Night, Sea, And Stars

by Heather Graham

  “Quit laughing and stand still!” she hissed, snapping her sheers in an ominous warning as she rounded one strong thigh.

  “Yes, ma’m, whatever you say,” he replied with husky gravity.

  But although she couldn’t see his face, she knew the leaf-green eyes were still flecked with brilliant, taunting merriment.

  “But,” he added, a very slight warning note in his tone, “I think we both know that you’ll be very careful, don’t we?”

  Skye took a deep breath and replied through clenched teeth.

  “I’m always very careful.”

  “How nice for you. That is something we’ll see about it, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, God! Are you exasperating!” Skye groaned.

  “I think I’m a lot more than that, lady,” he replied, gone curiously sincere.

  They both fell silent. Skye thought he was right. He had to be a whole lot more than she had acknowledged at first.

  He was probably much, much more than she dared take a chance to discover.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Thanks," Kyle said, stepping out from the shorn pants legs. He started off down the beach. “Try to have something done by the time I get back, okay?”

  Skye twitched her lips into a smile over bared teeth. “Sure. I’ll scrub the floors and Lysol the bath. Where are you going?”

  He half turned around but continued walking. “To scrounge through the wreckage. Maybe find something useful—or the log.”

  “The log?”

  “Captain’s log. It should have survived the explosion.”

  Skye watched uneasily as he jogged down the sand, a rugged figure in the lopped-off pants with muscles glistening in bronze play as he ran. What an enigma. She felt as if she were befriending a Doberman. Sturdy, sleek, confident—sometimes affectionate, growling in an instant, and possibly ready to bite with a paw still in your hand.

  Ah, well, you could choose your friends, but not your relatives or those who happened to crash with you on remote islands.

  Collecting the remnants of his pants, Skye took them back to the hut, where she gathered both their jackets and tossed all the articles together. With all good intentions she began to rip the lining out of her own jacket, but her hands paused in the action. She set the material aside instead and delved into the canvas bag for her purse. Opening it, she stupidly felt tears sting her eyes.

  Makeup. By this time of the morning she should have had herself together. Simple routine. Fifteen minutes of carefully applying powders and creams to her face. Carefully, just so that she would look natural, as if she hadn’t spent fifteen minutes putting powders and creams on her face. But it was time well spent. Time that let you feel your best if you hadn’t slept quite so well, if you weren’t quite pleased with your coloring, if you needed just a touch of shadow to bring out a good point.

  Her fingers tightened over a plastic snap case of shadows. The stinging tears beneath her lids threatened to fall, and she choked back a sob. Rising, she stepped from the cover of the hut and hurled the case toward the haphazard growth of the inner island, her tenaciously contained sob becoming a wailed curse.

  The small plastic case wouldn’t even go far. She watched, clenching down hard on her jaw, feeling her teeth grate, as it fell into the sand not far from her.

  She spun on her heels and returned to the hut, sinking forlornly to sit with crossed legs before the pile of fabric that had once been clothing for a normal day.

  Her makeup, such a little thing, such a small part of life. None of it mattered here. She could imagine Kyle’s laughter if she were to pull out a tube of lipstick after a meal of coconuts.

  Her tears of self-pity threatened and threatened, but it became a game of self-torture to hold them back. Knowing it was foolish to do so, she pulled out her wallet. Money, she thought, wryly. How worthless. But she hadn’t pulled out her wallet to glance at the paper and coin that now meant nothing; she wanted to see the pictures she kept neatly tucked in clear vinyl. Pictures that could remind her there was a real world.

  Pictures to remind her of Ted. And there he was. Ted with his wonderful warm eyes, smiling candidly for the camera. Was his nose really that long, she wandered silently. Funny, she couldn’t have possibly forgotten how he looked.

  She flipped to the next photograph, Ted and her together, a picture of elegance at his last opening. He was a handsome man; they were a truly handsome couple.

  Why couldn’t she reach him? The picture refused to become real for her. The image of the man wouldn’t come alive to her mind.

  Skye closed her eyes. She concentrated. But the only thing she could remember was the day, over a year ago, when she had asked him to accompany her to Australia. The day when Virginia had called to tell her to come quickly, that she was worried.

  “Oh, hon, I can’t come,” Ted had apologized. “That English import is due to open next week. I have to be here, that is, unless it’s an absolute emergency.”

  She should have told him. She should have said it. Yes, it’s an emergency. It’s the end of a part of my life, it’s the gravest emergency I’ll probably ever have in my life… Don’t you understand, it’s Steven, and we’re twins, Ted. Can you imagine what that means?

  But she hadn’t said any of that. He knew. He knew Steven was terribly ill. It was an emergency, her emergency.

  She had smiled. She couldn’t let him in, not when he refused to see. He didn’t want to see. “No,” she said aloud. "I understand. You need to be here…”

  “Steven will hold his own,” Ted had assured her. “I’m positive everything will be okay.”

  “Sure,” Skye had told him. But she hadn’t felt the optimism she had tried to portray; it was as if she knew. And everything hadn’t been okay… chemotherapy, radiation… nothing could have helped him any longer.

  Steven had died.

  And then she hadn’t wanted Ted for the funeral; she hadn’t been able to accept the awkward comfort he had tried to give…

  Skye flipped to another photo. She knew the picture. Steven and Virginia and her, sipping wine before the fire in Sydney, celebrating the day Delaney Designs had come out of the red—a victory accomplished before a year of existence.

  Skye snapped the photo section of her wallet closed. She dropped it to her lap and pressed hard on her temples with both hands. It was the past; she wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t… she was going to concentrate on the present.

  Which was just as depressing, she thought, biting her lip. No! They would get off the island, rescue would come; it had to.

  Skye put everything back in her purse and her purse back into the canvas bag. She would try not to look at her things again. They were too incongruous, too ironic, with only sea and sand and wild growth around her.

  Keep busy, Kyle had said. She sighed. He was right. Dwelling on the fact that she was on the island with only his holiness for company could quickly drive her up a wall of frustrated self-pity and… and anger and fear.

  Because she was afraid of him, very afraid of the way he made her think and feel.

  She picked up her jacket again and started ripping once more. She looked at the bits and pieces of fabric around her. Sheets out of this. A giggle—slightly hysterical, but a giggle still—escaped her. She could just see the trade papers, DELANEY ENTERPRISES TAKES ON NEW LINE: DESIGNER BED CLOTHING IN UNIQUE NEW REMNANT GUISE.

  Perhaps she should start with herself, she thought ruefully. Her clothing had been just perfect for air-conditioned rooms; here, with the coming of the sun, it was sheer murder. Casting a wary eye down the beach to assure herself of privacy, she slipped out of her long-sleeved blouse and skirt, frowned, and started cutting.

  Forty-five minutes later she was able to look at her new creations with a bit of surprised wonder. She had never doubted her design ability under normal circumstances, but it was somewhat astounding that what she had produced from the business suit with her “trusty little sewing kit” actually looked as if it had been planned a
s a shorts set all along.

  Skye peeled down the tattered remains of her stockings and almost cast them into the remains of the fire, then stopped herself. They might become useful as something later. Glancing at the sky, she saw that the sun was directly overhead, its billowing heat visible. She was grateful Kyle had suggested they curtail their clothing as much as possible. Although the hut was affording her shade, it was swelteringly hot.

  “Too hot to make sheets!” she complained aloud to a slender palm encroaching on the sand. But she remembered his jibe that she get something done and wrinkled her nose at the absurd combinations of fabric nearby. Sighing, she began to rip and piece, tearing out linings from every square inch of material. They were going to be very short sheets!

  And it was going to take more than a morning to sew them. Her fingers began to tire, and she swiped a slight beading of perspiration from her forehead with the back of an arm. Gazing out to the miraculously clear ocean, she suddenly realized that she hadn’t taken time for her bath—and that it was probably now or never with Kyle nowhere in sight. Clutching her new short pants and sleeveless shirt, Skye deposited them by the fire along with her underthings.

  Tentatively glancing along the shore, she satisfied herself that she was still alone and plunged into the water.

  Skye wasn’t big on beaches, she far preferred to swim in a pool, but she had to admit that the water of their little lost paradise was exquisite. Standing breast high, she could still see the sandy floor and her feet. No beer cans, she thought. But what was good for the ecology was bad for her. No garbage meant no people! She felt a chilling depression despite the warmth of the water and the day. Kyle had warned her to attempt to light their SOS signal only when there was something to attract—a ship or boat on the horizon or a plane in the sky.

  There still hadn’t been a single thing to attract! Surely rescue planes, knowing they were lost, should have flown over by now! They had been missing almost an entire day.

  Something fluttered by her leg and she glanced down to see a school of tiny brilliant fish flash by in startling yellow. They were beautiful, and at any other time they might have cheered her. Now they only proved to press home the point that she was far from her known world of skyscrapers and busy streets, the blare of horns, the plush comfort of executive offices.

  Dejected, her head hung low as she slowly began to walk from the water, only to freeze at the sound of a mocking voice.

  “Really, Ms. Delaney! Haven’t you a shred of decency in you?”

  Startled, Skye looked up to see that Kyle had returned while her mind had been wandering. She felt herself flush from her toes to the roots of her hair—though she wasn’t quite sure whether she was more angry or embarrassed. Legs slightly apart and feet firmly planted in the sand, arms crossed over his chest, alight with the pleasure of a satisfying revenge, he watched her expectantly—no sign of mercy whatsoever in the strongly chiseled features.

  Skye automatically crossed her arms over her chest. She wondered fleetingly if she might appeal to his better nature, then cast aside the notion as futile. He didn’t appear to have a better nature at the moment.

  “I don’t suppose I could get you to walk nicely back to where you came from?” she tried irritably.

  “No.” He grinned with a pleasant little shake of the head. “I don’t suppose that you could.”

  “Do you know,” Skye began, her voice low and calm, conversational, “it might be to your advantage to humor me now and then. When we get to civilization, what I have to say about your handling of crisis situations just might have some effect on your future job security.”

  “Oh?” he inquired with smiling interest. “Are you that influential?”

  Skye shrugged. “I frequently fly Executive Charters.”

  “How nice.”

  Despite his pleasant tone, Skye suddenly realized she had made a mistake. “Since you’ve seen fit so kindly to offer me fair warning,” he continued, a chilling razor’s edge to his amiable tone, “I suppose I should do the same. Don’t threaten me, Ms. Delaney. It can do nothing but create an adverse reaction.”

  Knowing she had failed completely, Skye exploded with a single expletive and defiantly marched from the water, allowing her arms to swing proudly at her sides as she passed him.

  He caught her upper arm with an easy grip that jerked her back. She met his eyes, fury kindled in her own. He was once again amused.

  “Aren’t you going to offer to turn around?”

  “Take another hike, will you!” she snapped, wrenching free her arm and continuing her determined march. Her exit from his reach might have been dignified except that his throaty laughter followed her, and she was sure he could see pink, red, and crimson coloring her body from head to toe. Unwilling to dress before unrelentless, mirthful eyes, she snatched up her clothing and kept walking until she was swallowed up by the high grass and trees. In the shelter of a little banana cluster she fumbled into her clothing, cursing him all the while. Still unwilling to face him, she decided a little island exploration on her own just might be a good idea.

  She knew there wasn’t too much on the island that could hurt her. Kyle had told her yesterday that the worst she could come across would be a wild boar—mean and dangerous, yes, possibly, but most usually more than ready to leave you alone if you left it alone.

  The island was small. Kyle had also mentioned that it was barely two miles square. Even stepping gingerly with bare feet and occasionally squeezing through close trees, it didn’t seem to take long to reach the other side. Once there though, she realized that her walk had tired her and her feet were sore—scratched from the rough ground after usually being pampered. It would be nice, she thought, if she could just return by the sand, but the area fringing their hut was not sand, it was thick mangrove root reaching far out into the water. She wasn’t sure she could swim far enough to make it around the trees. Sighing, she stared out into the water—another stretch of apparent nothingness—then started back the way she had come.

  Skye gave her full attention to the terrain. It was not until she had scrambled her way through the low underbrush and neared the grass plain that she took notice of the sky and the fact that the sun was no longer shining brilliantly. It had grown muggy, the sky had become a dull billowy gray, and although the atmosphere seemed dead still, she could see the rapid movement of angry clouds across the sky.

  Forgetting her wrath at Kyle, Skye began to hurry, much more concerned for her comfort and well-being if a storm broke. She almost missed the glass dimly reflecting the haze—she did, in fact, walk right past it, pause curiously, turn back, and search the high grass.

  It was with jubilation that her hands closed over the sure sign that some modern man somewhere did know that the island existed—a funny, beautiful green-toned bottle with Coca-Cola in script around it. Thrilled with her discovery, Skye forgot entirely the anger that had sent her walking off and almost ran back to the hut, her face illuminated radiantly.

  Kyle was pacing up and down a square of shoreline, his expression nearly as thunderous as the sky She never had a chance to shout out her good news; at the first sight of her he stalked to her, gripping her shoulders hard and shaking her as he demanded, “Where the hell have you been?”

  Confused and stunned by his rough attitude, she shouted back, “I went for a walk—if it's any of your business! I don't remember appointing you my keeper!”

  “Well I am your keeper, you little nitwit, while we’re on this island! Your hours aren’t your own anymore You have me to report to!”

  “Of all the audacity—” Skye protested furiously.

  “Yes, of all the audacity I’m trying to keep you from killing yourself like a fool. Haven’t you seen the sky?”

  Skye stiffened in his grip and pulled back. She didn’t like his punishing hands on her shoulders; she didn’t like his eyes boring into hers as if he were an avenging Saint Peter and she an errant sinner. She did not like the indignity of being shaken—i
t had been years, years since anyone had done such a thing to her, and that anyone had been her father when she was a very small child.

  “Of course I’ve seen the sky. It’s going to rain,” she replied coldly.

  “Rain! Oh, honey, it’s going to do a hell of a lot more than rain!” he exploded. “You little idiot, you’ve had me half sick with worry. That isn’t a little squall working up out there—it’s a full-scale tropical storm!”

  Skye felt the color draining from her face. “I don’t think the winds will be stronger than seventy-five miles an hour, but believe me, Ms. Executive, seventy-five miles an hour can kill! At best we have a few hours to batten down before that weather breaks and you’re off for a walk!”

  “Well, how the hell was I supposed to know a storm would brew up?” Skye raged, dangerously close to tears but determined never, never to cry in front of such a monstrously hard person. “It was brilliant blue when I left!”

  “That’s the point, damn you!” he hissed, pushing her from himself. “You don’t know! You don’t seem to know a damned thing, so don’t go running off to sulk!”

  “I wasn’t sulking!” Skye raged, hands clenching into tense fists at her side. Damn, he was abominable! “And save yourself some grief—don’t worry about me. You are not my keeper so if I kill my stupid little self it won’t have to be on your conscience.”

  She spun around as if she were about to leave again, although all she intended was to escape with dignity the battle she couldn’t expect to win. His arm lit on hers again and she was swung back into his grip. “Not this time, Ms. Delaney. You take one step outside of my vision and you sure as hell won’t be sitting the storm out—if you catch my meaning. I'm not Joe the handyman or Billy butler. You can get busy with me right now.”

  She was good at controlling her temper; she really was. Still, controlling it around him was like asking a volcano not to blow. Never, never, never in her life had she ever come across such an irritating and abusive human being. And she had to be stuck with this one! Infuriatingly dependent on him. She stared at him so long with daggerlike malice in her eyes that the shift of the wind changed and a salt breeze began to fan her face. She had counted to one hundred. Now she brought her stare from his eyes to the large brown hand clenching the soft flesh of her upper arm and back to his eyes with pointed contempt. “If you will let go of me, I’ll be happy to follow your work instructions. Just for casual information, I was not planning to walk off anywhere. I merely hoped that the urge to prefer the storm to you might pass if I alleviated myself of the aggravation of listening to you and watching you shout!”