her surroundings. There was scuba gear everywhere, and shelves of books lining all available space. The cabin was clean but rampantly unorganized. … Even on the blue-sheeted bed where she sat, maps and charts spilled over the foot.
What was she doing here? she wondered. This wasn’t at all what she had intended. She loved this man. Everything should be beautiful. A gentle fog should drift from the heavens … it should be bright and soft and splendid. … Except that he didn’t love her, and he had been right all along. She had chosen to play a game she didn’t know how to play and she had taken one turn too many.
“You’re not drinking your wine,” he observed, entering the cabin with his jacket slung over his shoulder. He walked to a tiny closet, extracted a hanger, and hung up his jacket. Yanking his tie from his neck, he slipped that over the hanger, too, and unbuttoned his shirt.
Cat took a sip of her wine. She noticed her hands were trembling and she clenched them tightly around her cup. He no longer seemed so terribly angry. Maybe the cool Bahamian sea breeze had soothed the heat of his temper.
He sat across from her, an ankle crossed over his knee as he observed her, searching her face for something, his own impassive.
“What do you want, Cat?” he queried softly.
Why was he questioning her? How could she put into words what she did want anyway, when it wasn’t clear in her own mind. Him, of course, but with all the flowery phrases, his eyes answering the light in her own, soft breezes and gentle decor, down pillows and silk.
“Come on, Miss Windemere,” he prodded, “let’s talk.”
Cat took another sip of wine, and returned his glacial stare. “I don’t want anything,” she said coolly, hating him for making her feel so ridiculous.
“Stop lying,” he snapped. “Why did you tell me your father wanted to see me?”
“He did—”
“Bull.”
“Really, I’m not going to sit here and argue with you.”
“That’s nice to hear,” he said wryly. “But it seems as if you went through a fair amount of trouble to interrupt what I was doing. Why?”
Cat remained stubbornly—and miserably—silent, her eyes meeting his only through great willpower.
“Okay,” he said quietly, “I’ll help you. Actually, it’s rather flattering. You’ve decided you want to make love to me—or vice versa. But it’s turning out not to be quite what you imagined. A kiss doesn’t stop at the lips. It’s not a hazy dream out of a fairy tale where you ride sweetly off into the sunset. I’m afraid it all boils down to something rather basic and simple, and I fear ‘love’ seldom has much to do with it.” He fell silent for a moment, watching her. “Am I right, Cat?”
“No—you’re being absurd,” she lied sickly. “You really do underestimate me, Clay. I’m not a sheltered islander. I lived in the big bad city for a long time.”
“Oh.” His lips pursed slightly as he mulled over her statement. She didn’t really know him well enough to recognize the amusement glimmering in the jet of his eyes, which had completely replaced anger. “Okay,” he said finally. “Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“Take off your clothes. It’s possible to make love half dressed, but much more satisfactory with both parties naked.”
A flush of surging blood rushed to Cat’s face. He was laughing at her. He had dragged her all the way out here to laugh at her.
She had never been especially good in controlling her temper. She was on her feet in a split second, splashing the barely tasted remainder of her wine in his face. “You are the ultimate bastard!” she hissed, whirling for the deck steps.
This time she didn’t even irritate him; she heard his laughter follow her trail. “What do you think you’re going to do, swim back?”
He heard her determined steps upon the deck. “Damn,” she heard him swear, “that little witch does think she’s going to swim back!”
He was after her
What was she doing here? she wondered. This wasn’t at all what she had intended. She loved this man. Everything should be beautiful. A gentle fog should drift from the heavens … it should be bright and soft and splendid. … Except that he didn’t love her, and he had been right all along. She had chosen to play a game she didn’t know how to play and she had taken one turn too many.
“You’re not drinking your wine,” he observed, entering the cabin with his jacket slung over his shoulder. He walked to a tiny closet, extracted a hanger, and hung up his jacket. Yanking his tie from his neck, he slipped that over the hanger, too, and unbuttoned his shirt.
Cat took a sip of her wine. She noticed her hands were trembling and she clenched them tightly around her cup. He no longer seemed so terribly angry. Maybe the cool Bahamian sea breeze had soothed the heat of his temper.
He sat across from her, an ankle crossed over his knee as he observed her, searching her face for something, his own impassive.
“What do you want, Cat?” he queried softly.
Why was he questioning her? How could she put into words what she did want anyway, when it wasn’t clear in her own mind. Him, of course, but with all the flowery phrases, his eyes answering the light in her own, soft breezes and gentle decor, down pillows and silk.
“Come on, Miss Windemere,” he prodded, “let’s talk.”
Cat took another sip of wine, and returned his glacial stare. “I don’t want anything,” she said coolly, hating him for making her feel so ridiculous.
“Stop lying,” he snapped. “Why did you tell me your father wanted to see me?”
“He did—”
“Bull.”
“Really, I’m not going to sit here and argue with you.”
“That’s nice to hear,” he said wryly. “But it seems as if you went through a fair amount of trouble to interrupt what I was doing. Why?”
Cat remained stubbornly—and miserably—silent, her eyes meeting his only through great willpower.
“Okay,” he said quietly, “I’ll help you. Actually, it’s rather flattering. You’ve decided you want to make love to me—or vice versa. But it’s turning out not to be quite what you imagined. A kiss doesn’t stop at the lips. It’s not a hazy dream out of a fairy tale where you ride sweetly off into the sunset. I’m afraid it all boils down to something rather basic and simple, and I fear ‘love’ seldom has much to do with it.” He fell silent for a moment, watching her. “Am I right, Cat?”
“No—you’re being absurd,” she lied sickly. “You really do underestimate me, Clay. I’m not a sheltered islander. I lived in the big bad city for a long time.”
“Oh.” His lips pursed slightly as he mulled over her statement. She didn’t really know him well enough to recognize the amusement glimmering in the jet of his eyes, which had completely replaced anger. “Okay,” he said finally. “Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“Take off your clothes. It’s possible to make love half dressed, but much more satisfactory with both parties naked.”
A flush of surging blood rushed to Cat’s face. He was laughing at her. He had dragged her all the way out here to laugh at her.
She had never been especially good in controlling her temper. She was on her feet in a split second, splashing the barely tasted remainder of her wine in his face. “You are the ultimate bastard!” she hissed, whirling for the deck steps.
This time she didn’t even irritate him; she heard his laughter follow her trail. “What do you think you’re going to do, swim back?”
He heard her determined steps upon the deck. “Damn,” she heard him swear, “that little witch does think she’s going to swim back!”
He was after her
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