UPON THE STORM

by Justine Davis

  It had been a long time since he'd had to introduce himself to anyone. "I'm Trace Dalton." He expected wonder; what he got was a blank look. "You been on another planet lately?" The words slipped out in his old, cocky manner, and he regretted them immediately, even before he saw the withdrawal in those beautiful gray eyes.

  "Not exactly."

  "I … I'm sorry." God, how long it had been since he'd apologized to anyone? "It's just that…" He let out a sigh, exasperated, and not sure if it was at himself or at the way he was feeling. "I'm an actor."

  "Oh." She sounded singularly unimpressed.

  "I've … become kind of famous in the past year," he said stumblingly, irritated at how awkward he sounded. What was wrong with him? Did running into someone who didn't know him throw him that much? Or was it just her and the feeling he got that she wouldn't have acted any differently even if she had known who he was?

  Her chin came up. "That explains it," she said evenly. "I spent the last year or so in Alaska. Pardon my ignorance."

  Lord, he felt like a fool. He'd never been so disconcerted before, especially since he'd become the darling of the celebrity watchers of the world.

  "I didn't mean to…" To what? Insult her? He supposed he had, making it sound as if she were some kind of idiot not to know who he was. Or maybe he hadn't meant to sound arrogant? He seemed to do that without even trying. Had he just never noticed it before?

  She stood up and began to turn away. "Can you eat something?" I guess I can't starve him, even if he is a jerk, Christy mused dryly.

  Great, he thought as the chill in her voice echoed in his ears. She saves your life, risking her own to do it, and within five minutes you've got her so mad she won't even look at you. "Look, you don't underst—"

  He broke off as she turned back and met his look coolly. Go ahead, idiot, make it worse. Damn, those eyes were burning a hole in him! How could she make him feel so guilty without even saying a word? He took a breath.

  "I … think so. Thank you." That sounded safe enough. And he was hungry, surprisingly.

  Without a word she took the three steps to the end of the counter and fiddled for a moment with the small propane stove there. An actor, Christy thought wryly. And an arrogant one at that. How can someone who's come so close to dying still be so cocky?

  Only if it's second nature to him, she answered herself silently. Wonderful. Trapped in an eight-by-ten room with an eight-by-ten glossy who figured the whole world had heard of him by now. She heated up what was left of the stew she'd had yesterday. Darned if she was going to fix a whole new meal for him! A glimmer of a smile quirked one corner of her mouth; she wondered when Mr. Big Shot had last eaten leftovers.

  "Can you do it," she asked when she came back with the bowl, "or do I need to feed you?"

  Stung, a sharp retort leaped to his lips, but Trace bit it back. It was difficult; he hadn't had much practice lately. "I can do it," he said, with enough meekness to ease Christy's anger a little; she'd seen his effort at restraint. Maybe there's hope, she thought as he struggled to sit up.

  She set the bowl down and reached for the blanket she'd used, to help prop him up. She turned around in time to see his eyes shift from himself, where the blanket on the bunk had slid down to just below his waist, to her, and she knew he had just realized he was naked beneath the covers. To her surprise, he flushed.

  Trace was no less amazed than she was. Lord, he'd done scenes that showed more than this; what was he so uptight about? The fact that she had obviously undressed him? Or that she was so clearly unimpressed by any of it—his fame, his much-publicized face, even his vaunted, watchable backside, which, he would guess, she had seen all of? Among other things. Boy, he thought as he took the bowl she held out, I've heard of being cut down to size before, but if she takes one more slice, I'm going to disappear…

  As it turned out, he couldn't do it alone, and he was frustrated and embarrassed by his weakness and the wobbliness of his hands. She fed him efficiently, silently, and he hated it. He wished she would say something, anything, to ease the strain. "It's good," he said once, tentatively; she made only a small sound that was carefully noncommittal. He gave up and finished in silence.

  She set the empty bowl aside, then looked at him consideringly. "The bathroom's over there if you need it," she said, nodding toward the small, curtained alcove. "Can you make it, or shall I help?"

  To his own disgust, he colored again. What the hell was the matter with him? "I'll make it," he grated out.

  One delicately arched brow rose. "Fine," she said shortly. "I'll turn my back if you're feeling modest. I draw the line at going outside."

  He stared at her. She had to be kidding. She didn't really think he would ask her to do that, did she? But there wasn't a sign on her face that she wasn't dead serious. Anger stirred in him again.

  "It's a little late to be worrying about my modesty, isn't it?"

  The delicate chin came up. "Perhaps I'm worrying about mine."

  There was ice in her tone, though her expression stayed even, and his color deepened. He'd done it again, he thought wearily. What was it going to take to stay out of trouble with her? She pointedly turned her back to him.

  He looked at that slim figure, the straight, rigid back, the slender shoulders that hid such steely strength, the tight, curved bottom… His body tightened.

  Damn, what was she doing to him? How could she make him so angry one minute and the next have him imagining the delectable body beneath the bulky sweater and tight jeans?

  His jaw tightened, and he threw back the blankets with a fierce motion. He sat up and swung his legs over the side rail of the bunk, finding out instantly that such hasty motion was unwise.

  "Damn." He swore softly as pain shot through his already aching head, and his hands groped for support blindly. Then she was there, dropping down beside him, steadying him. The pain receded.

  "So much for anybody's modesty," she said. She felt a pang of guilt for being so short with him. He'd been through hell and was still hurting. Maybe it was just the pain talking. "Are you sure you don't want to wait a while longer?"

  "I'm not sure I can," he said wryly, beyond embarrassment now. Without another word she slipped an arm around his back and pulled his arm over her shoulder. She stood, and, with her help, so did he. He was intensely aware of her hand on his bare skin and figured all he needed to complete his disgrace was to be unable to control his response to her when he was naked to her gaze and had nowhere to hide.

  Desperately, confused by his uncharacteristic reaction, he shook his head sharply. It worked; swirling pain made his vision blur and he wobbled on his feet, but the pulsing beat receded.

  It was awkward, and it exhausted him, but after a few minutes, gratefully alone in the small bathroom, he was a little steadier. She helped him back to the bunk and pulled the blankets over him without comment. He raised a hand to his aching head reflexively, pulling it back at the last second as he remembered her warning about letting it alone.

  "Hurt?"

  "No," he snapped, in the tone of a man who had been asked one stupid question too many.

  "Too bad," she said coolly, forgetting her resolve to be more understanding. His jaw tightened in irritation that she could make him feel so contrite with just her tone.

  "Of course it hurts. What do you expect?"

  "I expect," she said with exaggerated casualness, "that you got just what you deserved. What were you doing out there, anyway?"

  He let out a long sigh; it all seemed rather silly now. "I had … an argument with someone."

  "Oh?"

  "In L.A. On the set. With a director."

  "And you came here to work it off by taking a boat out in a hurricane? Must have been a hell of an argument."

  "It was," he said defensively. "He's an arrogant, domineering jackass, always ordering me around like I'm some kind of bit player or something."

  "I thought that was what directors did," she said neutrally.

 
"You don't understand." He brushed off her comment. "He thinks he's the only director in the world, with the only good ideas. Try and make a suggestion, and he blows his stack." He was trying to stir up his anger again, but for some reason the spark wouldn't catch.

  "Hmm," she murmured, deceptively casual. "Maybe you should trade, then."

  "What?" He looked at her blankly.

  "You direct and let him act."

  "Him? He couldn't act his way out of a paper bag! That's the problem. He should let the actors act and stick to—"

  He broke off suddenly as something in her expression registered. His words echoed in his ears, and he realized what he'd said. No wonder he couldn't stay mad, he thought sheepishly; he shouldn't have been mad in the first place.

  "Oh, boy," he groaned softly. "I walked into that one, didn't I?"

  "Hmm," she said again, leaving him to interpret her meaning as she turned to rustle around in the cupboard for a moment. Then she filled a glass with water and came back to sit on the edge of the bunk. "Here." She held out two aspirin. "This should help. Shall I hold the glass?"

  "No," he said shortly, tightly. "I've been humiliated enough for one day, thank you." He took the pills without noticing her suddenly thoughtful expression. He got them down and dropped back on the pillow, closing his eyes.

  * * *

  Four

  « ^ »

  Christy watched him, seeing the moment when he slipped into sleep. Those last words had explained a lot. He was an actor, no doubt with a lot of pride, pride that was sorely battered right now. She should have realized, she thought.

  She got up after a while, gathered her equipment and stepped out into the furor once more. It would soon be time to use the ring, she knew, thinking of the heavy steel ring set in deeply embedded concrete just outside the front door of the hut. She had some nylon mountain climbing rope, with a stainless-steel clasp to be fitted to the ring, the loose end to be tied around her waist, in case of an accident.

  Or plain old zero visibility, she thought, peering through the rain. She didn't last very long this time, but she hoped she had gotten some good shots, especially the ones from the beach on the windward side. A beach that seemed considerably smaller than it had before, she thought uneasily as she scrambled back over the small bluff. Yes, the ring was definitely in order.

  She slid the door shut after her as quietly as she could manage. It moved sideways on a raised track; the foot-high lip kept water out unless it reached record heights, and the sliding door eliminated the problems the traditional swing-out door would have with high winds. Very clever, those weather people, she mused as she shed her wet clothes gratefully and slid into the dry ones she always kept inside.

  She hung the wet ones up on the rack in the alcove, then flipped on the small heater that kept the tiny room livably warm and almost dried the wet clothes in two days or so. She toweled her hair dry. Here, at least, the tousled, fringed cut was an advantage; it dried even in the damp air.

  She padded quietly back into the room, stopping when a small, muffled sound caught her attention and she turned to look at the bunk.

  He was asleep, on his side and curled slightly. And obviously dreaming. That small sound came again. Not a pleasant sound, or a pleasant dream, she guessed. She sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for his shoulder. His skin was smooth and warm, stretched taut over hard muscle, and it was a moment before her tingling fingers could move to shake him awake.

  "Trace," she said, conscious of using his name for the first time. "Come on, wake up."

  That sound again, then a startled jump and a short, strangled cry. His eyes shot open, and for a brief second terror glowed in them.

  "It's all right," she said quickly. "It was just a dream."

  Trace sat up, heart hammering in his chest. He closed his eyes, but the dream was still too fresh; he opened them again quickly. She was looking at him, an odd softness in her wide gray eyes.

  "Sorry," he muttered.

  "It was just a dream," she repeated softly. "Are you all right?"

  He nodded slowly, gingerly. God, it had been so real…

  He'd been back in the raging water, and she had been on the beach, watching. Only this time she had known who he was and decided he wasn't worth the risk He shuddered.

  Without thinking about it, she reached down and took his hand. It tightened around hers, and she could almost feel the racing beat of his pulse through her fingers. It must have been an awful dream, she thought, and didn't have to use much imagination to guess what it had been about.

  "It's all right," she soothed. "You're safe now." He looked up at her. They were blue, she thought. His eyes were a clear, glowing blue. Or were they? The thick, brown lashes lowered and veiled those amazing eyes before she could be sure.

  "I … don't even know your name," he whispered.

  "Christy."

  "Christy. That's pretty." His fingers moved, picking at the blanket as if he were nervous. "I… Christy?"

  "What?" The lashes lifted. No, they were green. Sea green.

  "I'm … sorry."

  "For anything in particular?"

  "For being … an ass, mainly."

  "Oh. That."

  He winced. "Yeah, that. It seems to … come naturally."

  "You said it, not me." The corners of her mouth were twitching with her effort not to smile, and he felt a spurt of hope.

  "Could we … maybe … start over here?"

  She looked at him thoughtfully. "As in, you just woke up?"

  "Yeah. For the first time."

  She grinned suddenly, and it was like sunshine in the little room. "I think we could manage that."

  He was a little taken aback at the warmth that flooded him. He smiled back at her, but his tone was solemn. "In that case, thank you. For saving my life."

  "You're welcome," she said softly, then wrinkled her nose; he felt his heart twist inside him and didn't know why.

  "Now," she added, "I don't want to hear any more about it."

  "But—"

  "You thanked me, I accepted, it's over. Deal?"

  He couldn't resist that coaxing voice. "Deal," he agreed, and felt her fingers tighten around his. Damn, she was amazing. She had more strength and determination and courage than anyone he knew, most particularly including himself. Yet she looked so fragile… She looked beautiful, he thought. He'd never before seen her out of the bulky sweater she always wore inside; he hadn't realized that her spun-steel strength didn't stop her from having some of the most tempting, luscious curves…

  He was much too aware of her, and of the sudden thudding of his blood beneath her hand. He was searching for something to say, anything to take his mind off the surging response of his body. This was crazy, he thought yet again. He just didn't feel like this, ever. Then a sudden, shrieking gust of wind made them both jump.

  "Sounds like it's getting worse," he said quickly, glad of the distraction.

  "It is," she confirmed, telling him what she'd heard on the weather band that morning. "You ought to hear it out there. This place is pretty well soundproofed."

  "And leak proof, I hope?" he said wryly. "I never even wanted to play submarine."

  She laughed, pleasantly surprised by his sudden good humor. "This may be your first time, then. But this place has stood up to a force-five hurricane, so I think it'll stand up to ol' Charlotte here."

  He gave her a lopsided grin, and she laughed again. When he smiled, she thought, you would never believe that the arrogant man she'd met earlier even existed. He looked at her curiously.

  "Doesn't your family worry about you being out here?"

  "Family," she said in an abruptly odd tone he didn't understand, "has never been a problem for me." She turned his question around without even trying to hide the switch. "What about you? Does your family know you're—"

  "You mean do they know what incredibly stupid stunts I'm capable of?" he finished for her dryly. "Yes. If you mean will they care—" he shrugged "—n
ot much."

  She looked startled. "What?"

  "Oh, Tony—my little brother—might care. We were pretty close once. My mother?" He laughed harshly. "Not a chance."

  "You mean that, don't you?"

  "If my mother had been the one on the beach yesterday," he said flatly, "I'd be dead, and she'd be complaining about how much the funeral was going to cost." He saw her lips tighten and sighed. "I didn't expect you to believe me. No one does."

  "No," she said softly. "I looked like that because … I do believe you."

  He looked at her eyes then, those huge gray eyes, gone dark now with compassion and something that resembled pain. And understanding. "You too?" he whispered. "Your mother…?"

  "I don't know. She didn't stick around long enough for me to find out." A look of shock came into Christy's eyes; she never talked about her mother. Never! She scrambled to change the subject again. "What about your brother? You said you were close?"

  He recognized what had been done, but he didn't push it. "Once. You know, the big brother, little brother stuff. He's eight years younger than me, and he followed me around like a puppy. He was only eight when our dad died… It got worse then. He stuck to me like a burr. I didn't mind, I knew he was scared…"

  He trailed off, but Christy heard the words "…and so was I," as clearly as if he'd spoken them. Sixteen, with a mother who didn't care and a little brother he had to be father and mother to…

  "I hung on until he was thirteen, but I had to get out. He knew how close I was to cracking, so he … understood." Trace didn't know why it was happening; he never talked so much, especially about this, but it just seemed to keep coming. "I lit out for L.A. and rattled around for seven years before I became an 'overnight success.'" He chuckled ruefully. "I bussed tables, parked cars, washed cars and pumped gas into cars. And those were the good jobs. There were some others I'd just as soon forget about. And some people."

  "Just do what I tell you, kid, I'll make you a star?"

  He looked embarrassed. "Yeah. Now and then. I passed on it." He grinned crookedly. "With the guys, anyway." She wrinkled her nose at him, and he laughed, not sure why that little gesture had such an effect on him. "I only fell for it once with a … lady. Boy, did I feel stupid when I realized I was just the latest in a long line."