by Janet Dailey
Surreptitiously, she glanced at Chris. He was lounging in one of the patio chairs, seemingly unaffected by the undercurrents tormenting her. From where Samantha leaned in a half-sitting position against a protruding rock, his craggy profile was offered for her inspection. Masculine with his sun-bronzed vitality, he appeared relaxed, the tapering length of him stretched out. The even rise and fall of his chest suggested sleep.
They had gone out to the patio after lunch, a meal that Samantha barely tasted, her nerves too overwrought. Her bearing was tuned for the sound of a motorboat, which was the only reason she had agreed to come out on the patio.
Several had passed, catching her interest at the first sound and losing it when they continued by the island. The dull hum of another boat was approaching and she tensed as it droned increasingly louder. Then came the sound she had been waiting to hear. The boat’s engine was throttled down.
With another glance at Chris, Samantha straightened warily from the rock, not certain whether he was sleeping or had merely closed his eyes. Striving for nonchalance, she stuffed her fingertips in her denim pockets and strolled quietly toward the path leading to the boathouse where the supply launch would dock.
“Going for a walk?” The lazy voice paralyzed her for an instant.
She turned jerkily toward his chair. “I thought I might.” Her smile was tight.
“Headed anywhere in particular?” Behind the idle question she sensed a sharpness.
She hesitated. Should she answer truthfully or lie? No, it had to be the truth. She needed to know exactly what her position was. Her imagination was working overtime. She had to know if what she was thinking was true. Inwardly she was trembling from the decision and its possible consequences.
“I thought I’d walk to the cove,” she replied and noted the flicker of grimness around his mouth. While she still had the courage, she plunged forward. “The launch with the supplies is docking now. I heard it a few minutes ago.”
“That’s hardly an event,” he mocked dryly.
“No, but I’m going just the same. Any objections?” She couldn’t keep from challenging him even though her heart was in her throat.
“Not really,” he answered, but every instinct said that he was lying. He rolled leisurely to his feet. “Do you mind if I make a more stimulating suggestion? Since you want to go to the cove, why not change into your swimsuit first, then we could swim for a couple of hours?”
It seemed a simple suggestion, but Samantha recognized his stalling tactics.
“By the time I changed, the launch would be gone,” she pointed out.
“Does it matter?” His hands had slid to his hips, his stance arrogant, the quietness of his voice intimidating.
“Since I was going to the cove to meet the boat, yes, it does matter,” she retorted, tipping her head to the side, openly defiant. “But maybe you don’t want me to meet the launch? That’s why you’re trying to think up ways to stop me, isn’t it?”
“Now that’s foolish.” The smile he flashed was cold and without humor.
“Is it?” Samantha taunted. “I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Sam.” He frowned at her words and shook his head. “Why would I want to do a thing like that?”
Pivoting, she stalked toward the path, angered that she had let herself be manipulated that way. He had a streak of cunning as well as ruthlessness. The sound of firm, striding steps on the path behind her chased away the anger.
Looking over her shoulder, Samantha’s widened eyes saw him lessening the distance between them. Since he hadn’t been able to stop her through guile, she guessed he wouldn’t be above using force.
She bolted from the path into the trees and thick undergrowth and heard Chris call her name, angered and impatient, but this only spurred her on. Branches whipped at her arms and legs as she ran blindly, trying to make a straight line to the cove where the old path had curved. Above her own noise, she could hear the rustle of brush behind her. He was chasing her, but she didn’t dare risk a glance back.
There was a small clearing ahead and she ran for it, aware of the noise coming closer. Breaking free of the brush and trees, she tried to dash across the clearing and regain some of the lead she had lost, when a large hand grabbed her arm just below the elbow, pulling her up short and spinning her around.
Her forward impetus deprived her of balance. She couldn’t change direction that abruptly and maintain her footing. She tumbled to the ground, dragging him to his knees as she fell. A thick cushion of pine needles broke her fall, pungent and dried by the sun.
Instantly she was kicking and twisting to get to her feet. She nearly made it, but a muscular arm flung her back to the ground. She struck out at him, swinging her fists at any part of him she could hit, attacking him with all the viciousness of a trapped animal. He soon captured her flailing arms and stretched them spread-eagled above her head.
Samantha struggled all the more violently, breathing in panicked sobs. Twisting and writhing, she tried to free herself of the weight pressing into the ground as he half straddled and half lay on top of her. Her head moved from side to side in desperate effort, tangling her brown-silk hair in its pillow of pine needles. He held her easily, letting her struggle uselessly until her energy was spent.
Finally, gasping, Samantha had no more strength left to fight. She glared resentfully into the smoldering steel of his eyes, her heart thudding against her ribs from her exertions. The pine needles were brushing roughly against the bare skin of her arms. She was crushed under his weight, the heat from his body nearly burning the entire length of her.
The hard muscles of his thighs pressed down on her legs. Her breasts were nearly flattened by the granite wall of his chest. Steel-hard fingers gripped the wrists she no longer strained to break free. Mixing with the pine scent was the musky fragrance of his maleness heightened by perspiration to an intoxicating level.
The frustration of defeat gradually gave way to an awareness of the dangerous intimacy of her position. As the knowledge flickered in her rounded brown eyes, she saw it reflected in his. She was afraid to move, afraid if she did, it would be to invite the possession of his kiss.
Tension mounted, her gaze locked by the magnetic force of his. When his charcoal gaze slid to her lips, they softened under its nearly physical caress.
Slowly, taking his time, his mouth descended toward hers, and Samantha exhaled a sighing surrender. Flames were kindled by the languid passion of his kiss, arousing her desire more swiftly than demanding possession would have done. Expertly he explored every corner of her lips and mouth until she quivered boneless in response.
Her arms were released and she wound them around his neck and shoulders. The crushing weight of his body pressing down on her added fuel to the fire raging through her veins, a wild song ringing in her heart. The intimate caress of his hands was an erotic stimulant that brought an urgency to her response. Immediately his kiss hardened in a complete mastery of her senses.
Every nerve end was attuned to him, quivering at his touch. His fingers tugged at the buttons of her blouse, unfastening to gain access to the rounded flesh the material had concealed. As he pushed the strap from her shoulder, to release the last confinement, he dragged his mouth away from her lips to plunder the sensitive skin of her throat and shoulders with rough kisses, blazing a fiery trail to the swelling peak of her breast. The sensual touch of his tongue drew a shuddering moan from her throat. His hard male need made her aware of the empty throbbing of her loins and their mindless plea for satisfaction.
His hand remained to cup her breast as he raised his lips toward her mouth, checking his movement tantalizing inches from his goal to read the message in the liquid brown of her eyes.
The gray smoke of his eyes flamed possessively over her face.
An inch from his lips, Samantha knew that this time his kiss would demand an ultimate surrender. She was beyond the point of resisting. She could deny him nothing. The flames of love encircling her heart had
vanquished everything else but her wish to be his.
But he stiffened. A sudden alertness entered the dark gray of his eyes as his gaze warily swerved away from her face. Bewildered for a second, Samantha finally heard the sound of someone walking heavily, nearing the spot where they lay entwined on the pine-needle bed.
She breathed in sharply, a combination of alarm, embarrassment and protest. Before she could exhale, Chris’s large hand was clamped over her mouth, his piercing gaze warning her into silence.
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Chapter Six
IT SEEMED an eternity before the footsteps drew level with their position, receded into the silence of the woods, and the hand was removed from its smothering hold over her mouth. The footsteps had passed within a few feet of them, the thick underbrush screening them from the trail running from the cove to the house.
Soundlessly Chris rolled to his feet and gazed in the direction of the house. Samantha wasn’t nearly as quiet as she scrambled to her feet. There had been time to consider the wisdom of her actions and find there was none. She had been ready to give herself to a man who was virtually keeping her a prisoner on this island. She had nearly made his power over her unlimited.
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. They were still shaking too severely from the devastation of his lovemaking to accomplish their task. Her gaze was directed at their ineffectual movements, but she was aware of him moving to stand in front of her. She was incapable of looking at him.
“Sam.” The caressive warmth of his voice flowed over her.
When she refused to look at him, his fingers captured her hands and pulled them away from her blouse, permitting it to gape open. He made a thorough inspection of her feminine attributes, his gaze seeming to strip away the lacy bra. Still holding her hands, he twisted them gently behind her back and drew her hips against his muscular thighs. Her bones felt like putty in his hands.
“No!” Desperately Samantha denied the turmoil caused by his nearness.
“No?” His voice was low and mocking, his breath warm against her skin.
“No,” she repeated, more decisively this time as she lifted her gaze to his face. The dark glow of his gray eyes nearly destroyed her will to resist. “You wanted me to miss the launch,” she accused, “and you’ve succeeded. Now let me go.”
His gaze narrowed to pinpoints of sharp steel. The muscles along his strong jawline worked for convulsive seconds before he released her and stepped away, his expression hard and withdrawn.
Turning her back to him, Samantha quickly fastened the buttons of her blouse with none of the fumbling ineptitude of before. Without another glance in his direction, she started toward the thick undergrowth that separated the little clearing from the trail.
“Where are you going?” His voice rumbled low and ominous in command.
“To the house,” she flashed over her shoulder, sarcasm issuing to hide the pain. “Any objections?”
“None,” he snapped coldly.
Samantha didn’t stop until she had closed her bedroom door. She leaned weakly against its support, her legs trembling. The reflection in the mirror above the dresser revealed her dishevelled appearance, pine needles clinging to her hair and clothes. Pushing herself away from the door, she started walking toward the private bathroom, stripping off the soiled garments as she moved across the room.
Without waiting for the water to adjust to a comfortable temperature, she stepped beneath the freezing shower spray. But the stinging needles couldn’t erase the memory of the intimate touch of his hands, nor could the cold water chill the warmth lingering from the fires he had kindled.
Finally, she turned off the taps in defeat, wrapped one towel around her wet hair and with another covered her nakedness. With robotlike movements she returned to the bedroom, pulling clean undergarments from the dresser drawer and walking to the closet. She tossed a pair of light blue bell-bottoms onto the bed and reached for the matching pin-striped blouse.
With it in her hand, she noticed the blue windbreaker she had borrowed from Chris the night she had arrived. She wanted no physical reminders of him. Her fingers gripped the smooth material to violently jerk it from its hanger. It was halfway off the hanger when her arm became paralyzed, unable to complete the movement.
In numbed disbelief, she stared at the inside collar of the jacket. Black lettering spelled out the initials C.S. That was all, just C.S. Not C.S.A. for Christopher Steven Andrews. Slowly she pulled it from the hanger, examining closely to see if the last letter hadn’t somehow become faded. It didn’t take an expert to discern that there never had been another letter following the S.
Crumpling the windbreaker in her hands, she turned to move to the bed. She sagged onto the edge, staring sightlessly at the jacket. One piece of incriminating evidence didn’t prove the case. Too many times during the past few days she had been ready to accept the first information as the whole truth. She would not jump to conclusions again, not until she found something more to substantiate her discovery.
Not wanting to risk losing what she had, she stuffed the windbreaker between the mattress and box springs of the bed. The towel around her middle was cast aside as she hurriedly dressed in the clean clothes. Rubbing the worst of the dampness from her hair, she ran a quick comb through it and called it good enough. Entering the hallway, she closed the door on the cyclone mess of dirty clothes and wet towels strewn about the room. Tidying up could wait. Right now there was only one thought in her mind. The living room was empty and she breathed a sigh of relief and satisfaction.
With a cautious glance toward the adjoining rooms, she moved quietly to the study corner, her gaze seeking and finding the briefcase leaning against the side of the desk. She knelt beside it, pushing a clinging strand of hair from her cheek.
Her palms were wet with nervous perspiration, and she wiped them on the material of her slacks before reaching for the briefcase, keeping it upright to examine the area near the handle. The gold initials C.S. looked boldly back at her.
Minutely Samantha examined the leather for any mark or scar that would indicate a third letter had once been there. It never had. She had wanted proof to substantiate the markings on the windbreaker and she had found it. She slid the briefcase back to its former position, her hands settling on her knees to push herself upright.
“What are you doing?” The low, accusing male voice sent shafts of old fear plunging into her heart.
Samantha turned her head slowly toward Chris standing in the archway to the dining room, his immobility a challenging threat. But he wasn’t Chris. Whoever he was, he wasn’t Chris Andrews — nor Owen Bradley. Nervously she moistened her lips and straightened. Should she confront him with her discovery? No, she decided, not until she had a chance to think it over.
Her mind raced to find a plausible explanation for why she had been kneeling beside the desk. There wasn’t any. Her only hope was to bluff her way out.
“It’s none of your business what I was doing.” With head held high, she started toward the hallway.
But his long strides caught her before she could reach it. Her wrist was brutally seized, and twisted to jerk her toward him. The raging anger of his gaze scorched her face.
“I asked you a question and I want an answer,” he growled threateningly.
The pain from his grip was excruciating. The slightest additional pressure would snap the delicate bones in her wrist. Samantha gritted her teeth against the physical agony slicing through her arm, but it helped her remain indifferent to the hard thrust of his thighs that she was forced to arch against.
Frigidly she glared at his harsh features. “Let go of me!” Each word was spoken with icy clarity. “I don’t have to answer your question, and if you break my arm, you’ll have to take me off the island to have it set.”
He compressed his mouth into a taut line of checked violence. Samantha was released with an angry push before he pivoted to stride from the room. Weakly, she stared after
him, feeling not at all victorious.
For the rest of the afternoon, she didn’t budge from her room. Confusion muddled her thinking. She was obviously a prisoner. It didn’t seem to matter whether the island, or her bedroom, formed her walls. The reason she was being held escaped her, no matter how many times she went over it.
If it hadn’t been for the fact that she had spoken to her father and knew he was cognizant of her whereabouts, Samantha might have concluded that she had been kidnapped.
But Reuben did know.
The shadows outside had lengthened into evening hours when there was a knock on her door. She tensed, turning from the window to stare at the door.
“Who is it?” she demanded, knowing the answer before it was given.
“Chris,” he answered, and opened the door.
Liar! She wanted to scream at him. You aren’t Chris Andrews! I don’t know who you are, but you are not Chris Andrews! She glared at the bronze mask that so completely concealed any expression. But it wasn’t the words on the tip of her tongue that she uttered.
“What do you want?” she asked coldly.
“Dinner’s ready.”
“Just send some bread and water to my room. That’s good enough,” she declared with taunting disdain.
The mask hardened. “You will come to the table and eat,” he stated, then added, “if I have to drag you there and shovel the food down your throat.”
Her gaze challenged the gray shards of his for a few more seconds before she submitted to his edict. The food was tasteless, but she ate some of it. She was aware every second of the speculating glances given her by Maggie and Tom.
Her tight-lipped silence wasn’t something they could not notice. The instant dinner was over, she excused herself and retreated to her room, half expecting Chris — or whoever he was — to appear and order her into the living room. He didn’t.