The cabin door opened. Skye froze, closing her eyes quickly and trying to feign sleep. Kyle did not turn on the light, but quietly moved about the room. Skye heard a soft rustle and knew he had pulled his knit shirt over his head. A muffled thud informed her he had dropped his jeans to the floor. She felt him as he crawled in beside her—warmth and power and a pleasant, heady male aroma.
Still she lay frozen, curled away from him, her mind dull, her eyes closed tight in her semblance of sleep.
His arm came around her, pulling her gently so that the curve of her back fit into that of his chest.
She didn't protest, but neither did she move on her own.
Seconds ticked by. He merely held her, and she was glad of his comfort, of being within the strength of his arms.
And then he began to move. His hand found the hem of the maroon robe; his fingers moved up the length of her leg slowly, drawing the robe up and up. The tips of his fingers, rough with the calluses of work but gentle, teasingly soft, began to draw exotic little patterns over the curve of her buttocks, sliding to her thighs, sliding back…
Skye caught her breath as the embers of fire within her ignited instantly. Don’t do this to me, she moaned inwardly, clutching the sheets as she tried to remain still. But he continued his slow, leisurely seduction, his hand shifting so that his circles were created low over her belly, down to a point of torture, back up to her ribs, over her breasts, grazing the nipples over and over again until they hardened…
And surely he knew she no longer slept, if he had ever believed that she had.
Skye bit hard into her knuckle, trying to hold back the moan that escaped her anyway. And then the teasing was over. Kyle’s broad hand splayed over her lower abdomen, pulling her tightly against his rising desire—a pulse, a heat, a passionate need belied by his gentle approach. Seduction became demand. His left hand slid over her hip, coaxing and shifting her thigh. His breath, warm and moist, nuzzled her neck, his teeth grazed her earlobe with a whisper of fire.
And then he was inside her, a shattering drive that was vibrant and alive, an electricity let loose, unleashed, undeniable. Heat radiated through her from that core; she was at once paralyzed with the sweet feeling and sent into a frenzy.
Her teeth ground harder into her knuckle. There were others on the boat; she didn’t want to cry out, she couldn’t even whisper. Only he could hear the sound of her breath, the sheer, soft whimpers she forced back in her chest.
Her fingers tightly clenched the sheet, released it, clenched it again convulsively, moved to clasp the hand that held her abdomen so tightly to him while their undulating, writhing rhythm possessed them in the excruciating spiral of delicious reaching and reaching and reaching.
Eyes closed, in the dark, she knew the fingers she touched—tufts of auburn on bronze bands of iron, short, clipped, clean nails. She knew the body she blended with in liquid fire—the broad chest, the mat of hair that tapered, became thick and gold-tinted below the hips, legs that were sturdy, powerfully sinewed.
Her thoughts left her; everything left her but sensation. She could feel her own muscles, taut as they strained against his pliable, but more powerful strength. He guided, he commanded. He caught and held her through the burst of physical ecstasy and euphoria that came to them simultaneously, held her and chuckled softly when her moaned cry escaped her despite her diligent efforts to keep their lovemaking a quiet coupling.
They lay still together for a long time. Skye could feel the beating of her own heart, the pounding of his. She could feel his breath still against her nape, labored, becoming easy only slowly. He still held her belly, and although his hold became gentle, he didn’t give it up, but stroked tender patterns again as they rested.
Finally he moved, leaning on an elbow and pulling her toward him, frowning at the robe bunched around her. “This thing is drenched,” he murmured, “let me help you.”
His eyes, in the near darkness, were bright. The contours of his face, even as he smiled, seemed harder than she knew them.
This man is forty years old, she reminded herself, the character in his face has been ingrained there, he built an empire by himself, he lived things I will never fathom.
She shifted up and allowed him to help her remove the damp robe. Still without speaking, she sank back to her pillow, watching him… as he watched her. He smoothed her hair back over her forehead; it, too, was damp. She looked at his fingers and realized she loved his hands, loved the way they held things, loved the way they moved when he spoke, loved the way they touched her, sometimes unthinkingly, but because she belonged to him, because he led, because he showed her something.
He leaned down and kissed her, softly but deeply, slowly exploring her mouth, tasting her tongue, her teeth, her lips.
He shifted back again, smiling, then picking up her hand. He studied her palm, then kissed it, then kissed each of her fingers one by one, taking the last into his mouth sensuously, grazing it with his teeth.
It was the match that ignited the embers within her body once again. Strange, how one little, certain touch was a catalyst.
His moist suction on her finger was that catalyst. She shuddered slightly as the sweet surge of renewed desire swept through her, but murmured a protest.
“Kyle, we really need to talk…”
He shifted suddenly, lowering himself over her, his legs sensuous and gentle despite their strength as he wedged his length between hers so that he could plant feather kisses over her collarbone, slide his tongue between the valley of her breasts.
“Kyle…”
He lifted his head, took her face tenderly between his hands, holding it firmly as he stared into her eyes. “We have a long way to go tomorrow, miles to talk. Tonight is ours.”
She couldn’t argue with him. She was so terribly afraid that the morrow would not give them miles, but put the irrevocable distance that was their separate lives between them.
Her fingers thread into his hair as his kiss began with her lips, moved fervently over the arch of her neck, became feverish as it touched upon her breast, swelling beneath it in instinctive response. Skye was once more busy trying to keep silent, trying to retaliate against his erotic torture, wondering how he could keep his wicked whispers so low as he breathed against her erotic descriptions of how he loved her breasts, the contours of her belly, the luscious movement of her hips.
And then, right before she gave herself up to the sensation again, she began to wonder how he would love her body when it changed, when her breasts became heavy, when her stomach filled.
She almost told him. Almost. Almost told him that her body carried his child. But she didn't. For an instant, just an instant, the salt heat of tears burned her eyes.
She couldn’t tell him.
It was only a suspicion at the moment—sound suspicion, but suspicion. And she didn’t know if he would be around when her body took on those changes.
The knowledge would hold him to her, and she knew it. But she didn't want him held or confined. She didn’t want to be simply a responsibility for him.
She didn’t want to be his mistress, and she didn’t want to have a marriage like his first. Like the marriage that still tied him.
She didn’t know what she wanted. Except, at this moment, she knew she wanted his lovemaking to go on and on…
CHAPTER TEN
There were moments in that pleasant stage between sleep and awareness in which Skye thought she was still on the island. She would open her eyes, see the thatch of the hut, feel the sand beneath her, and through the door see the slow pounding surf of the ocean. She would roll and touch Kyle, or if he was awake before her, he would be near, she would hear his whistle as he poked the fire into action.
She wasn’t on the island; she was on the Bonne Bree. Before she opened her eyes, she felt the comfort of the mattress beneath her, the coolness of the cotton sheets. Her head rested upon a soft pillow. Automatically she stretched out a hand, but Kyle was gone.
Today we re
turn, she told herself. I can drink coffee all morning, raid the galley until I’m sick. Within the week I will be able to gorge myself with views of traffic jams, with people moving in the thousands, all knowing where they’re going. I’ll pick up the reins of my company again, I’ll be worrying dollars-and-cents layout and designs, precious metals and precious stones.
And when I’m back, I’ll be able to think, to reason, to handle everything as a responsible adult.
But all her reasoning meant nothing. When she moved, sore muscles reminded her of the night, and she was sure Kyle dreaded What the return to civilization meant as she did. He had made love to her as if there were no tomorrow, as if memory had to serve a lifetime. She was even hazy as to when she had actually fallen asleep.
There was a knock on the door and she instinctively clutched the sheets around her. But at her rather strained “Yes,” the door only opened a crack.
“It's Michael, Skye,” he said softly. “I’m throwing you a pair of Marsha’s jeans and a T-shirt. The head’s free, and we have company aboard. They’re requesting your presence.”
“Thanks, Michael,” Skye murmured, smiling as the clothing was slipped through the crack in the door. “I’m awake, I’ll be right out.”
When the cabin door closed again, she leaped from the bed and quickly slipped into the offering, wishing Marsha wore bras. She really didn’t feel like meeting officials in just the thin, oversized T-shirt and the jeans that threatened to slip off her. Rolling the hems carefully so that she wouldn’t trip, she started to exit, then remembered her purse.
Her makeup, so useless on the island, could help her now. It could make her feel a little more together, a little more dignified, a little more like a mature woman than a castaway.
She spent less than ten minutes in the head and was proud of her achievement. She hadn’t forgotten how to care for herself. It was a little thing, but somehow important in returning to reality. She heard voices as she brushed back her hair just before exiting, and knew the Australian officials were with Ray, Mike, and Kyle in the cabin. She would be seen as soon as she opened the door. For a boat this nice, she thought dryly, it should have been a two-head vessel; then she would have had the length of the hall.
She opened the door. As she expected, all eyes turned to her.
There were two Australians aboard, both clad in crisp beige short uniforms. They sat at the table with Kyle between, clipboards in hand. Mike and Ray hovered behind the counter, coffee mugs in hand. Kyle and the Australians rose at the sight of her. Kyle quickly introduced her. “Skye, Sergeant Menzies and Lieutenant Griffen. Gentlemen, Ms. Skye Delaney.”
Skye shook hands with the men, wondering why she felt uneasy. She glanced at Kyle, but his expression told her nothing.
“Well,” murmured the lieutenant, the older of the two officers, a dignified-looking man with a graying handlebar mustache, “Shall we get started?”
Skye lifted an eyebrow at Kyle who merely offered her a seat; Michael silently brought her a cup of coffee. She offered him an equally silent look of gratitude.
“Get started with what?” she inquired crisply.
She was to regret that she had asked the question.
The lieutenant, who apparently did all the talking, informed her politely first that she was not required to answer questions without counsel, but that her cooperation would be appreciated. With disbelief she realized that she was once again under suspicion as a smuggler. I shouldn’t cooperate, she thought furiously, I should make this as miserable as possible for the lot of them.
It didn’t help to realize that it was only she they suspected. It was obvious that Kyle was in the clear. Only millionaires make the grade, she thought bitterly. Apparently, Delaney Designs was not affluent enough to clear her. And apparently Kyle hadn’t seen fit to inform these people that it couldn’t possibly have been her.
Her voice icy, she answered questions for the better part of an hour. Questions that drove her crazy. They wanted to know every single thing she saw, did, or heard before their flight left Sydney. That had been over six weeks ago now… a lifetime ago. How could she possibly remember the trivia of a day that had ended in trauma?
“You’re sure you saw no one near the plane before takeoff?” she was asked for the fourth time.
“Perfectly sure,” Skye reiterated, her temper rising. She tried to cool down, adding an acid, “It’s a pity you gentlemen don’t have a lie detector with you.”
“Well, actually…” Sergeant Menzies began, glancing to his superior for support, “we do—”
“I think Ms. Delaney has been as helpful as possible under the circumstances,” Kyle finally cut in. “She is an American citizen you know, and she deals frequently with your country. She has survived a crash landing and six weeks on a primitive island. She has cooperated fully. I think this is all we can offer.”
Skye didn’t know if Lieutenant Griffen decided he had done his duty, or if Kyle’s words had been the influencing factor, but his attitude changed suddenly. He smiled at her, blue eyes twinkling. “Forgive us, Miss Delaney. We’re dealing with a very serious situation here, and I’m afraid we can’t leave a single stone unturned. Gold, as you must be aware, is a strength of our country. The richest square mile of gold-bearing land in the world is our Golden Mile at Kalgoorlie.”
“I’m aware of that, Lieutenant,” Skye said, trying to return his smile, but finding her jaw fixed after her third degree. “I’ve visited the mines in Western Australia. In fact, Lieutenant, I have spent half of the last six years in Australia, my sister-in-law is an Australian citizen, and my brother was an Australian citizen—”
“Skye,” Kyle interrupted, “the officers have actually been trying to save you a trip back to Sydney. They understand your circumstances and don’t want to have to call you back when you’ve reached the States after this ordeal.”
“Oh,” Skye murmured. Could they call her back? She didn’t know… maybe she did need counsel.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve told you all I know.” Lieutenant Griffen rose and offered his hand. Skye accepted it warily, but the softness in the man’s clear blue eyes touched her.
“Thank you, Miss Delaney. You must understand, we believe the perpetrator of this crime also almost cost you—and Mr. Jagger— your lives. He—or she—is responsible for the six weeks of your life you lost. If there is anything you can think of, please, you must let us know immediately.”
“Yes… certainly…”
He smiled at her a last time, and squeezed her hand. “Good luck, Miss Delaney. Oh, you’ll be barraged by reporters. We don’t want this part of your story reaching the papers.”
Skye nodded. There was a lot of her story she didn’t want reaching the papers.
“We look forward to seeing you in our country again.”
“Thank you,” Skye murmured. Of course she would go back, Australia had become a second home, the whitewashed house in Sydney…
Sergeant Menzies followed Lieutenant Griffen out, with Kyle accompanying them. She heard Kyle’s voice in answer to a muffled question from Griffen. “Yes, I’ll be there, in less than ten days.” It seemed she was vindicated; it also seemed that Kyle was more determined than the lieutenant to apprehend the culprit.
“More coffee, Skye?”
It was Michael, smiling with gentle empathy.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured. She glanced at him, so like his brother, yet without the touch of hardness, the quality of steel that was so often an enigma.
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Is Kyle going back because he has to? Or because he wants to?”
Michael hesitated. “If they’re ever going to make an arrest, Skye, they’ll need Kyle’s help. It was his plane that was sabotaged.”
“We don’t know for certain that the plane was sabotaged.”
Michael poured himself a cup of coffee and sat beside her while Ray busied himself quietly in the galley. “Skye, don’t
you want this person apprehended?”
“Yes, yes, of course, it’s just that…” She had known Michael only a day. She had no ties to Kyle. Could she, did she have a right to discuss him with his brother? Yes, she answered herself, because I love Kyle.
“I’m just worried,” she said, meeting green eyes so like the ones she loved. “He… he seems ruthless where this is concerned. I’m afraid… I'm afraid Kyle will find this person, that he’ll…”
“Act on rage? Commit murder himself?”
“Yes, I guess,” Skye said unhappily.
“Don’t worry,” Michael assured her, “Kyle will see justice done, and it will be a good exercise in self-control. He’s not crazy, Skye. He hasn’t gotten where he is by letting his temper rule him.”
“But how will they catch this person? What if no one comes to retrieve the case?”
“The thief will be found.”
There it was—that tone. Michael was a lot like Kyle… Except now he was smiling again. “Drink up. We're not even going to have time to offer you breakfast.”
“Oh?” she inquired, startled.
“You’ll be glad to hear that we’re taking the dinghy out to meet a seaplane. We’ll be on Igua within two hours.”
She never had a chance to talk to Kyle at all—to tell him that she greatly resented his not saving her some of the misery she endured under her interrogation by the officers; to tell him that she needed to talk to him, that she loved him…
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