Bay of Rainbows

by Dana James

  The previous night she had dreamed she was sitting up in Nathan’s bunk, holding a baby to her breast. As the tiny head, covered in silky black hair, nestled warmly in the palm of her hand, she had looked up and met eyes full of tenderness and love, eyes the colour of slate. Nathan Bryce’s eyes.

  She had woken then, jerking bolt upright, her heart pounding against her ribs. The cabin had been in darkness, and she had been alone.

  Head bent, overwhelmed by a grief she didn’t understand, she had clenched the cover in her fists, hating him with every ounce of strength she possessed. There was no escape, no defence against him, even in her sleep.

  Eventually she had slid wearily down beneath the cover and drifted off again. Having forced her to recognise the truth of her feelings, her unconscious had left her alone. There had been no more dreams.

  ‘Does that mean you don’t want any?’ Nathan persisted.

  She started, jolted out of her reverie. ‘I never said that—’

  ‘But your lifestyle keeps you constantly on the move,’ he pointed out. ‘How will you ever meet a prospective father for your children if you’re never in one place for more than a week or two?’ A new note entered his voice. ‘Or is that the whole point of being only “temporary”?’

  Polly frowned, suddenly wary. ‘What do you mean?’

  His gaze flickered over her. ‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘you have to admit it’s the perfect camouflage for someone who’s not mature enough to handle the commitment of a longterm relationship.’

  She flinched, then immediately went on to the attack. ‘You’re a fine one to talk. With your track record I don’t know how you have the nerve to lecture me on commitment.’

  ‘Men and women are different—’ he began impatiently.

  ‘How observant,’ Polly cut in. ‘I had already noticed that myself.’

  ‘I was referring to the way men view relationships.’

  She hugged her arms across her chest in an unconscious gesture of self-protection. ‘The majority of men don’t want a relationship. They simply want sex.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re too sweeping in your judgement. Not all men are like that.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Polly’s irony couldn’t smother the pain that lanced through her. She turned her head away, afraid it might show on her face.

  All Giles had wanted in return for the small gifts he showered on her was affection. But she had quickly learned that his definition of the word went far beyond what she understood it to mean. The gifts had become a pressure, an embarrassment, and her refusal to accept them had made him manipulative. Soon he had begun to convince her that there was something wrong with her, that she wasn’t normal.

  His change of tactics had been so cunningly disguised that she hadn’t realised what was happening. Then one day the mask had slipped, and beneath the apparent loving concern she had glimpsed spite and sadism.

  The row that followed had left her deeply shaken, as much at her own blindness to the kind of man he really was as by the dreadful things he had said.

  Was she on the verge of falling into the same trap again? ‘Then perhaps I’ve just been unlucky with the ones I’ve met.’

  ‘My point exactly.’ His eyes glittered. ‘If you’re continually on the move, what time or opportunity is there for interaction at any but the most superficial level?’

  ‘Well, if that’s all that’s on offer,’ Polly retorted, ‘I’ll pass, thanks all the same. I like my job.’ Even as she said it she recalled the growing doubts and disgust which had been another spur driving her to accept Clive’s invitation. But how could she admit to them after all she’d said?

  ‘Of course you like it,’ he mocked. ‘You like it so much you agreed to sail across the Mediterranean, with a man you’d only met a couple of times, regardless of the fact that you didn’t know one end of a boat from the other.’ He shook his head. ‘If I didn’t know just how much you like your job I might actually think you were looking for an escape from it.’

  Polly hugged her legs tighter. ‘All right,’ she admitted. ‘But it wasn’t work I wanted to get away from, just the kind of people I sometimes have to work for. Men who can’t keep their minds on their job, or their hands to themselves.’

  His expression hardened, became a mask that hid whatever he was thinking. ‘You can’t altogether blame them. You are extremely attractive.’

  ‘And that gives them the right to try and maul me?’ she flared, unable to contain her hurt and anger.

  ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Of course it doesn’t. To look is one thing—that’s everyone’s right. But to touch . . . As he turned his head away she saw a muscle jumping at the point of his jaw.

  The air between them was suddenly charged. Polly stood up. ‘I—I’ll go and—’ Her voice faltered as she dived for the ladder. She hadn’t the faintest idea what she was going below to do. All she knew was that she had to get away from him before she betrayed herself.

  ‘Polly?’ His voice had the roughness of sandpaper. ‘Look at me.’

  All the old arrogance was there, the dictatorial note of command. But beneath it she heard something else. It was that which struck an answering chord within her and made her stop. Slowly, unable to help herself, she turned, raising her head to meet his gaze.

  ‘I want to touch. No,’ the brief self-mocking laugh seemed to tear at this throat, ‘I want far more than that. I want to know you the way no man has ever known a woman before.’

  ‘How can you?’ Polly burst out. ‘You don’t believe me. You don’t trust me.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he grated. ‘I’ve learned a lot about you in the past few days. Far more than I expected, and more than you realise. I know now that you couldn’t have been involved in Clive Kemp’s drug-running plans. And as for trusting you . . .’ His gaze swept the length of the boat. ‘Seawitch is worth a great deal of money, but, if anything happened to her, I could always build another yacht. I only have one life . . . and while I slept it was in your hands. Isn’t that trust?’

  His eyes darkened. ‘I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. But I gave you my word—nothing against your will.’ His gaze held hers. ‘Would it be against your will, Polly? Would it?’

  She was trapped, as helpless as if she’d been bound in chains. She longed to give in to the desire in his eyes and her own body’s urging. But without love, passion was just a bubble. And when it burst there was nothing left. Yet how could she think of love in connection with this ruthless, powerful man? They had only met a few days ago. All right, so there was far more depth to Nathan than his media image suggested. But what did he really want? Was it just the thrill of the chase? Would the moment of conquest signal the end of his interest in her?

  In all her postings she had never met a man like him. There was no one else like him. He was his own unique, contradictory self. And she was falling in love with him.

  He would complete her transition from girl to woman. But at what cost? For it would not be just her body he took possession of, but her heart and soul as well.

  ‘P—please.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Don’t—I—’ Her eyes filled.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll wait. It’s your decision, Polly.’

  ‘Do you think that makes it easier?’ she cried, angrily brushing away the tears.

  His crooked smile blended gentleness and irony. ‘What else can I say?’ His features tightened. ‘Don’t make me wait too long, that’s all.’

  Polly felt small and slight beside him, but her chin rose defiantly. ‘Is that a threat?’

  Snaking out one strong brown hand, Nathan caught the nape of her neck and hauled her towards him.

  Gasping at the totally unexpected movement, and the searing shock of his touch, Polly stared up into eyes that gleamed with cold fire.

  ‘No, sweetheart,’ he growled. ‘Just a warning. I’m a man, Polly, flesh and blood. I’m not short on self-control, but . . .’ He let the sentence trail off into a s
ilence that vibrated. Then he bent his head and his mouth claimed hers.

  As her eyes closed she heard her own swift intake of breath. The tip of his tongue flicked, hot and silky, over her lower lip and gently explored the soft inner flesh.

  She felt as if she was falling and her hand came up to steady herself. Beneath the roughness of the woollen guernsey she could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat. Warmed by his body heat, her fingers spread out against his chest as if to absorb him.

  He drew her closer and, helpless against a tide of subtle, exquisite sensation that made her head swim, she relaxed against him, boneless and pliant. His hold tightened, his kiss growing deeper, more demanding. His fingers encircled the top of her spine and his muscular forearm held her clamped to the upper half of his body as he plundered her mouth.

  Hardly aware of what she was doing, Polly slid her hand up to his shoulder. The muscles were iron-hard beneath his sweater. Her fingers strayed lightly over the back of his neck and into his thick curling hair. Her other arm crept around his waist. This was a million times better than dreams. This was real.

  And suddenly she was afraid. She would be hurt again. She fought her fear. This was different. Nathan was different. She tried to hold on to the heady rapture that was sweeping her along like a river in flood. But as it receded, and she became increasingly aware of the strength of Nathan’s desire for her, the urgent hunger in his kisses, her fear became overwhelming. She froze, then tried to push him away. ‘No!’ The word was a muffled, ragged cry.

  Immediately Nathan lifted his head, tearing his lips from hers. Cloudy and unfocused for a moment, his eyes quickly regained their normal piercing clarity. But his face was drawn, the bronzed skin tight and flushed across his cheekbones as he struggled to control the powerful emotions that gripped him.

  Startled by the swiftness with which he had released her, Polly moistened lips that felt swollen, but the words wouldn’t come. Helpless, she gazed up at him. Her mind was a tangled confusion of fear, regret, apology, and a treacherous yearning still to be held fast against him.

  ‘Th—thank you,’ she stuttered as she stumbled backwards, her teeth chattering. Reaction to the violence of her own feelings had left her shivery. She was on the verge of tears, relieved yet unbelievably desolate.

  She saw what his control was costing him. She bent her head in a quick, brief nod.

  ‘Why don’t you go and have a shower and decide what you’re going to wear for our dinner date tonight?’ Though it was phrased as a suggestion, Nathan’s rasping tone made the words an order.

  Recognising his need to be alone which, she acknowledged, was probably even greater than hers, Polly gave a quick nod and went below.

  As she rummaged in her locker for her one suitable garment, a calf-length, multicoloured crinkle cotton skirt, the first tremors of anticipation started in her stomach. She was looking forward to standing on dry land once more. And to the possibility of seeing something of the Sicilian town. The prospect of eating a meal that someone else had prepared and cooked and would be clearing away was also very pleasant.

  But the uneasy excitement that smouldered deep within her, like a banked-down fire waiting to be stirred into leaping life, was for what might come after.

  Nathan’s persistent questioning indicated a desire to know more about her. He had used subtlety and goading to make her reveal more than she intended. He had left her in no doubt that he wanted to take her to bed. And she had been startled by the strength and abandon of her own response.

  But the word love had not been mentioned. Despite his apparent interest he had given her no clue as to whether his future plans might include her. He had made no commitment, given no promise. There was just her and him and this voyage: a capsule of time separate from their normal lives. The decision was hers: what was she going to do?

  CHAPTER NINE

  The golden sunlight of late afternoon gilded the shabby waterfront buildings. Behind the town scrub-covered hills were backed by hazy distant mountains. But between town and hills Polly could see neat vineyards, groves of olive and citrus trees, and the strips and oblongs of intensive vegetable cultivation.

  Passing the old port, where the weather-worn fishing fleet was moored in tidy rows against the quay, they headed under power into Porta Nuova. Keeping clear of the wharves where machinery roared and clanked as cargoes were being discharged from or loaded on to rust-streaked ships with flaking paint, Nathan tied Seawitch to the rickety wooden pontoon reserved for yachts in transit.

  ‘I’m going to the harbourmaster’s office to get this lot dealt with,’ he raised a sheaf of forms and permits, ‘then I’ll refill the fuel and water tanks. If you want to save yourself some time with the washing there’s a launderette just along there.’ He pointed to a street leading off the main quay. ‘I’ve left my stuff wrapped in a towel on the bed. Got your list?’ He barely gave Polly time to nod. ‘You’re sure you can manage on your own?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied with far more confidence than she actually felt. But there was so much to do, and it would take twice as long if Nathan had to do it all himself. Besides, she needed to keep busy. The last thing she wanted right now was time to think. For her thoughts just went round in agonising circles.

  When she returned two hours later, pausing to unhitch her skirt, which had caught on the wire safety railing, she could hear Nathan cursing angrily.

  ‘It must have taken a lot of practice to become so fluent,’ she called down the hatch to let him know she was back. She turned to descend the ladder.

  ‘It goes with the territory when you work with boats,’ he snarled, and muttered something violent under his breath.

  Halfway down she stopped, leaned against the rungs, and heaved the bulging net bags over the coaming. ‘Nathan,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘I don’t know if it’s important—’

  ‘Here,’ he interrupted brusquely, ‘let me.’ Coming to her side, he reached up, took the heavy bags as though they were weightless, and dumped them on the galley worktop.

  ‘Thanks.’ Polly let her breath out in a whoosh of relief, looking down to check how far she still had to go. ‘I’m sure my arms are at least two inches longer than when I set out.’

  Stepping off the last rung, she turned. She hadn’t expected him to be simply standing there, watching her, and her breath caught in a small gasp as she almost collided with him.

  During her absence Nathan had showered and changed into fawn trousers and a pale blue polo shirt. His thick hair, still damp and scored with comb marks, was springing back into its usual lustrous waves. He had shaved too, and the crisp scent of cologne mingled with the fresh fragrance of the soap he had used.

  He filled her senses. And when the nerve-ends in her skin detected his body warmth across the short distance that separated them, her whole body responded, vibrating like a violin string. The magnetic pull was overpowering.

  Involuntarily, she swayed forward. She saw his hands curl into white-knuckled fists and knew he was fighting to keep them at his sides.

  She turned away quickly. This was no game. Playing with fire would get her burned. And though she longed to lose herself in the flames, to be consumed and reborn, she was also terribly afraid. Not so much of what would happen. She knew vaguely what to expect. And intuition told her that with Nathan it would be very different from the painful, greedy, and self-absorbed fumbling Giles had inflicted on her before she had succeeded in fighting him off.

  What she dreaded was the prospect of facing life without Nathan once he had made her his. He might be able simply to take love where he found it, enjoy the moment and then move on. For her it could never be like that.

  She had watched girl friends drift from affair to affair which always began with such certainty that ‘this time it will be different’, and inevitably ended in tears with the realisation that it wasn’t.

  Polly had recognised then that men could not value a woman who didn’t value herself. It had nothing to do with tea
sing or playing hard to get. What it really came down to was self-respect. And she had never known a man she felt was worthy of the greatest gift she had to offer: herself, body and soul. But that was before she had met Nathan Bryce, when this complex, attractive, abrasive man was still simply a name and a photograph in a gossip column.

  How cruelly ironic it was that the first man to capture her heart and awaken her senses, the man she had waited and longed for, should be metaphorically a ship passing in the night. Could the ecstasy of loving him outweigh the agony of losing him?

  Careful to avoid his glittering gaze, she edged past into the galley and began unpacking. ‘I presume you had a reason for that very colourful outburst?’ she said lightly, far too busy to look up. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Several spring to mind,’ he growled in a tone loaded with meaning. ‘But at that particular moment I was cursing the VHF set. The blasted thing’s on the blink again. It started playing up yesterday.’ He glowered at the offending piece of equipment. ‘I’ve phoned the agent in Palermo, but he can’t get a replacement set sent down before tomorrow afternoon.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t suppose one extra day here would put us that far behind. We’ve made pretty good time up to now.’

  ‘Not stopping at Ibiza must have helped,’ Polly said drily.

  The lift of one dark brow told her he recognised the gibe. Turning his back on the receiver, he folded his arms and leaned against the chart table. ‘So, what did you think of the market?’

  Relieved that he had decided not to respond to her deliberately provocative remark, Polly was, at the same time, irritated. All right, so maybe she was being unreasonable. But it just seemed that he held all the cards, he made all the decisions. That wasn’t true either.

  She made a wry face. ‘It was . . . loud.’ After the relative peacefulness of the boat the market’s noise, colour, and tantalising mixture of smells had made her senses reel.

  Shallow wooden boxes piled high with green and red peppers, plump tomatoes, cucumbers, courgettes, new potatoes, and shiny purple aubergines, were laid out on tables and in rows on the ground. There were baskets of almonds and fresh apricots, trays of red and yellow plums, lemons and oranges. One long trestle-table spread with clean cloths and protected from the sun by a crude canopy was laden with cheeses of every shape, size and consistency. Another held an array of cured meats, hams, spicy sausages and salamis.