A flush tinted her cheeks. "No."
The degree of relief he felt at her answer set off an inner alarm. Why should he care whether she was romantically involved with someone? Their marriage was just a bothersome technicality now. She could date whomever she chose. Unless, of course, her choice of companions adversely affected Arianne.
That was the basis of his concern, he assured himself. He had every right to ask about the men in her life. But he had no business lying here with her. Holding her. Enjoying her softness, her womanly scent … and the incredible changes in her personality.
It damn sure wouldn't do. The last thing he needed was to be attracted to Camryn again. The first time had been a crazy, impulsive mistake. Though he'd met her less than two years ago, he'd been ages younger. A thousand times more foolish. The madness itself hadn't lasted long. Barely beyond their first few nights. He was still paying the price, though. He couldn't afford to forget that.
"We should go in." He propped himself up on an elbow and faced windward. "The wind is shifting. A norther's blowing in." He withdrew his arm from around her. "I feel rain on the way."
"You feel it?" She cast him a doubtful glance.
He merely smiled. She'd see soon enough. As they sat up and she moved away from him, he immediately missed the warmth of holding her. Which wasn't good. It really, really wasn't.
"Maybe you should listen to weather forecasts," she suggested. "Might be helpful."
If anyone else had said it, he'd swear they were being sarcastic. She, however, seemed perfectly earnest. He managed not to laugh. "Of course I listen to weather forecasts. Couldn't survive out here very long without 'em. But you can't count on the weatherman to predict every little squall that kicks up over the Gulf."
"So, you count on your intuition?"
"Not intuition. More of a taste in the air when rain is headed our way. A smell, a feel." He shrugged. "Sometimes a crosswind will blow the rain clouds in another direction, though." He stood up, held out a hand and helped her to her feet. "No one always knows what Mother Nature will do. Just when you think you might, she'll spring one of her grand surprises."
"The sky is growing gray," she murmured, sounding disappointed by that fact. "Guess we won't see a spectacular sunset."
"Not tonight." After tossing the blanket over his arm, he took hold of her elbow and ushered her to the ladder that descended from the roof. He was glad the sun would be sinking behind a safe gray cover of clouds. Radiant sunsets had a way of igniting painful yearnings. Those yearnings always had to do with a woman he'd never met; the woman who was meant for him. The one with whom he'd share sunsets in an intensely personal way.
It was the same yearning he'd felt when he'd seen Camryn after her shower this morning.
In his present state of unrest, he didn't think he could handle the feeling of emptiness that always followed the yearning.
She shouldn't have doubted him. Twenty minutes later, while Kate indulged in a hot, freshwater shower—a luxury she still wasn't sure how Mitch had managed to provide—she noticed she was having difficulty standing upright beneath the spray. The rocking of the boat pitched her to one side of the narrow stall, then to the other, like a pinball in an arcade game.
Thunder pealed in the nearby distance, and a knock shook the bathroom door. "Hey, Cam. Mitch said to get outta da water," yelled Remy. "You ain't supposed to shower in a storm."
Storm. She didn't like the sound of that. She preferred the way Mitch had put it: "rain." Anxiety rooted in her gut.
"Dere might be lightning," Remy added.
Quickly she rinsed the shampoo out of her eyes, climbed out of the shower and dried off, managing to do so only by bracing her hands, elbows and hips against various walls and surfaces as she awkwardly maneuvered the towel. She'd barely finished dressing for the night in a soft, old, floor-length beach shirt when rain began to drum fiercely on the roof.
By the time she left the head to make her way to the captain's quarters, she could barely walk through the wildly tilting rooms, and her heart was hammering. The boat tipped onto one side, slanting the floor steeply, then dropped like a teeter-totter to slant in the opposite direction. Concentrating on remaining reasonably calm, Kate held on to doorknobs, table edges and any surface she could grab.
Remy, she noticed, was pulling shut the windows in the crew's quarters against blustery gusts of rain. In the galley, meanwhile, a coffee mug leaped off the counter-top, then a saltshaker jumped from the table, both to roll wildly with ashtrays and cigarettes on the floor. A cabinet door that hadn't been latched now swung on its hinges and banged to the rhythm of the sea, while the canned goods inside slid around and jammed against the inner guardrails. Dishwater sloshed out of the stainless-steel sink. The coffeepot had tipped over on the stove's back burner and now rattled against the metal guards that held it in place.
The chaos added to her sense of impending disaster. Determined to help in the crisis they were surely facing, Kate chased the rolling ashtrays and mugs, latched the cabinet door, drained the dishwater remaining in the sink and struggled to secure every item she could, while her stomach roiled in protest at the motion. By the outside starboard light, she saw Darryl pass by the galley window, his dark, thinning hair matted to his head in a downpour of rain as he strode toward the stern. To "batten down the hatches," Kate would bet.
The sound of rain grew louder, the wind wilder, and her anxiety spiked. She had to see Mitch; had to know how he was reacting, and if she could possibly help. Growing dizzy and disoriented because of the wildly pitching floor and walls, she climbed and slid and treaded through the captain's quarters to the doorway of the wheelhouse, where she stopped and braced herself against the jamb.
Mitch stood at the helm, fighting the wheel, forcing the boat to quarter the waves. He looked intent on his task, but not particularly perturbed. The very sight of him decreased her anxiety, yet somehow promoted a sense of dark excitement within her.
His hair, shirt and jeans were soaking wet. He'd clearly been out in the weather. His hair curled against his neck, and the thin cotton of his dark shirt clung to muscles that bulged and flexed across his back and shoulders with every forceful turn of the wheel. The urge struck her to wrap her arms around his lean waist, press her breasts to his powerful back … and feel those muscles work against her…
Incredulous that she could think of a thing like that in the midst of such drama—and thoroughly dismayed by the impulse itself—she forced her attention away from that well-honed body, and peered through the windshield at the darkness and driving rain. From her vantage point near the helm, she clearly saw the boat sail high over cresting waves, then slide down on a sideways angle to take on the next oncoming wall of water.
She should, by all rights, have been terrified. It seemed that some great, angry beast from the edge of the world had pounced upon them in the murky darkness, howling and bellowing in rage, slashing them with whips of rain, shaking and slinging the boat in vengeful fury. She should, by all rights, be praying.
"You okay, chèr'?"
She met Mitch's eyes in the navigational mirror, and an odd connection coursed between them. A silent but powerful sharing. Like ancient sea-goers, they were locked in battle with the beast, fighting for their lives, their survival depending on one wooden boat and the skill of their captain. She could well imagine tomorrow's headlines: Shrimp Boat Lost in Storm. Search for Survivors Continues. Yet, exhilaration pumped through her veins, and she swore Mitch felt it, too. The sight of him at the wheel, the sound and fury of the storm, the taste of danger, sent a thrill racing along her spine and brought her alive in a way she'd never felt before.
She didn't answer his question.
He acknowledged her reply anyway. Not with a smile or a nod, but the mere suggestion of both. She felt that she'd been validated. And he, looking vibrantly alive, strong and competent, focused his attention on the gleaming oak wheel and forced the mutinous vessel to do his bidding.
Oh, my! She
'd been masquerading as Camryn for too long. What was she doing here, being tossed and taunted by an angry sea—she, Kate Jones, professor of history; the quintessential homebody; the staid, boring, shy one of the Jones twins?
Riding out the storm, that was what … with a fearless captain at the helm who made her heart race. Not a good thing, that. But, for the moment, thrilling.
The storm raged on, and the wet, bedraggled crew gradually made their way to the wheelhouse. Bracing themselves in casual poses on either side of Mitch, they smoked cigarettes, swilled bottles of cola and talked of their confrontations with waterspouts and hurricanes. The three of them laughed, joked and watched the radar screen, while Mitch continued to calmly, ceaselessly, fight the wheel. She sensed an underlying tension beneath their nonchalance—a palpable awareness of danger, a readiness to act—but that only added spice to the moment.
And though Kate's anxiety over the storm hadn't entirely left her, she marveled at their exploits, interjected questions and exclaimed in heartfelt awe. She felt a part of them; as if, in the face of danger, they'd forgotten their differences and embraced her.
All too soon, the adventure drew to a close. They'd "run behind an island," as Mitch put it, to anchor down for the night. She didn't even have time to ask which island they'd run behind. Mitch told Darryl to "drop the hook," and he strode happily out onto the rain-battered bow. Kate wanted to watch him drop the hook, but Mitch ordered her to stay inside.
With a groan, a clang and a slight jerking of the boat, the anchor was, apparently, dropped. Mitch shifted a lever at the control board. The boat surged backward, and the motor cut off.
And the silence was stunning. She'd grown so used to the rumbling and vibration beneath her feet that she had ceased to hear it. She noted its absence immediately. The whine of the wind and drumming of the rain sounded infinitely gentler now, reminding her of cozy nights in a beach cabin rather than a battle with the sea. The motion of the waves had drastically lessened, too. Anchored within the protection of an island, the Lady Jeanette bobbed on her tether, slowly rocking like a huge wooden cradle, complete with creaks and groans.
The deckhands didn't return to the wheelhouse. They trekked down the exterior walkways, presumably to the crew's quarters.
Mitch switched off various electronics, leaving the radio on. He faced Kate, looking unquestionably tired after his eventful turn at the wheel. With a brief, casual nod toward the captain's quarters, he murmured, "Let's turn in."
And she realized with a walloping thud of her heart that she'd forgotten to speak with him about a matter of vital importance. Bedtime.
Without another glance at her, he walked past into the captain's quarters, tugging his wet shirt out of the waistband of his jeans. Before Kate had managed to couch her protest in coherent terms, he pulled the shirt over his head and shrugged free of it. The sight of his bare, tanned torso stopped her just inside the doorway. He really was a splendid specimen of masculinity.
But he had no right to undress in front of her. Or to assume that she'd allow him to sleep with her. The thought of falling into bed with him brought a dizzying surge of heat to her face. She hadn't shared a bed with a man for more than a year. And even then, by the time she'd agreed to a physical relationship, he'd seemed more of a dear friend than a lover. The few romances she'd permitted herself had all ended in lukewarm friendships.
Not that these reflections had anything whatsoever to do with her current predicament. She was not romantically involved with Mitch Devereaux, and there was no question of a physical relationship. There was no question of him sharing her bed, either, even in the most platonic way. Yet here he was, hanging his wet shirt on a hook at the far end of the room.
Clearly he'd slept with her last night … and now took his right to do so for granted. She had to disabuse him of that notion!
As he began to unbuckle the belt at his lean waist, she crossed the distance between them in two long strides, grabbed his hands and forced them to a standstill. "Mitch, what in heaven's name do you think you're doing?" She wished she didn't sound quite so breathless.
His gaze narrowed, as if she were speaking an incomprehensible language. "I'm taking off these wet clothes," he explained slowly, "and going to bed."
The warm breath that accompanied his words feathered against her face, and she realized she was standing much too close to him, with her hands trapping his larger, stronger ones against his tautly muscled abdomen. The salty, masculine scent of his skin and hair reminded her of how he'd held her against him, cradled her in his arms, as she'd wept over her sister's death. How he'd stroked her back, her hair. Murmured soothing words. Offered to help her with bills, though she knew he was struggling financially.
He alone, out of everyone who had offered comfort, had managed to loosen the stranglehold of grief from around her heart, if only for a while.
Don't read too much into it. A few gently spoken words in that deep, Cajun-warm voice and a sympathetic squeeze from his big, rugged body didn't mean Camryn had outright lied about his abuse, or that he'd be a good, loving father to Arianne. Kate couldn't allow herself to jump to conclusions.
Just as she couldn't allow him to sleep with her.
But he'd clearly stated his intentions of taking off his clothes and going to bed.
Abruptly she released his hands and stepped back from his blood-warming nearness. "I don't mind you taking off your wet clothes," she said, striving to rise above her growing sense of panic and strike just the right note between amiability and assertiveness, "as long as it's not in front of me."
He shrugged, and the fluid movement of his broad shoulders sent sensual awareness through her. "I've got no problem with that. I'll change clothes in the other room." He opened a drawer beneath the chart table and grabbed fresh underwear.
"Good," she replied with an approving nod. "That leaves only one more question." She hoped he couldn't hear the slight quaver in her voice. "Which bed are you planning to sleep in?"
He raised his tawny brows in surprise, then nodded toward the only bed in the room. "Mine."
Nerves tingled all along her spine and down the length of her extremities. "And, um … which bed will I sleep in?"
"Same one."
Her heart kicked wildly in her chest. "I won't sleep in the same bed with you!" So much for striking the right note. Panic had clearly won out. "For one thing, we're divorced. Maybe not technically, but in every other way. And for another, I don't know you. I have only your word for it that we were ever married, or that I've ever even met you before yesterday."
He shifted his weight onto one cocked hip, ran a hand through his tousled hair and let out a weary breath. "Come on, Cam. I've been up since five-thirty this morning, and I got very little sleep the night before. I'm tired to the bone. I'll wear something to bed, if it'll make you feel better, but—"
"Wear something to bed!" She gaped at him, taken aback. Had he worn anything last night? Flustered by the images flooding her mind, she huffed, "Of course you'll wear something to bed. B-but, that's not to say you'll wear it in bed with me." Heat flared in her face. "I mean … you can't expect me to sleep with a stranger!"
He lifted a shoulder. "Never seemed to bother you before."
She gasped and glared at him, openmouthed at his audacity, her hands clenching into fists.
Watching her anger rise like mercury on a Delta summer day, Mitch instantly regretted his comment. Though, to be fair, it was true. The "old Camryn" hadn't hesitated to sleep with him the first night they'd met. She wouldn't have hesitated after their separation, either. He'd been the one to keep their relationship nonsexual. It hadn't taken him long to realize she used seduction as leverage to get whatever she wanted. Even before she'd actually moved out of his house, he'd steered clear of sexual involvement with her.
This "new Camryn" obviously didn't remember the times he'd turned her down, though, and now believed he was out to seduce her. He'd laugh at the irony of it if he wasn't so damn tired. She'd
probably scratch his eyes out if he laughed just now, anyway.
"I'm sorry," he offered, impressed that she'd held her anger this long without bursting into rage. "I shouldn't have said what I did. Guess I wasn't giving you credit for how much you've changed." He slanted her an apologetic smile, trying not to notice how her heavy blond hair now glistened from her freshwater shower, and how her curves looked soft, round and too damn touchable beneath a gray, floor-length shift that looked like an oversize T-shirt.
He barely heard her tight-lipped murmur of "Apology accepted" as he perused her choice of nightclothes. Simple. Unassuming. Comfortable, probably. Not in the least bit revealing … unless, of course, you counted the way the thin cotton hugged her bottom, thighs and breasts.
Not that he cared what she wore to bed. He had every intention of keeping his hands to himself, just as he had for the few brief hours he'd lain beside her last night.
She'd been passed out cold, and he'd slept in utter exhaustion.
"Does your apology mean you'll find another place to sleep?" she inquired, drawing his attention to her face as she lofted a golden brow at him. "Or, at least, arrange one for me?"
He lofted a brow right back at her, his attention now caught by the challenge she presented with her suddenly queenlike demeanor. One false move, and she'd have his head. Why did that charm him so? Why did that make him long to rattle her? "As much as I'd love to honor your new sensibilities, Ms. Jones, ma'am," he softly replied, tilting his face to parallel hers, "there's no way I can."
"Oh?"
Just that. Oh. But spoken in a tone of authority that would have set many a man to stammering. "Since I sense a disturbing lack of faith in my integrity—" he presented his arm to her "—I'll show you the difficulty we're facing."
With a slight hesitation and clear wariness, she placed her hand on his arm in precisely the right position for a formal stroll with a uniformed captain of a cruise ship. He, in his shirtless state, his belt unbuckled and his face in dire need of a shave, escorted her with stately grace to the crew's quarters.
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