Between Roc and a Hard Place

by Heather Graham

  Marina smiled. “Plenty of time.”

  “I think—” Roc began, and then he broke off.

  “You think what?” Joe asked.

  Roc shook his head.

  Melinda.

  Bring me to a port, any port, she had told him. But she had been determined to come aboard his boat, and now she had even been diving with him, and he would be damned if she was going to get the chance to rejoin her father and dive these waters with him.

  Or with Eric Longford.

  “I think I need a cup of coffee myself,” he said, and stood, then strode toward the steps that led to the galley.

  The breeze and sun had dried him by then, and he hurried downward in his damp trunks and bare feet.

  Melinda wasn’t in the galley.

  He strode to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee, quickly swallowing a sip of the hot black liquid. He swallowed more, wondering what would happen when he reached New Providence, Nassau Harbor, and let his wife reach civilization and a telephone.

  And access to the world, if she chose …

  He crossed the galley and left it behind, coming to the main deck and swiftly dispensing with the fifteen feet to his own cabin. He threw the door open and entered, closing the door behind him.

  Melinda was sitting on the bunk, clad in a white terry robe, towel drying her hair, which she had evidently just washed. She smelled clean, redolent of fresh soap and shampoo. With her hair sleek and wet and pulled back, her eyes were startling against the golden tan of her face.

  She stared at him as he entered, watched him warily as he crossed the room and sat on the opposite end of the bunk, leaning against the wall.

  “What?” she asked at last, an edge to her voice.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked her.

  Her lashes fell over her eyes. When they rose again, their aquamarine depths were blazing.

  “Sleeping with you for all your deep, dark secrets!” she snapped.

  He reached for her, catching her wrists, drawing her close, causing the brush to fall from her fingers. She didn’t protest, didn’t fight him or say a word. Her chin remained high, her shoulders straight—her eyes afire.

  “Damn you, Melinda.”

  “Isn’t that the answer you want?” she demanded.

  “I want the truth!” he shouted; then he gritted his teeth, aware of how loud he had been and equally aware that he didn’t want anyone else knowing his affairs.

  She pulled free of his hold, rising, walking across the cabin as if she had to keep her distance from him. “It doesn’t matter what I say to you now,” she told him. “I keep thinking that it does, and I even think that whatever the future brings, these days have been … worth the price. Then I look at you, and before you even speak I see it all in your eyes—I’ve just come to get whatever information I can and bring it back to my father. And Eric.”

  Her words were so cool, so controlled. He liked her anger better. At least there was passion in it, emotion, a link between them that erupted into more.

  He hated her words. He wanted to dispute them.

  But they were true.

  He stood and walked across the cabin to her, opening his mouth to speak. It would have been easier if she hadn’t smelled so delicious. If he hadn’t hungered for her for so long. If he didn’t know that she was naked beneath the robe, and if he didn’t know just how sweet and tempting and stunning that nakedness would be …

  “No!” she whispered suddenly, backing away from him. He was amazed to see the glaze of tears in her eyes, when she had been so cold.…

  “No what?” he demanded.

  She shook her head. “I know … I know that look in your eyes,” she murmured as her lashes fell, and against her tan there was a sudden touch of rose. “And it’s not …”

  “Not what?”

  She shook her head again. “You can’t do this!” she whispered frantically. “You can’t accuse me of everything in the world and then decide that none of it matters if you want to …”

  “Make love,” he finished roughly. He wanted to push her away, but even more than that he wanted to sweep her into his arms. He threw his hands up in the air. “Damn you!” he whispered. Then he repeated it again raggedly, “Damn you! I can’t help it, Melinda, what do you want from me? You chose another man over me—”

  “My father—”

  “It doesn’t matter—you were my wife!”

  She swung around, turning her back on him.

  He watched her for a moment, aching to touch her, but somehow he managed not to.

  “Well,” he said softly. “The ball is going to be in your court, Ms. Davenport. We’re spending the night in Nassau.”

  She swung around, staring at him. “What?”

  “We’re spending the night in Nassau. Of course, if you do disappear and find your way to your father—or Longford—I will manage to find you and wring your neck.”

  “By what right—”

  “You’re still my wife!”

  She started to walk past him, heading for the cabin door, her strides determined. He caught her arm.

  “Let me go,” she demanded, her eyes wild.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t need to be near you and your—”

  “Why are you here, Melinda?”

  She jerked away from him. The glaze of tears was in her eyes again. “Has it ever occurred to you that the entire world isn’t black and white, Captain Trellyn? Maybe my father was wrong, maybe he even hedged the truth with me—”

  “Lied.”

  “All right, damn you, maybe he lied. He was wrong, he didn’t do something that was great, but his transgression against you didn’t turn him into a dangerous and evil man!”

  “What are you saying to me?”

  “Maybe I was wrong, maybe he was wrong, maybe you were wronged. But you weren’t perfect in all that happened, either. You walked in and asked me to turn my back on my father—”

  “He was wrong!”

  “He was still my father!” she cried.

  His fingers were wound so tightly around her wrists that he was surprised she didn’t cry out. He forced himself to ease his hold. “So why are you here?” he demanded.

  “Because we were wrong!” she cried in exasperation, trying with no success to free herself from his touch. Her head flew back, her eyes a sea of bluegreen fire once again. “Because on this one,” she gasped, “I figured I owed you. I wanted you to make this claim. I wanted you to find your Contessa.”

  She trembled with the passion of her words, with the fury of them, with the emotion of them. He tried to stiffen his shoulders, tried to retain rational thought. It was all drifting away in his hunger to slip his hands over her bare shoulders, to force the terry robe to fall to the floor. But his fingers were trembling as he held her, and he gritted his teeth hard.

  “So, Ms. Davenport, when I pull into Nassau, you’ll be staying with me? My wife, in my room?”

  “Yes, your wife!” she snapped out. “But you don’t even call me by my name anymore, it’s always Ms. Davenport!”

  Startled, he nearly stepped back. He had been calling her Ms. Davenport almost continually since she had come aboard. Maybe it had been a defense mechanism, part of the wall he had erected against her. But now …

  Now it surprised him that she had noticed, and that it had apparently bothered her.

  Anger drained from him as he stared at her taut, strained features and dazzling eyes.

  “All right, Mrs. Trellyn,” he said very softly, “when I pull into Nassau, are you sharing a room with me? Perhaps dinner and dancing ashore? Or will you be leaving at the first opportunity?”

  Her lashes fell swiftly.

  “Melinda!”

  Her eyes rose to his again. “Yes!” she hissed.

  “Yes, which?” he demanded hoarsely.

  “I’ll be staying with you!” she cried angrily. Her lower lip was trembling. “I told you, I’m here to see that you mak
e your claim, that …”

  Her voice trailed away, but it didn’t matter. He set his forefinger on the trembling curve of her lower lip and stared at it, fascinated.

  Then, at long last, he gave in to temptation, slipping his hands beneath the terry robe to her bare shoulders, touching the smoothness of her skin, causing the robe to fall to the floor. He moved his finger so that his lips could touch down on hers, then cradled her in his arms, kissing her passionately.

  For one brief moment, she was stiff. Resisting him …

  Then her arms curled around his neck, and he threaded his fingers through the drying strands of golden hair that waved over her shoulders, entangling them both. She was flush against his body, the tips of her breasts hardened cherry peaks against the dark hair on his chest. He groaned aloud, kissing her, tasting her, feeling the fullness of her lithe form against his, feeling the desperate rise of heat and hardness within himself.

  Her lips broke from his suddenly, her fingers trailing over his shoulders as her mouth touched the furiously pounding pulse at his throat. She lowered herself against him, lips, teeth and tongue playing over his chest, fingers rubbing his muscled flesh, his nipples, the lines of his ribs. She followed the curve of his body still lower; then her fingers were around the elastic rim of his trunks, sliding them down over his hips. He stepped instantly from them, kicking them aside.

  She dropped suddenly on her knees before him, and he gasped with the shattering sensation that filled him like lightning when she took him in her hands, stroking, touching him.

  Lowering her golden blond head, she stroked him anew.

  The world exploded, or perhaps it was only himself. He bent down, sweeping her up, his lips covering hers as he carried her swiftly to the bunk, setting her there, straddling her, then lying at her side, the pulse that had guided him before now beating a thousand times harder, pounding within his head, his heart, his loins.

  His mouth found hers again. Left it. Touched down upon a very delicate vein at her throat. His eyes met hers again. They seemed so liquid, so beautiful, so mesmerizing.

  “I …” she whispered.

  “Yes?” he demanded huskily.

  Her eyes closed against him. “Want you,” she said very softly.

  “Well, Mrs. Trellyn, you’ve got me!” he assured her huskily.

  Indeed, she had him.…

  He stared over the length of her. The slim, shapely, so damned perfect length of her. His hands covered her breasts, encircling them. His head lowered, and he tasted the tips with his tongue, cherished their fullness with fiery liquid caresses. Her fingers dug into his hair, danced slowly over his back, dug again as she groaned softly, shifting beneath him.

  He spread his hand over her abdomen, seeing the bronze of his skin against the pale flesh that was normally covered by her bathing suit. He pressed his lips there. Circled his tongue around her navel. Inched downward against her, watching his fingers as they entered the golden blond triangle above her thighs. Felt her move and shift and writhe beneath him.

  He shifted his own weight up, parting her thighs fluidly, his knees between them. Then he lowered his head, stroking and touching and laving with a searing, wet, intimate desire.

  She shuddered, gasped, cried out. He rose above her, taking her into his arms, sinking deeply within her until she shuddered anew, all the while whispering her name.…

  Minutes later, hours, moments—he didn’t know which—the whole of the world seemed to explode again. She trembled wickedly within his arms; then they drifted to earth, and her trembling became shivers as the cool afternoon air settled over bodies that had burned and now grew chill. He held her close, tenderly, neither of them speaking for the longest time.

  Then he realized that she was staring at the paneled ceiling above them. He stroked her cheek, and she turned toward him, her eyes damp.

  “What is it?” he asked her softly.

  She shook her head.

  “Melinda?”

  “I …”

  “What?”

  Her lips moved; and she shook her head again, her lashes falling quickly over her eyes. “I swear,” she murmured. “I want to help you stake your claim.”

  Silently he cradled her against him once again. He stroked her hair and felt the rocking of the boat.

  Then he groaned.

  “What?” she asked him softly.

  “Well, if we’re going to make Nassau tonight, I’d better get moving.”

  He rose. She curled his pillow to her chest, staring at him with a troubled gaze.

  “Why are we going to Nassau?”

  “Marina needs some supplies. And she also thinks we can’t see the forest for the trees.”

  Melinda nodded, understanding with no more need for an explanation.

  “I’m going to shower,” he told her.

  She nodded again. He started toward the head door, wishing he could stay in the bunk with her.

  Yet suddenly more anxious than ever to reach Nassau. A luxury hotel room for the night. A great dinner somewhere, and then the night ahead of them. In an air-conditioned room, maybe with a bottle of champagne at their side …

  “Roc!” she called after him.

  He paused, turning. She half rose, watching him with eyes that had gone dark with emotion again, tense, passionate.

  “I meant what I said. I told you the truth. I want you to make this claim.”

  He walked to her and kissed the top of her head, then looked into her eyes again.

  “You know what I want?” he asked her softly.

  She shook her head, and he kissed her lips lightly.

  “Well, I very much want you to be Mrs. Trellyn tonight,” he told her.

  She searched his eyes.

  “Well,” she murmured lightly. “It seems you’ve got me.”

  So it seemed.…

  He managed to turn around again, and this time he made it to the shower.

  After all, the night loomed ahead.…

  Chapter 9

  The first time Melinda had entered Nassau Harbor, she had felt a strange affinity and affection for the place. She’d been a little girl that first time, spending the summer with her father. The summers had been magical times to begin with. The year had always seemed so hard, so strained. She loved her mother, but she never really knew her, so she would sit throughout the year dreaming about the summer, about sailing on her father’s boats, racing the wind, or motoring through the waves on one quest or another, but always following the lure of adventure. He had brought her to many of the islands in the Bahamas, the heavily populated ones, the not-so-populated ones, even the uninhabited ones. She had learned very early to love the tranquil azure waters, the gentle, laid-back sing-song of the people, the sun that shone so frequently and so fiercely, the magical beaches and the lure of the reefs. She loved so many of the islands. But sometimes, she thought, coming here was the best of all.

  Nassau, the hub of the Bahamian island of New Providence, was definitely filled with tourists and tourist attractions, but it always seemed to carry a little bit of the past with it, a charming past, filled with the nice and the not so nice, but even the shadowy realms of the past seemed to add to the draw of the place. In her day, Nassau had been a haven for countless pirates. She had harbored smugglers, thieves, murderers and more, and she had survived them all.

  Coming in was always beautiful. Giant cruise ships often lingered in the harbor while their passengers were off motorcycling or shopping, visiting forts, or sitting in quaint little restaurants for tea. In the downtown section many of the buildings were from the colonial period, painted in soft pastels that seemed to beckon the traveler from the sea.

  It was a comfortable place for American citizens, with easy customs procedures, and Roc dropped her and all the crew except for Joe Tobago on the dock to acquire rooms for the evening while he cleared the Crystal Lee for the night and made provisions to obtain gas and a few other necessities for the boat.

  Marina, with relatives
in town, shooed Melinda, Bruce and Connie on to check in to the hotel they had chosen, telling them that she was going shopping for bargains, and that she and Joe would see them at dinner.

  “Let’s walk along Bay Street a little bit,” Connie suggested as they stood on the dock.

  Bruce groaned.

  “All right,” Melinda quickly agreed.

  “How about I go get rooms, and you two go walking?” Joe suggested.

  Connie grinned. “Great!” she told her brother.

  So she and Melinda did just that, jostling with the tourists through the straw market, where Connie found a new hat for the endless days on the Crystal Lee with the sun beating down, and then they wandered past hawkers with their wares to Bay Street, where the shops were indoors, often air-conditioned, and offered many exotic and expensive perfumes and imported wools and clothing, as well as more touristy goods.

  Melinda waved a perfume bottle beneath her nose in one store and discovered Connie behind her, sniffing as well. “That’s wonderful! What is it?”

  “Something native, I think. Umm, here. They call it Passion Flower,” Melinda told her.

  Connie picked up the vial, then surveyed the shelf. “They have bath oil, perfume, dusting powder … the works.” She picked up Melinda’s wrist where Melinda had dabbed the perfume. “Oh, wow, this smells great on you.”

  Melinda shrugged. “I’m just window-shopping,” she told Connie.

  “But it’s—” Connie began, but she stopped short. “Oh, I know. You don’t have your wallet, But I have mine—”

  “Connie, I’m not going to borrow money from you.”

  “But I have one of your husband’s credit cards.”

  Melinda’s brows shot up in surprise. Connie shrugged and explained quickly. “We all have them. He’s extraordinary to work for. He’s great about giving credit to everyone, about sharing all our finds—and he still covers expenses. None of us abuse the privilege, you know—”

  “Connie, I can’t imagine you abusing anything!” Melinda assured the pretty blonde quickly.

  “This perfume is great. And you should get it. Let me put it on his card.”