The letters only annoyed her. She tried to picture Stephen in her mind and kept seeing an airline pilot's blue uniform surmounted by a featureless face and a shock of black curly hair. For a moment, she couldn't even remember what color his eyes were, and when she tried to place them in his face, they turned out to be not blue, but flecked amber, like Chad's. Oh, it was impossible! It was clear that she didn't love Stephen and would never love Stephen. Moving in together was out of the question when she couldn't even remember the color of his eyes without thinking. She'd write to him tomorrow and end their relationship.
Glad to have the matter over with, she returned to her needlepoint. As she drew the brightly-colored yarn through the canvas, an activity that she usually found soothing, she found herself feeling vaguely concerned about something that she couldn't quite put her finger on. It had to do with the aunts, but she couldn't single out the exact reason why she felt so uneasy.
It wasn't until later that night that it struck her. At mail call, neither Aunt Biz nor Aunt Sophie had received any bills. Strange, considering that the mail included everything that had arrived for them at the post office all week.
But then perhaps as they'd grown older the aunts' requirements had dwindled. They had no need for an extensive wardrobe, and living on St. Albans where they grew much of their own food, day-to-day expenses must be minimal. She put the aunts' affairs out of her mind. It was none of her business, after all, and she had other important things to think about—how to word her reply to Stephen, for instance.
She composed a brief letter the next morning. "I'm sorry, Stephen," she wrote, "but I've been thinking over your suggestion that we live together, and I feel that it would be something that we'd both eventually regret. In fact, I think we should stop seeing each other altogether." What could she say to lighten the blow? She considered this for a few moments and added, "I'll keep fond memories of the good times we had together," but she could only think of a few, most of them on layovers when they were on the same flight and she'd have had a good time even if Stephen weren't there.
She paused before signing her name. "Love, Paige" seemed inappropriate, so she simply scrawled her name at the bottom of the paper and sealed it quickly in an envelope. It seemed tremendously important to her that Stephen find out the truth about their relationship immediately, which meant that she would have to get her letter in the mail at the next possible chance.
Chad had announced his intention to do some surf-casting that morning, hoping to catch fresh fish for their dinner, so she walked down to the beach with her letter.
He eyed her cautiously as she approached, scarcely seeming delighted to see her. If ever she had seen an about-face change in anyone, it was in Chad. Well, it was necessary for her to talk with him. It was ridiculous for them both to inhabit this small island without exchanging a few words now and then. At least they should be able to speak of practical matters if not personal ones.
Chad was barefoot, wearing only swim trunks and an unbuttoned shirt. He stood beside the long fishing pole where he'd planted it in the sand, watching the slack line beyond the trough where the waves broke.
"Any luck?" she asked when she stood beside him. The stiff breeze caught and flung her words backward.
Chad shook his head ruefully. "None at all. Not even a bite." His eyes rested on her, remote and shuttered, effectively making a stranger of her.
"I'd help if I could, but I don't know anything about surf fishing. I really just came to ask you when you thought you'd be taking the Marsh Mallow to Brunswick again."
Chad raised his eyebrows. "Why? Do you need to go to the mainland?"
"Not really, but I have a letter I'd like you to mail next time you go."
"Aunt Biz will want me to go to the paint store again soon, perhaps tomorrow morning. I'll send it for you then." He nodded toward the envelope in her hands. "If that's the letter, I'll take it now."
Paige handed him the envelope, and he skimmed the address hurriedly. His face tightened perceptibly for a moment as he tucked the letter into his tackle box. When he straightened, his face was devoid of expression.
She decided to make a stab at conversation, hoping to draw him out of his shell. "I like the way the portico looks, now that you've scraped and painted it," she ventured.
"Mmm. Thanks." Chad stared out over the ocean, his eyes locked on the seam where sea met sky.
"Aunt Biz seems to have decided on a color for the upstairs hallway. Oyster white, I believe."
"Good." His eyes remained on the horizon.
He was snubbing her. Clearly, as far as he was concerned, there was to be no return to the joking camaraderie of her first days on the island.
She turned to go, brushing aside a wisp of hair that the wind had blown across her face.
"Paige," he said suddenly, and something in the tone of his voice made her whirl and stare at him across the space between them.
"Tell Aunt Sophie that if I haven't delivered any fish by five o'clock to go ahead and cook the casserole that she'd planned." Whatever emotion she had thought she'd heard in his voice, it wasn't there now. Though neither of them had moved, the space between them grew wider and seemed occupied by something heavier than air.
"I'll tell her," she said. Then, feeling inexplicably disappointed, she turned and began the long walk back to the Manse.
Later, she was in the kitchen assembling the ingredients for scalloped tomatoes when she heard Chad stamping sand off his feet on the back porch before he came in. He seemed taken aback to find her in the kitchen instead of Aunt Sophie. He set a newspaper-wrapped bundle on the countertop.
"So you caught some fish after all," she remarked, and to her own ears it seemed that she spoke too loudly and with forced gaiety. "Aunt Sophie and Aunt Biz and I all agreed that we were in the mood for seafood. Why, we haven't had any since the crabs we ate the night of the party, which is ridiculous when you consider where we live." She was prattling, and she stopped short, busying herself self-consciously with unwrapping the fish.
Chad regarded her from under his eyebrows, something troubled in his gaze. He was standing so close that Paige could have reached out and touched him, and crazily she felt the urge to do so. She fumbled with the newspaper, wholly unnerved by the way he simply stood and stared at her. For a moment she felt sure that he was about to take her in his arms, and her pulse throbbed in anticipation.
But, "I'll be back at dinnertime," he said. He turned quickly on his heel and strode out the door without even a vestige of politeness.
Stung, Paige stared at the place where he had stood, her anticipation falling away, tears stinging her eyes. His churlishness had hurt her feelings terribly, and for the first time she began to think that she cared about his attitude more than she'd ever admitted.
After blinking away the sudden tears, there was nothing to do but to continue unwrapping the fish. In her unhappy state of mind, Paige wouldn't have noticed the name of the newspaper if a broad headline about an airline hadn't caught her eye. Why, it was the Wall Street Journal! This newspaper, all business, certainly wasn't what she expected to see on St. Albans, where business and everyday life seemed so far removed.
Her eyes picked out the date at the top of the page. It was a recent date, only about a week ago. Then she recalled the armload of newspapers that Chad had carried back to the Sea House with him the day he fetched the mail from Brunswick. Identically folded and wrapped, they all must have been the Wall Street Journal. How odd. Chad seemed to be the last person in the world to be interested in such a staid and businesslike paper, the bulwark of the financial world. Like a lot of other little things about his character and personality, it simply did not fit in with his image.
As she cut up tomatoes, Paige forced herself to ban thoughts of his physical presence from her mind. Instead she puzzled over the inequities in his character and personality. They didn't make sense, nothing added up. Now that she had dispatched the problem of Stephen McCall, she found herself growing
concerned all over again about Chad Smith. Certainly he still bore watching. She couldn't, despite his recent conversion to the perfect handyman, completely rid herself of her initial distrust.
The next morning Aunt Biz announced her intention to go to Brunswick to buy the new paint and asked Chad if he would accompany her. Chad, who was painting the downstairs hall that day, set aside his paint brush. "I'll go, so you won't have to," he said. "Give me your color chip so I can buy the paint and bring it home. Besides," and he eyed Paige meaningfully, "I need to mail some letters at the post office." But Aunt Biz insisted that she needed to talk to the paint store manager about mixing a special shade for the downstairs powder room, and so the two of them set off together for Brunswick in the Marsh Mallow.
After Paige and Aunt Sophie had watched the two of them disappear toward Little St. Simons, they made their way slowly back up the oyster-shell path toward the Manse.
"I declare, Paige," said Aunt Sophie between sneezes, "you'll have to amuse yourself this morning. My allergy has been acting up worse than ever, and I'm planning to stay in my room all day, as far away from the paint fumes as possible."
"Don't worry about me, Aunt Sophie," said Paige. "I'm capable of finding something to do. I might go looking for those old tabby ruins where I was never allowed to play when I was a kid."
"Goodness, no one's been there in years. Why would you want to do that?"
"I always wanted to explore them." They were where the first Huguenots had settled before the American Revolution, long before the Manse was built."
"We could all go together sometime. You and Biz and me," Aunt Sophie said hopefully. "And Chad."
Chad. Always Chad. "Maybe," she said, "but right now, you go ahead and rest." Aunt Sophie tottered off to her room, sneezing all the way.
The idea of exploring the ruins was spoiled for now, so for a while, Paige worked on the sewing machine, which she had dragged out of the closet and set up in her room. She was a fast seamstress, and before long, she'd completed another throw pillow for the couch and decided to close up shop. It was much too pretty a day to remain inside.
She stood for a moment on the balcony outside her room. The ocean was a glistening shade of aquamarine, sparkling in the bright golden sunlight. Overhead a flock of gulls wheeled and dipped and called querulously to one another with high-pitched voices.
An idea gripped her, and she went to her closet and rummaged around on the top shelf until her fingers found what they sought. It was her own sketchbook, the one she had placed there five years ago when she had last visited. Quickly she leafed through it, stopping every now and then to study a drawing. They were good, she thought with surprise, wondering why she had never further developed her talent. She would like to try her hand at sketching again, and this morning was as good a time as any.
Her drawings back then had been varied—here she had sketched some of the plants native to the island, a thistle, bachelor's button, holly. And there was a drawing, never finished, of the tiny houses in the fishermen's village. Here was a funny one, almost a cartoon, of a pelican with a droll look about him because his bill was too full of fish. She might someday work some of these sketches into needlepoint designs. She had already designed several original needlepoint canvases for her friends and had in fact developed her talent into a sideline to supplement her airline salary.
She tucked the sketchbook under her arm and headed downstairs. Today, with Chad gone, would be the perfect time to walk to the promontory and sit in front of the Sea House to sketch.
She stopped in the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the pervasive smell of paint, and found a chunk of brie and some crackers to carry with her. There wasn't much to drink, but she filled an insulated jug with fruit juice and set off toward the beach.
She had worn her briefest bikini, the jade green one with the high-cut legs and the tiny top. Her hair was brushed back behind her ears and bounced loosely around her shoulders as she walked. The sand felt hot on the soles of her feet; she wished she'd worn sandals. But, she reflected, she really didn't need them when she could walk at the edge of the surf.
Ahead of her, sandpipers scampered away on skinny legs, and a curious sand crab poked his head out of his hole. Finally Paige rounded the curve and came upon the Sea House. It stood on the point like a squat gray sentinel, nestled amid the salt grass and sea oats on the dunes. As she approached she observed that Chad had cleared away the tangle of undergrowth and weeds that had once threatened to envelop the building.
Curiously she walked up to the Sea House and peered in one of the windows. A thin film of salt spray obscured her vision, and she rubbed at it with the towel she carried.
Chad had done a good job with the interior, as much as she could see of it, anyway. She recognized the massive fireplace that took up one whole wall, built like the rest of the house of round gray ballast stones. Above it, its woolly texture an effective contrast against the smoothness of the stones, hung a hooked rag rug in spiraling shades of red, orange and yellow.
He hadn't done any painting here as far as she could see, and the floor was still wide wooden planks, highly polished now. She saw a bed, piled high with pillows on top of a striped wool serape, against another wall. Soft fiber rugs accented the floor, and there were two comfortable-looking armchairs. Several ship models sat on the top of a pair of well-stocked bookshelves. The long wide table, piled high with papers, had once been in the study at the Manse. Altogether the Sea House looked like a comfortable bachelor pad.
And of course the view was breathtaking. The front porch was the perfect place to sit and sketch. She sat, leaned against the low wall encircling the porch, and took out her pad and pencils. Before long she was totally absorbed in transferring a ready-made still-life—an unusually twisted piece of driftwood, a prettily shaped shell, and an obliging butterfly—to paper.
When she'd completed her drawing to her satisfaction, she stood and stretched and decided on a quick swim. Afterward she let herself drip dry in the sun before eating her snack. It felt good to bake the tightness out of her muscles. She settled back on her towel, the sun a hot red circle behind her eyelids. It was so warm, so relaxing. She felt far from New York and its hectic pace.
She sighed and twisted to get more comfortable—if only the top of her bikini didn't bind so tightly! Well, she could solve that. She could take it off. Then she smiled to herself. In fact, she was known to be so modest that her girl friends often joked that Paige Brownell hid in a closet to change her mind.
On the other hand, though, who was here to see her? Chad and Aunt Biz were safely in Brunswick, and there was a good chance that their arrival back on the island would be delayed by motor trouble—it usually was. Aunt Sophie, of course, was staying in her room.
Why not? Paige didn't stop to think about it anymore. She sat up, blinking as she opened her eyes, and reached behind her to untie the brief bikini bra. Her bare breasts, startlingly white against her suntan, felt free and unencumbered. The sun on her nipples felt welcome and warm. Like the touch of a lover, Paige thought whimsically.
The steady swish of the sea upon the shore, the lazy cries of the shore birds, the sultry heat of the afternoon sun on her bare skin—all combined to make her feel drowsy. Settling more comfortably into the sand, she slipped into a dream about a high-masted sailing boat, sails unfurled in the wind, and a tall golden-haired man who just happened to look very much like...
"Chad!" With a cold shock vibrating through her, she stared up at him. His eyes, seething with intensity, blazed down her body and took in her small breasts, rounded with taut upthrust nipples, then moved down to her flat stomach, stopping at the green triangle of material that saved her from being completely nude.
Paige sat up abruptly, reaching about in her embarrassment for the top of her swimsuit. Where was it? Surely it couldn't have gone too far, she had only put it to one side—and then with a sinking feeling she realized that he was kneeling on it.
Chad continued to drink in
her nakedness like a thirsty man who had been too long in the desert. She tried to cover herself with her arms, but it did no good. Her eyes met his, caught and held, spun away into their bright shining depths. Looking at him was like gazing at the sun; his eyes were all-powerful, hypnotic, magnetic. She could only let herself be caught up in their spell.
"You tempt me every day of my life, Paige. Am I supposed to resist you when you put yourself on display on my doorstep?"
"But I didn't—"
"You did, and I'm not sorry," he said, and before she could reply, considering that every rational thought seemed to have left her head, his body closed the gap between them. His arms crushed her to him in a mind-shattering intimacy, exquisite in its raw sensuality.
His kiss was hot and ravenous. She was swept into a firestorm of urgent longing and responded with complete lack of inhibition.
"I've dreamed of you like this," he said unsteadily, and he lowered his lips to one roseate nipple.
The sight of his lips pressed to this intimate place moved her beyond words and she moaned softly. He looked up at her, a question in his eyes.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No," she whispered.
"Do you want me to stop?" he demanded, and it was unthinkable to say yes. It was also unthinkable to say no, however, so she hung in indecision, wanting to go on savoring the closeness of Chad's body.
When she said nothing, he took advantage of the chance to press his lips to hers once more, and again she matched his ardor, wondering if her defenses were totally destroyed. Chad teased her with tiny kisses on her face, everywhere but on her lips, which craved them; he tortured her with little licking kisses on her throat, which thrilled to them; he wandered his kisses downward to the cleft between her breasts, holding them in his hands so that their roundness caressed his face.
The Beach Bachelors Boxset (Three Complete Contemporary Romance Novels in One) (The Beach Bachelors Series) Page 23