I reached the end of the dock. Now I would have no way to keep the progress I had been making. The cabin was so close but I had an unconscious man to carry and my muscles were already taxed.
How much more of this could I endure?
How much more could he endure?
I at least was able to hold my breath during the assailment of wave after wave. I had no idea how much water he had taken in.
I lay my cheek against his mouth. I could feel warm breath on my skin. A very good sign; he was still alive, but for how long if I did not get him out of the elements?
For a brief moment I sat on the sand, my back against the last post of the dock. He was laying between my legs unable to respond, unable to assist. I brushed his hair from his face, and looked to the heavens.
Help me, Michael, was all that fell from my lips before exhaustion took over and I began to cry.
I had used all my energy and had no idea how I was going to save this man. I feared for our lives if we were hit one more time.
As I stared above talking to my dead husband, the clouds began to dissipate, the stars began appearing and the ocean emitted the sound of calm rolling waves.
I continued to sob, but for a different reason. My beloved, my Michael, had saved me, like he had on the first day we met.
With an infusion of adrenaline coursing through my blood, I found the strength to drag King Richard to the cabin. He was going to be very sore come morning. Between hitting the water at fleeting speed and being dragged across the rocky terrain he would be lucky to not have anything broken.
I was a veterinarian's assistant and could do some basic medical first aid. Hopefully there was no internal injuries to deal with.
I would have to get ahold of the Coast Guard and let them know he was here. Someone would be looking for him and they needed to know he was alive.
At least, for now he was alive.
If he didn’t get proper medical attention, that situation may not last.
Chapter 3
Richard
I was drifting in and out of consciousness. There was a chill beyond anything I had experienced before. Where was I, what happened, and why did I feel burning pain throughout my entire body?
I dreamt of a light. A long beaming light with an angel on the other end. I heard shouting, I heard the roaring of the waves, I heard crying.
Right now I would do anything to wake up from the storm being recreated in my subconscious. My soul was drifting from my body. The tremendous cold was overtaking my senses. The salt stung my eyes, my lungs, which was good, pain meant life. I was alive.
But there was no waking up from my nightmare. I could taste the salty air, something that never happened when I dreamt. The cold bite of the wind had my heart pumping several times faster than it ought to.
I was exhausted but I needed to continue fighting. I wasn't alone in this fight. I wanted the onslaught of water that was taking over my body to stop. Instinctively, I held my breath when I heard the rush of water coming toward me. Another wave; how much more was my body going to be able to withstand?
The last wave came too quick. I was still recovering from the previous one. This time I did not hold my breath on time. How much would it cost me?
I awoke in a cold sweat, long enough to know I was no longer on the boat, no longer in the frigid ocean, long enough to register my surroundings. Long enough to know I was indeed alive.
My dreams took me to a time when two young men met and became friends. There was something disturbing about this dream. I was trying to understand how the blonde woman fit into this dream. Everything was jumbling into one large melting pot. I was unable to decipher the fantasies of my dreams from the reality of my actions.
I dreamt of my family. Would they miss me if I were gone? Was I in a purgatory of my own misdeeds? As hard as I tried, I could find no fault in the life I had lived. I remained loyal to my father, to my friends, to my company.
It amused me that my father came first in my thought about loyalty. A father who had not been as loyal in his lifetime. All my memories flooding back from a place in my mind buried long ago.
My brain related to the fact I was dreaming, but my body was feeling something else. The warmth was returning. I thought about how people say you feel warm when you suffer from hyperthermia.
Was I in the final stages? I may not be on the boat or in the ocean — I was alive, but for how long?
I continued to dream, continued to feel heat returning to my body. At one point I felt my arousal and began dreaming of all the women I was acquainted with.
My life may not be flashing before my eyes, but my conquests were. Was I in a hell of my own making? I knew I was dreaming; my body was responding to my dreams in a most satisfying way.
I never made any apologies for my healthy sexual appetite. I never needed to. I wasn’t going to start now in my dreams.
What had triggered feelings of guilt for my promiscuity? Did I feel a need to repent with my maker if I could not follow the light out of tunnel and back into reality?
There was a distinct musty smell that triggered another memory of two young kids running on a beach.
We were friends, running into the ocean waves and running back to shore. We held hands and the sensation of the touch gave me a feeling of calm from this dream. I felt pangs of loneliness, remembering what being with her felt like.
I drifted in and out not sure what was a dream, what was real. Was I alive or was I in the space between? I refused to accept I might be dead. I was too young, had too many people depending on me.
I needed to fight, to wake up, to regain consciousness and take back my life. I liked my life. I was not ready to leave it all behind.
If it was my time I would not go quietly into that good night. I was going to fight it tooth and nail. If it was my time, I would leave knowing I may have been the heir apparent, my father's oldest son, but not his only son.
I could smell coffee. Was I remembering my last morning on the boat? How I sent my companion away with nothing more than a styrofoam cup of coffee?
No, the smell of fresh coffee was filling my nostrils. Awakening my senses, my body, my mind.
My eyes opened and did not flutter.
They remained open.
My angel was standing with her back to me. My eyes followed her long blonde hair all the way to her long slender legs. Legs that went on forever. I was aware who my Florence Nightingale was. Who my angel was. My friend from long ago.
I was enjoying the view but knew I would have to face her eventually.
She was going to have questions for me.
Questions I might not be ready to answer.
Chapter 4
Mackenzie
I needed to relieve him of his wet clothing. Hypothermia would soon set in if I did not react accordingly.
I would be no use to him if I allowed myself the same fate. I took care of my needs, then his.
Quickly undressing, I put on dry sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I striped him of his wet clothing, laid him on the bed, and covered his body with the sleeping bag I had intended to take to the lighthouse.
I forced myself to dig through my father's drawers. Something must have lasted the winter that the rodents did not overtake. I found a pair of flannel pyjamas. The ones I got him on my last trip to the city with Michael.
They were still in their plastic wrapper.
I had no time for tears; King Richard needed clothes and he needed them now. As I dressed him, I tried not to notice his bronzed, sun-kissed skin. His muscular arms explained why he was able to maneuver the boat as long as he did in the storm. He was tall and lean and magnificently male.
I would be careful when doing a primary assessment of his condition. I did not want to be invasive. How would I feel if the situation was reversed? I did not want him to feel violated by my intrusion.
I assessed there were no visible broken bones. The bruising on his body was indicative of the trauma he endured. He did not
seem to have a concussion. He was responsive but unable to fully awake.
He was exhausted and his body was attempting to heal naturally. This was not uncommon from someone who suffered King Richard’s ordeal.
I hung his wet clothes on a chair and placed it in front of the stove. I had spares; his needed drying first. I decided to start the generator and turn on the electric space heater, allowing more warmth into the cabin than the little wood stove would provide.
He was still shaking from being left in the water too long. I knew the signs of hypothermia and had some knowledge of how to act. I rubbed his arms and legs, hoping to increase circulation.
I brushed the hair from his forehead. It was still wet. I took a towel and dried it as much as possible. I searched my bag for a wool cap. It would suit my purpose. I put it on his head in to keep more heat inside his body.
The heater and stove were doing their job heating up the cabin. Why were they not doing their job in heating him? There was one thing I had not tried, body to body contact. The kind of heat only delivered by flesh on flesh.
I was not comfortable with the idea of laying naked beside a stranger.
I kept my sport bra and boy shorts intact. I removed his shirt and rolled the bottom of the pyjamas as much as I could. This was as much of his nakedness I was willing to familiarize myself with.
I crawled into the sleeping bag, my front to his back. I wrapped my long arms around his body and my lanky legs around his. I matched his height and we fit together with ease.
I closed my eyes, my own body needed rest after the rescue.
I woke feeling the warmth of Michael's arms wrapped around me. The unmistakable poking in my ass of his arousal.
My eyes flung open — not Michael.
The signs of dawn were peeking through the shutters. I unzipped the sleeping bag and slipped out of his grip. I was confident my patient was no longer suffering from hypothermia. I dressed and replaced the pyjama top on King Richard, then put on some coffee.
His exhaustion kept him from awaking completely. He was dreaming, crying out at times, moaning in pain at others. I held his hand, hoping during his brief periods of consciousness he knew he wasn't alone.
My heart ached to think he felt alone like Michael must have.
I puttered away at the supplies I threw inside on arrival. It would keep me occupied while taking care of my patient. I stepped outside the cabin to face what the day would bring.
I opened the shutter facing the back wall. Maybe some light would wake King Richard. He needed to wake up and start moving around to get his circulation going.
Despite my own aches, I made my way to the top of the lighthouse. The automatic lighting system would need to be put back in place. The Coast Guard would have heard his SOS and would be looking for him. They should be within range of the radio.
The view across the ocean was nothing but rolling fog. No one was going to be able to navigate through that. I pulled out my cell; no reception. That didn’t come as a surprise.
I made contact through the short wave radio. I relayed all pertinent information and they confirmed the fog would strand us for another day or two.
I received interesting information in return. My guest King Richard was Richard Van de Graaf Jr. The name on the boat was his monogram, not a title. I was too concerned about Richard's condition. I had not paid attention to the face.
Would he recognize me after all these years?
I would find out as soon as he could stay awake long enough to realize where he was.
I entered the cabin, poured myself a half cup of freshly brewed coffee, opened my Thermos of half and half and filled my mug. Taking in the sweet smelling aroma, I indulged in a huge mouthful.
“Make mine black,” a hoarse voice came from behind me.
“Good morning, King Richard. Making demands already?” I smiled.
“Come on, Mac, what's with the King Richard crap? It’s a monogram, not a title.
How long have I’ve been out?” he asked.
“About eight hours,” I informed him. “I’ve already notified the Coast Guard that you washed ashore and that I’m stuck with you for the time being.” I walked to the bed, put the cup on the nightstand and assisted him in sitting up.
“I don't believe you broke anything, how do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by a tsunami,” he snarked as I handed him the coffee. “How long until the Coast Guard comes in?” he inquired.
“A couple of days. The fog set in, not unusual for this time of year. That leaves the sandbar out of the question,” I glared, knowing that would be his next question.
“My family knows I’m okay?” His voice still hoarse from his ordeal, it was a whisper barely audible.
“Did your father ever upgrade the place and installed indoor facilities, or do I have to head to the outhouse?” he sheepishly quizzed.
I began to laugh. “We have an indoor bathroom, complete with hot running water. It’s through there,” I pointed to a curtain drawn across an entryway. “I will get you a towel. There’s a shower; the hot water should relieve some of the pain you are experiencing.”
“Am I wearing flannel?” he snickered. “I sleep in the nude, just so you know for next time.”
“You were suffering from hypothermia, you needed the coverage to keep you warm.” I blushed, remembering that was not the only thing that kept him warm.
“I dried your clothes,” I continued, turning my back to him, hoping he had not seen me.
As I spun around to hand him his clothing, he had already removed the shirt and was working on discarding the bottoms. “You can do that in there,” I pointed to the bathroom, still blushing.
“Come on Mac,” Richard taunted. “Someone had to strip me of my wet clothes last night. It’s not something you haven't already seen.”
He was bold and immodest, not the Richard I had read about in the business papers. They had always referred to him as serious, businesslike, genuine. In his pictures he was always clean shaven, hair short without a strand out of place. I couldn't remember if I ever saw a smile in any one of those pictures.
What made King Richard so unhappy?
The Richard heading to the shower in the buff was nothing like the one in the paper. His unkempt hair hung wild around his face. His facial stubble was beyond a five o'clock shadow. It was masculine and sexy as hell.
It was not the first time I had noticed his bronzed, muscular physique.
What was I thinking — this was one of the world’s richest men. He was my patient. My responsibility to keep alive and in one piece. That was what I needed to focus on. Not his naked, well-endowed body standing in the shower, wet, lathered, tempting.
I chastised myself for having those wanton illicit thoughts.
After Michael's passing, I had not come anywhere near a naked man. Today was the first time, and here I was drooling like a groupie at a rock concert. I had to put my libido in check and handle the chores of the day. Keep my mind busy doing what I had come here to do.
I would not allow myself to be distracted any longer. I was confident he would be fine left alone to dress and get his bearings. I was going to survey the damage the storm had done.
“Are you sure you can trust me not to relapse in here by myself?” a voice came from behind the curtain.
Was he seriously inviting me to join him? He was pushing the boundaries. He couldn’t possibly be serious, could he?
I felt heat rising through my body. The kind of heat that was going to get me in a whole lot of trouble if that fog did not lift soon. There was no place to hide from him on the island and the cabin only possessed one double sized bed.
He couldn’t possibly think we were going to share it, did he?
Chapter 5
Richard
Standing in the shower, the hot water slewing down my body, my aching muscles sang in relief. It awoke my senses and something else. I better take care of it, now, in the shower. The leggy blonde I would be sh
aring this cramped space with was not one of my bar bunnies.
She was a friend from adolescence, not a one night stand. Her reaction to the insolent parading of my nakedness rang out loud and clear. She was acquainted with Richard, not Rick, and I would act accordingly.
I remembered she had been a skinny girl, tall for her age. That had not changed, I noticed as I prowled past her. She was not the full figured buxom beauty Rick was accustomed to. She was tall, thin and sexy as hell in her tight jeans.
She must have been my angel, the person I felt by my side, holding my hand. My very own Florence Nightingale. Was she the blonde in my dreams? Was my subconscious playing tricks on me?
She was more beautiful than I remembered. Her golden tresses framing her heart shaped face. Her eyes blue as the ocean. I noticed the dip in the small of her back as her shirt rose when she reached for my clothing.
Fuck, this was not going to be easy.
The water began to run warm; I had used all the hot water. I should have felt guilty but didn't. The warmth eased my sore body.
I dressed in the makeshift bathroom, not wishing to embarrass her further. Most women awed at my magnificent physique and engorged manhood. She had blushed like a schoolgirl.
I looked in the mirror, combed back my long hair with my hand then ran it across my rough chin and face. If I was going to behave like Richard, the scruff would have to go.
How much of my sailboat remained on the shore, how much of my belongings intact? This could be the only clothing I might have for the next few days. Perhaps the flannel pyjamas would come in use after all.
I stepped into the main room to notice it was empty. I searched near the stove, hoping to find my shoes. Rick loved those deck shoes; they were worn, comfortable and the opposite of anything Richard would own.
I looked under the bed. Great, a pair of sneakers my size; they would do. I grabbed the hunting jacket from the back of the door and headed outside.
The air was cool, salty. It triggered a memory and my lungs burned. I scanned the area, the fog extended deep on to the island. The shore was not visible from this location. How far down could I go without risk?
Manwhore Heir (The Heirs Book 2) Page 2