Night, Sea, And Stars

by Heather Graham

  “Sorry about that,” he murmured, his eyes catching hers with a twinkle. “I wonder how all the heroes in the movies about lost islands and jungles managed to keep clean-shaven faces?”

  Skye chuckled and shook her head. “I don’t know. I guess I never thought about it before.”

  “Oh, well, sorry if I’m not making the grade.” He rested his arm on her shoulder as they headed down the slope to the beach.

  “You make the grade okay,” Skye assured him automatically, unaware at first that she was voicing thoughts best kept hidden. “The face may be a bit scratchy, but the body certainly lives up to the very best matinee hero—” She broke off abruptly, dismayed as she kept her eyes on their sand path below. She was the one who had insisted their relationship remain totally asexual, and here she was making innuendos.

  “Whoa!” Kyle chuckled with surprise. His fingers trailed down her back, the nails sending shivering excitement down her spine as they lightly scratched—a simple, affectionate gesture. “A compliment, Skye? Thanks, I’ll take it.”

  “Well, now,” Skye put in dryly, fighting to keep the conversation entirely nonchalant, “don’t go letting it get to your head. I don’t think heroes are supposed to have overinflated egos either.”

  “Hmmm,” Kyle mused, sending whiplashes of sensation through her as he teasingly kneaded her back again. “Maybe heroes are usually younger.”

  “Maybe," Skye agreed simply.

  “I’ll let you in on a secret.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “You’re legs are much nicer than the run-of-the-mill movie heroine’s.”

  “Thanks.” Why did she have to struggle to get the word out? He was teasing, of course. No! she thought with sudden clarity. They were flirting! Actually flirting as if they were out on a date.

  “And…”

  “And what?” He was leading her into something, but she couldn’t resist the wicked insinuation of his tone.

  “Like I said before—nice, nice derriere!”

  “Oh, quit!” Skye laughed, dismayed that her face was very visibly flooding with color. “Where’s this present you’re boasting about?”

  “On the table by the hut. Go get it, but bear in mind that I get to help you use it!”

  Giving him a last suspicious glance, Skye raced ahead of him to the crude notched-together table. Her present brought startling tears to her eyes; she knew it had taken him hours to make.

  It was a comb. The prongs were rough and far apart, but very sturdy and all of one piece with the handle. Trying to keep her fingers from trembling, she reached for it wonderingly, curious as to what it was carved from.

  “Tortoiseshell,” he supplied. “It was washed up on the beach— minus the tortoise.”

  Skye glanced quickly to Kyle, standing a few feet from her, bearded face unreadable, hands planted on trim hips.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, glazed eyes turning back to the comb. “Thank you.” It was more than beautiful; carved with a pocket knife, it was an incredible feat—a feat of compassion, a feat of caring.

  He moved a step nearer and his eyes focused on the wealth of tangled honey hair that his hand moved into. “I’d hate to have to see you cut it all off when we get out of here,” he murmured. Stepping back, he smiled into her eyes again. “The storm left us plenty of water. Tomorrow we can try to wash it with coconut oil and a little juice from those key limes.”

  Skye nodded slowly, allowing her gaze to fall quickly from his and back to the comb. They were coming close, and she wanted the closeness badly, but it still scared her terribly. It was dangerous for them to touch. She wanted too badly to fall into his arms, to taste his lips.

  Be honest, she chastised herself harshly, you want a whole lot more than that…

  And she did, but her emotions and values were too confused. She had always believed she loved Ted and, although she accepted the fact that a sexual relationship didn’t have to be based on deep-rooted love, it was hard for her to equate making love with any emotion other than love. But now she was being forced to wonder if she did really love Ted.

  Her feelings for Kyle bewildered her. She admired him, she respected him. Even when she was ready to hog-tie him and close his wise mouth with an apple between his teeth, she did need him.

  She was also coming to know that she did like him very much. But love? Was it possible to love a stranger? Even a very intimate stranger who for the time was the most important person in the world?

  Or was she afraid that she was falling in love? Would it be all right to reach for comfort that could be easily cast aside—returned to someone else—when their days together ended? Surely a loved one—husband, wife, lover—could understand and forgive an affair under circumstances such as theirs.

  Skye thought of the long days she had spent with Steven and Virginia before her twin’s death. They would often go for long walks, and Steven would quiz her relentlessly about Ted. He would never judge, he would never advise, and yet Skye had known he wasn’t pleased with her relationship. If Skye were to ask her brother’s opinion bluntly, Steven would shake his head with a small smile. “Just never let real happiness pass, sis,” he would say, hugging her shoulders. “When it comes, you’ll know, and then grab it.”

  “I am happy with Ted,” she would always reply. And Steven would say nothing more, but the questions would be in his eyes. Then why isn’t Ted with you, and why do you two never take the chance and marry…

  And she had to wonder herself. Why hadn’t she made Ted be with her at a point in her life when she so badly needed comfort?

  And yet Ted did offer security. He was always there when she returned. And she knew that she was the only woman in the world to him, which only intensified her guilt. But in all honesty, although she didn’t like her feelings, she had to admit that in thinking of Kyle she was afraid. She didn’t believe she could ever be the only woman in the world to him. She didn’t want to be the protected pet of a more powerful man.

  And Kyle was very much a physical man. There were women in his life, but they held second place to his other pursuits. He obviously won love easily; he was obviously kind in return, while still legally married.

  God, how she wanted off of the island! Sanctuary from the man who frightened her, compelled her, made her weak. If only time would bring rescue. Once away from Kyle she would forget him, she would be free from his bigger-than-life strength. Retrospection would dull his magnificence.

  But it wasn’t the magnificence she would miss, nor the heroics that were basic to him. She knew deep within that she would remember the little things—the auburn tufts of hair on long, work-roughened fingers; the gold that made his sleek shoulders shine and glimmer when the sun played down upon them; the way his eyes could be icy one moment and then narrow to warm amusement in just seconds. She would always remember the endearing quality of humor that could soften his squared and bristled chin.

  “Well?”

  Well what? She suddenly realized and admitted a sad truth. Whereas she had always avoided marriage with Ted, she would want to be Kyle’s wife. And Kyle already had a wife. He didn’t live with her, he had been long away from her, and yet she was still his wife. Maybe he still carried a torch for her, and simply couldn’t bear to divorce her, to leave her free to marry again. All Skye could ever be to Kyle was a mistress.

  What an archaic word. Mistress. Fallen woman.

  Surely she was going crazy. She didn’t love Kyle. She was merely a victim of her own desire, stranded in a remote paradise. She had to force herself to remember Ted.

  Skye realized suddenly that he had been speaking and she hadn’t heard a single word. She might have been staring straight through him rather than at him.

  “I’m sorry. Well what?”

  “Are you game to try?”

  Try what, she wondered? How long had she been staring at him blankly?

  “Spear fishing,” he prompted. “Damn, you really don’t hear anything I say to you!" He la
ughed.

  “I guess I was wandering,” Skye said hastily. “Uh, sure. I’ll try, but no promises!”

  A few moments later she was armed with a long stick, honed to a fine point at the end by the pocket knife. Glancing dubiously at Kyle, she followed him into the water. “I forgot to ask,” he called to her. “You do swim, don’t you?”

  “More or less.”

  “Don’t step on or touch anything red. Fire coral.”

  “Coral!”

  "The island is a raised atoll, surrounded by coral reef. That’s probably why our visitors decided not to venture in. If they didn’t navigate those large ships just right, they’d cut themselves up good.”

  “Great,” Skye muttered beneath her breath. “How far out are we going?”

  “Just a little farther,” he returned.

  “Great,” she muttered again. Great for Kyle, who was still standing. Skye had already been swimming for several feet. “How am I going to hit a fish when I can’t even balance?” she wailed, gulping as a wave filled her mouth with saltwater. She was already having problems staying afloat and handling the stick.

  “Go fast for something big!” he chuckled, stopping abruptly. “See—we’ve hit coral.”

  Skye could see the outcropping through the clear water, alive and teeming with life—beautiful, multicolored fans, tiny fish flashing through the underwater fantasy land. “Don’t step,” he warned her. “Coral can slash feet as well as boats!”

  Skye grimaced, treading water furiously. “What now?”

  “We wait.”

  “Wait! How long do you think I can do this?”

  “Hold on to my neck,” he offered.

  Warily, Skye complied. Kyle was tall enough to stand where the last of the smooth sand covering just met the coral. Apparently he wasn’t as worried about his feet as he was hers, or perhaps he had more faith in his ability to pad the coral carefully without hitting anything dangerous. “I don’t think I’m going to be too terribly good at this,” Skye murmured dryly, clinging to him piggyback. She wasn’t too terribly sure the whole thing had been a good idea. With arms curled around his neck, legs around his waist, and torso pressed to his back, she was just too aware of every slight ripple of his muscles, of warm, radiating male heat.

  “You’re going to do fine,” he assured her, glad she couldn’t see his wide, spreading grin.

  She felt his deep chuckle vibrate powerfully across his back.

  He was quickly rewarded with a light cuff to his head. “Watch it, Tarzan. I don't want that spear getting stuck where it doesn’t belong.”

  “You watch it!” he laughed in return. “And quit acting out those violent feminine impulses! You’ll scare the fish away.”

  “What am I going after anyway?” Skye said with a disgruntled humph.

  “Anything that looks good,” Kyle replied. “Don’t go for a barracuda or a shark.”

  “Shark!” Her fingers wound more tightly around him, he felt the pleasant sensation of her breasts crushed against his back, the wet blouse doing nothing to create a barrier between her nipples and his bare flesh. Kyle dipped his head low, once again grateful that she couldn’t see or read his features.

  “Umm…” he murmured. “Sharks do live in the ocean. But don’t worry, I haven’t seen any around here yet, and as long as you don’t panic and thrash, they’d probably leave you alone anyway. A barracuda won’t come for you period unless you go out of your way to aggravate it. What we want is a nice fat grouper if one will venture by.”

  “Will he stand still so that I can hit him if I ask him?" Skye demanded tartly.

  “I’m not really expecting you to hit anything,” Kyle responded.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Just keep your eyes open.”

  “Yes, sir!” Very aware of the length of collarbone beneath her fingers, Skye was shocked that she was able to notice the large fish cruising their way almost as the words left her mouth. She tensed, and whispered into his ear, “There!”

  “Where?”

  “Right there!”

  It was to their right—kind of an ugly-looking fish, colorless when compared to the brilliant tinier fish that abounded. “That’s it, Skye!” Kyle replied excitedly, whispering in kind. “Right on the nail. A grouper!”

  She was unprepared for the powerful coiling of muscles beneath her, for the explosion of energy that erupted with lightning power and speed. As Kyle lunged for the fish, he brought her with him. The sudden splurge into the water left her blinded by the sting of the salt, coughing and sputtering as if she had consumed half the Pacific, and clinging to him more fiercely than ever.

  Kyle chuckled as he shifted his weight and swung her around with one arm to his chest, balancing his stick, which now successfully carried the grouper, so that he could also pat her on the back.

  “Hey, you’re the one who saw the fish! You should have been ready.”

  “Sorry!” she sputtered, feeling the expansion of the broad chest beneath her fingers.

  “Don’t be—you’ll know better next time.”

  Kyle started walking back toward shore, still carrying both her and the fish. Skye lowered her head without comment. Was there going to be a next time? Had their cold war ended? And if this was a truce, where would it eventually lead?

  She broke away as they neared the shore and swam in the last few feet, pausing to duck her head and pull her wet hair back before exiting the water. “I’ll go collect twigs to start the fire,” she murmured hastily.

  “Do that,” he replied amiably. “Grab a few larger logs too. I think we’re running a bit low.”

  Jogging out of the surf, Skye suddenly paused and turned back uneasily. Kyle was already crouched low with the fish, deftly slicing fillets from bone with the pocket knife.

  “Kyle?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Is it safe? Do you think those boats might return and spot the fire?”

  He stopped his work and turned to her with an easy smile. “They aren’t out to get anyone, Skye, they just can’t afford people in their way. They won’t be back for some time. That was a major transfer today. Hopefully, if this is a regular rendezvous, we’ll be long gone before it ever takes place again. We’re safe.”

  Skye watched him a moment, biting her lip, then knew she could trust his judgment. She turned again and started on her self-appointed task, collecting their gourds and an abundance of fruit and water to go with dinner. Occasionally they sipped on the rum or Burgundy, but Kyle had announced they had better start conserving the alcohol for any medicinal purposes that might arise.

  Among his other talents Kyle seemed to have a way with fish, even when crudely cooked over an open fire. Seated at the table on one of his rough-hewn stools, eating off a rough-hewn plate with a rough-hewn two-pronged fork, Skye suddenly realized that she had been very lucky indeed. A slight shiver rippled through her. Had she survived the crash landing alone, she might have been in serious trouble. Feeling much more magnanimous toward Kyle than she had for some time, Skye tentatively instigated a conversation.

  “You must be a joy to have around the house,” she said lightly. “You must be missed.”

  Kyle bit into his fish and shrugged. “I should hope I’m missed. My brother, my son, my company…”

  “Your wife?” Skye didn’t mean to ask the question; it just slipped out.

  He raised a bemused brow. “My wife? I doubt if she’ll shed any tears for me now. Knowing Lisa,” he said with indifference, “she’s probably working hard on having me declared legally dead. In fact, she probably thinks my disappearance is wonderful.”

  “Why?” Skye murmured awkwardly.

  Kyle hesitated a moment, swirling the water in his gourd. “We were due to sign divorce papers last Tuesday. That’s why I was flying your plane. It was a convenient way to get back myself.”

  Skye felt curiosity spreading through her. They had avoided speaking of such personal details of their lives so far, but sh
e couldn’t prevent herself now from wanting to delve further. Was he telling the truth about getting a divorce? Or was it a line he was accustomed to using?

  “If you've been separated for ten years,” she asked nonchalantly, “why were you going for a divorce now?”

  Kyle caught her eyes, amusement lighting his own. “Do you care?”

  Skye flushed with annoyance. “We have to talk about something, don’t we?”

  “I suppose.” Smiling, he leaned back in his chair, balancing with his feet crossed over the end of the table, his fingers laced behind his head. “I wanted a divorce twenty years ago. But we stayed together ten years because of our son. Then we separated. Lisa was too attached to money by that time to let me out easily. And then I didn’t care. It made my life less complicated to have a wife. Now Lisa has decided a settlement of a lump sum might be preferable to a husband. And I think it’s wonderful to finally be freed from her shackles. And Chris has been old enough for a long time now to understand.”

  “Oh,” Skye murmured. “Chris is your son?”

  “Yep.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Oh,” Skye murmured again. Kyle laughed.

  “I can almost see the wheels spinning in your head, Ms. Delaney. Yes, I married Lisa because she was pregnant. There has never been any great love lost between us. Your turn.”

  “What?”

  “Your turn.” Skye found herself flushing again, sure he meant to quiz her on Ted. Her mind raced to formulate some evasive answers.

  “Steven,” he said softly, his eyes darkly compassionate. “Tell me about your brother.”

  Skye lowered her head and fiddled with her fork, oddly disturbed by the compelling intensity of his words. “He was my twin,” she surprised herself by saying quietly, grimacing slightly as she raised her head. “We were very close. When my parents died, all we had was one another. Delaney Designs came from the two of us. Virginia was a school friend of mine before she married Steven, so even after the two of them moved to Australia, we were often together.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Cancer.”