The Great American Bachelor Page 6

  “Ah.” She grinned, but her heart was thumping like a big drum. Brass bands marched through her veins. Trumpets sang. “Nice of you, but I wouldn’t have minded waiting.”

  “I was the one who couldn’t wait,” he said simply.

  The silence was lit by the golden sun pouring in the windows, which sat between them, warm and comfortable as a big cat.

  “So,” he said finally, “how did you like the Bahama Breeze?”

  “I didn’t taste it,” she admitted. “I was waiting for you. For a toast.”

  “All right.” He smiled, signaling the waiter. He looked casually away, around the room, out the window, anywhere but at her face. Until the drink came. Then he looked deep into her eyes, losing himself there.

  And suddenly he saw that they weren’t just brown but, in this golden light, they were the clear brown of soft earth, of water flowing over dark leaves, of amber shining with inner light. A rich welcoming brown of place, of home.

  “Michael!” She blushed. “Are you proposing a toast, or conducting an investigation?”

  “A toast!” he assured her, “to”—he thought for a minute—“to tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” she echoed, confused and pleased and wondering.

  They tapped glasses and sipped the frothy liquor through their straws.

  “Umm-umm!” Cathy nodded, licking her lips. “This is yummy.”

  “And potent. Have another.”

  They spent the next hour being silly and happy, ordering too much and tasting each other’s food. Michael recommended the locally renowned crawfish salad, and Cathy was in no mood to disagree. Along with homemade sweet potato bread, crunchy fritters, and spicy conch chowder, and a wide, cool slice of key lime pie, she was in heaven. She even tasted Lord knew what from his seafood platter. And it was all the most wonderful food she had ever eaten.

  Then he took her sight-seeing.

  “Come on,” Michael said. He slipped an arm around her waist. “I want to show you everything.”

  As they walked he told her a little of the history of the islands, how after the American Revolution the Loyalists fled with their slaves to these islands in the Bahamas. How in the mid-1780s a sturdy widow from South Carolina named Malone crossed the ocean with her family, overcame terrible hardships, and founded Hope Town, where they had docked that morning.

  “Yes!” Cathy interrupted. “I saw her name on a historical marker there. Now, that’s more of an adventure than I could ever handle.”

  Michael cocked his head. “Don’t sell yourself short. I have a feeling you could handle just about anything.”

  “That’s exactly the attitude that got me from Bloomington to Orlando and on into the middle of the ocean, thank you.” She shook her head, laughing at herself, making him laugh.

  “It’s not a bad attitude, despite your recent experiences,” he assured her.

  “To tell the truth, Michael, my recent experiences haven’t all been that bad.” Then she pulled her eyes away from his face and looked out over the sound. “So, did Mrs. Malone build the lighthouse?”

  “No. The lighthouse wasn’t built until almost a hundred years later, and almost caused a riot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the islanders were making a good living from ships wrecked on the reefs, and they thought a lighthouse would be bad for business.”

  “How heartless! Can you imagine—” She stopped in mid-sentence and slid him a narrow-eyed, skeptical glance. “Never mind.” She sighed heartily. “I won’t ask what side you would have voted on.”

  His laughter ruffled the hair at her neck. “Thanks a lot, friend!”

  Arm around her waist, he walked her down on the pink sand and up the lovely shaded sidewalks.

  “It’s a little like New England, where I grew up, but with palm trees,” he remarked.

  “You like it, don’t you?” She smiled, leaning comfortably against the circle of his arm.

  “Oh, sure. It’s a beautiful spot,” he answered lightly.

  Surprised, she looked up at him. She had been so entranced by the beauty of the island that she assumed he was as well. And here he was, cool as a cucumber! Oh, well, perhaps if you’d seen all the world …

  With a shrug she came back to the moment, and to what Michael was saying.

  “If you think this is pretty, there’s one more place you’ve got to see.”

  Without a second’s hesitation he took her hand and led her back to the marina.

  “We’ll be taking the Whaler,” he informed the mate. And in moments they were cutting across the turquoise waters of the sound.

  The little boat zipped on past large cays and little tiny cays and cays that were just tree-covered bumps breaking the blue surface of the water. Cathy longed to explore, but they did not stop.

  Then he slowed the boat and headed for a middle-size island skirted with wide beaches, lush vegetation, and crystal-clear coves. Michael headed into one such cove and pulled up alongside a covered wooden pier. He stepped out and offered her a hand. “Welcome to Yellowtail Cay.”

  The whole island was just two miles long and a half mile wide, edged with beaches whose sand was soft as baby powder—and pink.

  “Michael,” she cried, kicking off her sandals and burying her feet right up to the ankles. “Pink sand! I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

  “It’s because of the coral,” he explained, walking barefoot beside her. “In Hawaii they have black sand, because of the volcanic origin.”

  “Must you be so scientific? Tell me it’s magic!” She wiggled her toes into the cool sand.

  He slipped an arm around her and tugged her close. “Come on, there’s more I want you to see.” They walked down to the little settlement nestled on the southern end of the cay. The old streets were lined with clapboard houses—pink, yellow, robin’s-egg blue, edged with white picket fences and trees bursting with fruit—grapefruit, oranges, limes. There was a narrow restaurant with fans whirling over two tables on the front porch, an equally narrow grocery store that also sold hand-printed cotton shirts and straw bags, and a post office.

  A woman sat on the post office step, and she rose to her feet when she saw Michael. “Well, Mr. Winters, I heard you were back in these parts. Come to stay awhile?”

  “Hello, Julia.” He smiled. “It’s good to see you. But no, I’m not staying. Just showing your island off to a friend. This is Cathy Stephenson. Julia Jennings.”

  “Your island, Mr. Winters,” the woman corrected him with laughing eyes as she offered Cathy a good, strong handclasp. Cathy liked her immediately, her eyes dark as India ink, her hair braided and beaded in beautiful, intricate patterns. “So, what do you think of our little place?”

  “I think it’s heavenly!” Cathy’s gaze touched on everything in sight. “The trees, the beaches, the houses—I was just picturing my grandmother rocking on a porch like that,” she admitted, then the color rose to her cheeks.

  “Well, looks like your friend might want a nice long iced tea.” Julia smiled. “And I’ve got to get me back to work. Good seeing you, Mr. Winters.” She climbed the steps and turned. “Soon come!” she called out the local, lilting good-bye that encouraged return, then she vanished inside.

  “So, you do like it?” Michael asked as they took seats on the restaurant porch.

  “Like it? I love it. I meant what I said. I can picture Gap and Aunt Tisha, dressed in wide cotton skirts, looking for shells on those pink beaches, or sitting on the porch of a pink house, in a wooden swing, eating an orange from the tree outside their door. And to think that if I climbed to the post office roof, I could see the Sound so calm on one side and the Atlantic roaring on the other.” She lifted both shoulders in amazement. “Why, it’s as close to paradise as I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s that sheltered life you’ve led.” He winked at her. Leaning back, he drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

  Cathy tipped her head and gave him another of her long, searching glances. “Michael
, what did Julia mean about your island? Do you have a home here?”

  “No, She meant the island.”

  “You own it?” Cathy’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Yes.”

  “You bought it? How? When?”

  “I don’t remember the details of the transaction. It was years ago.”

  “But you own the whole island?”

  “It isn’t a very big island, as properties go.”

  “But it’s”—she waved her hands around to draw it all close, struggling to find the words she wanted— “it’s … it’s like a whole little world. Complete. Perfect.”

  Michael looked suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s a piece of real estate, Cathy. Just a place.”

  “Oh, Michael!” She waved a hand at him as if he were crazy, laughing at the absurdity of it. “Every place is just a place, but some are special, they talk to you, they claim you.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, silent.

  Realizing that she may have said too much, Cathy quickly changed the subject, chattering on about the palms and the flowers and the birds. After all, this wasn’t her island. This wasn’t her man. What did she know about it all? The fact that it touched her in some special way had nothing to do with reality. He had brought her to see the island, which was lovely of him. And when she went back to Indiana for Christmas, she would tell them all about this man she had met and his Yellowtail Cay.

  They drank iced teas with slices of lime still warm from the tree. And they walked back along the beach, kicking up the warm sand with their toes, leaving their footprints behind to be washed away by the tide. Holding her shoes in one hand, her hat in the other, she stepped down into the Whaler and sat looking over her shoulder as the boat pulled away and the island slid back to the horizon. Soon come, she thought. Good-bye!

  Two of the dark-suited, scowling young men were waiting for them back at the marina at Marsh Harbor. On the other side of the street stood a serious older man dressed in a somber suit, carrying a briefcase. “My accountant,” Michael explained shortly, throwing the rope to the first mate. He helped Cathy out of the boat and guided her across the street with one cool hand at her elbow. “Yes, Roger?”

  “The deal is complete, sir. Everything in order. Papers ready to be signed. The sheikh is waiting upstairs.”

  “Cathy”—Michael turned to her—“I’m sorry, but I’ve got just a few minutes worth of business to tie up. Would you like a drink while you wait?”

  Cathy smiled. “Two Bahama Breezes a day is my limit! I’ll just stroll on down the pier and look at the boats … ooops, ships,” she corrected herself. “Take your time; don’t worry about me.”

  And in truth it took very little time. Ten minutes, and he was back, coming up behind her so quietly that she could feel his breath on her neck even as he brushed a light kiss there. “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself! You scared me.”

  “Not my intention at all,” he assured her, his eyes blazing.

  “So you took care of business?”

  “Yes.”

  “What big deal did you tie up?” she asked, smiling up at him in that half-teasing, half-serious way of hers.

  He paused for just a second too long. Then, as if it meant nothing, he answered coolly, “I sold the island.”

  Five

  “Sold it?” Cathy echoed.

  “Yes. I got a good price.”

  “But …” Cathy struggled for words, too stunned to speak. The words rattled around in her head, accusing, disbelieving, heartbroken, but there was nothing to say. Nothing.

  “Oh, my …” she whispered. “I guess I just don’t know anything about your world. I—I—” Stupid tears jumped to her eyes, and she turned to look out over the water, determined not to let him see.

  “Cathy, are you upset?” Michael sounded honestly surprised.

  “Of course not.” She tossed her head, blinking hard. Striving for composure, she turned to face him. “No, I’m not upset, and it’s nothing for you to worry about. In my life things go slower. I mean, a family can save up all their lives just to buy a little house, and then they’ll probably look around for months, and once they have it it’s home and they never give it up. They settle in. They love it. I don’t know—” She laughed, at herself really. “The thought of you trading away that island without a blink … it leaves me breathless. And frightened somehow.”

  She shook her head, her mouth crimped with dismay though she fought for composure. “Michael, that was your island, your choice. It has nothing to do with me.”

  He rocked back on his heels, shoulders set. “Cathy, business is business. That’s all. That’s what I do for a living: buy real estate, sell real estate, take a piece of land and see an opportunity, see what it could be developed into in the future.”

  She looked up into his eyes. “But it was perfect now, Michael,” she answered simply.

  He did not answer. A muscle jumped along his jaw, and his eyes were dark and unreadable. She had somehow, irrationally, managed to make him feel guilty, and her words stung like salt in a wound. But Michael Bradford Winters was an expert at keeping his true feelings hidden. Instead, he just looked fierce, dark, and bristling with annoyance.

  It was contagious. “Now what are you angry about, Michael?” she asked, riding the easy slide from sadness to anger.

  “I am not angry,” he insisted, eyes narrowed.

  “Good thing too! I mean, I don’t have to like everything you do. You certainly don’t need my approval.”

  “No, I certainly don’t.”

  “And you certainly didn’t ask my opinion.”

  “No, I certainly didn’t.”

  “And you certainly aren’t going to change your mind.”

  “The deal is signed. I’d be a fool to reverse it.”

  “Fine. Then what are we arguing about?”

  With his eyes he took in the measure of her spunk. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’m not used to someone disapproving. That’s twice in twenty-four hours you’ve been critical of my method of operation.”

  “And that doesn’t happen often?”

  He laughed. “That doesn’t happen at all.”

  She slipped a conciliatory arm through his, resting her cheek against the hard curve of his shoulder. “See, you should have put me on that early plane. Or let me drown. Now you’ve got yourself your very own albatross!” She smiled up at him, feeling inexplicably and totally connected to him.

  He bent his dark head, searching her eyes. There was no coyness there, just a thread of connection, an unexpected intimacy he had never found before, not anywhere, not with anyone. It scared the hell out of him.

  Leaning away, he still held tight to her arm. “Do you want to see something beautiful?” he asked.

  “If you promise not to sell it.”

  “No.” He grinned at her, a reckless, Tom Sawyer kind of grin. “I’d like to buy it. Come on.”

  He took her farther around the pier, up and down the smooth wooden ramps and walkways, to a more isolated area. And there sat the most gorgeous yacht she could ever imagine.

  “Oh, my,” she said breathily. Her eyes were filled with the gleaming pristine whiteness of the vessel that lay before them.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Michael whispered. “Isn’t she one of the most beautiful ships in the world?”

  “Absolutely.” She had now seen a total of two ships up close in her lifetime, but she was sure Michael was right.

  “I’d give anything to own her.”

  As if on cue, one of the dark-suited bodyguards walked down the gangway and strode directly over to Michael.

  “Mr. Winters, a letter for you.”

  Michael held the envelope in his hand for a second, one dark brow lifted in surprise, then read the letter.

  A small smile appeared on his lips, then rose to his eyes. He nodded once, then again, and drew a pen out of his inside jacket pocket. He wrote a response
on the bottom of the letter, folded it back into the envelope, and handed it to the bodyguard. “Would you take this back to Sheikh Hamoudi, please, with my thanks.”

  “What was that all about?” Cathy demanded, sensing his excitement.

  “The sheikh has to fly home unexpectedly. He knows I admired The Oracle—this yacht.” He nodded toward the sleek, shining ship. “And he wondered if I would like to try her out for a few days, with the possibility of purchase if I’m completely satisfied.” His grin was wide as the ocean. “Do you approve of that offer, Ms. Stephenson?”

  “Doesn’t sound like you have anything to lose, Mr. Winters.” She smiled back. “I’d say go for it.”

  Impulsively he grabbed her hands and pulled her up against his chest. “Come with me,” he said softly.

  “What?” She laughed, shaking her head at his madness. “Do you realize the soul searching and mental struggle I went through simply to agree to a later plane?”

  “Yes. I know I’m lucky you stayed,” he answered with sudden seriousness, his eyes plumbing the depth of her soul.

  “I—I didn’t mean it that way, Michael. No, I’m the lucky one. I loved every minute of today,” she whispered, then playfully cocked her head to one side. “Well, almost every minute, but the good definitely outweighed the bad.” She reached up and touched his face, the warmth of his skin branding her palm forever. “But now I’d better get back and find a job. I need to wake up from this fairy tale and face the real world. There’s a hearth to sweep—”

  “Pardon?” he asked, puzzled.

  “It was a joke.”

  “But I’m serious, Cathy. Come with me. It will be just the two of us, and a small crew. You said it yourself: what’s there to lose? Please, come with me.” He took hold of her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length in a grip that was gentle yet unyielding. “I’ll give you an interview, some story you can sell when you get back to Orlando. And I heed someone to take notes, handle correspondence, someone I can trust, someone who’ll be honest with me.” He smiled at her. “Who else could I find to fit that bill on such short notice? It’ll be only a few days. And the pay is good. Guaranteed. You’ll make enough to let you look for a job later with ease.”