The vibrations emanating from her raging senses must have reached Heath, for he slowly shut off the computer and approached her. “I think I’ll shower. You look exhausted. Why don’t you get into bed?”
“In a few minutes,” she murmured unsteadily, knowing that the night would be a trial in itself. Would she be able to withstand it? Would her vows hold up? Perhaps it was futile to even venture into the same bed with this most virile of men.
She sat in darkness, listening to the faint sound of the shower and the even more distant rumble of the tide beyond her door. Head back, eyes closed, she struggled for strength, calling it from reserves that were sadly depleted. Though she didn’t sleep, she found herself in a trance. When Heath returned and lifted her gently into his arms, she suddenly came to life.
“What are you doing?” she cried, beginning to struggle against the iron bands that held her firmly.
“I’m just putting you to bed. If you won’t take care of yourself, someone must!”
“Put me down, Heath! I can walk very well—”
But he had already reached the bed and, lowering her carefully, began to undress her. “No … don’t …” she protested as he removed each of her garments, one by one. “Please, Heath. I don’t want this …”
“Shhh,” he crooned softly, divesting her of the last of her clothes, then tossing aside the towel that had been wrapped around his hips. Before she could utter another word, he had stripped back the covers of the bed and laid her on the crisp sheets, lowering himself beside her, then drawing the blankets over them both. “I just want to hold you.”
And then what? her good reason screamed. But the warmth of his body, its total comfort, held the words in her throat. Savoring the pleasure of the moment, she curled against him, breathing deeply of his clean, fresh scent, craving the inevitable more and more, as each moment passed.
“This isn’t right.” A shred of conscience, spoken in her own husky tone, broke through the stillness of the night.
“Just relax, darlin’.” His voice was smooth, smooth velvet, lightly fanning the hair by her cheek, as his hands wandered over her body. His lips feather-touched hers, then trailed a path of fire down her neck and throat, coming to rest on the ivory fullness of her breast. With devasting skill, his tongue rolled over the pebbled hardness of her erotic bud, its texture sending shafts of flame searing through her. Her mind cried out against the sensual onslaught yet her fingers clutched his head, delving into the thickness of his black hair to hold him closer.
“Ummm,” she whimpered, turning her head from side to side on the pillow, as her body arched reflexively. “No … no …” Her whisper was belied by her hands, skimming the length of his body, savoring the leanness of his bare hips, the firmness of his ribcage, the flexed muscles of his shoulders as he raised his head and slid between her thighs. “Why do you do this to me?” she moaned with her last breath of reason, the knot of desire in her loins fighting those fast-fading vows.
“Because it’s good, April,” he crooned thickly. “And I sense that it’s right.”
As he entered her smoothly, she believed his every word. Never had she experienced anything as right or as beautiful. With deliberate slowness, he rocked against her until she joined his rhythm. As their heartbeats raced, chest by breast, the pace of their lovemaking sped, faster and deeper, cresting height after height of ecstasy. When at last her body exploded, Heath was with her, taking his pleasure from hers, satisfying his need in this most primitive, mindless, nameless glory. Suspended in a breathless cloud of rapture, she held to him as to her own salvation, knowing the joy of mutual climax with the man she loved. Yes, loved. As the waves of delight slowly eased to faint, lingering pulsation, she knew, beyond a doubt, that she loved this man. For whatever the future would hold, she loved him. Ludicrous as it seemed, knowing as little about him as she did, she loved him. She did love him. Nothing could change that fact.
Yet, even as he slid from her body and held her close, in the aftermath of passion’s triumph, April could not quite say the words aloud. Too much was unknown. Too much was before them. There would be time and place for such confessions. To declare her love now would be to complicate an already awesome tangle. There would be time …
With that prayer, she drifted off, with Heath, to the sleep of the sated, awakening after several hours with a painfully hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach. Rolling her head to the side, she studied the features of the man beside her, now softened by sleep and relaxed. His hair fell dark upon his brow, covering the healing cut at his temple. Even in repose, his lines were firm and commanding, from cheek to jaw to the straightness of his nose. As though to commit each angle to memory, her eye inched its way over his flesh, bidding her to touch. As the familiar tingling began deep within her, she stifled the urge to awaken him and cry for fulfillment. Biting the softness of her lip, she turned from him and studied the darkness of the wall.
But it was no use. Her body was determined to betray her once more. With a whispered oath, she crept from the bed to silently stalk the outer rooms of the house. But peace of mind was as elusive as peace of the body. In despair, she threw herself into the living-room chair, tucking herself into a ball and counting the minutes, waiting, waiting, for something she could not fathom. It was nearly dawn when, drained and unhappy, she returned to the bed, to slip into the small space left for her and fall into a restless sleep.
She did not hear Heath awaken shortly after and leave her unknowingly to her nightmare of solitude from which, some time later, a loud knock at the front door roused her. It took long moments of reorientation for her to realize its source. Her rounded eyes took in the emptiness of Heath’s side of the bed. As the noise reechoed impatiently through the house, she forced herself from the bed, drew on her long robe, and combed shaking fingers through the long tangle of her hair as she ran for the door. As she drew it open, she gasped. For before her stood a woman, tall, blond, and willowy—a stranger to the island, she knew intuitively. By the same inner sense, she knew the woman to be the link to Heath’s past for which they had been waiting. And something within her broke in agony.
CHAPTER SIX
“Good morning!” the woman exclaimed in a deep voice that April hated instantly. “I haven’t woken you, have I?” There wasn’t an ounce of regret in her tone.
“That’s all right,” April forced herself to respond. “Is there something I can do for you?” As she hated her own apprehension, so she hated the cheerful expression on the woman’s face. That this woman was impeccably dressed and beautiful to boot was even worse.
“I understand that Evan Addison is staying here. Is he in?”
“Evan Addison? No, there’s no …” Her voice trailed off as her brain set to work.
“Harley Evan Addison?” the woman elaborated determinedly. “I was told by several of the townsfolk that he was here.” Her insistence struck a resistant cord in April, but her own thoughts were detoured by the piecing of the initials.
H.E.A. Harley Evan Addison. Was this the name of her lover? Her newfound companion? The dark stranger, a stranger no more, who had found his way miraculously to her shore in the midst of the hurricane. “Uh … I’m not sure …” She frowned.
A strange impatience lurked in the woman’s murky gaze. “What do you mean, you’re not sure? Do you or don’t you have a man by that name staying here with you?”
With the first of the shock easing, April’s usual cordiality was sorely strained. “There is a man here, but I’ve never heard that name,” she offered, tilting her chin defensively as she fought a natural instinct to send the woman away. Harley Evan Addison. The initials would be right. Who was this woman? And what was her relationship, if the assumption was correct, to Heath? There was a smug possessiveness about her that April found offensive. The feeling was evidently mutual.
“And who might you be?” the woman asked before April herself could find those words. The eyes that studied her were blunt in their appraisal, narrowing
speculatively on the sleep-disheveled form before her. But April had time for neither an answer nor a countering demand before the woman’s gaze lifted to focus on the dark figure who had entered the house from the back door and stood now beneath the archway to the kitchen.
“Evan!” she exclaimed, pushing past April to rush to Heath’s side. “Evan! We were so worried! We thought you had drowned!”
Heath stood stock still, neither softening nor pulling away. His gaze held that of the woman for long, inscrutible moments, then shifted toward April, whose eyes were rounded in fear. Her heart thudded loudly as she helplessly communicated her agony. He studied it intently.
Having come from the beach, his hair was wind-tossed, his cheeks ruddy. A chill emanated from him—and the situation—to fill the room with its element. He stood tall and proud, a fine match for this woman, whoever she was. Yet the match was only physical. April prided herself on her solid judgment of people. Even despite her unbiased role in the drama playing out, every sense told her that this woman was no true match for Heath.
It was Heath who finally spoke, his eye clinging to April for a brief, calming moment before turning to the visitor. “Perhaps we should sit down,” he announced dispassionately, walking from the woman’s reach toward the far end of the living room in several long strides.
The blond woman was suddenly impatient. “Evan! What in the devil is wrong with you? That’s a fine greeting after everything I’ve done to find you!” Standing with her lovely hands propped on her shapely hips, over which the soft wool of her tailored pants fell to perfection, she was, in April’s mind, the image of the spurned lover.
“Exactly how did you find me?” he measured his words.
As though totally oblivious to April and the solid door she leaned back against for support, the woman strode forward. “I knew you were headed … in this direction,” she began, only slightly less sure than she’d been, “and when the people in town said that there was a stranger staying here, and the description fit, I drove on up.”
The flex of a muscle in his jaw preceded Heath’s words. “Then I think there is something you should know immediately.” He paused, gesturing toward the armchair. “Please sit down.”
More angry than puzzled, the woman glared at him before finally sitting in the place he had indicated. “What is all this?” she demanded indignantly.
Heath however had crossed the floor to where April stood. The hands that took her shoulders bore the only warmth in the room. “Come and sit, April. Beside me.”
When she made to shake her head, he led her firmly to the sofa. Easing her down, he then sat with her, leaving a small but respectable space between them. April felt the inches as a gulf and swallowed her inner ache determinedly.
“Evan, what is going on?” the deep voice intruded on their moment of nearness.
He eyed her warily. “I have no memory of anything other than waking up in this house.”
“What?”
“That’s right. Whatever happened during the storm is a mystery to me. I was hit on the head and I can’t remember a thing.”
April could have sworn that those clouded eyes held their share of disdain, yet the voice was coated in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding! Is this some kind of a joke?”
“No joke,” Heath assured her soberly. “Now, if you don’t mind, would you please tell us who you are?”
For a moment the woman balked, puzzling April with her hesitation. Her every move seemed calculated—another of April’s gut analyses.
“This is all very awkward, Evan,” the woman began with dubious discomfort.
“I’m sorry. It’s an awkward situation all around.” His gaze touched April’s for an instant. “But if we’re ever to know”—he looked again at the woman—“you’ll have to tell us.”
There was nothing coy about the woman’s attempt at a smile. “I suppose you’re right.” She paused, thinking quickly. “My name is Jane. Jane Miller.” Miller. Not Addison. April’s heart and hopes lifted.
“And how do you know me?”
“For starters, we work together.”
“Where?”
“Georgetown University. Washington, D.C.”
“And who did you say I was?”
“Harley Evan Addison. Known to your friends”—she cast a dismissing glance toward April—“as Evan.”
“Can you tell me about myself?” he asked, his tense anticipation shared equally by April, who disliked the low laugh that came from the woman almost as much as she disliked everything else about her.
“I think I can. We know each other …”—again the sharp look toward the apprehensive woman by his side—“ … very well.”
“Go on.”
“You were born in Virginia thirty-nine years ago.” Hence the often-drawled “darlin’,” April mused wryly. “You were educated in the north though. You have a master’s in nuclear physics from M.I.T. and a doctorate from the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy.”
April cleared her throat at the weight of it all, but Heath ignored her, intent on listening to the summarization of his past. “What do I do at Georgetown?”
“You are—we are both—professors at the Institute of Strategic Studies.”
At this point April’s surprise burst its bounds. “You’re a professor?” The woman seemed, like so many she’d known in New York, capable of nothing more than delusions of grandeur.
“Yes.” Jane defended her position with an undeniable note of condescension, even as April chided herself for her put-down. “I may not be at the level of Evan, but few men have achieved what he has in life.”
“Does he have a family?” Heath broke into the verbal strife.
“Yes,” Jane came back smartly, her positive response quaking through April. “He has a father who lives with his married sister in Roanoke and a brother in Seattle.”
“No wife?” April blurted on impulse, then bit her lip as Heath gently took her hand.
The smile that spread over the woman’s face was as icy as the frigid line of her gaze. “No wife. Or children.” April relaxed, only to stiffen in the next breath. “Not yet. We are to be married before the first of the year.”
Her announcement hit April with the force of a sledge hammer, knocking the air from her lungs for an instant. Heath felt her shudder and squeezed her hand before releasing it. She felt immediately alone.
“Your story is interesting,” he stated calmly.
“Interesting? It’s the truth. It should be interesting. We’ll be leading a very interesting life once I get you back to civilization.” The cursory glance she sent around the perimeter of April’s home voiced her opinion of its interest. “When can we leave?”
Her question was simple yet crass, tearing through April, threatening to shatter her every hope. Had everything Jane said been the truth? Was she engaged to marry Heath? They were so unalike—he with his warmth and compassion, she with her small upturned nose in the air. Suddenly a strange fever seized April. She loved the man who was born on her shore. No way would she leave him to this schemer! There was something about the woman that aroused suspicion. Until April’s mind was put to rest, until Heath regained his memory, until he declared that Jane Miller was what he wanted, April would stand her ground.
“No!” she exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa. Her gaze now flamed with amber intensity, but she quickly leveled her voice. “Heath isn’t leaving with you.”
Jane regarded her with mocking amusement. “Heath?”
“You call him Evan. I call him Heath. When he remembers you and his engagement to you, then you’ll have him,” she declared quietly.
Had she spared a sidelong glance toward the subject of this tug-of-war, she might have been infuriated at the hint of humor softening his expression. If she felt he mocked her too, she might have crumbled.
It was a battle of wits with Heath as the prize. Jane rose to stand indignantly before April. “Look, dear”—she spoke as though to a child—“this is foo
lish. I’ve known this man for years. We’re very … compatible. We live in the same world, we move in the same social circles—he belongs with me, whether he realizes it right now or not.”
“He doesn’t know you,” April stated with soft confidence.
“Correction,” her opponent cut in. “He doesn’t remember me. There’s a difference.” The slick blond head sought Heath’s darkness. “Let’s go, shall we, Evan?”
But Heath sat back on the sofa, grinning broadly as April stepped forward. He had come to know her well and now watched as she gained strength through determination.
“Just a minute, Jane,” she began coolly. “You imply that Heath is out of his element here with me. Do you know anything about me?”
“You?” She shrugged. “Not really. I assume that if you live out here in seclusion you must like the quiet life. You must work in town somewhere …”
April shook her head in disgust at the woman’s condescending tone. Then she drew herself up straighter. “My name is April Wilde. I have a Ph.D. in counseling, roots in Manhattan, and a newspaper column that’s syndicated all over the country. My qualifications hold their own even in light of those you claim are Heath’s.”
“That has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t know the first thing about this man—” The last of her words were swallowed in alarm, but not before they’d drawn the attention of both pairs of attending ears.
It was Heath who quite naturally and forcefully joined the fray. Despite his momentarily inactive role in the discussion tossed around by the two women, his presence was a pervasive one. He underscored his command with a deep and menacing charge. “Haven’t you just told us the major facts, Jane?”
Jane regarded Heath as though he were a traitor for doubting her. Her gaze conveyed an emotion totally inappropriate to that of the woman in love. It was this that strengthened April’s final resolve. Yet she stood back, biding her time until the proper moment. Let Heath have a go at it for a change, she mused.
“Yes, I’ve outlined the basics,” the blond-haired woman retorted more meekly. “I just meant”—she struggled to justify her strange outburst—“that she doesn’t know you as you are day-to-day, at the University, at work, in the city. It’s very different here.”
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