by Janet Dailey
“Just for a few seconds,” she admitted, able to smile now at the way her heart had stopped beating.
“I’m sorry, but we —” Chris began.
He was interrupted by Maggie Carlton calling something. Samantha understood the rest of what she said as her voice drew nearer.
“She isn’t in her —” A harried-looking Maggie stopped in the archway between the living room and dining room, staring in disbelief at Samantha.
“ — in her room?” Chris finished the sentence. “No, Miss Gentry couldn’t sleep, so she went for a walk. She’s the one Tom heard prowling around outside.”
The blonde’s gaze skittered almost guiltily away from his face to Samantha. Smiling tightly, she walked into the room where they were, her hands nervously reknotting the belt of her quilted robe.
“You gave us quite a scare, Miss Gentry,” she declared with a hollow laugh.
“And vice versa,” Samantha returned.
“After all this excitement, I don’t think any of us can go back to sleep right away,” Chris said. There was nothing rumpled about his appearance to indicate that he had ever been in bed.
“Maggie, why don’t you fix us all some chocolate?”
“Of course,” the woman agreed after a slight hesitation.
“Want some help?” Samantha offered.
“I can manage,” Maggie assured her, and walked toward the kitchen.
Shaking the hood from her head, Samantha unzipped her sweat jacket against the prevailing warmth of the house and took it off. Tom closed the patio doors and moved toward the table to sit in one of the chairs. Samantha followed suit.
“Where did you go?” Chris straddled a chair, leisurely resting his hands on the straight back.
Samantha told him and they spent a few minutes idly discussing the benefits of a late-night walk. Then Maggie reappeared with the mugs of hot chocolate. By the time Samantha finished hers, she had already begun to feel its calming effect. That and the discovery that it was already nearly two in the morning made her drowsy.
With a tired “good night” to the trio seated at the table Samantha started for her room. Halfway there, she remembered she had left her sweatshirt on the chair.
A few steps into the living room she heard Chris say, “I’d like to know how she got out of the house with none of us hearing her.”
Samantha hesitated. She was tired and didn’t want to become involved with any more rehashing of the incident. With a shrug, she turned back toward her room. The sweatshirt could stay there until morning.
A knock on the door awakened her the next morning. Frowning her resentment at the intrusion of her sleep, she peered through her lashes at the sunlight peeking through the closed curtains.
“Who is it?” Samantha grumbled without stirring from her exceedingly comfortable position.
“Rise and shine.” The door opened and Chris Andrews stood in its frame, tall and vital, looking as if he had had eight hours’ sleep, which Samantha was sure was impossible.
“What time is it?” she mumbled, running a tired hand through her tousled hair and rolling onto her back, pulling the covers with her.
“Nearly ten,” he answered.
Eight hours was almost possible, she conceded, although he looked as if he had been up for hours. Her sleepy eyes focused on his leanly muscled shape. Snug-fitting denims of faded blue covered the length of his legs. A yellow windbreaker, the zipper hooked at the bottom, covered most of the blue chambray shirt opened at the throat.
“I feel as if I’ve just gone to sleep.” Her mouth was all cottony, adding to the naturally husky pitch of her voice.
“No worse for last night’s adventure?” he inquired with a mocking lilt.
“I don’t think so.” Samantha’s head made a negative movement on the pillow. Her sleepy brain suddenly realized he must have had a purpose in wakening her. “What do you want?”
“I thought we’d go sailing today. Since you’ve never been here in the Thousand Island area of New York before, I decided it would be a good idea to show you around. There isn’t any better way to see it than by boat. Are you game?” He tipped his head to one side in mocking challenge.
The suggestion sounded good even in her half-awake state. “Of course,” she agreed. “Just give me half an hour to wash the sleep away and dress.”
“You’ve got half an hour. Coffee’s waiting in the dining room and Maggie is packing us lunch. The boat’s ready as soon as you are,” he concluded, reaching out to close the door.
Three-quarters of an hour later, the boat had left the shelter of the cove. The sails were raised and the motor turned off. Tom Carlton had come along to crew, a fact that momentarily surprised Samantha. It must have shown on her face, because Chris had explained almost immediately that sailing around the many islands through various small channels could be tricky with the changing currents.
Samantha decided it was probably best he was along as she covertly studied Chris Andrews at the helm. A breeze was ruffling the thickness of his dark hair. The ruggedness of his sun-bronzed features was disturbingly compelling in this setting of earth and sky and water. Lusty and virile, he was in his element. The sharpness of his gray eyes was far-seeing, like the eagle’s.
All of it combined to heighten the physical attraction Samantha felt, despite a common sense that told her it was futile and possibly dangerous. She was here as Reuben Gentry’s daughter and not simply as a female named Samantha. Maybe Tom Carlton’s presence would help to remind her of that. The tour was to keep Reuben’s daughter from being bored.
The charcoal gaze swung to her and Samantha pretended to be looking at a landmass beyond him. She felt the sweep of his gaze run over her from head to toe and knew she looked fresh and nautical in her white slacks, navy top and white scarf for a headband. Dark curling wings escaped the scarf to wave across her forehead.
“Are you awake now?” There was chiding amusement in his tone.
“Very much so. This is beautiful.” Her enthusiasm was entirely false. “Is that Canada there?” she asked, waving a hand toward the landmass she had supposedly been studying.
“It’s a Canadian island, yes, but not the mainland.”
“Aren’t we going to follow the ship channel?” she asked. They were steering an easterly course, but they were a considerable distance from the large ocean liner moving upriver.
“The Seaway Channel is mainly on the American side. I thought I’d show you the Canadian side first, the Admiralty and Navy groups of islands, so you could get an idea of the natural beauty to be found before we take in some of the man-made splendor of the American Islands,” Chris explained, the line of his mouth twisting wryly.
Samantha spent a few minutes studying the sapphire water and the emerald islands. “It certainly is beautiful,” she absently repeated.
“The Indians referred to this area as the ‘Garden of the Great Spirit.’ The early French explorers gave it the name we know it by —‘Les Mille Iles’ or the Thousand Islands. The St. Lawrence River was an Indian highway. They called it the ‘River Without End,’ which wasn’t exactly true as far as boats were concerned because the rapids kept it from being navigable.”
“What’s the difference between the St. Lawrence River and the St. Lawrence Seaway?” Her reporter’s instincts to discover all the facts went to work.
“The river has always been here, but the seaway is an inland water route, about 2,300 miles long, stretching from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to Lake Superior, connected by a series of locks and canals, including the seven-lock system needed to lift ships up the Niagara escarpment.”
“Fantastic!” Samantha murmured.
“Ships from all parts of the world travel the waterway system,” he added. “It was accomplished by the combined efforts of the U.S. and Canadian governments. Have you ever stopped to think that the border between Canada and the United States is the longest undefended border in the world?” There was a quick flash of a white smile being directed her
way.
Her head bobbed negatively. “No, I don’t think I have thought about it quite that way.”
As the boat glided silently through the waters, with the loudest noise coming from the billowing of the sails, Chris gave her a brief sketch of some of the area’s history during the early wars, mentioning the War of 1812 and the Patriot War of 1837 when the steamer Sir Robert Peel was sunk in the American channel. All the while, they cruised slowly by islands of varying size, some without signs of habitation and others with cozy bungalows amid the trees.
“This area was a natural during the rum-running days of Prohibition. It was easy enough for smugglers to dodge customs boats with all these islands to disappear between. One island became so infamous as a place to stash bootleg whiskey that it’s known as Whiskey Island.” The Admiralty group was behind them now, and Chris pointed to the left, indicating the buildings on a jutting point of land. “That’s Gananoque, Ontario, on the mainland of Canada. It’s a very picturesque town.”
“Are we stopping there?” Samantha asked, warming to the idea of wandering through the streets.
“We won’t have time.”
He did swing the boat close enough to allow her a tantalizing glimpse of the village. A tour boat was docked at the harbor, making her wish she was one of the passengers, but Chris was already turning the sailboat toward an open expanse of water, and she didn’t have time to dwell on the town.
He was talking again, explaining that while most of the island homes she saw were strictly summer residences there were permanent inhabitants, such as the one on the island they were approaching — Grindstone Island, en route through the Navy group of Canadian islands. They were mainly farming communities, he said, adding that they had once been dairy centers. Grindstone Island used to make its own cheese, called, appropriately, Grindstone cheese, but now they had switched mostly to cattle.
“They have their own elementary-school system, which the children attend until the seventh or eighth grade. Then they have to go to the mainland for the rest of their education, usually staying with friends or relatives during the school year.”
“Talk about leaving the nest early!” Samantha smiled.
“How about going below and breaking out that picnic lunch Maggie packed?” Chris suggested. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry.”
“You?” she laughed. “I haven’t even had breakfast, only coffee.”
“Don’t be too long or you’ll miss the scenery,” he called after her.
When Samantha returned with the sandwiches and cold beer, Tom took his to the forward part of the boat and ate alone. Samantha wondered if he was just naturally antisocial or simply a well-trained employee. She rarely noticed him watching her and Chris. He seemed more interested in the other boaters on the river than the fresh, unspoiled scenery. Of course, he was probably quite used to it. For her, it was an all new experience. She had never seen anything quite like it before. Munching contentedly on the halved roll layered with slices of ham and cheese, she pitied the person who looked on this with jaded eyes.
A sideways glance at the man at the helm tried judge his reaction, but the carved bronze features only revealed intense concentration as he negotiated a narrow channel between two islands. Considering his knowledge of the area, it was something he had seen many times.
Dressed as he was, it was difficult to remember he was Chris Andrews, entrepreneur, financier, tycoon. He certainly didn’t look like any ordinary working person, but neither did he fit the image her mind associated with the name Chris Andrews. Before she had met him, Samantha would have visualized Chris Andrews going sailing in snappy white ducks and a blazer with a captain’s hat instead of going bare-headed with the wind ruffling his hair and wearing faded denims and a windbreaker.
Samantha much preferred this Chris Andrews to the one of her imagination. Then she pulled herself up quickly at the thought.
Careful, she warned herself. Remember you’re only here because he wants something from Reuben. The sandwich lost much of its flavor.
Through the Navy group, their course took them to the Canadian channel. A tall white tower off the starboard bow beckoned to them. Samantha was told it was the Skydeck complex on Hill Island and it offered a lofty and panoramic view of the area. A section of the Thousand Island bridge system came into view with the islands used as stepping stones to span the river.
Chris pointed out the maze of islands, the area known as Lost Channel. During the early wars, the pirate days and the Prohibition era, it had been often used by men knowledgeable about the area to lose their pursuers.
After they had sailed beneath the bridge, Chris instructed Tom to lessen the amount of canvas offered to the wind and their pace was slowed. Samantha glanced at him curiously.
He met her look and announced simply, “The Palisades.”
Glancing ahead, Samantha saw the rocky cliffs they were approaching. Craggy and steep, they rose from the placid river to loom above the boat gliding by. The slashed, sharp stone of their faces was tinged with pink. The silence of the sail made their intimidation more profound and their harsh beauty more awesome.
As they passed the town of Rockport on the Canadian side, Chris began an arcing course to take them to the opposite side of the river. His smile to her was brief and slightly cynical.
“Now for that man-made splendor I told you about — the millionaires’ playground,” he said.
It wasn’t along before Samantha knew what he was talking about. The islands she had seen up to now had been raw wilderness with rustic bungalows, but now as they approached the American channel, the islands and their homes began to change. The heavy brush and thick foliage of the trees that filtered the summer sun’s rays to the virgin soil began to give way to expensive, manicured lawns, green and lush. The summer homes were now nearly palatial vacation villas for the rich. Not satisfied with the ornamentation of nature, the owners had statues, and flower gardens adorning the lawns. The architecture of some of the homes took Samantha’s breath away. There was beauty here, too, but a direct contrast to what she had seen before.
When they had passed through the Summerland group, Chris said, “The granddaddy of them all is coming up. Or it would have been,” he qualified cryptically. “You’ve heard of Boldt Castle, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Samantha answered hesitantly, trying to remember what she had heard about it and finding her recollection hazy. “Something about a castle a man built for his wife.”
“Yes, George Boldt was his name,” he said. “His was one of those Horatio Alger, rags-to-riches stories. He immigrated to this country around the time of the Civil War, eventually made his fortune several times over. He came here with his wife in the 1890s when this was an élite resort area for the very wealthy. As a boy in Europe, he had seen the castles along the Rhine and it was always his dream to own one. When he and his wife saw Hart Island, which at the time was shaped roughly like a heart, he decided to buy it and make his dream come true. Evidently he was quite a romantic, because he went to considerable expense to complete the shape of the heart and renamed it Heart Island. Then he began building his castle. He envisioned a whole colony with several buildings and the capability of entertaining a hundred guests and their servants. Marble, tapestry, silks, rugs, all were imported to furnish his castle. He had spent over two million dollars on it when his wife died. All work was stopped at her death and it was never completed.”
Towers, medieval and grand, jutted above the treed island ahead. As the boat drew nearer, the castle itself began to take form. Tourists wandered about the island and tour boats were tied up at its dock.
“Has it been restored?” asked Samantha.
“No. When the work was stopped, thieves and vandals stole or destroyed most of the valuable goods. For years, it was abandoned to the bats and birds and insects. It’s virtually a ruin now, with only a few of its four hundred rooms that can be viewed by the public. At today’s inflated prices, it would probably tak
e twenty fortunes to make Boldt’s dream a reality.” Chris paused, frowning slightly. His narrowed gray eyes focused on the turrets rising above the trees. “Now it’s a romantic symbol of a dream that became empty without the love of a man’s wife.”
Crazily there was a lump in her throat as Samantha felt herself gripped by the tragic and poignant story. It was silly to be moved by it and she tried to shake away the sensation and view the place objectively. A family of tourists was wandering along the dock.
“Let’s stop,” she suggested eagerly.
His gaze swept over the island and the strolling clusters of people. Then with an abrupt, resolute shake of his head, he said, “No. We don’t have time.”
Samantha glanced at her watch. “Granted, it’s after two, but surely we can stop for a half an hour,” she argued.
His gaze sliced to Tom standing near the middle of the port-side deck. The burly man had clearly been able to hear her request and the negative answers she had received. His expression was grim as he met Chris’s look, then he scanned the other boats slowing to view the castle. Only a few seconds had passed.
“I’m afraid not,” Chris refused again. His mouth curved into a smile, but it didn’t ease the unrelenting and forbidding set of his features. “Maybe another time.”
Shrugging an acceptance, Samantha glanced away, focusing her puzzled brown gaze on the tall boathouse buildings opposite Heart Island. She was consumed by the strangest feeling that even if the whole afternoon was before them, Chris would still have refused to put ashore.
It didn’t make any sense. He was making a special effort to take her on a tour of the Thousand Island area, yet he seemed to be restricting the tour to the boat deck.
With half an ear, she listened to the commentary he began as the sailboat swept gracefully by the castle. Her eyes noted the stately buildings of the Thousand Island Club, more elegant summer homes of noteworthy people, the island known as Devil’s Oven that had once been the hiding place of a notorious pirate, the towering American span of the international bridge, the Rock Island Lighthouse, which was no longer in use, and the Thousand Island Park, but none of it claimed her interest.