A Matter of Circumstance

by Heather Graham

  “Would you stop that!” Mandy snapped after a moment. He’d changed his tone so quickly that it had taken her time to catch up, and now she knew that she was nearly as red as the twilight.

  “I can’t seem to help myself,” he said, swallowing the last of his beer, then crushing the can in one hand while he continued to stare at her.

  She swallowed the last of her beer, compelled to return his stare, fascinated, horrified.

  He took her can from her hand, brushing her fingers with his own, rising to his knees, a breath away from her.

  “You hate married women. Especially me. I married old Peter Blayne for his wealth and possessions, remember?” she told him quickly. Too quickly. Breathlessly…

  “I know,” he told her softly, his arm moving around her. His face wasn’t an inch from hers. She felt the power of his chest and shoulders, saw the smoldering green fire in his eyes. “I know all that. But don’t you feel it? The sea and the breeze and the night, you—and me?”

  “No! No!” Mandy told him hastily. “I don’t feel anything. Just that you hate me. Remember?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t hate you, Mandy, though I keep thinking of all the reasons why I should. I think and think of all the reasons why I should stay completely away from you. I tell myself over and over again that you’re married. That I’m a cop. That you’re completely off limits. But, Mandy…I tell you, I can’t help myself. No matter what I think, I see you. I see those golden eyes of yours, that tawny lion’s mane. I see your body—oh, God! Do I see your body! Naked and gold and glistening, lithe and curved—”

  “Stop it!” Mandy shrieked, trying to edge away as his knuckles brushed over her cheek. She lost her balance instead and toppled over into the sand.

  He was right behind her, stretching over her, bracing his weight on his hands, his palms beside her head. He seemed to cover her, his legs entangled with hers.

  “Get up—” she began in panic.

  “Oh, Mandy! I can’t!” he vowed passionately, and she felt all the sexual quality of him, the power in his thighs, the brush of his hairy chest against her skin, the ridiculously sweet pressure of his hips on hers.

  “Roberto! Roberto is watching us!” she protested.

  “And I must convince him that we are lovers,” Miguel whispered softly, shifting, bringing himself halfway to her side, cupping her jaw in his hand to bring her face to his.

  “Amanda, I can’t bear this. Being with you, night and day. Sleeping beside you. I’d sell my soul for you. I can’t care that you’re a married woman, I can’t think of anything. I have to have you!”

  Heat like liquid fire exploded through her—right along with a raging sense of panic. He was way too much male. She didn’t know what to do with him; she didn’t know how to escape him. She felt lost and overwhelmed and desperate!

  “Wait. Wait!”

  “Hold me, Mandy. Just hold me!”

  Hold him? His arms were vise clamps around her, his body an inferno of steel. She was quivering like a cornered rabbit, straining against him with all her might—futilely.

  “Miguel…”

  “Oh, Lord, I was in agony, listening to you! I envisioned the two of us in a Jacuzzi, sipping champagne, just barely touching, coming nearer and nearer, until you were mine.”

  He shifted, touching her. Lightly. Fingertips against her cheek, stroking her throat, running over her collarbone, so near the neckline of her halter top. Fingertips…dancing dangerously over the mounds of her breasts, fascinated with the naked flesh of her midriff. Gentle, tender, erotic in their motion, in their very being. And she was powerless. Shivering and aware and powerless, and so keenly touched by the vibrant heat of his body, his weight, the rough feel of his legs.

  “Champagne…you and me. The warm waters rushing around us. Mandy, you’ve got the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen.”

  “Miguel, don’t you—”

  “God, you’re glorious…splendid. Champagne and pizza. Completely naked…us…together.”

  “Damn you! I’ll strangle you once we’re free.”

  “Remember when you touched me? This morning? Oh, Mandy, I felt desire in that touch. I know that Peter Blayne’s an old man. I know that you’re young and sensual and I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t—”

  “There are a million reasons!”

  He smiled, totally disbelieving her. And then his fingertips were moving again. Just gently stroking her ribs…then moving higher, brushing her breasts. Her nipples were hard, and he could feel it, and that was making him grin even more widely.

  “I’ll report you. If we live I’ll report you to all your superiors. Every one of them! They’ll fire you.”

  “You’re just saying that, Mandy. I can feel you. I knew this morning that you wanted me.”

  “I do not!”

  “I don’t care about anything! Report me. I’d give my job—my life—for one night with you.”

  Oh, no! What had she done this morning? Threats weren’t working; they didn’t mean a thing to him!

  “Please…” she whispered, but even that did nothing.

  “You’ve cast a spell on me,” he told her huskily. “I can’t let you go. It’s all that I can think about—you, me, tangled together, hot, sweating, straining.”

  “Miguel, you’re a cop! I’m a married woman!”

  Suddenly he was laughing, staring down at her and laughing. Then he rolled away from her and sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees and staring out at the sea once again.

  “Mrs. Blayne, you’re the most ridiculous liar I’ve ever met,” he told her with curt amusement.

  “What?” Stunned, she scrambled to her feet and stared down at him, her hands on her hips. She felt relieved, furious—and bereft.

  He gazed up at her, still smiling. “Amanda Blayne, you’re Peter Blayne’s daughter-in-law, not his wife.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I managed to get through to the Coast Guard on the radio.”

  “What?”

  “I keep telling you—I’m a cop. Sworn to protect and all that jazz. I’m sorry I haven’t tried to stop a bullet for you yet, but I did get to the radio.”

  Her temper flared out of all proportion. She should be jumping up and down with joy that someone had been advised of the situation, but he’d just made such a fool of her! Without thought she suddenly leapt at him, pummeling his chest and shoulders.

  “You bastard! You didn’t bother to tell me! Instead you pulled this little act. I’ll kill you! I’ll wring your stupid neck!”

  “Whoa!” he protested, stunned by her vehemence, falling backward into the sand at her assault. He collected himself quickly and caught her flailing fists, then rolled and cast a knee over her hips and stretched her arms over her head, where he held them while he leaned against her, panting.

  “Don’t touch me! I swear, I will report you! How dare you?”

  “Roberto is looking!”

  “I don’t give a damn!”

  “You’d better—unless you want Roberto in this position!”

  “What diff—”

  “A lot, Mrs. Blayne. I’m not going to rape you, but Roberto would give his eyeteeth to do just that!”

  Mandy went dead still, clenching her teeth and staring up at him, trying to regain her breath.

  “You son of—”

  “Hey! You lied to me! I risked my neck to let you know that I was a police officer. You lied—”

  “I did not! You assumed that I was Peter’s wife! You judged me without a—”

  “You could have corrected me!”

  “And why should I have bothered?”

  “Courtesy, Mrs. Blayne. Common courtesy. Especially in this situation!”

  “Courtesy! Oh—”

  “Shush!”

  She grated her teeth together again. He was staring down at her with an emerald spark in his eyes. He was amused.

  And she was far too aware of him all over again. His fingers
, curled within hers. His thigh, cast over her hips. His warmth. Everything about him that was male, that called to something inside her despite herself. She was quivering from the effect of his touch….

  “Let me go, please, Miguel,” she whispered.

  He stared at her a moment longer, his eyes growing dark, tension suddenly lining his face. He sighed and released her, but still lay at her side.

  “You asked for it, you know,” he told her.

  “Men!” she snapped. “They say you’re all alike, and I believe it! You came at me with all kinds of insinuations and I just played along because you were the one who deserved it!”

  He laughed again, and she was aware once more that she liked his smile, liked it very much.

  “The champagne in the Jacuzzi was a killer,” he told her.

  She stiffened. “I was acting for the benefit of our captors, and you know it.”

  He shrugged. “You’re just such a good little actress!”

  “Oh, stop, please.” And don’t stay so close, please don’t stay so close! she added silently, cast into an agony of confusion. It was just the circumstances, she told herself.

  She closed her eyes. “Thank God you got to the radio! When is help coming?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her eyes flew open again, and she edged up on her elbows to frown at him. “What do you mean you don’t know? You just told me—”

  “I mean I don’t know! I tried to tell them where we were, but I’m not positive. It only takes a day to reach Cat Cay—we were on that old scow for two nights. I think that they motored in circles, backtracking on purpose. I still think that we’re somewhere near Cat Cay. But there must be hundreds of these little swamp islands around. It may take time. And this has to be handled carefully. The Coast Guard can’t just zoom up. That’s not the way you handle a hostage situation You could—”

  “Get shot?”

  He shrugged. “That’s not going to happen, Mandy.” Distracted, he called her by her given name, not by the acid “Mrs. Blayne.”

  She looked from his profile to the ocean, picking up a handful of sand, letting it fall through her fingers.

  He stood up abruptly and reached a hand down to her. “Let’s walk on the beach. Our two hours are almost up.”

  “How can you tell?” she asked him despondently.

  “Because,” he said softly, “I can read the sky. And Julio has come out to take Roberto’s place as watchdog.”

  Mandy glanced over her shoulder. It was true; Julio was sitting where Roberto had been.

  She looked back to the strong hand being offered to her. She hesitated a moment longer, then took it. He pulled her to her feet, cast an arm around her and started walking idly down the beach.

  Mandy went along because she felt she had little choice. It did feel good to move; it felt wonderful to be outside, rather than in that dim stuffy room. It felt good to have his arm around her. To know that he was with her, even if she still wanted to strangle him. Yet at the same time she knew that she needed him. He was her security, her buffer against fear and madness. This would end; all things ended. But for now…the evening sky was beautiful; the breeze was delightful. He was at her side—far better than facing Roberto’s leers alone.

  They walked through the surf, and the cool water bathed her feet. If she closed her eyes she could pretend that she was just on an outing, away for the day, taken to a primitive paradise on the winged sails of the Flash Point.

  She sniffed suddenly and managed to cast Miguel a wry smile. “I don’t even know your last name.”

  He gazed at her, hesitated a minute, then said, “Ramiro.”

  “Miguel Ramiro,” she said. Strangely, he hesitated once again.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?”

  “Well, don’t tell these guys. My name is Sean. Sean Michael Ramiro.”

  “What?” Mandy started laughing. Maybe it was hysteria. She stared at him incredulously.

  “Sean Michael Ramiro?” She moved away from him, almost doubled over with laughter, so incredible did she find it all. “Now I know you’re a liar!”

  “I told you I was born in Dublin!” he retorted.

  “You said you were Cuban—”

  “I said half-Cuban! My father was Cuban, my mother is Irish.”

  She was still laughing. “What a combination!”

  “Oh, yeah! I forgot! You’re Miss DAR! Daughter of the old Mayflower!”

  She was still laughing so hard she couldn’t even take offense.

  “Sean?”

  “Yeah. Want to make something of it?”

  “No, no!” She held out a defensive hand, but too late. He splashed over to her, gripped her hands, slid a foot behind her ankle and sent her crashing into the surf, then dropped down beside her.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she shrieked when he made a move to dunk her.

  But he didn’t dunk her. He touched her cheek, his weight and warmth against her again, while the cool surf raced delicately around them both. She felt the power of his arms on either side of her, saw the tension in his eyes, and she might well have been spellbound.

  His head lowered. His lips brushed hers…. Just brushed them. And then his eyes were on hers again. Like the sea around them, reflected by the sinking sun, touched by the coming moon. They quested and they sought…and she must have answered.

  Because his lips met hers again, with a coercive hungry pressure. His kiss filled her with that same hunger, captured her with fascination. She tasted sea and salt and passion and heat, felt the sweep of his tongue over her teeth…deep into her mouth. Filling her, entering her with a spiraling heat that sent a searing wonder rippling through her. He wasn’t really touching her, just his mouth. Just the tickle of that growth of beard against her flesh, the fire of his lips, the fever of his mouth…

  “Hey! Your two hours are up! She goes back to her room!”

  Startled, they broke apart at Julio’s announcement, shaken from the moment.

  Mandy stared at Sean Michael Ramiro in absolute horror. She didn’t accept his hand, nor did she even notice Julio, standing on the beach.

  She raced back toward the house, eager now for her prison, desperate to be alone.

  CHAPTER 7

  When darkness came to her shuttered prison, it came completely.

  Mandy was absolutely convinced that she would go mad. She couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face. She hadn’t known that she was afraid of the dark, but then, she’d never seen darkness so complete.

  For hours she lay on the mattress, still soaked from the surf, shivering, then going deathly still before shivering all over again. Sometimes it seemed that her mind was blank; sometimes it was as if a cacophony of thoughts and ideas raced within it.

  And always it came back to two things. The darkness. Haunting, suffocating, ebony darkness. And Miguel. No, not Miguel. Sean Michael Ramiro.

  Her feelings, his touch. The strident need she was beginning to feel for him. The moral horror that she could be so vulnerable, so dependent…

  And so hungry. To be held, touched, loved. To laugh, to play and enjoy the play.

  She yearned for him now in a terrible aching way. She thought that she could endure the darkness, if only he was next to her. Here, in this hell within paradise, he had become her salvation, and more. It seemed ridiculously complex; the emotional and the physical; the desire, the need. It seemed so incredibly basic and primitive. She simply wanted to fit against him, as nature had intended, without thought, without words.

  There was no way to escape her sense of disloyalty, no way to lie in this utter darkness and not think of Paul, not think of the baby. No way to do anything other than lie there in anguish and agony, suffering the ceaseless gnawing of a fear that came not just from circumstances now, but, like desire, from instinct.

  She went still when the door opened at last. The streak of light that entered was painful, as blinding as the darkness. Mandy closed her eyes
against it, casting her arm over her face.

  The light was quickly gone. Her whole existence suddenly centered around her other senses.

  Someone was in the room.

  She could feel that presence so strongly! Logic warned her that it could be Julio or Maria or Señora Garcia. A trembling within warned that it could too easily be Roberto.

  But her world now knew no logic. She didn’t need to be afraid; it was Sean. She knew from the presence that filled the room; she knew from his salty scent, the sound of his breath.

  He stood just within the doorway for several moments, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Then, very slowly, he came toward the mattress. He reached it and fumbled along the edge, then smoothed his hand over the sheet.

  She shifted, giving him room. He started suddenly, aware of her movement.

  “You’re awake?”

  “I’m awake.”

  “My God, it’s darker than a coal mine in here.”

  “I couldn’t find the light switch,” she said, trying to joke, but she had no idea what his reaction was, since she couldn’t see his face.

  He didn’t answer as he stretched out beside her. She didn’t dare touch him, but she knew his position. Hands laced behind his head, ankles crossed, feet probably dangling over the edge.

  “You okay?” he whispered after a while.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She imagined that he might have grinned. “I guess you’re not afraid of the dark.”

  “Terrified. But what could I possibly do about it?”

  “Ask for a lantern.”

  “Would I get one?”

  “Probably.” He hesitated. “I don’t think Julio means to be cruel. He just doesn’t know that it’s as black as Hades in here. Not that it matters if you’re sleeping, but you’ve been in here quite a while. I’ll get a lantern tomorrow.”

  She didn’t answer him. She wasn’t sure what to say. She was excruciatingly glad of his presence; he was like a lantern against the darkness.

  She was also excruciatingly aware of him—and the last moments they had shared. She was frightened, not of him, but of herself, and so keyed up that she would never sleep, so miserable that she longed for nothing except oblivion.