Night, Sea, And Stars

by Heather Graham

  “Skye!”

  She snapped awake to realize she was really being called and her shoulders were being lightly shaken by strong, firm hands. Disoriented, she blinked, finally becoming aware in the near total darkness that a pair of cool green eyes, reflecting the very faint light, were Staring into hers. “Skye!” His tone was surprisingly gentle, his face drawn with what appeared to be honest concern. “Skye!” He repeated her name softly, giving her another slight shake. “Are you all right?”

  She sprang to a sitting position, jerking from his grasp. Here she was with machismo personified and she had done something ridiculously—weakly—feminine in her sleep. “I'm sorry. Did I disturb you? Did I scream? I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

  He shook his head slowly, his expression indiscernible in the dark, his tone peculiar when he finally replied. “No. you didn’t scream.” He didn’t tell her what she had done. “Are you sure you’re all right? Would you like to talk about it?”

  “No!” she exclaimed, horrified

  “You know,” he offered gently, “you are here with another human being.”

  “Am I?” Her question was toneless, a vaguely interested query. She was too tired and worn out to attempt anything cynically witty.

  For once he made no abrasive comeback. She didn’t see his movement and flinched as his knuckles grazed her cheek gently. “Yes,” he said quietly, following her high cheekbones slowly down to her chin with his gentle grazing. His knuckles lingered for a moment, then a callused thumb lightly tapped her lower lip. “Yes, Skye, I am human.”

  Skye was mesmerized momentarily by his hypnotically tender touch; seconds ticked by as she stared spellbound at the reflected glimmer in his eyes. Then she drew a shaky breath and pulled away, having no desire to trust in this new side of a hostile stranger, nor to unburden her secret nightmares to him. They were less than ships that passed in the night; they were, at best, ships that had crashed together by some cruel trick of fate. “I’m fine, really,” she said firmly. “I’ll try not to disturb you again.”

  “I wasn’t disturbed,” he said, but he didn’t push her, and he didn’t touch her again. She heard his lithe movement in the darkness and realized he had gotten up. She couldn’t see him as he left her, nor hear the silent pad of his feet across the sand. Curious, she waited, still startled when he loomed before her again, offering her something in the coconut shell.

  “Shot of rum,” he told her briskly. “You’re still shaking. This will help you sleep.”

  “I can’t drink that straight!” Skye protested.

  He laughed, and the sound was easy. “Sorry—bar’s out of Coke, soda, and tonic! Just swallow—guaranteed to kill what ails you.”

  Eyeing his form dubiously in the dark, Skye accepted the liquor. Tossing her head back, she swallowed it down, gasping as her throat burned and her eyes watered. She choked and coughed, and he patted her back, still chuckling softly.

  “Better?” he inquired.

  “I suppose,” she acquiesced, still doubtful.

  “Think you can sleep? Or do you think you would like to talk now? I’d like to do something for you.”

  “Really,” Skye stressed. “I’m fine!” To press her point, she curled back into the sand and closed her eyes. “I’m sure I can sleep.” She wasn’t sure why, but as she kept her eyes closed and breathed evenly, she knew he still hovered over her. For several seconds she hesitated, but he didn’t leave, he maintained his vigil. Finally she spoke, her back still to him.

  “If you must do something,” she said, inadvertently husky, “I’d really appreciate another fire.”

  He didn’t reply, but again she sensed his movement. Apparently he had no problems with the dark. This time she could hear him as he gathered fresh sticks. Moments later another fire blazed.

  The total darkness was gone. Warmed by the pale orange glow, Skye slipped into a restful sleep even before he returned to the hut.

  Kyle returned from the jumping flames to gaze down at the honey-haired woman curled so defiantly against him. Another inch, he thought wryly, and she would be outside the shelter of the makeshift roof. Now she lay quiet, beautifully formed lips slightly parted and curved just a shade in a smile. Her topaz eyes were closed to him, but he could still see the hint of their subtle, intriguing tilt. She was not beautiful in the classic sense, but in a way far more unique and arresting. Her nose was fine and straight, her lips full, very sensuous looking as they were now with that slight parting, the tips of small pearl-white teeth just visible.

  He frowned, thinking of how her restless, pained murmurings had awakened him. Her features had been terribly strained, and although he hadn’t been able to make out her words in their entirety, it had sounded as if she were trying to reassure someone. “It will be all right, it will be warm, the light will come…”

  Was that what she gasped in half sobs that subjected her body to fitful tossing?

  He would have liked to kick himself. He was sure she’d dreamed of the brother she had lost; the dream was probably caused by his offhand comment. An unnecessary comment. But he had spoken because she had made it sound as if she deigned to visit her sister-in-law merely because her business made it convenient to do so. Business first. And he was sick of business taking precedence over domesticity. It wasn’t merely a chauvinistic pose. He had first-hand experience. He had learned to make his son come first, and his business had still thrived. Lisa had made business everything; she had never been there for Chris.

  That was so long ago.

  It should have been over.

  It should have been finished. The twenty-year debacle that was his marriage should have finally ended, he thought bitterly. Odd priorities, he told himself next. He should be worrying about survival, not grieving an upset in his plans. He knew the truth of their situation; rescue could be a long time coming, if ever. The tiny scattered islands of the Pacific numbered in the thousands; the ocean stretched eleven thousand miles at its greatest width. Even knowing approximately where they had gone down, it could take searchers forever.

  And yet he wasn’t bitter that his life as he had known it—high powered and high level—might be a thing of the past.

  He was bitter because the end of a twenty-year battle had been in sight—triumph an obtainable goal within days.

  And he was bitter because of Chris, his son. The boy who had made the wasted years worthwhile, a man now, able to face both his parents with a level head, make his own judgments, accept all the truths and faults and still love…

  Skye shifted suddenly beside him and his attention returned to her. He had wanted so much to help her. He had been seized by a fervent desire to envelop her in his arms and comfort and protect her, but he knew—and not without sound reason—that she would be horrified by such an overture on his part.

  Frowning, he stretched his length a few feet from hers, cradling his head in the crook of an elbow as he stared at the frond roof. He was truly baffled by his reaction to her. Although he was legally wed according to a piece of paper, his marriage had been over before it started. He had been legally separated for the last ten years, and in that time he had become hard. He hadn’t pressed for a divorce at first; he had no intention of marrying again. The very term had soured for him. But neither had he been cut out for a life of celibacy, and so the years had been filled with various women—sharp women, willing to accept him on his own terms. He always made certain they understood the circumstances, and he respected those who knew the score. With all cards laid on the table, he was usually gallant, kind, and enjoyable to the opposite sex.

  Skye was wrong, he thought fleetingly. He had never been bested in a boardroom by a woman. Would that it had been a boardroom. He could have said the best of luck and moved on. As it was, he had been bested by a different kind of scheming, a different kind of wile, and his heart had been indelibly scarred forever…

  His heart, he decided dryly, but not his senses. He was reminded of the raw desire that had overcome h
im earlier. He wanted her more strongly than he had ever wanted a woman before. Probably the circumstances, old man, he told himself. Despite everything, all that he had wanted over the past years had been his all too easily.

  And yet it was strange. Skye might not be married, but from all he had read, she did belong to another man. But she had yet to mention his name; her dreams, her pain, had been for a brother already lost. Consciously, she hadn’t given him a clue to any personal feelings.

  But then he hadn’t exactly poured out his life story either. It seemed unbelievable after the day they had spent, but in reality, he was sleeping beside a perfect stranger.

  A perfect stranger who had become the focal point of his life. A stranger who had an effect upon him as no other.

  A woman who drove his senses mad.

  His eyes tightened as if he could force himself to sleep by such a measure. He could handle desire. It was the other feelings he was having difficulty dealing with. He didn’t want to lash out at her. He was hard, but unaccustomed to cruelty. And he didn’t like his strange urge to protect… to comfort.

  What you usually wanted to protect, you usually wanted to possess. He vaguely understood a little of his irrational anger. She belonged to someone else, and that angered him. And that was absolutely ridiculous.

  With a disgusted grunt he turned his back on her. In time he finally slept.

  Poised upon a level stretch of coral, Kyle stood tensed, ready to spring into action. His back and shoulders were beginning to ache, the arm that held his best effort at a spear—a branch with a spiked point he had spent a good hour wittling to a deadly sharpness—was beginning to feel as if it might fall off.

  It was hard to keep his grip on the branch in the water, and he ruefully and belatedly berated himself for having tossed Skye’s high-heeled sandals into the surf. The long leather straps would have been perfect for a binding to give his hand a better grasp. We live and learn, he told himself dryly. Yesterday he had been so aggravated by those damn shoes, he would have tossed them away if they had been diamond studded. Oh, well, that water was over the dam. But in the future he would learn to think before acting on impulse— even aggravated impulse.

  He tightened stiffening fingers around his spear with a sigh of determination. He had already made at least two dozen plunges after fish that appeared to be standing still in the clear water, probably laughing—he could swear the fish did laugh—at his clumsy efforts. He had seen the natives of at least a score of islands manage this task easily. Of course they had been at it since birth… No excuses, buddy, stick to it, he warned himself.

  At least no one was around to see his fumbling attempts. He would never take the talents of a Polynesian fisherman for granted again.

  A little yellowtail ambled lazily by his bare legs, actually brushing his flesh. The fish moved out a few feet right before him, unblinking black eyes staring straight at him. Kyle lunged. The fish calmly moved a foot, not even swimming away in the mad fear a fish was supposed to feel.

  Damn! Kyle thought with wry disgust. Some menace I am! Sheepishly he sighed, but raised his spear once more with perseverance, waiting for the spinning circles he had created in the water to cease. The haughty yellowtail watched him still with those blank, unwavering eyes. Its gills moved in and out. Kyle plunged again.

  And this time he caught his prey. Wriggling madly, the fish appeared at the end of his stick as he lifted it from the water. Kyle laughed jubilantly. “This is one fish story no one is ever going to hear about!” he assured the flapping yellowtail. Walking to the shore with his prize, he found Skye still sleeping soundly. He filleted his fish with deft strokes of his pocket knife and created a brazier of sticks from the fire to cook the meat slowly. Feeling absurdly pleased for a man who had personally destroyed the first craft ever of his fleet and was now marooned, away from family, friends, and his corporate empire, he returned to the coral-strewn water for a brisk swim.

  Skye woke slowly. Nothing had happened to make her open her eyes, rather the enduring heat of the rising sun warmed her until she languorously lifted heavy lids. She wasn’t startled to realize she was on the island after sleep had blacked out yesterday’s disaster; the discomfort of feeling like a sand dune had jarred her memory before she was fully awake. Surprisingly, once she had choked down the rum and the fire had burned brilliantly again, she had slept fairly well.

  Pushing up on an elbow, she saw that a fire still burned—and more. Something with a tantalizing aroma was cooking above it, strung on a crude rotisserie set between two branches. Skye wondered what Kyle had found to cook and warned herself that anything was going to smell wonderful since she had barely touched the crackers last night. She didn’t want her stomach getting too excited until she believed that what was being barbecued was edible.

  Fleetingly, Skye glanced around the visible portion of the island. If there were only a private villa or beach club around the corner, the place would be a paradise. She had never seen whiter sand. The high grass and tropical forest were an incredibly deep green, and rising in the center of the island, the crest that had once been a spouting volcano seemed to kiss a blue heaven softened by lazy, puffy white clouds. But she wasn’t in paradise, she had been fated to hell…

  Stop it, she warned herself. Someone would come. They would be rescued. Stretching to sit with crossed legs, she glanced more closely around her. Odd, she thought, the fire was going with food cooking and her cohabitant of the island was nowhere to be seen. She absently twisted to scratch her back, wincing at the feel of sand filtering through her clothing. What she wouldn’t give at the moment for a giant tube of toothpaste and a bar of soap. And oh… to soak her head in a bucket full of shampoo and lather away the scratchy sand!

  Movement following thought, she threaded her fingers through her hair, a rather pathetic attempt to loosen any tangles that had formed during the night. She yawned, wondering idly if she should be doing something to whatever it was that was cooking. Then Kyle ambled into sight.

  Her mouth remaining open, she sat perfectly still. Arms swinging easily, whistling cheerily—and naked as a jaybird—he was rising from the surf and returning to their little camp. Forcing her mouth shut, Skye felt her temper begin to boil even as she averted her gaze and noticed what she should have noticed before—his clothing in a neat pile by the fire.

  “Dammit!” she hissed, drawing his startled gaze instantly, “Haven’t you a shred of common decency in you?”

  His whistling ceased and since Skye was carefully staring into his eyes, she was easily able to see the cheerful light leave them as they went hard. “I suppose I have a shred—somewhere,” he replied, hands on hips as he stared her down.

  “I happen to be a woman, if you haven’t noticed!” Skye reminded him, her color growing as he made no move to oblige her by reaching for his clothes.

  “I warned you not to let gender get in the way.”

  "Would you please put something on?” she demanded, exasperated.

  A brow was raised high in mockery; one corner of his mouth twitched in cynical amusement. “What’s the matter, Ms. Delaney? Don’t you like what you see? Or perhaps you like it a bit too much?”

  Thus challenged, Skye prayed that she wouldn’t give way to a blush. Her expression immobile, she kept her eyes steadily on his while she shrugged. Then she carefully allowed her gaze slowly to run down his body to his toes—pausing just a fraction of a second at three strategic points: chest, hips, and thighs. To make her scrutiny truly deadening, she thought fleetingly, she should be posed on a bar stool with the smoke of a cigarette in a long, elegant holder swirling before her eyes. Lacking the proper props, she brazened it out as best she could, her arms wrapped around her knees in what only she knew to be a frozen lock.

  Only the scrutiny didn’t quell his audacity as thoroughly as it should have. He smiled nicely. “Should I turn around?”

  She managed a slight, indifferent gesture with a hand and replied with perfect, condescending boredom,
“Oh, please do.”

  He turned slowly, playing her game with amused interest. “Well?”

  Their eyes met again. Skye was amazed that she was carrying out her bluff so well and determined not to falter for a second. Once more she shrugged, pretending to stiffle a yawn politely.

  “Just the usual. Nice backside though.”

  He tossed back his head and roared with laughter, then congenially reached for his briefs and pants. “You are a cool one, lady,” he granted her, husky and admiring, the “lady” soft, nearer an endearment than a casual title. “Just the usual, eh? Well, at any rate, I’m willing to bet my ‘usual’ is feeling a whole lot better than your ‘usual’ at the moment. Being a little salt sticky feels ten times better than yesterday’s grime and sand. You should try it.”

  “I plan to—when I’m by myself.”

  “You’ll feel better.”

  That would be logical, she thought, because she couldn’t feel much worse, but she had no intention of telling him so. And if there was anything that she was feeling, it certainly wasn’t very “cool.” It had taken every bit of will power that she possessed to manage her seemingly aloof assessment, and she was now shatteringly aware that his second assumption had been correct—she had liked what she had seen a bit too much. Whoever the hell Kyle the pilot was, it seemed highly possible that he worked out in the same gym as Sylvester Stallone. If he had wanted an assessment of himself at the moment, she could have quickly told him that he was in superb shape—taut and sinewed, broad and tapered. She could have informed him that he spent a lot of time in the sun because he was very darkly tanned except for an area that stretched from high on his hips, over the spot that proved him very amply male, down over the top of his thighs, which probably meant he preferred cutoffs to a bathing suit. Yes, she had liked what she had seen, and it was very disturbing because she was forced to realize that although she had thought of her family and business since the quirk of fate had brought her alive to the island, she hadn’t given a single thought to Ted.