In McGillivray's Bed

by Anne McAllister

  Then she settled back and smiled beatifically up at him. “Check.”

  Hugh set down the magazine and ambled over to look at the board. Then at her. She looked back, smiling.

  He sat down, then reached out and slid his queen over three spaces, took his hand away and lifted his gaze to hers, to watch her smile fade as realization dawned.

  “Checkmate,” he said.

  WAY to go, moron, Hugh congratulated himself grimly. You won.

  Won what?

  A night in his bed by himself?

  Whoopee.

  No, damn it, he thought savagely. He was getting his old life back!

  That was what he’d won. The freedom to throw what he wanted to throw wherever he wanted to throw it. The luxury not to do his dishes if he didn’t want to, to dump his dirty clothes on the floor and his laundry in the chair. The joy of being answerable to no one. And of having no one care if he showed up or stayed away, went down in a thunderstorm or came in out of the rain, lived or died.

  All the things he had pre-Sydney St. John.

  The only problem was he didn’t want them! And how damnably annoying was that?

  He didn’t want his old life back!

  He’d begun to realize he’d probably gone overboard a little bit in the clutter department as a reaction to the austerity of his Navy days. And he’d been a little more foot-loose than he actually enjoyed. He’d begun to look forward to coming back at the end of the day and finding someone waiting for him.

  Having Syd waiting for him.

  He liked taking Belle for walks on the beach with her or going for a swim in the ocean with her, teaching her how to snorkel or bait a fish hook. Of course she always had to know how to “do it right.” But the fact was he didn’t mind teaching her. It was kind of fun. She was so earnest, she made him laugh and tease her and then she laughed, too.

  And there was something about having someone care. Something about being the one special person in another person’s life.

  Hugh hadn’t really given it a lot of thought until he’d seen the way Carin looked at Nathan. It was as if the world wasn’t right—as if a vital piece was missing—unless Nathan was there.

  Same thing with Lachlan and Fiona. Hugh had never really begrudged his brother anything. They’d always been good friends, but far too different to be competitive. But Lachlan was vital to Fiona, and it only took one glance to see that. Wherever she was, she wanted him there.

  Sometimes, Hugh dared to think, Syd had looked at him like that. Sometimes when he came around the corner of the house after work, he would spot her sitting on the porch swing, and the moment she saw him coming, her eyes would simply light right up. She would smile and come to meet him. And then she would tell him about whatever new organizational structure she’d created to plague him and complicate his life.

  “So you’re well off without her,” he told himself again, lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind howl and the rain drum down.

  And it was true, damn it. She was Sydney St. John, mover and shaker, corporate hotshot, woman of many talents. And no matter what she’d been saying and no matter what she accomplished on Pelican Cay, she wasn’t going to stay.

  However she might smile at him now, she wasn’t going to smile forever.

  She was here for a reason—to learn to be her own person. Not her daddy’s daughter. Not Roland Carruthers’s useful-to-the-business wife. She’d stayed on the island to prove that she could do things on her own.

  And she was doing it.

  Which was probably why she wanted him to make love to her.

  Just one more way to prove herself?

  To show that she could get what she wanted?

  Hugh’s fingers tightened on the sheet. He twisted restlessly, trying to think.

  But his brain was worn-out. He’d expended his entire capacity for thought playing chess. He had no cognitive ability left. Only instinct.

  And his instinct knew just one thing: he wanted her.

  THERE was a leak over her bed.

  That was why there was moisture on her face.

  It had nothing to do with the mortification of laying her heart, not to mention her body, on the line—and losing!—to Hugh McGillivray, who had obviously been so appalled at the thought of having to make love to her that he’d somehow managed to win the game!

  Syd still couldn’t work out how he’d done it. Not analytically.

  His play had been so unorthodox she’d been completely confounded. How could you defend against a completely unsystematic attack? He hadn’t had a plan, she was sure. He’d had sheer blind luck.

  And she’d been humiliated.

  She’d put a good face on it. She might not have spoken for a full minute, but when she had, her voice had seemed quite steady.

  “Congratulations,” she’d said. She’d even managed a polite smile, and then she’d got up and started toward his bedroom.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get the clean clothes. I’ll dump them in the chair. And then I can—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Leave them. They’ll be back in the chair soon enough. You don’t have to get them now.”

  “But—”

  “Leave ’em, I said.”

  So she’d left them. She’d started to pick up the chess pieces and put the board away, but she hadn’t done that, either.

  Hugh wouldn’t want it put away. He’d want it lying around cluttering everything up.

  Fine. So be it. Easier for her.

  Easiest for her to quit the scene entirely. So she’d given Belle a pat, said a proper cordial good night to McGillivray, even though she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. And then she’d taken refuge in her room.

  Now she swiped at her eyes and rolled onto her side, determined to force herself to go to sleep. But, damn it, there really was a leak!

  And a squeak as the bedroom door opened.

  “Belle?” Syd started to roll back over.

  “Not Belle.” The sound of Hugh’s gruff voice shocked her.

  She rolled over quickly. “What are you doing?”

  What he was doing was crossing the room without a word. Then he dropped down on the bed beside her with such force that the bed frame shook. “You win.”

  “What?” She started to pull back but his arm pinned her down. “What do you mean? What are you doing?”

  “I’m giving up. Isn’t that what you suggested?” His voice was a growl in her ear. “You wanted this. You said you wanted it.”

  And then his lips met hers.

  The kiss was fierce and desperate and every bit as demanding as the first one he had given her. And her own desperation seemed less humiliating now. In fact, she barely recalled it, consumed as she was in the sensations of the present—in the heated crush of his lips, the questing thrust of his tongue, the clear urgency of his body pressed hard against hers.

  She locked her own arms around him, slid them up his back beneath his shirt, reveling in the silken heat of his skin. She peeled his shirt up, eager for him.

  And he jerked as if he’d been shot.

  “Hell! What the devil—” He rolled off her and glared up at the ceiling. “Damn it! It’s leaking!”

  “I’ll get a pan,” she began quickly, determined not to let a leaking roof put him off his stride. He was finally in her bed. There was no way she was letting him out now.

  But Hugh had a better idea. He was on his feet and scooping her into his arms in an instant, then striding out of the spare room and into his own where he laid her on the bed and loomed above her.

  The candle in the glass on his dresser spilled a narrow band of golden light across the room, allowing Syd to watch him, to relish the planes and angles, light and shadow of his lean muscular body as he stripped off his shirt and shorts.

  “Just so there’s no misunderstanding,” he said, his voice ragged. He stretched out on the bed alongside her. “I don’t give a damn what happens. The bloody house can blow dow
n. The Marines can land. There is no going back from here. I’m making love to you tonight and that’s that.”

  Syd placed a hand against his heart and felt it thundering beneath her fingers. She curled them into the soft, wiry hair on his chest, then smoothed it, flattened it and leaned in to press a kiss where her hand had been.

  Hugh sucked air. Then he rolled on top of her, straddled her thighs and looked down at her, his gaze hooded. The skin across his cheekbones was taut, and his breathing came quick and shallow now. Syd lay looking up at him, relishing the view, taking it all in, memorizing him from the intensity of his gaze to the hard muscles of his chest and the definition of his abs to the very blatant evidence of his arousal.

  She lifted a hand to touch him, but he caught it in his own and held on. “We’re going to play this the way you play chess.”

  Memory of her ignominious defeat surfaced and she frowned. “What does that mean?”

  He smiled, his eyes glinting in the candlelight as he bent toward her. Just before his lips touched hers, he answered her in a ragged voice. “Slow.”

  They went slow.

  Every move was languorous as he stroked his hands beneath her shirt, lifted it, then eased it off over her head. She would have unfastened her bra while she had raised up to permit him to pull off her shirt, but he shook his head.

  “Let me,” she said.

  But he didn’t. He pressed her back into the mattress, and traced the line of soft lace across her breasts with his finger, his touch light. It was like a feather, teasing a response from her.

  She squirmed. He smiled, and then followed his feathering touch with his tongue.

  “Hugh!” She arched up off the bed and fisted her hands in his hair.

  But he didn’t stop. He continued to lave her hot skin, his tongue dipping and teasing beneath the fabric as his hands worked deftly to free her breasts at last. So that when he finally did lift his head, the dampness he’d left on her burning flesh was cool in the night air.

  “Tease,” she muttered.

  He grinned lopsidedly. “Just making up for lost time. I’ve been thinking about doing that for days.” He settled back and looked down at her again, smiling his satisfaction at her near-naked body.

  “You have?” She was surprised. Then curious. “What else have you been thinking about?” she asked him disingenuously.

  “This.” His hands roved over her breasts, tracing circles on them, coming closer and closer to her taut nipples. Then he dipped his head and kissed first one and then the other, his soft hair brushing against her as his mouth moved to press a line of kisses down her abdomen.

  Then he lifted his head. “And this,” he told her. He shifted his position deftly, without her even realizing he’d done it, so that instead of straddling her thighs, he was now between her knees. He was still kneeling himself, but was free now to caress her thighs, to run his hands up the insides of them, to tease the tender flesh there.

  Syd trembled and ran her tongue over her lips, trying desperately to stay absolutely still, to pretend indifference, to deny how powerfully his touch affected her.

  Until he touched her there.

  Right there. Just there.

  “Oh!” The cry escaped her without her even knowing she’d done it, until she saw him smile, then do it again. And again. And again.

  He was stroking her, caressing her, opening her, stoking the fire within her. Making her writhe. Making her hips arch. Making her clench her toes and bite her lip as she tossed her head from side to side.

  And then the stroking slowed, gentled. His touch grew lighter. And Syd clenched her teeth, hating the slowness, the gentleness of his touch. She wanted it deeper, harder, faster. More.

  She was only vaguely conscious of the wind and rain now. The hammer of rain on the roof was nothing to the hammering of her own heart. The storm within was building inexorably. He was making love to her, playing her as if she were a violin.

  But it wasn’t enough. She hadn’t said, make love to me. She’d said with me. She wanted to make love to him, too.

  And so she resisted the storm he was unleashing within her, fought her own inclination to simply give in and go with it. This wasn’t just about her. It was about them. Both of them. That’s what love was—sharing.

  And so she reached to touch him, too.

  He jerked at her touch and his breath hissed out between his lips as his whole body seemed to tense. “SSSSSyd!”

  Now it was her turn to smile.

  “Yes?” Her gaze was slumbrous, her eyes heavy-lidded, but she watched him unblinkingly, learning his reactions, reveling in the power she had to make him tremble, to cause him to clench his teeth, to go rigid in an effort to hold perfectly still.

  At first her touch was featherlight, caressing the length of him. She felt a shudder run through him and watched him clench his teeth. Then she curved her fingers around him, wrapping him in the warmth of her hand, making him swallow a groan.

  They tempted, they teased, they touched.

  And then simple touches weren’t enough for either of them. They needed more. Hugh pushed forward into the heat of her body, sheathing himself in her, and Syd guided him, savored him, drew him in, then wrapped her legs around him and locked them together. As their bodies met, so their gazes did. And Syd gave him her heart in her eyes. His were so dark as to be unreadable.

  But he never looked away. Never shut her out as he began to move, filling her, making a place for himself inside her.

  That was it exactly. And Syd wanted him. Needed him. Welcomed him home.

  She arched to meet his thrusts, wrapped her arms around him, clinging for dear life as he shattered and she gave herself up to the storm.

  GOD in heaven, what a mess.

  It was the first thought Hugh had—when he finally managed a coherent one.

  It was at least an hour after he’d made love to her—and she to him—before he even remembered his own name. Right after their lovemaking he’d been drained, body and soul. He hadn’t cared if the roof leaked, if the house creaked or if the whole island blew away.

  It was all he could do to roll over and hold her in his arms, to listen to the thunder of her heart beating in time with his own and drift on the sensations still shuddering like aftershocks through his body. It had been the most incredible experience of his life—more memorable even than when he’d soloed in his first plane.

  And yet…it was wrong.

  Syd was asleep, happy for the moment in her dreams. He could see her cheek curve as she smiled.

  But he wasn’t smiling. He didn’t know what to do next.

  He knew what he shouldn’t have done. But it was too late to change that now.

  He’d been a fool to make love to her. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d gone to her because she’d goaded him, because he’d wanted her for days, because no matter what he’d done to get rid of it, the lust he felt hadn’t gone away.

  Sleep with her, damn it, he’d told himself. It’s what she wants, after all! She’d said so herself.

  And maybe that would do the trick.

  So he’d set aside the very scruples that had kept him from taking Lisa Milligan to his bed.

  He had made love to Sydney St. John for all the wrong reasons.

  And for all the right ones, too. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

  He loved her.

  Which meant that she was still in his system. Dug in deeper than ever. Under his skin like no woman—not even Carin—had ever been before. It was worse than loving Carin. Far worse.

  He had never made love to Carin Campbell. Had wanted to for years. Or so he’d thought. But now he couldn’t imagine it.

  His mind had no room for any other woman. It was filled with images of Syd naked beneath him, Syd in the throes of passion, Syd taking him into her body, Syd shattering in his arms.

  He had never met a woman who had affected him like Syd. Never met one who had captured him, heart and soul, blotting
all the others out of his mind. Loving Syd had made him forget that Carin Campbell even existed.

  He knew now that what he’d felt for Carin had been a dream. The fantasy of a young man’s hopes pinned on the wrong woman for him.

  Carin had known that.

  Now Hugh knew it, too.

  He knew how different that was from what he felt for Syd. She had been in his arms. He had loved her. Still did.

  He loved Syd. No one else.

  He wanted Syd. No one else.

  For all the good it did.

  He knew himself. Knew his strengths and weaknesses, his reach and his limitations. He couldn’t be Mr. Corporate Husband while his wife ran St. John Electronics. And even if he could, it didn’t matter because Syd would never want to marry him.

  They had been using each other from the very start.

  She had used him to avoid marrying Roland. He had used her to keep Lisa from infiltrating his life. Tonight she had wanted him to make love to her not because she was in love with him but because it had been part of her emancipation. One more way of declaring herself her own person, free of her father and Roland Carruthers.

  Just because she had turned her back on Roland Carruthers, that didn’t mean she’d turned her back on sex.

  Syd was a vital passionate woman. Who knew that better than him? From the very beginning something had sparked between them. Had it been chemistry? Hormones? An itch she’d wanted to scratch?

  Whichever. Hugh had been elected to scratch it.

  And that was that.

  There had been no “I love you…”

  Because she didn’t.

  He’d been a means to an end. No more, no less.

  HE WAS so quiet.

  Syd had never seen Hugh this quiet. Of course she knew he was exhausted. She didn’t have to be told that his flight back from Miami had been harrowing, even though he’d pretended otherwise. And she knew that their frenzied desperate lovemaking had shattered her, so it seemed only right to expect it had taken a toll on him as well.

  But she had slept afterward. She didn’t know about Hugh.