and
reached out for it. Looking down, she saw that the gaping neckline of the
loose, comfortable cotton shift left her breasts completely exposed to his
view, and his touch; she had unwittingly invited both. Her hands trembled as she automatically continued wiping him down
with the cool cloth. Her senses were reeling, her mind scrambling to adjust to
the fact that he had been awake, that he had spoken, even if it had been only one
word. Somehow during the long two days when he had lain motionless, even though
she had longed for him to wake, she had stopped expecting him to. She had taken
care of him as totally as one would an infant, and now she was as startled as
if an infant had suddenly spoken. But he was no infant; he was a man. Ail man,
if the frank appreciation in that single slurred word was any measurement.
"Pretty," he'd said, and her cheeks heated.
Then the implications of that single word hit her, and she jerked
upright. He was American! If he'd been anything else the first word he spoke,
when he was only half-conscious and burning with fever, would have been in his
native language. But that one word had been in English, and the accent, though
slurred, had definitely been American. Part of the slur could have come from a
natural accent, a southern or western drawl.
American. She wondered at the heritage that had given him his dark
coloring, Italian or Arabic, Hungarian or American Indian, maybe even Black
Irish? Spanish? Tartar? The high, chiseled cheekbones and thin, hawk-bridged
nose could have come from any of those bloodlines, but he was definitely from
the huge American melting pot.
Her heart was still hammering in her chest with excitement. Even
after she had emptied the bowl of water, turned out the lamp and crawled into
bed beside him, she was quivering and unable to sleep. He had opened his eyes and spoken to her, had moved voluntarily. He was recovering! A burden lifted from her shoulders with the
knowledge.
She turned on her side and looked at him, barely able to see the
outline of his profile in the darkness of the room, but every pore in her skin
sensed his nearness. He was warm and alive, and an odd mixture of pain and
ecstasy swelled inside her, because somehow he had become important to her, so
important that the tenor of her existence had been irrevocably altered. Even when he left, as practicality
told her he must, she would never be the same again. Diamond Bay had given him to her, a strange gift from the turquoise
waters. She reached out and trailed her fingers lightly down his muscled arm,
then withdrew her touch, because the feel of his skin made her heart lurch
again. He had come from the sea, but it was she who had suffered the sea
change.
Chapter Four
"He's dead, I'm telling
you."
A slim man, with graying brown hair and a narrow, intense face
that belied the self-imposed calmness and control of his manner, gave the
speaker a look of contemptuous amusement. "Do you think we can afford to
assume that, Ellis? We have found nothing – I repeat, nothing – to assure us of
his death."
Tod Ellis narrowed his eyes. "There's no way he could've
survived. That boat went up like a fuel tank."
An elegant red-haired woman had been silently listening to the
two, and now she leaned forward to put out a cigarette. "And the report
from one of the men that he saw something, or someone, go over the side?"
Ellis flushed angrily. These two had deferred to him when it came
to setting up the ambush, but now they were treating him like a rank amateur.
He didn't like it; he was far from an amateur, and they had damned well needed
him when they were after Sabin. The plan hadn't worked out exactly as they'd
wanted, but Sabin hadn't escaped, and that was the most important thing. If they
had thought it would be easy to capture him, then they were fools, at best.
"Even if he got into the water," he said patiently, "he was
wounded. We saw him get hit. We were miles out. There's no way he could have
gotten
reached out for it. Looking down, she saw that the gaping neckline of the
loose, comfortable cotton shift left her breasts completely exposed to his
view, and his touch; she had unwittingly invited both. Her hands trembled as she automatically continued wiping him down
with the cool cloth. Her senses were reeling, her mind scrambling to adjust to
the fact that he had been awake, that he had spoken, even if it had been only one
word. Somehow during the long two days when he had lain motionless, even though
she had longed for him to wake, she had stopped expecting him to. She had taken
care of him as totally as one would an infant, and now she was as startled as
if an infant had suddenly spoken. But he was no infant; he was a man. Ail man,
if the frank appreciation in that single slurred word was any measurement.
"Pretty," he'd said, and her cheeks heated.
Then the implications of that single word hit her, and she jerked
upright. He was American! If he'd been anything else the first word he spoke,
when he was only half-conscious and burning with fever, would have been in his
native language. But that one word had been in English, and the accent, though
slurred, had definitely been American. Part of the slur could have come from a
natural accent, a southern or western drawl.
American. She wondered at the heritage that had given him his dark
coloring, Italian or Arabic, Hungarian or American Indian, maybe even Black
Irish? Spanish? Tartar? The high, chiseled cheekbones and thin, hawk-bridged
nose could have come from any of those bloodlines, but he was definitely from
the huge American melting pot.
Her heart was still hammering in her chest with excitement. Even
after she had emptied the bowl of water, turned out the lamp and crawled into
bed beside him, she was quivering and unable to sleep. He had opened his eyes and spoken to her, had moved voluntarily. He was recovering! A burden lifted from her shoulders with the
knowledge.
She turned on her side and looked at him, barely able to see the
outline of his profile in the darkness of the room, but every pore in her skin
sensed his nearness. He was warm and alive, and an odd mixture of pain and
ecstasy swelled inside her, because somehow he had become important to her, so
important that the tenor of her existence had been irrevocably altered. Even when he left, as practicality
told her he must, she would never be the same again. Diamond Bay had given him to her, a strange gift from the turquoise
waters. She reached out and trailed her fingers lightly down his muscled arm,
then withdrew her touch, because the feel of his skin made her heart lurch
again. He had come from the sea, but it was she who had suffered the sea
change.
Chapter Four
"He's dead, I'm telling
you."
A slim man, with graying brown hair and a narrow, intense face
that belied the self-imposed calmness and control of his manner, gave the
speaker a look of contemptuous amusement. "Do you think we can afford to
assume that, Ellis? We have found nothing – I repeat, nothing – to assure us of
his death."
Tod Ellis narrowed his eyes. "There's no way he could've
survived. That boat went up like a fuel tank."
An elegant red-haired woman had been silently listening to the
two, and now she leaned forward to put out a cigarette. "And the report
from one of the men that he saw something, or someone, go over the side?"
Ellis flushed angrily. These two had deferred to him when it came
to setting up the ambush, but now they were treating him like a rank amateur.
He didn't like it; he was far from an amateur, and they had damned well needed
him when they were after Sabin. The plan hadn't worked out exactly as they'd
wanted, but Sabin hadn't escaped, and that was the most important thing. If they
had thought it would be easy to capture him, then they were fools, at best.
"Even if he got into the water," he said patiently, "he was
wounded. We saw him get hit. We were miles out. There's no way he could have
gotten
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