The Great American Bachelor Page 8

  “Cathy—” Her name, half whisper, half groan, gathered in his throat. He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her hair.

  For Cathy, it was like being swept under by the sea again. One minute there were stars, sky, air to breathe—and the next she was turning in his arms, turning in the dark, turning to the sound of her name on his lips and the feel of his lips on her mouth, and the hard, hungry thrust of his tongue.

  She did not fight. She threw her arms around his neck, pressed into his chest, opened her mouth, and met his tongue with her own, touching tip to tip, sliding, curling, darting like two fish in warm, sweet underwater caves. She drank in his kisses, nibbled on his lips, rubbed her mouth against his one way and another, their lips meeting and parting and meeting again. She pushed her hands through his dark thick hair, down his neck, over the broad span of his shoulders, while his hands dove up to the wrists into her springy brown curls.

  His breath was her breath, his heartbeat hers. The soft, guttural gasps and animal sounds were torn from his throat, or hers. The heat burning between them rose from his body, or hers. “Michael, Michael,” she breathed, hearing his name inside her head, against his lips, without knowing she’d spoken.

  “Cathy—” His tongue traced a warm, wet trail down the hollow of her throat; his mouth hovered over her pulse; his breath flowed over her breasts like water. “Let’s go down to my cabin.”

  Eyes closed tight, she rubbed her cheek against the top of his head, aroused to trembling by the brush of his hair against her face. Her knees were going. Her sanity was going. Her self-control was gone.

  But not quite. Behind her closed eyes she saw a line. There was this thin, thin line, between wanting and wanting desperately; between desire and downright lust; between like and love. A little line, visible only to her, drawn right there between them, between Michael and her, and she was right at the edge. Even closer! One foot had even wiggled its way over, and she could feel the trembling climbing up from her toes, through her weak knees, through the marrow of her bones turned to water … right to her heart.

  Tears stung behind her lids. Pushing him away, pulling herself away took all the strength she had. She forced a weak little laugh. “Michael—I thought you were going to show me the stars.”

  “I’m seeing stars,” he said in a voice that was little more than a growl. He reeled back against the rail. His chest heaved with labored breaths; his arms hung empty. “Damn, woman … what happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” she answered quickly, striving vainly for levity. “And given the circumstances, that seems like the best idea.”

  “Not my idea,” he groaned. Throwing his head back, he gulped in huge lungfuls of sobering salt air. “Cathy. Cathy. Cathy.” He shook his head, eyes closed, mouth closing tight over the tiny syllables of her name. “Why not? Just tell me why not.”

  “Because this is a test run of the yacht, not us. There is no ‘us.’ I’m Cathy Stephenson from Indiana, remember, and I will soon be back in Orlando, looking for a job, paying the rent, making my once every two weeks phone call to Gap to tell her how nicely my life is running, how smoothly, how sanely. And you, if you’ve forgotten, are Michael Bradford Winters. The Great American Bachelor.” She tipped her head to one side, folded her arms across her chest, and asked something she’d been wanting to ask all along. “Why, Michael? I mean, I can sort of understand; there must be a thousand women out there, all wanting to get just a taste of you, your money, your life … marriage not a prerequisite. But why “Great American”? Was that their label or yours?”

  “I don’t remember,” he answered evasively. He leaned his elbows back on the rail and narrowed his eyes till his lids almost hid the blue.

  “Let me rephrase that,” she quipped. “Is that decision final?”

  “About not marrying?”

  She laughed. “No, I’m taking a poll on staunch Republicans and their commitment to defense spending.”

  “Funny, Stephenson.”

  “I aim to please.”

  “No, you don’t,” he countered, enjoying all this despite himself.

  But suddenly she was serious. “Yes, I do, Michael. But right now, at least for now, the one I have to please is me. My own sense of rightness. Of what’s real … and what’s only fantasy.”

  He looked at her so hard and long, he could have been memorizing her.

  Cathy waited, then broke the silence. “You still haven’t answered me, Michael.”

  “Because I don’t know, not anymore. Not with you.” He shook his head and breathed deeply. Then he looked at her again.

  He noticed she was still trembling, despite the stubborn lift of her chin, despite the firmness of her determined little smile. He reached over and brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek.

  “Want to take that stroll now?”

  She nodded, knowing if she opened her mouth to say a word, she’d beg him to hold her again, kiss her again, love her.

  Cinderella really wanted the prince, even as she ran away down the steps to the carriage waiting to turn back into a pumpkin.

  Oh, how was she ever going to live a pumpkin life again, after this night at the ball? But to have never met him, never kissed him, never felt what she was feeling? No. That was worse. Unthinkable. Somehow when the clock struck twelve or one or whatever hour at whatever dock or airport, she would smile and chalk it up to an adventure.

  She tried the smile on for size just to make sure it still fit. There. Fine and dandy. Hunky-dory!

  Drawing a deep breath, she sashayed off down the deck. “Well, are you coming? Look at that ocean, that sky! There’s no telling where one starts and the other ends. I mean, how do you know which way the boat’s going?”

  “Ship,” he corrected her automatically, striding up to her and matching his pace and tone to hers. “And you watch the water, there, just below us. See how it curls out and back? We’re going this way—” He pointed out into the velvet darkness, his other hand resting casually on her arm. “East southeast. During the night we’ll pass Eleuthera and then tomorrow we’ll sail past Cat Island, maybe anchor for a while between Rum Cay and Watling Island, and swing out across the Tropic of Cancer heading for the Turks and Caicos.”

  “That’s all out there?” She was dazzled by the wonder of it all, hidden in the dark, just over the horizon.

  Michael tightened his grip on the rail. “I’m beginning to think there’s a lot out there we don’t expect until we sail right into it.” His voice was low, the words meant only for himself. And they were blown away by the breeze and the spray.

  But the woman at his side felt his gaze, and trembled.

  How were they ever going to get through the next few days?

  Seven

  “Gap always told me not to put anything in my mouth if I didn’t know where it had been,” Cathy said, backing away from the snorkeling equipment Michael held in his outstretched hand.

  “Come on, Cathy—”

  “No way, Michael! One underwater adventure will last me a lifetime.”

  “But this isn’t underwater; you just float on the surface—”

  “You float on the surface. I’d sink like a stone, like an Indiana rock! No way. Go if you want.”

  “Would I let anything happen to you?” he teased, his eyes as changeable and clear as the blue sea around them.

  “If it meant getting your way, Mr. Winters, you’re capable of anything. Having spent three solid days with you, I’d swear to that in court.”

  “I don’t think that’s a very flattering assessment.” He grinned, cocking both hands on his hips, the snorkeling mask and tube resting against his long, solid, very tanned thigh.

  “I didn’t know you wanted to be flattered.” She kept her eyes on his, knowing how susceptible she was to persuasion by that gorgeous but not-yet-familiar body. “You’re wasting your time, Michael.”

  “You’d make me go alone? Knowing it isn’t safe?”

  “And just what good woul
d I be?”

  He stepped closer. “You’d throw yourself between me and danger,” he whispered. “You’d give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

  Suddenly her mouth was too dry to speak, her knees too weak to stand. She wobbled to the nearest chair.

  “Michael, don’t make me do this.”

  “Hey, I’m just fooling around.” He sank to his knees in front of her, mistaking her arousal for honest fear. “We won’t go if you don’t want to. That’s it.”

  Crazy, crazy, crazy. His nearness only made things worse. Kneeling in front of her, an inch from her knees, she could smell the clean, salt-sprayed, delicious smell of his body. Could feel the heat radiating from him. Could reach out and push back the dark, thick, windblown hair on his forehead.

  Slipping sideways off the chair, she went to fiddle with some papers on a desk. “Let me think about it, okay?” She slid him a quick glance. “Is it really nice?”

  “It’s beautiful. Safe. Easy. If you can shower you can snorkel,” he assured her. “We could even hold hands. And the water’s warm as a bath, and clear, and you can see the coral and the fish—”

  She was not listening. Inside her head she was watching a movie: Michael and Cathy, holding hands, gliding silently through crystal-clear waters, the same sea washing over them both, touching them from head to toe, flowing over shoulders, chests, hips, thighs …

  This was getting obsessive!

  Cut it out Stephenson! she ordered herself silently, and her head flicked off the film. But her body was on its own, loose, wet …

  Out loud she said, “I should be earning my keep. Let me send that fax through to New York for you, and we’ll talk about this later.”

  “Can’t. Bridge says the machine’s down, that and the radio. I think that’s why they were so eager to have us off the ship. They must be afraid I’ll go crazy without access to world markets!” He laughed.

  “Astute crew!”

  “Very funny, Cathy.” He frowned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I haven’t been that bad, have I?”

  “No, but ‘business is business.’ ” She tossed back his motto in a little singsong chant, then winked. “Actually you seem quite relaxed for a very uptight, stressed-out entrepreneurial type.”

  “They say snorkeling is the best cure for that.” He moved close again, pressing his advantage.

  All the oxygen seemed to vanish from the room. She could not breathe, let alone fight. “Let’s give it a try.” She nodded and hurried out on deck.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Stephenson.” Blocking her path was an Arab speaking perfectly polished English. “Have you and Mr. Winters decided to try the snorkeling, or perhaps take a small boat over to one of the cays?”

  “Exactly what we just decided.” Cathy gulped, nodding again. She stepped around him to the rail. “You’ll have to speak to Mr. Winters about the details.”

  The details took less than thirty minutes.

  With a splash, the crew lowered an eight-foot rubber dinghy loaded with snorkeling gear, paddles, a large picnic chest, a duffel bag with a change of clothes for each of them, straw hats, suntan lotion, towels, a blanket, a jug of fresh water, a map, first aid kit, and safety flares.

  “Goodness! You’d think we were going for a week!” Cathy laughed.

  “They certainly are well trained. I guess the sheikh and his friends don’t travel light,” Michael agreed with a shake of his dark head. “Well, let’s get going. Here, hold my hand and just climb on down the rope ladder.”

  “You go first!” Cathy insisted.

  “Okay, here we go. Think of it as an adventure.”

  Cathy took a deep breath and descended the ladder after him, pretending that her heart was not pounding, her pulse not racing. “So what now?”

  “We’re off.” He grinned, and waved up to the crew on the deck above. “I think we’ve got everything. Thank you! See you late this afternoon.”

  “Whatever you say,” drifted down the reply.

  • • •

  Using the bright yellow paddles, Michael rowed them toward the nearest cays. The water shimmered in the sun, changing from blue to turquoise to azure, then pale green. From her seat in the raft, Cathy watched the bright, flitting shapes of fish. She leaned over and dangled her fingers in the water. It was warm as a bath, clear and sparkling, and with the tropical sunshine beating on her head and shoulders, she was eager to jump in.

  “I think I’m going to like this, Mr. Winters.” She smiled. She flicked a handful of water at his bare chest and laughed when he jumped.

  “Hey, no fair!”

  “Who said I had to be fair?” She giggled, sprinkling him again.

  “You asked for it!” He made a quick move with one paddle, and soaked her head to foot.

  “You’ll pay for that!” she sputtered, water running into her eyes. “Just you wait!”

  “I’ve been waiting for days,” he said almost solemnly.

  “Hmph!” She folded her arms over her wet chest and bit back a laugh. “Hey, look at that!” She pointed, her attention suddenly caught by a dark ridge just under the water. “What’s that?”

  “Coral reef,” Michael explained, lifting the oar and letting the raft glide on. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Great spot for snorkeling. Here, let’s row into the lagoon just a little farther, and I’ll get us all set up here. You’ll love it. You’ll see fish you’ve never imagined, all colors and shapes, and the coral itself is beautiful. Though it looks tough, it’s realty very vulnerable, but there are a few things to be wary of.” He stowed the oars as he talked, gently lowered a small anchor, sorted out their gear.

  After he fit the snorkeling tube onto his mask, he instructed, “Now, you lower the mask like this, then put the mouthpiece in your mouth, bite down here, and close your lips tight like this.”

  Cathy wanted to fall over backward laughing! She struggled to keep a straight face.

  “What’s so funny?” he demanded, one dark brow lifted.

  “You! Always so perfect, so polished … and here you are looking like the creature from the Black Lagoon.”

  “This is not a beauty contest—”

  “Lucky for you!” She cut him off with another burst of laughter. “I’ve got to tell you, you would have saved the women of America a lot of heartache if they had put this picture on the cover of Time.

  “That would have suited me fine! Now, could you please try to be serious?” he demanded, fighting hard not to laugh with her.

  “No.”

  He splashed her with a maskful of water, laughing so hard the raft rocked.

  She splashed him back.

  Across the water came the unexpected sound of a motor, an outboard revved to maximum speed. The noise turned their heads around, and Michael shaded his eyes against the sun, peering into the distance toward the yacht.

  “What the—?”

  “Who’s that?” Cathy asked, squinting into the sun.

  “I don’t know. It looks like the crew’s lifeboat from the yacht.”

  He stood up, legs spread for balance, making the raft rock gently. “It is! And it’s full; they must all be on it. What the hell—?”

  The small boat raced out of sight. The sound faded. The sea was silent again.

  And then, while Michael and Cathy rocked on the lovely clear waters and watched in utter disbelief, the yacht blew up.

  Boom! It seemed to lift off the water and come back down in Tinkertoy pieces. Gone.

  Cathy sat with her mouth open, clinging to the rocking sides of the rubber raft. “Oh …” she gasped. “Oh, Michael! Oh …”

  “Oh, damn!” Michael finished her sentence. He folded his arms across his chest and sat staring out at the water.

  “It blew up,” Cathy whispered, unbelieving.

  “Someone blew it up,” Michael corrected her. “At least they were polite enough to get us off first.”

  “But why?” Cathy breathed, looking around over her shoulders as if expecting to find an assassin l
urking there. She wrapped her arms around herself to stop the shaking.

  “Probably something to do with oil prices, dollars per barrel, barrels per day. The sheikh’s been right in the middle of the battle to hold oil prices steady. This was probably someone registering their displeasure with his last OPEC vote. Probably just—”

  “—just ‘business’?” Cathy finished for him this time.

  “Just business,” he agreed, his voice flat. “Nothing personal.”

  “But what do we do now?” she whispered.

  Michael sat silently for a minute, weighing their options, his gaze scanning the sea. When he looked back at Cathy, his face was calm and his voice was deep and soothing, but his eyes were dark with the promise of adventure.

  “There are sure to be rescue planes. A search party. But for now, how about a clambake on the beach, Indiana?”

  Eight

  Michael set off one flare on the beach. Then, avoiding Cathy’s look of dismay, he shut the box on the rest. “Help couldn’t get here this quickly; we’d better save the others.”

  It was almost the truth. He knew, judging by how far they had sailed and how few of these tiny cays were inhabited, that rescue was unlikely this soon. But the whole truth was, Michael wasn’t sure he wanted to be rescued. At least not yet.

  Dripping wet, the sun beating on his head and shoulders, everything they owned scattered over the sand, Michael Winters felt better than he had in years. Better than better. He felt great! And why shouldn’t he? Here he was, stranded on a tropical island with a beautiful woman he had been lusting after for days … plenty of food and water … even dry clothes and a blanket. Paradise.

  A twinge of guilt marred his contentment when he glanced at Cathy.