“Last night?” Christina queried.
“Oh it was nothing really. She just said this morning that she couldn’t go to sleep last night with the worry that you had caught a chill in that dress you were wearing, tired as you were and so needlessly exposed to the night air. She’ll probably speculate pneumonia if she sees you wearing that,” and he pointed to the bag containing the pareu, “around.”
With the gesture towards the scarf dress and unaware of the puzzled expression on Christina’s face, Arthur glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going or you’re going to be late for your lesson.”
Chapter 6
As they drove silently to the dive shop, a trip that took only a few minutes, Christina’s anxiety about the lesson began to grow. Through correspondence, her father, Arthur and she had carefully planned the entire trip and the lessons months before, but like the trip itself, diving lessons had been something in the future. She was to receive one week of intensive private diving lessons. During this same period she and Arthur would meet with a photographer and the assistants who would be with them as they searched for the wreck site.
Christina recognized herself as a strong swimmer and she was committed to experiencing the exploration first hand from the moment they talked about the search years ago. If she had succeeded in teaching her father anything during their twenty two years together it was once she became committed to a goal she would do whatever necessary to achieve it despite the insecurities she might experience in the process. The search for the cannon had become one of her goals. She was determined that someone else would not take credit for its find. Leaving her father in poor health had been a terribly difficult decision, but H. Trent had pieced together the puzzle and no one else was a more logical choice as his representative. Competition among archeologists, in a world of shrinking discoveries, was becoming keen and thus far the details of the search were known only by Arthur and her. She was determined to follow through with the plan and her recall of that determination eased her sense of anxiety as they stopped in front of the dive shop.
As Arthur opened the door for her a string of bamboo door chimes announced their arrival. Seated behind the counter of the small shop a handsome native man of about 45, Christina guessed, sat looking up from a magazine he had been reading. His white teeth flashed in a wide friendly greeting and Christina’s apprehension was lessened even more at the prospect of having so amiable an instructor.
“Hello….hello!” he welcomed as he stepped from behind the counter, his large muscular arm extended in her direction. He was shorter than Arthur, but was powerfully built like a wrestler, Christina thought. Surely she would be safe under his watchful eye. Dressed in khaki shorts and a buff colored tee shirt with the shop’s logo on it, he grasped Christina’s hand.
“You must be Miss Weldon. Just on time. Just on time,” he repeated to the tempo of his handshake. “And how are you today, Mr. Vaughn?” He extended his hand to Arthur.
“I’m fine, Joe. Christina I’d like you to meet Joe Simpson. He’s going to work with us on the dive.”
Joe’s bright face beamed in agreement and partially turning he offered, “May I get you some coffee? Clay isn’t here yet. He’ll be your instructor, Miss Weldon. He had to go into town earlier, but he shouldn’t be long.”
Disappointment struck Christina at the news of her misconception but she refrained from showing it. “I don’t care for any, thank you,” she answered looking automatically to Arthur for his reply.
“No thank you Joe, I’ve got to leave.”
As he turned to Christina, Arthur sensed her surprise at the announcement that Joe was not going to be her instructor but rather it would be someone she would meet in Arthur’s absence.
“You’ll be fine Christina. Clay is a terrific instructor and you’ll do better without my being an audience.” He reached out and squeezed her hand.
“I know that I’ll be fine Arthur, I just thought…” Christina withdrew her hand.
Glancing again at his watch, Arthur grimaced at the time and interrupted, “I’m sorry to be so rushed today, but I promise I’ll be on time, home and where ever you are the rest of the week Christina.”
On his way out the door Arthur turned for a moment and said “You’re going to love it. I want to hear about every detail at dinner. Joe will bring you home when you’re finished.”
The bamboo chimes in the doorway were swung aside as the door opened and Arthur was suddenly gone in a blur of clattering sounds and the pendulum-like motions of the chimes as they reverberated against the wood of the door. A feeling of abandonment, similar to that of a child being left for the first swimming lesson, crept over Christina. Here she was, once again, standing alone with a stranger longing to feel some support, needing some sense of security in this so far, lonely trip.
Joe’s voice from behind her shook Christina from the edge of anger. “Clay will be here any minute, Miss Weldon. I think that I’ll have you change in the back room, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Joe began walking into the adjacent room and towards a small, curtained cubicle. Christina followed him reluctantly, but with an air of cooperation.
“If you’ll give me your purse and jewelry, I’ll lock them up-front.” She assumed he sensed her hesitation. “I’ll shut the door and you can come out when you’re ready.”
As he closed the door Christina stepped towards the small, well lighted dressing area. Around the area was a disarray of diving equipment and objects that were unfamiliar to her. Removing her blouse and shorts, Christina stepped cautiously out of her bra and panties, nervousness welling in her stomach and along the sides of her neck. In the strange shop, with only a small curtain between herself and the room, Christina felt enormously vulnerable. Her intellect however, quickly overrode these emotions and she quelled her fearful impulse as she untangled the straps on her one piece bathing suit. At the same moment the sounding of the bamboo chimes on the outer door alerted Christina into a frozen position. All of her senses collected in the act of hearing the muffled voice of a man as it came ever nearer the door to the room in which she was standing. Her breath halted within her as the door began to open and she heard the unmistakable voice of the over-bearing Mr. Corbett addressing Joe.
“I’m going to stop by Penny’s house later. I haven’t seen her for a week.” His voice nearing the curtain, Christina instinctively covered herself with her suit.
Clutching the suit against her breasts a wave of terror struck through Christina as a loud crash occurred just on the other side of the curtain. She screamed at the sound and the sight of a silvery round cylinder rolling partially under the fabric wall that was shielding her from whoever and whatever was happening just inches away from her naked body.
“Sorry about that,” came a smooth apology. It’s just an air tank I dropped. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Christina recoiled to the back of the tiny space as she saw the man’s veined, muscular arm and hand reach into the space near her legs and grasp the tank. As quickly as he had walked into the room, the man and the tank he was carrying were gone and Christina leaned back against the cool wall, shut her eyes and felt her breathing start again. Color returned to her face and with it a renewed sense of anger over this man’s intrusiveness. “Who in the world does he think he is?” she said to herself. A delayed shudder of relief and frustration ran along her legs as she quickly stepped into her suit. Smoothing the high cut cloth against her gracefully slender hips she flung the curtain of the cubicle aside and stepped assertively towards the door where she paused. What if he is just on the other side? A tremor of fear weakened her legs.
She called through the door, “Mr. Simpson, are you out there?”
The welcome clarity of Joe’s British accent reinforced Christina’s ability to stand steadily. “If you’re ready Miss Weldon, step out here and we’ll fit you with a tunic.”
Opening the door slowly Christina’s fears were immediately confirmed by the sight of the large fram
ed stature of Mr. Corbett who was standing arms crossed, stance widened, beside Joe.
Without taking his eyes off Christina’s face, he said goodbye to Joe who was turning and moving towards the outside door.
“I’ll see you later,” Joe offered.
“It was nice meeting you Miss Weldon.” Joe raised his hand in Christina’s direction.
Christina wanted to call out to Joe. She wanted to ask him not to leave her here alone with this man, but he was gone before she could think of the words, her mind seeming to race past her ability to move.
Mr. Corbett’s eyes broke their hold on her and began a slow, rhythmic appraisal of her body. Christina’s sense of nakedness was greater than any sensation she had imagined herself ever feeling. Though her feet felt riveted to the floor she found herself beginning to turn toward some sanctuary that must lie somewhere behind her.
“You were right Miss Weldon. You are all grown up.” His words made Christina feel all the more exposed and vulnerable in the small shop.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, turning back to him, an edge of angry dismay in her voice.
As his eyes continued to examine her body he removed his baseball cap, threw it on the counter and ran his strong fingers through the thick waves of his sun bleached hair. His brows arched upward and an index finger brushed lightly against his cheek.
“What am I doing here? I think I’m about to fit you for some diving equipment.”
“Thank you very much Mr. Corbett, but you’ve done quite enough for me already today. I’ll just go back in here and wait for my diving instructor.” Her carefully controlled words disguised her inner thoughts. Please, please don’t let it be him.
Taking a step toward her, he announced. “I don’t believe it’s going to be the best news you’ve heard all day Miss Weldon, but I’m your instructor.” His expression had an amused quality to it and he nodded in an affirmative manner as he once again crossed his arms arrogantly over his powerful chest.
She had feared the announcement from the first moment she heard his voice, but his affirmation seized her physically and she felt a gripping sensation within her chest. Brushing her hair from her shoulders she placed her hand at the nape of her neck and arched her head back momentarily against the pressure of her palm. Sighing audibly Christina let the air escape from her lungs with a sense of resignation and she slowly returned to meet the man’s awaiting eyes. She would go through this ordeal today for lack of other choices.
His eyes flickered over her again and he observed, “You’re a size 8.” He turned towards a rack of black rubberized tunics and glanced back across his wide shoulder. “No…probably a 6…right?”
He had caught her off guard and she suddenly realized that he was talking about her size. Before she could answer, he had taken a tunic from the rack and was holding it in front of him. “Come here. Try this on.”
Stepping in front of him and turning her back to his gaze, Christina became aware of the sheer physical masculinity of this man, his handsome, ruggedly cut face reflected in a nearby mirror indifferent now as he was appraising the fit of the tunic. He was holding the sleeveless tunic cautiously against her back while helping her thread her long pale arms into its openings. In doing so she felt his hands travel across the surface of the rubber as it began to envelop her upper body and the strength of his fingers reverberated through the garment as they gripped and adjusted the tunic across her upper hips. The heat of his palms had warmed the material near the shoulders of the tunic where he had held it and Christina felt that warmth beginning to spiral down into her body.
“It’s supposed to fit you tightly…like a second skin. It protects your body.” He was lifting her hair from the confines of the collar. “This will be more comfortable.” His hand seemed to linger in her hair a moment before letting it go to spread out and over the shoulders of the garment.
In a single movement he turned her body towards him and she looked into his dark lashed eyes with a renewed sense of self-consciousness. His eyes moved from her gaze to the wet suit which was now molding her.
As he stepped back in appraisal, the movement away from the heat of his body jarred Christina back into the reality of the shop around her. The sun filtering through the windows and the noises from the harbor outside broke suddenly through to her consciousness.
“Try to zip it up,” he instructed with a nod of his head in the direction of the zipper lying against the bareness of her upper thigh.
Feeling awkward while trying to reach down over the loose sides of the suit, Christina took the zipper in one hand and tried to pull the other side to meet it. It resisted the distance. “It’s too small,” she said in a physically restricted voice, her chin pressed tightly against her chest.
His muscular hands seized the hem of the suit near the zipper and he pulled the ends together enabling her to easily hook the clasp. The force of his powerful knuckles against the fabric shielded flesh of her lower abdomen flooded Christina’s body with an unfamiliar sensation. As she started the zipper up its track, he slowly moved his fingertips from their bondage between the skintight suit and the silken surface of her suit.
The zipper reached the area just below her breasts and once more resisted further movement. Her heart pounded with the fear his hands would clutch the suit again. The fear giving her strength, she tugged and pulled the zipper up the balance of its distance.
Clay had not moved his hands towards her but was standing very near.
He bent toward her to capture her visual attention and with a smile, held more within his eyes than on his lips, he chided, “It’s becoming a little warm in there now I suspect. You’ll be fine.” Reaching around her, the inside of his forearm brushed her leg and he grasped the flap of the suit hanging from the back of the tunic. “I want you to take this and pull it through and snap it here.” His free thumb and index finger touched the snaps on the front of the hem that lay in a position just above the union of her thighs.
Christina’s legs stiffened against movement for fear she would fall against his body, but he stood and once more moved away supervising the task. While Clay continued to fit her with a mask, fins, flotation vest and weight belt, his manner was cordial and business-like. Seeing him in the renewed light of his professional behavior, Christina was beginning to suspect that his basic air of primitive masculinity was perhaps beyond his control or maybe even a defense against closeness.
She knew too, that he was the sort of man who, while being very serious about his work, could lead a woman into a false sense of security. Thinking about him in this manner gave Christina a sense of inner control and she felt her body begin to relax for the first time since Arthur left her in the shop.
The last piece of equipment turned over, Clay stepped away and objectively examined her. In doing so and with an air of ordinariness he suddenly and unexpectedly pulled his T shirt up and over his head, the wide muscles of his back, just below his arm, thrust tautly upward.
Christina felt her ribs pressured by the suit and became aware of her own breathing as Clay dropped his shirt on the counter and unsnapped his shorts. Removing them exposed the swimming suit she assumed he probably always wore in preparation for work.
Grabbing his wetsuit from the rack, he began to stretch his muscular, tanned body into its hold and when completely enveloped in the suit said, in a matter - of - fact tone, “Let’s go. I can’t wait to be in charge of you this afternoon, Miss Weldon.”
A flash of irritation bolted through her at his reference to her earlier comment about his needing to be in charge of everything and everyone around him and standing there in front of him, both of their bodies encased in the heated restraints of rubber garments she decided that her initial impressions of his arrogance were correct.
Chapter 7
Someone had already put the scuba tanks into the back of Clay’s ill kept and dusty Jeep and once inside and sitting on its sun heated and dilapidated seats Christina and Clay drove the short distan
ce to the resort pool. Fortunately there were no swimmers in the pool and only a few sunbathers dozed on the deck. Approaching the pool, Christina couldn’t remember ever feeling quite as conspicuous as she did in this ugly, awkward outfit, the unforgiving edges of the crotch piece rubbing painfully against her inner thighs.
Clay walked comfortably in front of her. His stride was long and self-assured. He was probably enjoying every minute of her discomfort. Well, he had met the wrong woman if he believed for a moment that he’d have the satisfaction of hearing her complain about the wetsuit or see her express the slightest ray of apprehension about the lesson. The tanks were bulky to carry and she thought, much heavier than she had anticipated, though in the water, she knew they would resist descent.
The weight belt would compensate for the tanks Clay explained, as he reassuringly and professionally reviewed each piece of equipment during their discussion at the edge of the pool.
Dealing with her apprehension about breathing under water through the unpleasant mouth piece, Christina momentarily forgot her feelings about Clay and became totally absorbed in the details of his instructions. His manner of explanation seemed patient and thorough and somehow as they went through the various steps of putting the mask on and clearing it under water she felt a surprising sense of confidence in Clay’s guidance and the potential of her own ability.
Moving deeper and deeper into the pool, the noise and the sight of the bubbles rushing past the sides of her face and the sound of her own breathing became almost hypnotic to Christina in their effect. The instinctive feeling to escape this foreign environment and the underwater breathing apparatus was soothed by these rhythmic sounds and the close and constant eye contact that Clay kept with her.
Floating with total alertness in the brilliant, cerulean blue water of the pool, Clay moved towards her, as he had explained that he would, moments earlier when they surfaced to discuss the next step. To “buddy breathe,” to share one mouth piece and one air tank with Clay seemed a more difficult task than the other less intimate aspects of the lesson, but Clay was now inches away from her, balancing their position together with a directive hand on her side. His leg, in the circling current of the pool, began to move slowly, sensuously, against the inside of Christina’s knee. Their bodies began to touch and part and drift in a ballet of buoyant movement just below the pool’s surface. The contacts sent shudders along the length of Christina’s thighs.
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