UPON THE STORM

by Justine Davis

  Hours later he lay awake staring at the darkness, knowing he'd underestimated this particular hell. That it was completely one-sided only made it worse; he could hear her quiet, even breathing as she slept peacefully beside him.

  She had casually suggested he take the side against the wall so she wouldn't wake him when she got up to go out in the morning. He didn't know which irritated him more, that she was taking this so placidly, or that she was planning on going back into that chaos again, so he gritted his teeth and said nothing about either, just slid over on the narrow bunk.

  It had seemed like forever before he had finally quieted his begging body and gone to sleep. His peace didn't last, for soon he was slipping into a deliciously erotic dream in which she had come to him, her silken skin soft and smooth against his, her—

  That was when he had awakened to find the dream was real. Apparently seeking his warmth in her sleep, she had snuggled next to him in the dark. He could feel the spun silk of her hair beneath his cheek and her long legs, smoother than the satin of the nightshirt that had ridden up to let his press against them. His arm had gone around her, drawing her into the curve of his body, and he could feel the tempting, soft weight of her breasts above his forearm, so close that he had to curl his hand into a fist to keep from moving it to caress those beckoning curves.

  It didn't help. As if he'd actually done it, he could feel the soft warmth of her breast rounding into his hand. As if he'd done what his fingers had wanted, he could feel the soft peak hardening beneath his touch. He smothered a groan.

  His flesh rose to the feel of her taut, rounded bottom tucked into the bend of his hips. He was hot and hard and aching, and he didn't understand it. He'd never felt like this, so completely out of control.

  Moving with agonizing slowness, he began to inch away, his body screaming a silent protest, his brain ordering it to go on; having her know would be too much for him to bear. He froze once when she murmured something, but she didn't awaken, and he pulled free and rolled away, drawing himself into an aching, throbbing curl.

  Nobody would believe it, he thought with painful irony. All the celebrity columnists who loved him for the grist he provided for their gossip mills, all those back in L.A. who knew about his various peccadilloes with this month's—or even this week's—flame, would probably laugh their heads off at the thought of him lying there in the dark, sweating, aching for the silver-eyed waif beside him, who wanted nothing to do with him. It was a long, long time before he slept again.

  * * *

  Six

  « ^ »

  Christy clung stubbornly to the last vestiges of sleep, snuggling into the warmth. She could hear the wind howling, but she was too warm and comfortable to care. It felt so good just to lie here, pressed to his broad back…

  She came awake in shocked surprise, her cheeks flaming. She was indeed pressed to Trace's backside from shoulder to knee, one hand resting on the smooth, warm skin of his muscled side, her legs intimately entwined with his.

  God, she thought, inching away, please don't let him wake up! He was curled up facing the wall—Probably trying to stay away from you, she thought grimly—and it took her a few moments to disentangle herself.

  She had a hard time concentrating on her work that day. Focus, she ordered her mind and her fingers, staring through the lens at the grayness: gray sky, gray water, gray clouds. The lack of color didn't matter; her memories had enough vividness to color everything. Damn, she couldn't take much more of this. Why didn't this storm do something?

  Although he said nothing, he was so edgy when she went back for lunch that she felt a sudden fear that he had been awake after all, that he knew. The thought made her eat hastily, in a hurry to get away again. That evening he was worse. Pacing, snapping at her, until the old, arrogant Trace would have been a relief. Studying him from beneath lowered lashes, Christy saw dark circles beneath eyes that, tonight, looked blue and cloudy.

  "Are you … all right?"

  "Fine," he snarled. "Just fine."

  Damn it, he thought later as he slid reluctantly into the bunk, he was not going to let her do this to him again. He'd spent nights with some of the most glamorous women in Hollywood, beautiful, admired…

  And as substantial as cotton candy, he interrupted himself glumly. And not one of them had ever made him feel the way she did. His jaw tightened.

  Christy stood with her hand on the lantern, looking at him a little warily.

  "What's wrong?" he grated.

  "Nothing," she said and turned down the wick. She walked over and sat down on the edge of the bunk, not moving.

  "Are you just going to sit there all night?"

  "Maybe. I'm not used to sleeping with a grizzly bear."

  "Who are you used to sleeping with?" He didn't want to hear the answer, but he couldn't stop the harsh words.

  Her temper snapped. "No one! And I'm beginning to remember why I prefer it that way!"

  No one, Trace thought, startled at the strength of the relief that filled him. She plopped down angrily and tugged the blankets up over her shoulders with a sharp, short motion. "Christy," he began softly.

  "Good night!"

  His arm lifted, his hand reached for her, pulling back at the last second. Leave it, he told himself. It was better this way. If she were mad at him, it would be easier. He couldn't take another night like last night; it had to be easier.

  It wasn't.

  He'd been pacing all day, it seemed, first angrily, then worriedly. She'd been gone again when he awoke after lying sleepless until early morning. She didn't show up at midday. He swore viciously; she was obviously still mad at him.

  His angry mood evaporated when the sounds from outside began to penetrate. He didn't need the radio to tell him that Charlotte had made up her mind, but he flipped it on anyway. The static was so bad now that he could only pick up a few words here and there, but the combination of "landfall" and "Matagorda" told him all he needed, and more than he wanted to know. Charlotte was about to strike, a bare fifty miles away. And Christy was out in it and didn't know.

  He continued his pacing, stopping only to peer out the small window. Water. Nothing but water. Damn, anything could happen out there.

  That was enough. He couldn't just sit there anymore. He would drag her back physically if that was what he had to do. He went to the alcove and grabbed his jeans; they were dry at last, but stiff, and he had to tug to get them on. Then his shirt and the equally stiff jacket, and he was moving again.

  He almost forgot to slide the door closed behind him as he looked around in stunned shock. It was worse than he'd thought. Much worse.

  He fastened the latch, then knelt down to look for the rope. It took him a moment to find it, and when he did, his heart went cold. It was pulled tight, cutting into the ground until a thin layer of the wet sand covered it. Enough to tell him that it had been that way for a while, taut with the weight pulling it from the other end. Christy.

  That he had to crawl to follow the rope didn't matter; once he was five yards from the hut he couldn't see anything anyway, and once clear of the lee side of the bluff, it was impossible to walk against the wind. He felt as if he was back in that gray fog, unable to tell up from down, sky from sea.

  The sea. He could hear it now, could feel the thundering vibrations as it pounded the shore, but he still couldn't see it. He followed the rope.

  Then he could see it, looking unworldly amid the grayness. It was stark white, an unbroken mass of churning, wind-whipped foam, and the spray that rose above it was nearly as thick as the water itself. He followed the rope.

  It couldn't be this long, he thought numbly as he traced the path of that taut cord. There wasn't a rope in the world this long. It was a trick, some sick practical joke, and he would be following this damned rope forever. He really had died; the nights with Christy had been his purgatory, and now this was his hell. He followed the rope.

  He was practically on top of it when he felt the edge of the bluff be
gin to give way beneath him. He scrambled back and tried to peer through the driving rain. The blue nylon line disappeared over that crumbling edge, and his heart began to hammer in his chest.

  He flattened himself and inched forward, fighting the urge to hurry. He might send the rest of that precarious bank of sand sliding downward, and until he knew…

  He knew. He could barely see her; she was half buried under the crushing weight of wet sand. He threw caution to the raging winds and scrambled down the slope.

  She was alive. She moved her head when she heard him, looking at him with wide, dark, dazed eyes. He could see now why she couldn't get free; the very rope that had led him to her was pulled so tight across her body that she couldn't free her hands to dig herself out.

  "Fell … it crumbled…" she mumbled, so vaguely he wasn't sure she even knew he was there.

  "Are you hurt?" He had to know before he tried to move her. After a moment she shook her head. He freed her arms, but the weight of the sand was too much, he couldn't pull her out. He began to dig furiously, clawing at the sand like an enraged animal, tossing it heedlessly, cursing the wind that pulled at them mercilessly. He slid his hands under her arms once more, and this time he freed her from the deadly grip. He cradled her against him, feeling her trembling. "It's all right, love, it's all over," he crooned over her bent head, pressing his lips to her wet, sandy hair.

  He was suddenly aware that seawater was swirling around them, and he moved to pick her up. In that moment, as he looked at the relentless approach of the surging waves, he realized the true horror she had faced. Trapped, helpless, and watching her executioner close in on her.

  "Oh, God, Christy!" He crushed her to him in a fierce embrace. "God," he repeated numbly, "how long…?"

  "I don't … couple of hours, I think," she whispered, her voice thin and barely audible.

  A couple of hours. Hours of knowing exactly how you were going to die, of having to watch it happen, slowly…

  He shuddered, then scrambled to his feet; she was a featherweight in his arms.

  "Can you stand? Just for a second? I can't pull us up the bluff without both hands. Just hang on to my shoulders."

  "I … think I can walk," she said, then made a liar out of herself by collapsing the moment he let go of her.

  "Come on, baby, just put your arms around me. That's it." He lifted her easily, and when she had tightened her grip on him, he began to haul on the rope. His hands were raw from the wet, sandy rope by the time he crested the bluff, but he never even slowed down. Christy shifted as if to slip down, but he wouldn't let her. Hand over hand he followed that wonderful rope back, coiling it as he went, thinking he would have it bronzed someday.

  The journey seemed endless, but at last they were at the hut. He set her down only long enough to untie the rope from her waist and unlatch the door. Then he carried her inside and across the room to the alcove. He gave her no chance to protest, just took off the waterproof gear and tossed it aside.

  She let him pull off the equipment vest; he was a little more careful with it, but still set it aside quickly. He reached for the top button of her shirt, tugging it through the sodden cloth. She was shivering, fueling his haste.

  It was harder to tug off the clammy, wet jeans. He had to tug fiercely to get them free of her long legs, but finally she was standing in brief, blue lace panties and a matching blue bra. He ruthlessly ignored the part of his mind that was registering how incredibly lovely she was, the part that was taking in the beautiful curve of her waist, its tininess emphasizing her slenderness just as the gentle curve of her hips emphasized her womanliness, the part that was seeing the lush rise of her breasts above the lace.

  She made an embarrassed sound of protest when he reached for her again, but he hushed her. "I owe you this, remember?" He unfastened the bra, steeling himself not to notice how the ripe fullness of her breasts spilled free. He slipped the other scrap of lace down her long, lovely legs.

  Judging from the past two nights, he thought that her nudity would have ripped away what little control he had left. To his surprise, although his body surged at the sight before him, nothing took precedence over his concern for her.

  He washed her gently, then patted her dry, as she had him. He picked up the soft, warm sweater she usually wore inside and tugged it over her head, breathing a little easier when its length and bulk hid her from his eyes. Without a word he lifted her once more and carried her to the bunk, tucking her into it with exquisite care.

  He found a can of soup and heated it quickly. After pouring it into a heavy mug, he gave it to her, sitting on the edge of the bed until she drank it. She was regaining some color, and the dazed look was fading as the shock receded. He took the cup, refilled it, and gave it to her again before he finally went to pull off his own wet clothes.

  His briefs were damp, but drier than any of the towels right now. He hung his clothes back on the rack, resigning himself to another couple of days without them. He was almost getting used to parading around in front of her nearly naked, except for the difficulty of hiding his reaction to her.

  He poured the last of the soup into a cup for himself, then sat beside her again. She'd finished half of the second mug and was now just cupping her hand around it, savoring the warmth. She watched the steam rise from it, following the swirling pattern until, as if driven to it, she spoke.

  "I slipped. The sand gave … I rolled down the slope … until the rope caught. It came down on top of me. I thought if I just waited … that you would come. Then … I saw the water—" She shuddered. "If you hadn't come then…"

  With one swift motion he took the cup from her and set it aside, then pulled her into his arms. "Shh," he said, holding her. "It's all right. I did." And the thought of what he would have found if he'd waited another ten minutes seared him to his soul; he held her tighter.

  She raised her eyes to his. "Thank you," she whispered.

  "You're welcome."

  "You saved—"

  "Uh-uh," he interrupted. "You thanked me, I accepted, and that's the end of it, remember? That's how it works."

  She smiled, a small, shaky smile; it was a thousand-watt grin to him. But it faded as a howling gust of wind reverberated outside. "She's moving in, isn't she?"

  He didn't lie to her. "Yes. From what I could hear, the worst should hit us tomorrow." He studied her, wondering if she could deal with this after what she'd been through.

  "And?" she prodded softly.

  Yes, she could, he realized. She could handle just about anything. "It's going to hit a lot closer than we thought. Matagorda Island, they said."

  Her eyes widened, and her mouth tightened, but she only nodded. He got up then, going to pick up the book and pull the chair close to the bunk. "I'll return the favor, if you like."

  Christy nodded quickly.

  He thumbed through the pages, looking for something to read for, as his father used to say, the sound, not the sense. He paused, smiled, then sat back and began to read.

  Christy had studied the poem in school and read it since, but never had she heard "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam" like this. His trained voice made the words sing, and the unusual names rolled liltingly off his tongue. She savored the sounds, wondering how in the world someone who could make words sound like this could possibly think her voice was worth listening to.

  She was so rapt, so caught up in the lively, ringing rhythm, that she immediately caught the barely perceptible break in his voice as, near the end, a verse struck home. It was the barest change in tone, the slightest of wry notes, but as the sense of the words came to her, she understood.

  "Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

  Have done my credit in this World much wrong;

  Have drowned my Glory in a shallow Cup,

  And sold my Reputation for a Song."

  He regained the lilting beat immediately, so quickly that if she hadn't known, she might have thought she had imagined the change. She waited for a moment after he had
finished, then repeated his simple words.

  "Thank you."

  He started to shrug, then stopped. "My pleasure."

  "It … may take more than a song to buy it back," she said softly, "but you can do it if you really want to."

  He didn't pretend not to understand. "I never really cared about it before. But I do now."

  The lantern hissed suddenly, and he got up. She made a tiny, choked sound, and his head shot up to look at her. She was staring at the golden light, her fingers tightening around the blankets. It came to him then: after what she'd been through, the last thing she wanted was darkness.

  "I'll refill it," he said quietly, "and lower it a bit."

  "Yes … please," she said, her voice tight, faraway, her eyes following him.

  He trimmed the wick so there was just enough light to illuminate the corners of the small room, then walked back and turned the chair sideways; she looked at him quizzically.

  "Just rest. I'll be fine here."

  "But I—" She stopped abruptly, and he saw a flash of embarrassment coloring her cheeks in the second before she lowered her head. He sat down on the edge of the bunk.

  "What?"

  "I … nothing." She plucked at a thread on the blanket.

  "Christy, talk to me. Please?"

  She lifted her head then, and he saw in the huge gray eyes what it cost her pride to say the words. "Would you … hold me? Just for a while?"

  His stomach knotted, and with a convulsive movement he swung his legs up and stretched out beside her, holding out his arms. She came to him instantly, and he settled her against him in a comfortable embrace, resting his cheek just above where he was stroking her hair with one hand. He felt her gradually relax, and when at last she slipped into sleep, he felt as if he'd been given some wondrous prize.

  He was so full of tumultuous emotions that he couldn't begin to sort them out; he was having difficulty just breathing. Was it just because it was her, this good and brave and noble person in his arms, was it because she was so special that he felt so special that she allowed him this? Or was it knowing that she trusted him, in spite of the fact that she'd had little reason in her life to trust anyone, that made him feel so … so honored? It seemed a corny word to use, but he knew it was the right one. Again he lay awake long into the night, but this time it was to savor the feel of her in his arms.