to find Heath lowering himself to sit by her side on the sofa. To her instant relief, his anger had cooled. When he took the profferred digit and removed its wrapping, his touch was gently exploratory.

  “Looks like it’s not deep. Sit still.”

  With the order, he was up once more and gone. Moments later, he returned with disinfectant and a Band-Aid. “You certainly have found your way around,” she teased softly.

  “When a man needs a shave”—he shrugged with a smile—“he is willing to wade through any number of things by way of reaching a razor. In this case, the jungle held other goodies.”

  April thought hard, trying desperately to recall what else he might have found in her own private medicine chest. To her knowledge, there was nothing either incriminating or embarrassing. Reassured, she lifted the injured finger, now circled tightly with a Band-Aid, for inspection.

  “If it’s uncomfortably tight,” he offered, “we’ll take it off in a few minutes. The most important thing is to stop the flow of blood.”

  “It wasn’t really bleeding all that much …”

  “Any cut should be taken care of.” His face was close to hers, his nearness beginning to affect her. Seeking respite from his intensity, she grinned.

  “Maybe you’re a doctor.” At his raised brow, she breezed on. “Or a paramedic? How about a veterinarian?”

  Through narrowed eyes, he assessed her. “You have quite a sense of humor, sweet April. Anything else to suggest?”

  “No.” She shrugged innocently, rather enjoying the game.

  “Good! Now.” He stood up. “You say there is firewood in the basement also?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “That’s what we need. A little warmth. A little romance.”

  “Now, wait a minute …”

  “Uh!” He stopped her protest. “Doctor’s orders. You” —he pointed straight at her—“sit!”

  Amusement flitted about her features as she watched Heath vanish for an armload of wood, set the logs carefully on the iron grate in the fireplace, scatter small kindling beneath, and strike a match.

  “It works, doesn’t it?” He paused in the act, hand suspended.

  “Yes,” she chuckled.

  His sigh of relief was audible as he touched the flame to the dry wood. “Thank goodness! All we need is a roomful of black smoke!” April laughed with him as he unceremoniously swiped the cushions from the nearby armchair and piled them on the small area rug before the fire. “Come here,” he growled, giving April no time for second thoughts, as he reached for her and gently hauled her to his improvised lair.

  “For a man who can’t remember who he is,” she mused aloud, “you’re in high spirits!”

  Settling her comfortably in the crook of his arm, he cocked his head nonchalantly. “You’ve given me a name, I have a roof over my head, food in my belly, a woman by my side—what more could I ask?”

  “You make it sound so simple—adapting to amnesia.”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  She shook her head against his shoulder, feeling more comfortable by the minute. “I suppose not.” Soon she became hypnotized by the dancing flame in the hearth. “That’s a super fire! Where did you ever learn to build one like that? I know,” she said with humor. “Were you a logger?” He shook his head, grinning against her hair. “An Indian chief?” Again he shook his head. April lowered her voice in feigned secrecy. “A pyromaniac?”

  Her kidding ended with his pounce as he flipped over to pin her to the cushions, his body holding hers at his mercy. When she opened her mouth to protest he closed it with his own, demonstrating a hunger she’d only had glimpses of before. It was intoxicating—his hunger—and exhilarating. April felt her senses fall into the swirling eddy of desire, yet her mind resisted to the last.

  “Don’t, Heath,” she whispered, when he released her lips for a brief moment. “We shouldn’t—”

  “Shhh.” His fingers wound through her chestnut mane, holding her face immobile. A slow rain of kisses fell on her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, as April struggled to deny their rapturous shower. But she felt herself weakening, ever weakening before the tender onslaught.

  “No. Please, don’t …” Yet even as she spoke, her body betrayed her, straining toward the muscular lines of his virility, lean and long against her.

  He said nothing but let his hands venture into eloquence. With infinite care they caressed her—her shoulders, her neck, and then, as she cried out with pleasure, her breasts. His fingers found their fullness and their peaks, coaxing each to greater sensitivity.

  “Ah, sweet April,” he rasped, instants before seizing her lips in a kiss as fierce as any she’d known. And she had known many over the years—but none like this. Had she simply been out of the mainstream too long? Had she missed a man’s touch, without realizing it? Was her appreciation that of a pauper finding gold?

  Her response was wild and fevered, her pent-up passion suddenly unleashed. Beneath a veneer of composure lay a bee’s nest of desire. This man, whom she barely knew, had plumbed its honey. Yet as the force of her need shocked her, so did his sudden withdrawal. Her cry of loss was muffled in the wool of her sweater gliding up over her head. To her confusion, she found herself against the cushions once more, Heath close above her, his hands releasing the buttons of her shirt, one by one.

  For an instant, she felt that she could stop him. Her fingers, trembling, closed over his, her eyes locking with his in silent pleading. It was his lips, lowering and gently consuming hers, th
at stilled her protest. As the fire crackled brightly in the hearth and its wood smell wafted through the room about them, he finished his task, spreading the shirt to make way for his hands as they intimately stroked her ivory flesh. To her whispered moan, his fingers slid inside the lace of her bra, cupping the warmth of her breast, his thumb sliding back and forth over its crest, sending ripples of sweet torture through her. When his mouth resumed its plunder, she felt her grasp on reality slipping, slipping through fingertips that sought the thickness of his hair and held his head closer, ignoring the last wee voice that persisted in distant objection.

  Heath lifted his head and slid his hands down her body, pressing her hips against his in frustration. That his arousal was as great as her own, she knew for a fact. That she wanted him closer, deeper, more fully a part of her still, gave her a jolt. But it simply wasn’t right.

  “No, Heath!” she rasped. “Please stop …” From somewhere she found the sudden strength to spread her palms against the wall of his chest and lever him ever so slightly away.

  He stared at her for a long uncomprehending moment. Very slowly his breathing steadied and the raging fire of desire faded to a more docile glow.

  “No?” he muttered thickly.

  She shook her head.

  “Why, April? Why the turn-off? Was it nothing more than a game?”

  “No!” she cried out in instant horror.

  “Then why? I thought you wanted me as well.”

  “I did! I do!” Bolting up, she twisted to put her back to him.

  His approach grew newly mellow. “Then why? Why won’t you let me make love to you?”

  “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “April …”

  There was warning in his voice, forcing her on. She spoke in an agonized whisper. “I’m frightened.” Until she’d said it, she hadn’t even realized it. But, yes, she was frightened.

  “Of me?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Not really.” She shook her head in self-reproach.

  “More of myself, I think.” It was as far as she could go at the moment. “I wouldn’t want to get … carried away …”

  “You’re not making sense, April. A minute ago you responded to me with all of you. Are you saying that you’re afraid of lovemaking?”

  A tremulous hand ran through her hair as she sought the correct words. “Of the physical act, no.”

  Heath stood impatiently. “Then what is it you fear?” He loomed high above her, compounding her dilemma with his overwhelmingly powerful presence.

  Tucking her knees up to her chest, she buried her face. “I just can’t explain. I’m not even sure of it myself.”

  An interminable silence followed her half-whispered words. As he stood between the fire and her, his frame diverted its heat, leaving her chilled both in body and spirit. When with an oath he stalked from the room, a dry sob coursed through her, leaving her emotionally spent. Moments later the sound of the shower—the still cold shower—attested to Heath’s state of mind.

  April sighed in resignation, her own body reluctantly calming. Her fingers shook imperceptibly as she buttoned her shirt, then stood and walked to the window. The rain had let up to a light drizzle; the end was in sight.

  The end was in sight. It was those words so innocently passing through April’s mind that embodied the crux of her fear. In the instant she saw it clearly. To give herself to Heath would be to become more deeply involved in a relationship that was destined for destruction. Here, alone, in this house at the far end of nowhere, Heath was a terribly appealing man. Yet what of reality? Once the storm ended the utilities would be repaired, reestablishing her link to a world of information that could, most probably, identify this man with the initials H.E.A. within days. If April allowed herself to become emotionally involved with him, only to discover a wife and children waiting for his return, she would be in for heartbreak. And Lord knew she had suffered enough of that in her short lifetime. Shane Michaels’s betrayal, though wiped now from her everyday awareness, had left its scar. Could she knowingly risk her peace of mind?

  The shower had been turned off; sounds from the bedroom kept April where she was until, after a few minutes, Heath came out to join her. He looked fresher than she felt, and she told him that.

  “I think I should take a shower, myself,” she murmured, looking anywhere but directly at the tall, handsome man.

  “It’s cold …” he warned softly, his mood having improved with the invigorating shower.

  Her long, chestnut tresses fell forward as she lowered her head, shielding her from his gaze. “Look, Heath, I’m sorry—”

  “I’m sorry, April—”

  Their simultaneous apologies brought both heads up, both pairs of eyes into direct confrontation. After a long moment, both pairs of lips curved in smiles. When Heath approached her, she felt no longer frightened.

  “Why don’t you go wash up, honey,” he suggested softly. “Shower if you must,” he teased, “but at your own risk. I won’t come running in to warm you up.”

  The allusion to their temporarily banked passion brought a crimson flush to her cheeks. She smiled in gratitude; she trusted him to respect her wishes. “And what will you be doing?”

  “I think I’ll peel some wallpaper for a stretch. The physical exertion might help.” His suggestiveness was quickly overridden by her concern.

  “Are you sure you feel up to it?”

  A low laugh rumbled from deep within him. “If I don’t do something about this pent-up energy, we’re both apt to be in big trouble.” Having drawn out “big” to twice its length, he grinned mischievously. “Now, run along. And don’t be too long. I may need some help.”

  As it turned out, no help was needed. April’s shower was abbreviated yet refreshing, and she spent little time dawdling with her hair, her face or her clothes. There seemed no point, she reasoned, in fixing herself up, especially after she’d sworn off the man and his charms. The butterflies that materialized mysteriously in her stomach, however, belied the image of composure she presented in the spare room a few moments later.

  “Done so quickly?” she asked in surprise, her eye coming to rest on the broad set of shoulders, the dark head, the lean torso and legs, as Heath stood with his back to her, gazing out the window.

  “It’s getting pretty dark. I’ll try it again tomorrow morning.” The faraway ring of his voice wrenched April’s insides. There was no doubt in her mind as to the direction of his thoughts. They would be searching, ever searching, for the memories that would restore his place in the world, that world across the water.

  Slowly, she covered the distance to join him at the window. “It gets dark so much earlier now. Winter will be upon us, before we know it.” Her thoughts took their own diversion, her voice a dreamy lilt. “I wonder what it’ll be like—living out here in the thick of winter.”

  “The house seems sturdy enough. Even with the winds, it hasn’t been drafty. If your heating system holds up, you should do fine.”

  Their sights met and locked for an enigmatic moment, both obsessed with their own thoughts. April’s hands were in her pockets, and so were Heath’s. It seemed the safest place …

  “Come on.” He cocked his head. “Let’s go talk. In the living room. You still haven’t told me about yourself.”

  She laughed softly. “It’s not a terribly fascinating story, I can guarantee you.”

  “It sure beats mine!” He beamed down at her, warming her with the pure pleasure of his company.

  “You’ve got a point.” Her head dipped in good-humored agreement as she led the way into the living room. While Heath settled his lengthy frame before the fire, now fully ablaze with birch replenishment, she opened the storage cabinet beneath her desk. “It’s not that I drink on the job.” She waved a bottle of wine in the air with a flourish. “It’s just the only place I could find to store the bottle properly.”

  “No need for explanations, darlin’. The end result is what counts!” His eyes danced
as she approached him, but she caught their gleam and halted in midstep.

  “Hey,” she said, her gaze narrowing, “you weren’t an alcoholic once upon a time, were you?”

  “Naw,” he drawled. “If I was, you can bet I would have sniffed out that bottle long ago. Have you a corkscrew?” He was on his feet and had taken the bottle from her before she could respond. Silently, she pointed toward the kitchen, then traced his steps, arranging a plate of crackers and Boursin cheese while Heath wrestled with a stubborn cork. At its triumphant “pop” the two returned, arms laden, to the living room.

  “Now, sweet April.” He took the plate from her and put it on the floor before the fire, handed her a cracker piled high with cheese and a wineglass, and urged her on. “Your story, please.” He poured the wine, demonstrating the fine art with a concluding twist that ranked favorably with that of even the finest of wine stewards.

  “A bartender?” She couldn’t resist the quip. “Is that what you did for a living?”

  Ignoring her gentle teasing, he gallantly touched his glass to hers. “I’m waiting.”

  The command performance began softly. “What can I say? I’ve spent most of my life in and around New York.”

  “You were born there?”

  “Uh-huh. My family has a home on Long Island, a summer home in Bar Harbor. That’s in Maine …”

  He nodded his understanding. “Your parents?”

  “George and Sheila Wilde. George is the president and chairman of the board of Wilde Enterprises, headquartered in Manhattan. Sheila is president and chairman of the board of her own very exclusive social circle.”

  “Is that a note of sarcasm I detect?” His eyes studied her closely as she sipped her wine.

  “I suppose so.” It was a reluctant admission that she felt called for an explanation. “She always assumed I’d follow in her footsteps. You know, country-club leader, charity hostess, belle of the ball, so to speak. She’s perfect for it. I’m not. When I balked and insisted I wanted a career, we had a mild falling out.”