Eden's Spell

by Heather Graham

  “Want me?” he asked her suddenly, hoarsely.

  She nodded, not bothering to close her eyes.

  “Take me.”

  And she did. Her fingers closed around him, stroking him, drawing him, the hot fluid core within her flaring ever brighter with his shudders, his groans of pleasure.

  Then he was sheathed within her, a vital, fluid part of her, with strokes that promised, strokes that withheld, movement, rhythm, swift and powerful, growing. He was drawing her ever higher into a whirlwind of ecstasy, making it last and last, creating a raging sea of sensation, until she thought she would explode with it, until she did explode with it, in a moment so bright that it seemed that stars burst all around her in prisms of beautiful, blinding delight, delight matched only by the feel of him finding that same delight within her, flooding her with a sea of himself.

  And even then, even then, she felt as if she were cradled within the beautiful, warm depths of a tropic sea, held, cherished, soothed. She was floating down on clouds—not pink ones, but clouds that were as sheer as silk, tender, gentle clouds, easing the beat of her heart, the gasp of her breath.

  He touched her hair, smoothed it from her face. Then he smiled at her, tenderly and openly.

  And then, only then, did he snuff out the candle. And then, only then, did it seem he had no words.

  But neither did she. She was content to lie beside him, savoring the feel of his body, basking in the knowledge of his masculinity. She loved the strength of his arm, so comfortable around her.

  But in time, she stirred.

  “I’ve got to get back to my own room. Jason—”

  He held her tight and kissed her forehead. “Trust me. I awake at exactly six A.M. like clockwork. Stay beside me.”

  “But—”

  His mouth found hers. He spoke between kisses. “Trust me. Let me love you again.”

  Trust me. She clung to the words, because she couldn’t deny him. She was attuned to him, alive to his touch, and already she was more than eager to be loved again.

  Apparently, Mike Taylor did have a body alarm clock; he awoke her at exactly six. She desisted at first, lazily trying to curl back into his arms, then glanced at her wristwatch. Two minutes past six on the nose.

  She kissed him quickly, was pulled back into his warm, warm embrace, and then released. Grabbing her towel, she retreated to her own room and promptly, very contentedly, returned to a deep sleep.

  She awoke again because it was light, beautifully, brilliantly light. The storm was past, and Mike had apparently reopened the shutters.

  She smiled, stretched lethargically, then froze again, wondering how she was going to face him this morning, then wondering how she was going to bear it when he went away.

  Don’t think about it yet! she pleaded with herself. Just let it be; appreciate all that he has done for you, for your belief in yourself.

  She didn’t even want to ponder that last thought, so she jumped out of bed, took a quick, cold shower, and dressed in shorts and a halter top. With the sun streaming so brilliantly, it was sure to be scorching hot.

  She really didn’t let herself think as she hurriedly brushed her well-tousled hair, then rushed out of her room. She had to face him in daylight—and do it quickly, before she could retreat behind a new wall of rational thinking.

  She forced herself to think of what an absolutely beautiful day it was as she walked down the hall; it was so very, very bright after all the darkness. Was everything exceptionally beautiful and perfect today, or was it just her, seeing it all with new eyes, eyes that had been reopened by a man named Michael Taylor?

  Mike was in the kitchen with Jason, showing him how to make toast on a griddle. His eyes rose instantly from his task and met hers across the room. Then he gave her a smile that was deep, a smile that denied nothing, that made her feel uniquely wonderful and glad to be alive.

  She walked into the kitchen. “Want some eggs to go with that toast?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Mornin’, Mom!” Jason said.

  Mike lifted his brows. “Don’t you think the eggs might be bad by now?”

  “Nonsense!” she replied briskly, and she wondered if her eyes were sparkling like his, reflecting the sweet, intimate secret they shared. “Some of us think to put the beer in the freezer. Then some of us move the eggs in as well!”

  Jason laughed with delight. Katrina got out the eggs and decided that the American cheese would be okay, too, and that she could make omelettes.

  Mike handed her a cup of coffee over the counter, then leaned against it, still smiling lazily, leisurely.

  “Coffee every morning,” she commented. “Maybe you’re not so bad to have around.”

  “Coffee,” he replied, “is easy. I perk right along with it when I—sleep as well as I did last night.”

  Her fingers trembled slightly, just from a graze with his. She felt a little dizzy, just from breathing the air around him. He touched the air with his scent, with his presence.

  “Eggs,” she murmured aloud, and promptly dropped the first one she picked up.

  “Mom!” Jason laughed, hurrying for a paper towel. “She’s really not a klutz!” he informed Mike so solemnly that Katrina had to smile as she bent to help her son clean the floor. Oh, Jason, I like him too. You’re too young to understand how much!

  “Maybe I should handle the eggs—” Mike was starting to say, but he never finished the sentence, because there was a loud rapping against the kitchen wall, a voice that called out, and the sudden appearance of an old, old man.

  “’Trina, Jason, you in there?”

  “Harry!”

  Katrina was quickly on her feet, ready to greet him. Harry Anderson was a good friend to her and Jason. He was small and bony with a thin, gaunt face, but he had eyes of so bright a blue that they defied age. According to him, he had been born somewhere between 1895 and the turn of the century. He was wrinkled like an old peach, but he was as spry as a pup. Due to good living, he’d told her once: a shot of good whiskey before bed every night, a pipeful of Cherry tobacco after dinner, and women—except that they didn’t seem to be making them his age anymore!

  “Harry? How did you get here?”

  “I got worried about you in the storm, so I motored on out. Who and what in tarnation are you there, then, sonny?”

  Katrina wanted to laugh; Mike seemed so startled at being referred to as “sonny.” But he took it all in stride, stepping forward to offer Harry his hand.

  “Captain Michael Taylor, sir, U.S.N.”

  Harry studied Michael carefully, then took the hand offered to him. He gazed at Katrina again. “This boy’s got a grip like a damned bull mastiff. Must be all right. Friend of yours?”

  “Ah—yes, a marooned friend,” she lied. Her eyes met Jason’s rather than Mike’s. Her son’s gaze answered her own, and she realized that she had already told her first lie in Mike’s defense.

  “That your boat on the shore, son?”

  Mike’s eyes widened with excitement. “Washed up—on the shore? It’s not broken to bits?”

  Harry shook his head. “It’s dug itself straight into the beach. Sitting at a slant, though. And there’s a hole in her hull; I’m not too sure she’ll ever be seaworthy again.”

  Mike shook his head. “That doesn’t really matter—there’s just some things I might be able to get off of her.” He turned to Katrina. “I’m going down to see what I can get. If you see a bunch of men in uniform next, don’t get panicky.” He gazed at Harry and grimaced. “The Navy, you know. They’ll be looking for me.”

  He waved quickly and left them. Harry watched him go, then turned to Katrina. “I’m going to motor on back to the main island, young lady, and give your folks a call. Your phone’s been out, and your ma and pa have been frantic.”

  “Oh, Harry, bless you!” Katrina said gratefully.

  “Can I ride over with Harry?” Jason asked.

  “No,” Katrina said instantly. The islands, she knew, would be a me
ss. There would be downed power lines everywhere, and flooded roads.

  “Let him come with me,” Harry urged her. “If his grandma hears his voice, she’ll be real relieved. I’ll go straight to the MacKenzie docks, and straight back. I’ll watch him with me life, that I will!”

  With both of them looking at her with huge, pleading eyes, Katrina consented. Harry would drop dead a thousand times over before he let anything happen to Jason. And Jason had more common sense than most grown-ups. He would be careful.

  “Oh … all right,” she agreed.

  Then they, too, were gone. She sighed and started picking up the uneaten toast. She sipped her coffee, then jumped off her stool. Jason and Harry would be gone for a couple of hours. She was alone, with no responsibilities. If she wanted, she could actually run down to the beach and help Michael.

  She didn’t stop to decide whether or not he would want the help, she just ran. Or rather, she stumbled, picking her way through all the fallen debris.

  A little breathlessly, she arrived on the beach. Just as Harry had said, the Maggie Mae was there, so deeply rooted into the sand that she might have been built there.

  “Michael!” she called out, standing on the sand, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun.

  He appeared on the deck, balancing carefully, since it was, indeed, on an angle.

  “She’s perfect!” he called down to Katrina excitedly. “Perfect! A few smashed cups, that’s it!”

  “Can I help?”

  “No, but come aboard! Every man likes to work with a beautiful woman around!”

  Katrina stepped forward. He reached down to help her, catching her arms, pulling her straight over the rim with little effort.

  “You’re just flattering me!” she protested.

  He held her against him so that the hair on his chest tickled her nose. “I meant it, Katrina!” he whispered huskily. Then he broke from her, frowning. “Where’s Jason?”

  She smiled. “Gone to Islamorada with Harry. It will be at least a two-hour trip.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “Jason has to talk to my mother. That could take forever.”

  “Troubled waters there?”

  “Oh, no! I love Mathilda to death. But if you think I’m something to tangle with, you should meet Matty on a tangent!”

  Mike laughed, then hugged her again. “Two hours,” he said thickly. “Give me fifteen minutes here, and then we’ll have a hundred and five of them anywhere you want.”

  With a wicked smile he turned and ducked back into the cabin. Katrina stared up at the sun for a minute, then followed him in. He wasn’t in the galley; she heard him rummaging around in his sleeping quarters.

  She started to pick up the broken cups.

  “Katrina.”

  Startled, Katrina turned around. He had come out of the cabin and was leaning against the door, staring at her with a look so tense that it brought chills to her spine.

  “Michael?”

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “What?” she demanded, suddenly very wary.

  He swallowed miserably and came toward her. Before he spoke, she knew that she wanted to run—again—from a new pain she didn’t understand.

  “Katrina, I have to tell you about the boat. The drug. You see, you pulled at my mask. I was hit with it too. The dreams that you were having—that is, you and I—”

  She inhaled in, a desperate, pained gasp, and exhaled in a scream. “Oh, my God! It was real! You used me! You—”

  “No, damn you! It wasn’t like that—”

  She wrenched away from him and clutched the nearest thing and threw it at him; it was a piece of a shattered mug. He was too startled and confused to duck; it caught him right across the forehead, leaving a thin strip of blood.

  “I’ll kill you!” she raged. “You told me to trust you! You liar! You hoax! You bastard!”

  “Katrina, it wasn’t—”

  “You used me! And then you lied! Oh, my Lord, you took the worst advantage of me possible! You and your pink clouds! Oh! I swear I’ll see you in jail for the rest of your life! How could you? And the things that you said last night! You liar! What were you trying to do? Cover your tracks? Get me into bed willingly just in case there were any—were any …”

  “Were any what?” he demanded furiously, his lips pressed so tightly together then that they were white.

  “Repercussions!” she shouted. “Oh! I hate you! I—”

  Her fingers closed around another piece of broken mug. She threw it, and then another, and another. She could barely see; she was blinded with rage and by her tears.

  But he was expecting her fury now; he ducked all her missiles easily, then started coming for her.

  “No!” she yelled, aware at last that he was bleeding at the forehead and bore a look that threatened definite violence. She turned and stumbled out of the cabin. She crawled to the bow gunwale and jumped down to the sand. It was farther than she had expected, and she fell face first into it. Sputtering, she tried to get to her knees.

  His weight sent her sprawling downward again. He rolled her over, straddled her, and pinned her down, every bit as furious as she had been.

  “Stop it, Katrina!”

  Tears stung her eyes; her heart pounded unbearably, she desperately wanted to get away from him.

  “Don’t! You can quit the act now! You—”

  “I didn’t do a damn thing! You came to me!”

  “It was your stinking drug!”

  “Yes, damn it, and thanks to you, I’d gotten a bit myself.”

  “So that’s what it is! You are insane! What, is this drug something to cheer up manic depressives, or is it a war weapon? Oh, my God, the Russians will just love you when they find themselves copulating like animals all over the place.”

  “They’d love me a whole lot less if they were walking around maimed and bleeding and dying of radiation sickness! And the damned thing isn’t perfected yet! It works on the mind by acting on dreams and ideals that are already there! Damn you, Katrina! If you hadn’t been indulging in fantasies you were afraid to live, it might not—”

  “You bastard!”

  “You knew it! It doesn’t erase memory! You knew damned well that you’d been with me!”

  “No!” She shook her head furiously in denial. “Oh, and I hate you more for last night. It was a lie! It was such a damn lie. All done to cover—”

  “Cover what?”

  “I told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “In case I’d gotten pregnant the other time,” she spat out.

  “Pregnant! You do have the mind of a pure shrew! Last night happened because you wanted me and I wanted you,” Mike insisted angrily.

  “How could I want you when I totally loathe you?” Katrina cried, tears welling in her eyes.

  “You are a coward, and the worst liar I’ve ever known, because you’re even willing to lie to yourself!”

  “The only liar around here is you! You told me to trust you, and you’re nothing but a sham—just like last night, just like everything that goes on between us.”

  Suddenly he grabbed her and kissed her hungrily; then he let her go, leaving her trembling, breathless. “Now do you want to tell me that last night was a sham?”

  His fingers were in her hair; she had no chance to reply, because as soon as her mouth opened, his covered it again. There was anger in his kiss, but something more, something so yearning and fierce that it couldn’t be denied.

  Then his lips were gone from hers, and he was looking at her passionately.

  “I won’t let you go! I won’t let you retreat again! Listen to me! He is dead! Your husband is dead! But it’s him you betray if you refuse to love again. You discredit everything that was ever good and beautiful between you. I’m sorry for the foul-up. I’m sorry for the pink cloud. But I’m not sorry I touched you, and I swear that I will not stop!” He paused, his breath ragged. “Dammit, I care! And I need you!”

  That was it; those l
ast frustrated words, the desperation in them, the emotion, electric and potent, touching her. And it was more. It was the pure explosion of passion, nurtured to volcanic levels by the tension between them. His lips found hers again, his hands were touching her.

  And there was nothing left to deny. She had no reason, no sense, not even pride. She was suddenly touching him, too, winding her arms around his neck, pressing against him, loving him, as eager to shed her clothing beneath the sun as he was to remove it. She was desperate to be a part of him.

  They soared to a brilliant place above the anger, above the pain. They were barely aware that the surf played over their feet, that the sand covered their bodies, that gulls and pelicans flew above them. The flame that rose between them flared, burned, crested, leaving them tangled together in the sand, just breathing, panting, stunned—and suddenly quite silent.

  At last, Mike rolled away from her. He stood, and pulled his trousers back on. He walked out to the surf, letting it soak his legs, staring out to sea.

  His back was to her. “Katrina … I …”

  “Ahoy, there!” a voice called out.

  Mike ducked, then raced back to Katrina, bringing her the scattered pieces of her clothing. She pushed him away in a flurry of humiliation and rolled ridiculously into the surf to dress.

  “Ahoy, there—Michael?”

  “Admiral, I’m here,” he said. He walked around the bow slowly, stalling for time.

  Then another name came from his lips, stated with something far less than pleasure.

  “Albert, what in the hell are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KATRINA WAS DRIPPING WET when she emerged from the surf, and feeling absolutely ridiculous.

  But it could have been much worse, she realized. The men in uniform could have appeared just five minutes earlier.

  There were three of them, all in white, standing on the other side of the beached bow of the Maggie Mae. One was an older man, stiff and straight with snow-white hair beneath his cap, worn and creased features, and pleasant green eyes.