by Sarah Abbot
Abby gaped at a very explicit illustration. “And is this artistry your homage to Helen?”
“I like to think I can draw better than that,” he said. “That was left by another admirer, I’m afraid.”
“She had a few, I see.”
Ryan shifted her slightly. “Forget Helen. Look over there.” He pointed up higher.
Abby gasped. “Ryan,” she said, shaking her head.
There, slightly above a large declivity in the rock was written in aged script:
Douglas
Celeste
Evermore
She reached out, let her fingers touch the faded words. “She did come here.”
“They came here. They probably made love here.”
Abby shivered.
Beneath the precipice, swirling whorls of unbridled ocean surged beneath them. Ever so lightly, Ryan nudged a pebble with his foot, watched it tumble over the edge and slip into the rising swell of ocean. Hungry for the falling stone, the sea rose in lazy invitation, swallowing the pebble soundlessly, eternally.
Yes, her mother had been here with the artist. Abby could almost feel her presence.
The cave greedily siphoned another mouthful of sea, then shuddered in response to the roar from the antechamber. The ripple of sound echoed down her spinal column.
Ryan pulled her closer.
Slowly, defiantly, her flesh began to ripen to his nearness—like the sun, coaxing crimson velvet from the milder tones of yellow in a tender, summer peach. With great deliberateness, she opened her eyes, almost wincing as her body seemed to turn in on itself and relish the shimmering warmth that radiated from him.
Her spine quivered involuntarily, drawing her body into the cadence of a shiver that whispered one word: Ryan.
“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he said, barely audible over the returning rush of the sea.
She wondered, pointlessly, if it was his presence, or the magnificence of their surroundings that made her shiver, for every hair on her body stood erect; every inch of flesh was excruciatingly, alarmingly, alive.
“You know,” Ryan said, “I watched you at Ronnie’s party that first night. For a long time.”
“Did you really?”
“I did.” He lifted a lock of her hair and let it sift through his fingers like sand. “You were beautiful.”
He grasped her hand, drawing her close enough to smell the warmth rising from his flesh. It was salty and male and utterly delicious.
Her cheek brushed against the smooth, bronze skin of his throat. Her flesh came away damp with the glistening veil of perspiration that was beaded on his skin.
“When I left you that night, I picked up a shell,” he whispered. “I rolled it in my hands, tasted the salt it left on my fingers. I found the soft, pinkish caverns inside, and I thought of your skin.” He stroked her cheek, light as a petal. “Right here,” he said, and dipped his head to hers, brushing his lips across the sun-kissed flesh near the bridge of her nose. “They’re two of a color.”
“Ryan,” she gasped, knowing, and yet not knowing what to say.
He lifted a length of her hair amidst his fingers, brought it to his face and inhaled, his eyes never leaving her face until they closed.
Strands of her hair entangled his lashes; breath caught in her throat as she felt the caress of tiny shivers, trickling like silver raindrops over her skin.
Abby stared into his face, searching the shadows that dwelt there and the shards of tiger gold that lit his eyes. They were fierce with an honesty she had never before seen there, with a desperation that thrilled her even as it frightened her.
“It’s still hard to believe that this is happening,” she said softly.
“Believe it,” he said, his words breathy and ragged, his hands cupping her face. “Believe me.”
And Abby felt the truth of their connection in every thud of her heart.
“Do you trust me, Abby?”
The sound of her heartbeat pulsed in her ears with the rising of tide as his question hung between them …do you trust me?
“I’m getting there,” she said honestly.
He tilted her face up to his, his breath caressing her as his eyes searched hers. His hands circled her back, pressing her more deeply against his body. With each exhaling breath, she was molded more precisely into him.
“I want you, Abby. I’ve known it from the first moment I saw you.”
She shook her head, feeling suddenly afraid, suddenly gripped by the familiar fears that had demanded she hold love at arm’s length. Her mother’s story of doomed love seemed to fill the cave with misgiving, seemed to make every pitfall of love all too real. “No. No, you didn’t.”
“I did,” he said insistently. “I just wouldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe that I could be so completely out of control of my emotions. I didn’t want to believe words like ‘surrender’ were in my vocabulary.”
“And are they?” she asked quietly.
“You tell me.” Then, in a motion as natural as the rising tide that surged beneath them, he pressed his lips to hers. He whispered her name against her lips as they parted in answer to his tongue.
With an exquisite gentleness, he removed the barriers between them, first her clothes, then his. She heard her sharp intake of breath fall softly against the moistness of his throat; she felt his fingers knot in her hair.
He cradled her head and explored each and every secret place of mouth and neck and breasts—as gently as if plying open the petals of a rose.
The sea’s heady incense caressed them as Ryan washed through her like the tide, surging through her veins like an aged and potent wine, dissolving every fear in her mind, reminding her of what she really, truly wanted.
She was breathless at the taste of him—pure male and salt and warmth.
“Say it, Abrielle.” He caught her face in his hands, searching her eyes. “Say you trust me. I want to hear the words on your tongue.” The demand was not softened by the quiet of his voice, for the desire in his eyes was anything but questioning. They penetrated her own, seeming to strip her heart of pretense, to strip it of fear.
The tragic love story was just that—a story. This was real.
The cave worked a spell upon her, anointing their bodies with its salty moisture, filling their lungs with earthy aromas that awoke the need to be purely, achingly human.
“Yes,” she breathed, unable to tear her eyes from his gaze. “I trust you.” The words tore at her heart even as they filled it with relief. “Do you trust me? Will you promise me your heart, Ryan?”
Ryan’s silent answer simmered dangerously through his flesh and scorched her own with sudden certainty. He grasped her arms, lifting her closer to his face. Beneath his fingers, she felt the tender flesh darken in protest—she would wear the evidence of his desire within hours—and yet it seemed to thrum in warm, defiant pleasure.
“You have my heart, Abby, I swear it,” he said fiercely. He drew her closer, so that his words were spelled out upon her lips. “You have everything.”
Abby clung to him fiercely, her breath meeting his in the moist air between them, yet his eyes did not stir. His body was still but for the rise and fall of his chest. “And you, Abby? What do you offer in return?”
She spread her fingers wide over the front of his chest. His heart beat strongly beneath them, seeming to echo the rhythm of hers.
Slowly, she pressed her body into his, wrapped her legs around his waist so that he could join them in the most intimate way of all. She tilted her head, touching her lips to the bronzed hollow of his throat. “What you get is all of me.”
His flesh trembled beneath the touch of her mouth, sending a twin cadence through her being.
“Ryan!” She caught what air she could before her mouth was devoured in a kiss that answered every silenced need, that whispered of luscious, dark places she’d never imagined she possessed.
Abby met his kiss with identical fervency. A burning swath of flesh tin
gled across her cheek in response to the rasp of his unshaven skin.
She yielded entirely to the pressure of his body within hers as they lured each other into a rhythm as old as the sea, and nearly as powerful.
Ryan locked her fingers between his, spreading her arms wide and pressing her back against the wet cave wall. She was open to him, completely, as he devoured her mouth again with his.
His every touch spoke of passionate surrender, and demanded the same of her. She cried out beneath him, aching for more.
He must have felt it, too, for the quality of their touching intensified.
“Abrielle,” he groaned, stroking her face.
And then he said nothing more, but traced the shape of her lips with the tip of his tongue. She touched hers to his, and tasted infinite longing there.
She savored it breathlessly, drawing him into her mouth and sighing her pleasure into the warmth of his. There was no doubt in her mind that many people had been drugged by the atmosphere of this cave, had made love on this precipice. She was also certain that her mother and the artist had been counted among them.
He took her then, driving her over the precipice to a surrender so sweet, Abby knew she was gone for good.
“I knew you’d be worth the wait,” he said once he’d recovered his breath. With his finger, he drew a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Treasures always are.”
She couldn’t speak, so she only looked up at him, and all around them, the cave thundered.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The day of her visit to the gallery had come at last—and not a moment too soon. She desperately needed to feel that she was making some progress in the search for her mother’s past, because she’d come to an impasse.
But her trip to Destiny Bay had been far from a failure. She’d found Ryan, after all…and she’d opened her heart, along with his.
A quiet thrill pierced her belly at the thought of him, at the memory of the pirate’s cave. She’d fallen in love, plain and simple.
Abby stood beneath the storefront awning of Extraordinaire, enjoying the sweet aroma of Belgian chocolate wafting enticingly into the street. She knew the scent well, having become one of Delia Larsen’s most loyal customers. She recognized also the metallic aroma of the butcher shop that mingled with it in a sickeningly sweet whorl of scent. Overlying them both was the thickness of the air, heavy with rain.
This was what she was beginning to expect from Destiny Bay: the enticing, the lovely, the charming—all underscored by the startlingly discordant.
As thrilled as she was about Ryan, she couldn’t deny that there was still something amiss in Destiny Bay. Number one, she hadn’t been able to get in touch with Ronnie since their confrontation on the street in front of Rum Runner’s. Number two…the stalker.
He hadn’t left her any disturbing tokens recently, but Abby felt certain that he was still out there, and still obsessed.
A splash of rain jerked her back to reality. She ran her fingers over the supple leather of her shoulder bag, felt the swells and groves of its contents and noted the columnar shape of her umbrella. She would need it.
As if in silent agreement, the swiftly darkening sky let fall the first smattering drops of what promised to be nothing short of a torrential downpour.
Abby scurried across the street to the West Shore Gallery.
“Good morning, Abby!” The gallery owner swooped down upon her, helped her off with her coat, and swung it over a hanger with a flourish. He was short, stout, and dressed from head to foot in black. His reddish, thinning hair was spiked and stiff with gel, and intelligent gray eyes peeked out from behind trendy glasses. “I was thrilled to get your call, darling. Thrilled! I’ve been waiting to have you in my gallery since I first learned you were coming to Destiny Bay.”
“I’m glad to be here, Kyle,” she said. “I so appreciate your opening early for me.”
“Anything for art’s sake,” he said pleasantly. “Now, would you like to go straight to the McAllister Room, or would you prefer the grand tour?”
“I’d like to go straight there,” she said. “But I’d be happy to see the entire collection before I leave.”
Kyle brightened. “Oh, that would be no trouble at all.” He snatched a fuchsia feather duster from a pedestal, eyes wide with chagrin at the sight if it, and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll take you to the McAllister Room now.”
Abby walked with Kyle through the rooms of paintings, sculpture and folk art. She recognized the McAllister Room as soon as she set foot in the place. Color-splashed canvases filled the room; glimpses of ocean, air and land were an invitation in and of themselves.
“I’ll leave you so that you can fully enjoy the art,” Kyle said softly. “McAllister is best appreciated in silence.”
“Thank you,” she said as she sat quietly on a bench. Her purse slipped down the length of her arm, landing on the floor with a dull thud.
Directly in front of her was a painting that captured a spindly scrub pine leaning over the ocean as if trying to sweep foam from the waves. To the left of that was a stylized version of the view from her living room window.
Abby took her time, breathing in the man’s talent, wondering at the train wreck of his life, the pity of his death, and the sad fact that his body was not discovered or even missed—if rumor was to be believed—until weeks after he’d died, when the snow finally melted from Cragan Cliff.
Poor Ryan. Poor Cora. Poor everyone that man ever touched.
“No pretty lady on the rocks—gone she is,” came a tremulous whisper. “Gone they both are; the artist and his muse.” Bartholomew Briggs stood on the threshold of the door, kneading his grimy cap and staring forlornly at the collected work of Douglas McAllister.
Abby looked up slowly, her heart hammering in her chest. Part of her wanted to run, but he looked so harmless, so lost. There was something different about him that she couldn’t put her finger on—something that made loss emanate from his flesh like an advancing fog. Nothing about him was frightening. Perhaps this would be the best possible time to talk to him, to express how she’d felt when he’d frightened her. Perhaps she might even learn if he was the one behind the note, the flowers and the ring.
“Bartholomew,” she said gently, so as not to startle him, “please, come in.” She slid down the bench, glancing toward the door and hoping that Kyle Gibbons would not choose this moment to make an appearance.
The shelf of Bartholomew’s brow lifted as his gaze at last fell upon her. “Ye’r like her.”
Abby knew exactly whom he was talking about. “She was my mother,” she said softly. “Did you know her, Bartholomew?”
Bartholomew answered with an indecipherable grumbling from the back of his throat. His nod was nearly imperceptible, and he made no move to approach Abby or the bench she patted encouragingly.
“Tell me about the pretty lady on the rocks.”
Bartholomew cast her a sidelong gaze, lips trembling within the nest of gray bristles that sprouted around them. “She’s gone. Pretty lady’s gone away,” he sang quietly as he inched deeper into the room, clasping his hands behind his back.
Abby rose and slowly approached him. “Did you see her on the rocks, Bartholomew? The pretty lady?”
His mouth split in a toothy grin that nudged leathery folds of skin up to his eyes. Abby stepped back, not sure if she was repulsed or fascinated by the man’s extraordinarily grotesque features.
“I see her now,” he said cryptically.
Abby let her gaze follow the direction of his watery eyes.
She ran to the wall, only inches away from the paintings, searching frantically from frame to frame, seeing nothing— no one—that resembled her mother.
She spun to face him. “Where?” she asked. “Where do you see her, Bartholomew?”
The grin was back—toothy and foul-breathed. “I sees her everywhere,” he said. “She’s there,” he said, pointing to a picture of an ocean storm. “The
re’s the color of her eyes. I see her right in front of me.” He looked Abby up and down, his expression bordering on leering.
Abby’s heart sank. The man wasn’t in his right mind. What did that make her for pinning hopes on him? “Great,” she said quietly. She picked up her purse, hitched it on her shoulder, and made for the door. She’d come back another time, when it was quieter.
“Leavin’, without so much as a good-bye to your mother?”
“I’ll be seeing you, Bartholomew.”
Her heels made muffled thuds on the floor as she walked toward the door.
Then, she saw it. It was a small painting, and the plaque beneath it read: NUDE WOMAN BATHING.
She stood directly in front of the picture, hands braced on either side.
“Ah,” came the knowing sigh from behind her, then, a wheezy chuckle. “Found her, did you?”
“Mother.”
It was her, thigh deep in ocean water that eddied around her legs. One hip thrust forward, eyes shut, hands smoothing water-slick hair down her back. Abby’s eyes searched the background.
“Where is this?” she asked—more to herself than anyone else.
“It’s the pirate’s cave.”
Abby jumped at the sound of his whisper, so close to her ear.
He was right, of course. She saw the shelf of stone that shot out into the well of the cave just slightly over her mother’s shoulder.
“How on earth did they get down there? It must be deadly,” she said, remembering the churning current.
“Ah, you’ve been to the pirate’s cave, ’ave you?” Bartholomew was grinning in a way that made Abby squirm.
She didn’t have to answer in the affirmative to let him know the truth of it, and that much she knew for sure. She felt her cheeks flush. She squared her shoulders. “How did you know about this painting?”
“Bartholomew has eyes that see, and ears that hear,” he said, his voice heavy with secrets. “Bartholomew is a tree; Bartholomew is a stone. No one sees Bartholomew, but he sees all.”
“I see you,” Abby said, “and I know you know things.
Things about my mother. Tell me, Bartholomew—tell me about her.” She reached out, grasped his fingers in hers, felt the electric-sharp jolt of his body as their skin met.