Wild About Harry

by Linda Lael Miller

  Amy laughed and twisted away from him, running toward the sparkling turquoise water. The dogs bounded after her, barking with delight at the game.

  She and Harry splashed each other in the lapping tide, and Amy felt as though all the grief had been erased from her past, leaving only the joy.

  "Who else lives on this island?" she asked later, when the two of them were sitting on the beach, their feet buried in the sand.

  Harry brushed a tendril of hair back from her forehead. "Just Elsa and her husband, Shelt. He's the gardener."

  Amy lay back with a sigh, looking up at an impossibly blue sky. Exotic flowers bloomed at the edges of the cove, orange ones, pink, violet and white. Birds that would only be seen in pet stores and zoos at home chattered in the trees, crazy splotches of living color.

  "This really is a garden of Eden," she said, recalling what Harry had said when they'd first arrived on the island. "I wish we could stay here forever."

  Harry stretched out beside her and gave her a brief but tantalizing kiss. "There's no reason why we can't. Live here with me, Amy. We'll start the world all over again."

  Amy blinked, and her throat tightened with emotion. "I can't do that," she said. "I have two children, remember? They need to go to school and spend time with their friends and with Tyler's family."

  Harry shrugged. "We'd live in the States half the year anyway, love. We could hire a nanny to look after Oliver and Ashley here on the island, and the Ryans would be welcome to visit at any time. They know that." He paused, gazing pensively out to sea. "There are worse things than growing up in paradise, you know."

  Deep down, Amy knew Oliver and Ashley would be happy here. They adored Harry, just as she did, and his island would seem like heaven on earth to them. When he got bored with domestic life, however, and wanted to return to the jet set, they'd be shattered.

  Losing Tyler had been enough trauma. Playing Swiss Family Robinson for a few months or years, then being abandoned again, would crush Oliver and Ashley, maybe destroy their ability to trust.

  "I want a ride in the sailboat," Amy announced, as much to change the subject as anything.

  "Tomorrow," Harry promised. He seemed troubled, distracted.

  That night, it rained as it can only rain in the tropics. The droplets were warm as bathwater, and Amy stood on the terrace outside Harry's room, her face turned upward and her arms outspread to welcome the deluge.

  "You're daft," Harry accused, but he laughed and kissed Amy and soon he was drenched, just as she was.

  When he finally hauled her inside the house and began toweling her dry, she saw that the bed was literally mounded with orchidlike blossoms. Some were pink, some white, but all were beautiful.

  A sweet ache constricted Amy's throat, and she stood still while Harry peeled away her sodden clothes, then his own. Finally, he laid her on the bed of flowers and made slow, gentle love to her.

  In the morning it was as though the rain had never fallen, so fiercely did the sun shine on the sea and the dazzling sand. Amy awakened slowly, cushioned in crushed petals, but this time when she reached out, Harry was beside her.

  "When are we going home?" she asked, dreading the answer. If it hadn't been for Oliver and Ashley, she would gladly have agreed to live on the island for the rest of her life.

  Harry rolled onto his side and kissed her breast. "Never," he replied throatily. "Consider yourself kidnapped, a one-woman harem."

  "Just promise never to give me back," she whispered, "no matter how high the ransom gets."

  Moments later, ransom was the farthest thing from Amy's mind. She was into unconditional surrender.

  After a leisurely shower together, and an equally unhurried breakfast in the kitchen, Harry and Amy took the picnic basket Elsa had packed and set out for the nearby cove where the sailboat was moored.

  "Take your clothes off," Harry ordered, when they reached the shore.

  "Already?" Amy countered, eyeing him skeptically.

  He laughed. "Yes. If you don't want to get them wet when you wade out to the boat." With that, Harry removed his cut-offs and T-shirt, rolled the garments up and secured them under the handles of the wicker picnic basket. Balancing that on top of his head, he stepped into the water, magnificently naked.

  Amy was considerably more self-conscious about stripping, even though she knew they were completely alone on that magical beach. Nonetheless, she followed Harry's lead, took off everything and marched into the water.

  After tossing the basket onto the deck, Harry vaulted over the side and reached down to help Amy in after him. The weathered old boards were smooth and warm from the sun.

  Amy could have languished there for a while, but Harry gave her a playful swat on the bottom and said, "What's this? A mutiny before we even weigh anchor?"

  Hastily, Amy rose and put her clothes back on, except for her shoes.

  After a few minutes of busy preparation, they set sail.

  "Where are we going?" Amy inquired, shading her eyes with one hand.

  "That island over there," Harry answered, pointing.

  Amy felt like an intrepid explorer. All her life she'd taken the safe and practical route, whenever a choice was offered. Now here she was in a foreign country, with a man she'd known only briefly, about to set sail in tropical seas.

  So what if their destination was clearly in sight?

  The water between Eden Island and its neighbor was so clear that Amy could see the reefs beneath the surface and the colorful fish that swam through intricate passages. When she saw a shark glide by, she drew back from the side of the boat, her mind filled with movie images.

  Harry, who was working with the sails, smiled at her reaction. "What did you see, love? A great white?"

  Amy felt the blood drain from her cheeks. "Do you mean to tell me that Jaws might be swimming around down there, at this very moment?"

  Harry laughed. "A famous shark like that? Not likely, rose petal. He's living in the South of France and wearing sunglasses so his fans won't recognize him."

  "Very funny," Amy replied grudgingly, peeking over the side of the boat again. The spectacle going on down there was just too good to miss.

  When they reached the other island—if it had a name of its own, Harry didn't mention it—Amy was possessed by a remarkably pleasant feeling that she and Harry were completely alone on the planet.

  The only sign that anyone else had ever visited the island before was a tree house wedged between two massive palms. Small boards had been nailed to the trunk of one of the trees to form a crude ladder, and the structure's thick roof appeared to have been woven from long, supple leaves.

  "Yours?" Amy inquired.

  Harry looked away. "I built it for my stepdaughter, Eireen. Unfortunately, Madeline—my wife—never gave the poor little thing a chance to be a child."

  Amy touched his arm lightly, then pushed up nonexistent sleeves—she was wearing a T-shirt—and started up the ladder.

  "Best let me go first, love," Harry remarked presently, when she'd climbed about five rungs. "Could be snakes up there."

  Amy was back on the ground with the speed and dispatch of a cartoon character. "Snakes?" she croaked.

  Harry took a manly stance for effect, then began to climb deftly toward the tree house, the picnic basket in one hand. There was a rustling sound, followed by a fallout of leaves and dirt, then Harry peered down at her from a crudely shaped, glassless window.

  "All clear, rose petal," he called.

  Amy ran her tongue over her dry lips and then stepped onto the first rung, gripping another with both hands.

  Although there were no snakes in the tree house, it was clear enough that other things had been nesting in there. For all of that, it was a lot of fun, yet another thing Amy had never done before.

  "Come here," Harry said, and Amy went straight into his arms. It did not even occur to her to resist.

  His kiss was one of thorough mastery; the slow dance of their tongues soon became a duel of pas
sion. Amy felt as though a sudden fever had set in, and by the time Harry had removed her T-shirt, then her bra, then the rest of her clothes, she was weak with the need to surrender.

  He enjoyed her, like some juicy tropical fruit, for a long, torturously sweet interval, wringing response after response from her. When he finally made her his own, she came apart in his arms as uninhibited as a jungle tigress with her mate.

  After her senses were restored, Amy found herself lying on the floor of the tree house, where Harry had spread a soft blanket taken from the picnic basket. While Harry caressed her—he was lying quietly beside her, still recovering from his own invasion of heaven—Amy felt strong enough to permit herself memories of love-making with Tyler.

  Her late husband had been a tender, considerate lover always, and Amy had learned a woman's secrets in his arms. She had to admit, though, that there had never been the sense of wild abandon she felt with Harry. It was a different sort of passion, more mature and more intense.

  And far more dangerous.

  He slid down to kiss the flat of her stomach. "Stay with me, Amy," he said hoarsely. "Please."

  Harry had never said "I love you," nor had he asked her to be his wife. Amy was pretty sure he was marriage-shy after his first experience, and a sophisticated man of the world like him would expect an uncomplicated relationship with no strings attached.

  "I can't," she said, as a soft tropical rain began to patter on the roof of dried leaves. She'd loved being married; Tyler had shown her just how marvelous a physical and spiritual partnership could be. For the first time since his death, Amy felt ready to make a real and lasting commitment to someone new.

  They ate their picnic lunch naked, cozy inside the dank and dusty tree house, talking quietly, but the day had lost some of its magic.

  When the rain let up, late that afternoon, they returned to the boat and sailed back to Harry's island.

  Harry made a fire on the living-room hearth, because the rain had returned and there was a slight chill in the air.

  That night, for the first time since their adventure had begun, Harry and Amy didn't make love.

  They spent the next two days walking the beaches, soaking up the medicinal Queensland sun, playing backgammon on the terrace. Lying next to each other at night, they were unable to resist the magnetism, and while their lovemaking was as ferociously satisfying as ever, there was a distance about it. A certain reserve.

  Amy's heart was heavy when they left the island on the morning of the third day; she thought she knew now how Eve must have felt when she and Adam had been driven from the Garden.

  Harry kept himself busy in the cockpit of the jet, while Amy wandered aimlessly around the cabin, wishing the dream never had to end.

  They landed in Sydney a few hours later, and Harry returned from the controls.

  "You'll need an evening gown if you brought one," he said, as though speaking to a casual acquaintance instead of a woman he'd made love to in beds of flowers and in a tree house.

  They rode downtown in yet another limousine, over the famous bridge, and their hotel suite boasted a view of the Opera House and the harbor.

  Still, the mood was subdued, and Amy couldn't help thinking that, glamorous surroundings or none, Cinderella time was over. The glass slipper wasn't going to fit.

  7

  * * *

  Harry Griffith was a man who planned his life years in advance. He knew details about his future other people wouldn't even begin to consider until they'd passed the age of sixty.

  One thing he had definitely not planned on, however, was falling in love.

  He turned from the window overlooking Sydney Harbor when he sensed Amy's presence, and the sight of her standing there in her light blue, sleek-fitting dress practically stopped his heart. Still, cool reserve was Harry's strong point; he'd relied on the trait for so long that it was second nature to him now.

  Amy's eyes were bright with a peculiar mixture of defiance and hope, and Harry made up his mind in that moment that he would sacrifice anything to have her for his own. His pride, his fortune—anything.

  He took her to see Madame Butterfly at the Opera House, and then the two of them had dinner in an out-of-the-way restaurant Harry had always favored.

  "What did you think of the opera?" Harry finally asked. The question came out smoothly, as the things he said nearly always did, but behind the facade his emotions were churning in secret.

  Amy took a sip of her wine before answering. "I've seen it before, of course," she replied, looking uncomfortable. "I always cry and I always get angry because Pinkerton shows so little regard for Butterfly's feelings. He goes into the marriage planning to dump her later, for a 'real wife.'"

  Harry felt a rhythmic, thumping headache begin behind his right temple. Only when it was too late, when they'd already taken their seats in the Opera House, had he realized that Madame Butterfly was probably a poor choice because it dealt with the subject of male treachery.

  "All men aren't like Pinkerton, of course," he said quietly.

  Amy didn't look convinced. "When a man travels a lot," she said distractedly, "there are temptations. I have a friend who used to be married to an airline pilot, and he had a playmate in every city between here and Buffalo, New York."

  Harry arched an eyebrow. "Busy man," he allowed. "Amy, what is it? What's really troubling you?"

  He saw the battle going on behind her beautiful hazel eyes and wondered whether he was winning or losing.

  "I think I'm in love with you," she said, as though confessing that she'd contracted some embarrassing disease.

  Staid, sedate Harry Griffith. It was all he could do not to leap onto his chair and shout the news to everyone in the restaurant. "That's a problem?" he asked.

  "Yes!" she whispered furiously. "You're a rich man! You have your own jet and a private island!"

  "I'll try to reform," Harry promised.

  Amy's cheeks glowed pink, and her wondrous eyes were now glistening with tears. "I can't share you with all the other women you probably know. I won't!"

  "You don't have to," he said reasonably.

  She stared at him for a moment. "What?"

  "Amy, you're not the only one who's fallen in love here."

  She dropped her fork. "You're saying that you—that I—that we—"

  "I love you, Amy. I thought you understood that when I kept asking you to stay with me—I believe I said something poetic about our starting a new world together."

  She picked up her fork again and waved it like a baton. Her mouth moved, as though she would deliver a lecture, but no sound came out.

  "I'm asking you to marry me," Harry said, figuring he'd better grab the opportunity to speak while her tongue was still tangled. "I'll sell the island and we'll spend all our time in the States. I'll wear baseball caps, drink beer and call you 'babe,' if that's what you want. And even though it goes without saying, I'm going to say it anyway—I'll never be unfaithful to you."

  A tear scurried down Amy's cheek. "You'll get tired of us, Ashley and Oliver and me."

  "No way," Harry answered, his voice sounding hoarse. "Amy, men are capable of making solid commitments. You know that. Tyler did."

  She obviously had no argument. Tyler had made her happy, and Harry blessed his late friend for that, silently promising Ty, as well as himself, that he would never bring Amy anything but joy.

  "I wouldn't want you to sell the island," Amy said after a long time. "If you did, we'd never be able to make love in the tree house again."

  "Are you saying yes?" Harry inquired, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

  "Yes," she replied, and then there were more tears. Happy ones, silvery in the candlelight.

  Once again, Harry kept himself from shouting for joy, but just barely. He paid the check and, after the waiter had pulled back Amy's chair, helped her into her wrap. When they reached the waiting limousine, he opened the door for her and gave the driver very rational directions.

  It was
only when they reached the privacy of their hotel suite that he put his hands on either side of Amy's slender waist, hoisted her over one shoulder and carried her to bed for a proper celebration.

  In the morning Amy and Harry went shopping. She bought a toy koala bear for Ashley and a Crocodile Dundee hat for Oliver, and Harry bought an engagement ring.

  He put it on her finger that afternoon, on board the jet, with Australia falling away behind them. Amy was pretty certain she could have flown home without an airplane, she was so happy.

  Twenty-six hours later, they touched down in Seattle. Harry drove her home in his van.

  "You're going to need some time to recuperate," he said, when they were standing in her kitchen. "I have some business to take care of in New York, but I'll call you when I get back."

  Jealousy flared in Amy's heart, but she was too tired from all that traveling and lovemaking to nurture the flame. If she was going to love Harry, then she had to trust him as well.

  "I love you," she said.

  He kissed her, weakening her knees and causing her heart to catch. "And I love you," he replied, his voice a low ramble.

  The first thing Amy did was call the number in Kansas that Louise had given her. She talked to both Oliver and Ashley, who were having a grand time at the reunion, but said nothing about her own trip or the wedding awaiting her in the future. Those were subjects she wanted to bring up in person.

  "We'll be home next Tuesday, according to Grampa," Ashley said. "I'm bringing you something really neat."

  Amy smiled, picturing an ashtray in the shape of Kansas or maybe a plate bearing a painting of the state bird. "I'll be looking forward to that," she said.

  After saying goodbye, Amy immediately dialed her friend Debbie. She would listen to the messages on her answering machine later.

  "What do you mean, you went to Australia with Harry Griffith?" Debbie demanded, the moment the receptionist at the clinic put Amy through to her office.

  Amy smiled, perched on the edge of her desk and wrapped the phone cord idly around one finger. "He asked me to marry him," she said. "And I said yes."