"Sharks are amazing," he told her now that he could see he'd gotten her attention. "Did you know that they can smell blood from over a quarter of a mile away?"
"No. I didn't know that." He's just doing this to get on the boat, she told herself.
"Too bad you're not bleeding," she told Dylan.
"But I am. I cut my foot when I fell off the boat. Look." He backfloated and held a bare foot up for her inspection. The sunlight glared off the water, almost blinding her. And he wasn't exactly what she'd call close. No, he was at least thirty feet away.
And yet ... she thought that maybe ... just maybe she could see a streak of red on the bottom of his foot.
She leaned forward and squinted her eyes, trying to look harder. He quickly stuck his foot back in the water. Too quickly. Sneaky quickly.
"I don't believe you," she said, not feeling as sure of herself as she sounded. "I didn't see anything."
The words were barely out of her mouth when suddenly Dylan cried out in a yelp that was half surprise, half fear.
Then, before her horrified gaze, his whole body jerked and he vanished beneath the churning water.
The next few seconds seemed like years. Elise forced herself to move, to do something. Mechanically she throttled forward, bringing the boat to the approximate place where Dylan had vanished. Then, jamming the boat into neutral, she hurried to the side and looked down, her eyes frantically trying to penetrate the depths of the turquoise water.
Nothing.
Not a bubble, not a shadow of movement. Nothing.
He'd been there, and now he was simply gone.
She vacillated between cursing him and praying for his safety. Moving around the perimeter of the boat, she checked along the waterline, making sure he wasn't hiding.
"What a horrible, horrible trick, a cruel trick," she muttered under her breath, hoping that was all it was-a trick-half expecting to see him surface any second. She promised herself that he'd surface any second.
But she waited and waited, straining her eyes and ears for some sight, some sound, however slight.
Nothing.
Don't be dead. Please don't be dead.
How long had he been down there? It seemed like hours, but she guessed it had been no more than a couple of minutes at the most.
She'd been telling the truth when she said she'd seen Jaws. But she'd been lying when she'd said she enjoyed it.
Confused and conflicting emotions churned inside her. Fear. Guilt. She felt so helpless, so alone, so exhausted. She'd been through so much in the past twelve hours, and now she could feel what little self-control she'd somehow managed to cling to slipping.
She wished she could think of what she should do, but she couldn't.
Leave? Should she leave? Go find someone, tell someone?
Not yet. Maybe later, but not yet.
She could feel the hysteria building in her, and she fought it with the little willpower and strength she had left.
With white-knuckled hands, she gripped the gunwale, staring into the water, her eyes trying to probe its dark depths. Her vision blurred, and she dashed the tears away with the back of one hand.
Her dream came back to her with terrifying clarity. Horrible memories of a body being pulled from the Mississippi. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the memory. Failing.
Her mother's body. Elise had been five years old when her mother had drowned. She'd never been sure whether or not she'd actually witnessed the discovery of the body or if her overactive imagination had made it seem as if she'd been there. r
Suddenly a sound came from behind her and the boat gave a terrific lurch.
She gasped and spun around in time to see Dylan heaving himself over the port side and onto the deck.
He was alive!
She watched in fascinated horror as he staggered, then collapsed on his hands and knees. Water poured from his clothes, forming a puddle around him. His head hung forward as he sucked in huge, rasping lungfuls of air. Under his soaked black T-shirt, his rib cage rose and fell, but she didn't see any sign of blood. She wished he'd look up so she could see his face; then she'd know if he was okay.
As if reading her thoughts, he slowly, almost painfully, pushed himself to his feet, bracing his legs against the rolling pitch of the deck. The handcuffs jingled as he reached up with both hands and raked his soaked hair back from his face before letting his hands drop back to his sides. Water sluiced down the tan, muscled tendons of his neck, disappearing into the water-stretched neck band of his T-shirt.
Elise was standing a few feet away, her hand still pressed to her heart, to the place it had flown when he'd lunged onto the boat. Now she slowly lowered her hand to her side.
This was the first time she'd ever seen him close up in full light, she realized. And looking at him, seeing him wet the way he was, his jeans hugging his muscled thighs, his T-shirt plastered to his broad chest, she once again felt the strange, scary, fascinated pull she'd felt last night.
As her gaze trailed slowly upward, she was both surprised and oddly pleased to see that his eyes were really and truly the unusual amber color she'd thought had only been a trick of the night. An the eyelashes that surrounded them were black and long and spiked with water.
And looking into those eyes, her heart began to beat harder, faster, seeming to keep time with the deep, rhythmic pulsing of the idling, waiting motor.
And even now, in the light, she could sense a restrained wildness about him, a darkness that had nothing to do with his tangled mane of hair. No, it had to do with his eyes. Not the color, but something inside them, something inside him.
As she watched, his dark, slashing eyebrows drew together in an intimidating frown. Then he took a step forward, a step she could only interpret as threatening. He stood there, both hands splayed firmly on his hips. No more than twelve inches separated their bodies.
That was when it came to her.
"You were never hurt," she said accusingly.
One side of his mouth turned up in a half smile. He had the gall to look quite pleased with himself. "Nope."
If she hadn't been on such an emotional roller coaster, if she hadn't been so worried, she would have caught on sooner.
There hadn't been any shark down there trying to chomp on his leg. The whole thing had been a trick. A sick, sick trick. And now, recalling how he'd scared her half to death, remembering what he'd just put her through, her anger surfaced.
"You tricked me."
His smile broadened.
The sight of it stole the air from her lungs, but she quickly rallied herself. She was out of breath because of what she'd just been through.
"You scared me half to death, and you tricked me."
"I don't know what you're griping about. I'm the one who was going to be left for shark bait. I think I've been fairly nice to you, considering." He held up the wrist with the handcuff as evidence.
Nice? Lord. Somebody give the man a dictionary.
"What a bunch of garbage! Is that what you call what you've done to me? Being nice?" She blew out an angry breath. "What do you do when you really like a girl? Stick bamboo shoots under her fingernails?"
Before she could judge his reaction, he turned away, bringing up one hand to rub the side of his face. For a second she thought he had turned to hide a smile.
Impossible.
When he swung back, his face was bland, but there was a light-almost a gleam-in his eyes that made her squirm.
"Bamboo shoots?" He rubbed his chin in exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Nooo...."
She definitely didn't like the way he was looking at her. It made her think of a cat that had just spotted a sparrow with an injured wing.
She tried to step back but only succeeded in bumping into the gunwale. The boat lurched, and she reached for the side at the same time Dylan's hands reached out to steady her. Through the fabric of her light jacket she could feel the strength in his fingers as they wrapped around her upper arms. Then he eased h
er toward him, his eyes no longer focused on her face, but her chest.
She looked down.
Her jacket was hanging open; her blouse was wet from the sea spray. And her blouse wasn't the only thing that had gotten wet. The bra she was wearing was thin, and in the glaring brilliance of the sun a round shadow was clearly visible at the center of each breast.
"Know what I do when I really like a girl?"
It was a sexually loaded question.
"Tie her to a railroad track?" she asked, heart pounding, words coming fast, one on top of the other. "Use the old Chinese torture method and drip water on her forehead?"
"No. When I really like a girl..."
He paused.
She froze, watching, hypnotized as his hand came up, and through the two layers of wet fabric she felt his finger slowly trace the outline of first one nipple, then the other.
"When- I really like a girl, I take off her clothes."
Her breath caught in her throat, her thoughts exploding in a million different directions, none of them logical, none of them focused. Her eyes wandered from his hand to his face.
His eyelids looked heavy. Drowsy. His mouth, reddened by salt water, was turned up slightly at the corners in a lazy, sexy smile. Sex appeal. He oozed it.
"I don't think we should ... you should-" She stopped, and her breath caught again. She completely forgot what she'd been about to say. Her thoughts flew to the hand that cupped her entire breast, the thumb that circled the pliant nipple.
Something stirred inside her. She felt a deep yearning, a need. Warmth traveled through her veins, making her legs go weak.
"Then," he whispered, his hand leaving her breast, moving to her shoulder, her back, pulling her closer. "After her clothes are off, I take mine off, too."
"Oh."
She felt herself tumbling backward and grabbed both, his shoulders. She felt the muscles bunch and shift under the wet cotton as he lowered her to the deck.
"Then I lie down on top of her-like this."
She felt the entire weight and length of him pressing down on her, felt his hands on her hipbones. Involuntarily, her eyelids fluttered closed.
Part of her mind was chanting that this wasn't really happening. Another part was goading her, telling her to give in and experience what her friends had been telling her she'd been missing all the years of her celibate life.
The boat rolled, and Dylan's body rolled with it. Salt water from his dripping clothes penetrated hers, going all the way to her skin. Through her clinging skirt and the cotton fabric of his wet jeans, she could feel the hardness of his arousal.
Then she felt his hand begin at her knee, one long, slow stroke that eventually moved up her leg, up her skirt, his open palm warm against skin that was barely covered by her torn pantyhose.
She was distantly aware of the sun, warm on her face, creating an orange haze behind her eyelids. Then the warm haze seemed to slip down inside her.
The boat dipped again, and Elise felt his hardness just where it should be. Pressing ...
"Feels good, doesn't it?" he asked in a low, incredibly husky voice. "The ocean swells. That up-" he paused, waiting "-and down ... motion." He moved with the waves, was a part of the waves.
Something tight was building inside her.
A fire. A storm. The ocean ...
She parted her lips, and a moan escaped them. Then his mouth pressed hard against hers in a wet, open-mouthed kiss that tasted like salt water. She felt the rough-smooth surface of his tongue stroking hers. Slowly. In and out, like the waves.
And the fire roared higher, the storm raged... .
When his mouth left hers, she forced her heavy eyes open to regard him with bemusement. Why had he stopped?
Dylan shifted his upper body to one side, keeping his hips nestled to hers. His hand moved to her blouse, and she felt his knuckles brush across her skin as he slipped the buttons, one at a time, through the buttonholes.
"A boat's one of the most erotic places to make love, don't you think?" He tugged her blouse free of her skirt.
She shook her head. "I-I really wouldn't know."
"No? Come on." He spread open her blouse and leaned closer, beads of water that clung to the ends of his hair dripping onto her warm, bare skin. "As much as you've been around?"
Like an avalanche, his blunt words brought her fantasy crashing down around her. Had she lost her mind? One minute she was trying to get away from him, the next she was wanting him to make love to her.
Insane!
For a few minutes she'd forgotten who he was, who she was, and what he thought she was. A kept woman. Sebastian's woman. Then she remembered what he'd said about not touching her because of Sebastian. Had he forgotten, too?
"There was this one time..." she managed in a loud, hoarse whisper.
The hand on her bare stomach stilled.
Like a cross held up to Dracula, she drew forth the name. "With Adrian Sebastian."
That was all it took. She felt him tense, saw his jaw go rigid, and she couldn't help but wonder if he, too, had been swept away and was just now fully recalling who she was and what this was all about.
The drowsy warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by a remote coldness that she felt sure reflected the hardened criminal within. And his voice, when he finally spoke, was as distant as the far horizon.
"That's what I'd do if I liked you. It's a good thing I don't like you, isn't it?"
She swallowed, forcing herself to resist the urge to look away, to resist the urge to cower and clutch the edges of her blouse together. Instead she looked defiantly up at him and answered his rhetorical question. "Yes."
Even though her hands were still on his shoulders, even though her body still pulsed from his touch, she said it again, as if the vehemence of her voice made it so. "Yes."
With his face set in an expression of self-loathing, he shoved himself away from her and dropped into the driver's seat.
He sat there in silence while Elise rebuttoned her blouse with stiff, shaky fingers.
"Get up here and sit down so we can go." He didn't look at her, but kept his eyes focused blankly on the expanse of water in front of them.
She was sick of his hypocritical attitude. Even if she had been Adrian Sebastian's girlfriend, who was Dylan to pass judgment on her life-style and treat her as if she were contaminated?
Not bothering to tuck in her blouse, she pushed herself to her feet; then, gripping the siderail, she made her way to the front, collapsing in the passenger seat. Elise half expected him to gun the boat, but he didn't. He turned, then took off at a sedate pace, the metal tie-off on the bow pointing toward the island.
Elise stared straight ahead, exhaustion washing over her. She couldn't remember when she'd ever been so tired. And when she was extremely tired, her brain malfunctioned. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to think logically. She said and did goofy things.
That explained what had just happened back there, she told herself sternly. If she could just get some sleep, she could figure this out.
She began plucking at her torn hose, watching curiously as another run shot down her leg. "This vacation's been grand so far," she said. "Just grand." She knew she was getting punchy, but she couldn't seem to help herself. It was either that or tears.
She pinched another bit of nylon, stretching it away from her leg. Another run zipped along, stopping when it came to a hole below her shin. "What's next on the agenda? Golf, followed by drinks on the veranda?" She stretched her toes and lifted her hair off her neck. "How about horseback riding? Do you have horseback riding here at your resort?"
"Shut up."
He must have some sort of conscience after all, she decided, since her sarcasm seemed to bother him. A guilt complex, that was it. She found that she enjoyed goading him, twisting the knife a little deeper.
She inspected her nails. They were chipped and caked with dirt. "Billiards, perhaps?"
"Shut up."
"How about ch
arades?" She tossed her head, her lank, tangled hair slapping against her neck. "I love charades, don't you?" She looked over at him. He was glaring at her, his brows furrowed.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" he demanded.
"Matter?" she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Why, what could be the matter? I'm exhausted and hungry, I have to go to the bathroom, I'm filthy, and I've been mauled. What could possibly be the matter?"
"Mauled?" A burst of mocking laughter escaped him. "That's a good one. That's probably what Delilah said to Samson."
How absurd. Outrageous. She should be mad, but she was suddenly too tired. Anger took an enormous amount of energy, energy that her earlier outburst had depleted.
She closed her eyes, taking a tiny bit of comfort in the fact that he'd obviously had some sort of religious up-bringing.
Minutes later, through a haze of fatigue, she heard Dylan cut the engine and felt the boat drift, then bump against the dock. She was distantly aware of his movements as he tied off, the boat rocking as he jumped from it.
"Come on."
Her eyelids weighed a ton. She struggled to open them, only to have them fall shut again.
"Come on," he repeated from the vicinity of the dock.
She opened her eyes and this time managed to keep them open. She pushed herself to her feet, every muscle in her body protesting. Her head was throbbing, sharp pains settling in her temples.
But no matter how exhausted she was, no matter how heavy and tired her legs were, she still refused to take Dylan's extended hand as she stepped from the boat. So he grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her up beside him.
Once there, she simply stood, arms at her sides. "You okay?"
His voice seemed to come from light years away, through a hazy tunnel. She tilted her head back and squinted her eyes so she could see him. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"Okay?" She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. "Peachy. Just peachy." Then, with an airy motion, she shoved one hand against his damp chest, pushing him back so she could step past him.
As she walked toward the beach house, a black depression fell over her. She felt lost, bereft. As if someone very close to her had died.
Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay Page 7