Between Roc and a Hard Place

by Heather Graham

  “Thanks, Captain,” Marina told him. Her eyes were still worried.

  “Actually, I think she should do dishes, don’t you?” he asked Marina.

  “I don’t mind—”

  “Stowaways should work, so I’ve always thought.”

  “But,” Connie reminded him, “she hasn’t shown up to have dinner, so how can we make her wash the dishes?”

  “Hmm. That is a dilemma,” Roc agreed. “All right, well, we’ll wait until she actually eats a meal to make her wash the dishes. How’s that?”

  “We’ll see,” Marina commented. She reached across the table and tapped his plate. “If it’s so delicious, eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Roc said, and speared a big bite of grouper. He chewed it, swallowed and smiled. “I’m eating!”

  He finished his fish quickly, talked idly about the dive as he ate his salad, and then pushed the potatoes around on his plate—Connie had forgotten to keep her eye on them, and they did have a slightly burned taste. He drained his tea, then rose, thanking Marina again, repeating that the meal had been excellent. He set his dishes on the small counter by the small sink and very small dishwasher, then made his way up the steps to the main deck.

  Well, Melinda hadn’t appeared for dinner. Maybe she’d managed to carry a stash of candy bars in her bathing suit or something.

  Maybe she was afraid of his crew.

  No, not Melinda.

  Maybe she hadn’t been ready to face him again yet, and then again, maybe she had been waiting for an invitation, for him to come back, to beg her to forget his bad manners and please grace them all with her presence.

  No way.

  Pride must cometh before a fall, but it was a hell of a good thing to cling to. He wasn’t begging Melinda Davenport—Trellyn—to do anything. Not again.

  He had begged her once. He’d begged her to come with him. And either she hadn’t believed that he would really go …

  Or else she hadn’t cared.

  He leaned over the rail, looking out at the coming night. The sun had nearly set. The sea was dark, mysterious. The air was cool and light and refreshing on his cheeks. There were just the remnants of the sunset on the horizon, beautiful streaks of gold and red and rust. The anchor had been cast, and they were stationary, just rolling slightly on the gentle waves. It was a beautiful night, a spectacular one, really.

  A lot like the first night he had seen her.

  He’d had a month off from working for Davenport and had been working with Bruce and Connie on his own when he’d received a message from Davenport. He was ready to start up again, and if Roc could meet him in Largo on the following Friday, Davenport would appreciate it. He, Bruce and Connie had just finished bringing up the personal property of a Connecticut man whose yacht had gone down in the Florida Straits, so he wouldn’t be leaving in the midst of anything, and working with Davenport was an incredible experience. He always learned something new.

  In Largo, Jinks Smith, Davenport’s cook and all-around man, came to pick him up in Davenport’s dinghy. Davenport’s boat was anchored just out of the harbor. Roc had climbed aboard, completely unaware that anything—everything—was about to change in his life. He was wearing cutoffs and sandals, and his gear was in a pile in front of him, when Davenport came out of the main cabin, greeting him with a warm handshake, telling him about the treasure they would be hunting for in the ensuing months.

  Then he had met Melinda.

  The sun had been like this. And she had been a dark silhouette against the blazing red horizon. All he had seen at first had been her lithe shape. She had been a shadow moving with sensual grace across the blood-red horizon, reaching her father, slipping her arms around him. Then she had been a shadow no longer. She was wearing a two-piece suit, a figure-hugging bikini. He could remember the color, brilliant aquamarine, like her eyes. She was exquisitely shaped. She’d just finished diving, he imagined, because her hair was still wet, only a few long strands dry and flying free to catch the dying sun.

  And she was hugging Davenport.…

  A spiral of jealousy had curled into Roc’s stomach almost instantaneously, since he hadn’t known, at that first meeting, who she was. Jonathan Davenport was an even twenty years his daughter’s senior, a man of forty-one that year, and as Roc knew that his employer had a daughter but had never seen her, he’d assumed that Melinda was the older man’s latest fling. He had to admit being a little resentful that Jonathan could acquire such an elegant young creature.

  But then Jonathan had quickly disentangled himself from her and introduced them. “Roc, meet my daughter, Melinda. She’ll be with me from now on. Melly, Roc Trellyn. He’s my right hand. You two be sure to get along with each other now.”

  She’d been right in front of him. Blue-green eyes, dazzling, her hair like endless waves of gold in the firelit sunset. He’d never been shy with the opposite sex; he’d had his share of relationships, and he’d imagined that at his age—twenty-eight, back then—his head controlled both his heart and his loins. He’d kept his affairs unemotional because he’d never met anyone who fascinated him more than the lure of the sea.

  But that had been before Davenport’s sea-siren daughter. His head hadn’t had a chance against his heart and his loins.

  She looked at him. Just like a princess from the sea.

  Those aquamarine eyes touched his with instant challenge. She reached out a delicate, golden hand and touched his, then pulled quickly away. “How do you do, Mr. Trellyn.”

  Her voice was cool, completely disinterested. She turned back to her father, apparently annoyed that they were not alone. “I didn’t realize you were busy, Father. I think I’ll shower now. We can talk later, when you’re not involved with the help.”

  If she’d slapped him, she couldn’t have made her feelings any plainer.

  In fact, come to think of it, he’d been itching to slap her back at the time.

  However, he’d managed to keep his cool, though Davenport had been furious with her for her lack of manners. He’d apologized to Roc, explaining, “My ex-wife, her mother, was just killed in an accident. It’s no excuse for her behavior, really.…” He shrugged. “I’ve had her with me often over the years, of course. She’s a phenomenal diver, you’ll see. She’s out of college now, and she’ll be with us full time.”

  Full time. Full torture.

  Well, the sea siren had been nothing but a bitch to him, so at first he had managed to steer clear of her easily enough. She barely spoke to him, and when she did, it was in a condescending tone. But once, when they’d made port in Jamaica, he’d left the ship in a suit and tie, having met an old friend from his University of Miami days on the beach earlier and made plans to go out. He hadn’t returned until the next morning. She had been helping Jinks serve breakfast, and his eggs had landed right on his lap.

  “Sorry!” she told him.

  What a lie! He’d leaped up, the hot food beginning to burn through his swim trunks.

  “Let me cool you off.”

  And she had, dousing him with a pitcher of water.

  Perhaps he’d lost it a little bit there. He’d gripped her by the upper arms and told her quite frankly that she was a spoiled little brat, and if she did something like that to him again, he would damned well see that she had a burning rear end.

  She turned the color of flame, wrenched free from him and disappeared. Jinks had been there, but it seemed he never said anything to Davenport about the incident.

  And neither did Melinda.

  Two days later they clashed again. Melinda had gone down to a wreck and stayed too long. The others had been concentrating on a map. Roc—who, despite himself, always had half an eye on her—was aware that her tanks held only thirty minutes of air.

  He went down quickly himself, only to find her trying to free a gold chain from some twisted metal. He caught her hand, and she spun on him, shocked, furious. He pointed to her watch, and she wrenched free, clearly furious with him.

  And then
her air gave out. She began to struggle, and he forced her to share his air. Finally, slowly, once she calmed down, he led them to the surface.

  Well, needless to say, she hadn’t thanked him. She was furious and convinced that, if he’d just left her alone, she could have surfaced on her own.

  He could have throttled her then and there, but instead he somehow managed to swim away.

  And he still kept quiet to her father.

  Then, after the next day, it didn’t really matter, because that was the day they came into Bimini and stayed at the huge hotel by the casino. He’d taken his key from the desk and gone up to his room to start putting his things away. But when he went to put his shaving equipment in the bathroom, he found the shower occupied. Melinda was just stepping out of it, blond hair damp, curling slightly around the perfect oval of her face. His eyes, of course, didn’t stay on her face. They fell. He felt the tension she always aroused in him tighten and spiral incredibly. Damn her. She was a witch. He couldn’t begin to understand the attraction, and he forced his eyes back to hers.

  She snatched up a towel. “How dare you?”

  “Me!” he snapped. “I was given this room!”

  “Well, I was given it, too, so you can just get out. Anyway, I don’t believe you! How can you just stand there? My God, you did this on purpose—”

  “Get off it, princess! I’d just as soon burst in on a barracuda!”

  He’d managed to turn around and stride to the bedroom, gritting his teeth, feeling every muscle in his body clench with fury … and frustration.

  But then something amazing happened. He heard his name spoken very softly.

  “Roc?”

  He turned. She was wrapped in a huge white towel, and she was staring at him, a liquid glimmer in her beautiful eyes.

  “I’m—I’m sorry. I’ve been wretched to you since you came. I didn’t mean to be, and I apologize. It’s just that you’re so close to my father, and I need him now, and I—” She paused, a bit of a smile curving her lips. “I was jealous.”

  His stomach knotted. She was beautiful and vulnerable and suddenly as soft as silk. He knew right then that he was in trouble. He should stay exactly where he was, tell her that he accepted her apology and that he was sorry about her mother, and then he should walk out as quickly as possible. If he didn’t he would be trapped. For eternity. He would taste her sweet forbidden fruit and find himself hopelessly drugged on it.

  But there were tears in her eyes. And he felt compelled to walk forward, compelled to take her into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he heard himself saying very softly. “About your mother. You have behaved abominably, though, so I can’t apologize for my own behavior.” She almost smiled. His arm was around her, and somehow he swept her up to his lap, and she leaned against his shoulder. “Your father told me about your loss.”

  “Did he tell you everything?” she whispered. “That Mother was drunk? That she caused the accident?”

  “No,” he murmured.

  Her pain seemed to streak through him. “I tried!” she whispered. “I tried for so many years! But she kept—drinking. I must not have been there enough. I must have been a rotten daughter—”

  “Hey, hey! Stop that! Melinda, you can’t blame yourself, and no one else can blame you, either. You have to be sorry, you have to miss her, but you have to remember that alcoholism is a disease!”

  Her eyes looked into his, so naked, so vulnernable, so trusting. Then she was sobbing softly, and he found himself kissing those tears from her cheeks. “It’s all right, it’s all right.…”

  Her arms were tight around his neck. The towel she was wearing was slipping away, and he was still clad in nothing but trunks and sandals, and the fiery pressure of her body was against his, her naked breasts a torment against his chest, the nipples so hard, tempting his flesh. Then his kiss found her lips, and she returned it passionately. Her mouth parted for his, and his tongue delved deeply into the sweetness of her. Deeply, deeply …

  He was losing himself, and it didn’t seem to matter. The towel was gone completely, having fallen somewhere, and they were stretched out on the soft, comforter-covered bed. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing, returning kiss for kiss, her fingers moving sensually over his shoulders and back. His kiss began to stray, finding the wonderful silken texture of her throat, closing over her breasts, tasting, taunting. She pressed against him, soft, sweet, yielding, so enticing, her body arching to his touch.

  He was fascinated by the woman he held in his arms, tempted beyond measure. He couldn’t taste enough of her as his lips and tongue traveled the length of her, resting intimately here and there. Her fingers remained upon him, her touch erotic, her cries compelling, her warmth exciting and inviting. She writhed, twisted, called his name.…

  He could have drowned in her more swiftly than he would have been lost in any sea. The scent of her hair, of her flesh, drove him wild. Yet with all the hunger he was slow, wanting her to want him with the same fierce fever. And it seemed that she did.

  He didn’t take her until he couldn’t bear the aching a minute longer. And when he did, he was stunned, but it was too late. He could have shot them both before he could have risen and left her. She was stiff, startled. She had known, of course, but perhaps she hadn’t realized exactly what she would feel, or that something so incredibly sweet could suddenly be so incredibly painful. But she clung to him, gritting her teeth, and he whispered to her, softly, gently, kissing her, caressing her. And in time she was with him again, the anguish having ebbed, the fire having been lit once again. A blaze so fierce …

  When it burst upon him, he felt almost as if he’d never made love before, it was so volatile, explosive, shattering, sweet, to be with her. Yet even as the sheen of heat cooled on his body, he was ready to kick himself. Davenport’s daughter. He’d tried so damned hard …

  Bull.

  He’d wanted her, needed her, from the first moment she had moved so gracefully into his life. But she might have told him, warned him, said something. So he was a little bit angry with her, and when the wonder and excitement were gone, she got angry, too, telling him that she’d had the right to choose to be with him, the right to choose not to be with others.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” she assured him, trying to drag the covers around herself. She could be so damned dignified when she chose.

  “It’s not a matter of owing!” he said angrily. “It’s a matter of—”

  Of what, he wasn’t sure.

  “You can’t be afraid of my father!”

  “Of course not!”

  She swallowed hard, looking away. “I knew I wanted you!” she whispered very softly. “I was horrible because of it. The night you stayed out, I was so jealous, that was why I—”

  “What?”

  “Well, it was why I dumped the eggs on you. And the water, of course. I didn’t want you—out with another woman.”

  He started to laugh then. Intrigued. And in a matter of minutes she was in his arms again, and the magic was still there, stronger, greater.

  She didn’t want to say anything to her father right away, so they didn’t. But by the end of a week, the lying, the not speaking, bothered Roc. He told her that it was going to be all or nothing. He loved her, he believed that she loved him, and they were going to be married.

  She had no argument with him. She smiled, her beautiful eyes so dazzling, and she leaped into his arms. In all of his life, he had never been so happy.

  But things change.…

  Leaning against the rail now, Roc realized that the sun had finally gone down. Stars were appearing. The night was blanketed by darkness, all color gone except for that spattering of stars.

  “That was then and this is now!” he reminded himself.

  He turned. The boat was quiet. He’d been standing at the rail forever, and they’d all let him be. There were no more sounds of clanking dishes, footfalls or conversation.

  They’d all gone to bed, he surmised, leavin
g him to his thoughts.

  So now what was he going to do? Bright guy. He had left Melinda in his cabin. There was a nice comfortable bed in there … with Melinda in it.

  The thought made his pulse quicken, and he almost groaned aloud. Comfortable, all right. Sometimes he could forget the fights, but he had never managed to forget the feel of her at night, the silken softness of her flesh, the feel of her hair, long and lush and taunting against him. Her curves, her derriere thrust against him, the fullness of her breast in his hand …

  Bright, bright boy. He’d even gone to college! Then he’d gone and stuck his ex-wife in his own comfortable cabin, where she was probably sleeping like a kitten while he stood out on deck in the middle of the night in torture.

  No, she wasn’t sleeping. Not like a kitten. Not at all.

  From his position by the port side rail he could see the door to his cabin. Moving back a hair, he could still watch and yet be fairly certain that he couldn’t be seen in turn.

  Yes …

  It was cracking open. The door to his cabin was cracking open.

  And there was Melinda. Looking out carefully. Listening. She was very still for several long moments. Then she slipped into the pale starlight and paused, listening and waiting again.

  She still looked like a sea sprite, slim and elegant, so innocent in white, that cloud of golden hair gleaming even in such dim lighting. Her delicate face turned, her head cocked. At last she seemed satisfied and headed for the stairway to the living cabin.

  Slowly, silently, he followed her.

  Was she hungry at last? Trying to raid the galley now, when the crew were resting?

  No …

  She was hungry, all right, he thought angrily. For information. Little witch! She was heading swiftly down the next ladder, down to the lowest deck.

  Down to where they kept their sonar equipment.

  He followed, still in silence. Waited until she stood right before the equipment, studying it, leaning closer to carefully view the screen.