Blue Velvet

by Iris Johansen

  She felt a sudden inexplicable jab of pain some­where near her heart. No, Beau Lantry would never be interested in permanence or stability. Even on such short acquaintance she should have known that. It was all there in the reckless curve of that beautiful sensual mouth and the flickering rest­lessness in his eyes.

  "I like your hair," he said. "It's all soft silky fleece. You're silky all over, your skin, your hair. ..." His hand dropped and he turned away. "You're dry enough. Climb into bed and I'll turn out the light."

  She switched off the portable dryer and put it in his outstretched hand. "On which side do you pre­fer that I sleep, left or right?" she asked politely.

  His lips quirked. "Under," he answered, "or over." Then as her brow knitted in confusion, his golden eyes twinkled. "Never mind. It was just a thought. Sleep next to the wall. It will give me the illusion that I have you trapped and helpless."

  "You do have me trapped and helpless," she mur­mured as she pulled back the coverlet and slipped beneath it. "It's no illusion."

  His smile faded. "That's right, I do." He strode across the room and tossed the dryer carelessly on the dresser. "How stupid of me to forget." His hand brushed the switch on the wall, plunging the room into darkness.

  She watched his dark shadow come toward the bunk, pausing only to jerk the towel from around his hips. She felt the mattress give as he slipped into the bed beside her and she drew a deep breath trying to relax.

  "Come here, Kate." He was scooting closer and drawing her into his arms with casual matter-of-factness. "I want to cuddle you." His hands were moving soothingly up and down her back. "You're stiff as a board, sugar." That faint Southern drawl was dark velvet as he pressed his face into the curls at her temple. "Just a cuddle, that's all. Relax and let me love you a little." His lips were teasing, pulling at one tight curl. "I love your hair. I keep wanting to run my hands through it and play like a little kid. What's it like when it's long?"

  "Terrible," she said faintly. She could feel the heat of his naked flesh even through the thick terry of the robe. "It's so soft that it tangles at the first breeze. That's why I keep it short."

  "Ummm." He rubbed his cheek back and forth against it in a gesture that was half sensual, half boyish. "I think I'd like it long. You'd look sort of wild and gypsyish," he said. "Though this is fine too."

  "I'm glad you think so," she said dryly, "since I have no intention of letting it grow."

  "We'll see," he said absently. His hands were plucking discontentedly at the back of the terry robe. "This thing is damnably rough. I want to get at you." Then he sighed and drew her closer into the curve of his arm, settling her head in the hol­low of his shoulder. "You're tired, right? And if I'm not going to be on the same level as that bastard who tried to clobber you, I've got to remember, right? Go to sleep, Kate."

  "If you'd rather—"

  " 'Do if?" he interrupted. "Oh, yes, I definitely would. But every now and then I find myself over­come by the code of chivalrous Southern man­hood." His tone was distinctly testy. "At the most fiendishly inconvenient times."

  "I owe you a—"

  "Kate, sweet Kate, shut up." His hand was comb­ing through her curls. "I'm quite aware you're ready to lay that silky body on the line and it isn't making it any easier for me."

  "Okay," she whispered. The events of the eve­ning, together with the emotional upheavals she'd undergone, were catching up with her and she almost collapsed against him. Her voice was a little slurred with exhaustion. "If it's all right with you?"

  "It will have to be."

  Suddenly out of the mists of sleep rapidly enfolding her a fragmentary memory drifted to her. "Who is Uncle George?"

  "What?"

  "Uncle George," she murmured. "You said Despard reminded you of Uncle George."

  "Oh, no one important. Just one of my more avaricious relatives. I hadn't thought of the old bas­tard for years before I ran into Despard." There was a long silence and she was half asleep when Beau began to chuckle. "Lord, if only Daniel could see me now."

  "Daniel?" she asked drowsily.

  "He'd never believe it." There was amusement vying with the exasperation in his tone. "Dis­cussing Shakespeare and Samuel Clemens with a naked woman in the shower and then lying in bed pure as the driven snow with that same woman. He'd enjoy the entire episode tremendously."

  "Would he?" She could barely keep her eyes open. "You're very good friends, aren't you?"

  "We've been in a few tight spots together. It has a tendency to breed a certain intimacy."

  "He's such a strange-looking man. Not at all like any picture I've ever seen of Charon."

  "Charon?"

  "The ferryman," she muttered, burrowing her head deeper into his shoulder. "Over the River Styx."

  "Oh, that Charon." Beau's velvet drawl hinted at repressed laughter. "Forgive me for not making the connection. I can see how the territorial waters of Castellano would remind you of the river of the dead under the present circumstances, but I'm afraid Daniel wouldn't be flattered to be compared to that particular mythical figure." One lazy finger was winding itself around a silky curl. "He was a ferocious old graybeard as I recall."

  "Well, the beard was right anyway." Her eyes refused to stay open any longer.

  "You seem to be really hung up on mythology. Did you study it in school?"

  She shook her head. "I never went to school, '^she said sleepily. "I read about it in my encyclopedia."

  His voice was deceptively casual. "You never went to school?"

  "Well, at least not after I was seven years old. We moved around too much." She wished he'd quit asking questions. She just wanted to go to sleep. "But Jeffrey said it didn't really matter. When I was eight, he bought me a set of encyclopedias and had me study fifteen pages a day until I'd gone through all of them. He said that was as good as any stuffy old school."

  "Oh, he did?" The amusement was completely gone and he sounded almost grim. "Your Jeffrey seems to have all sorts of peculiar theories about what's good for you." It wasn't any wonder, he thought, that she wasn't like anyone he'd ever met before. "Do you always do what he tells you?"

  But she was already asleep, her breathing deep and steady as she curled trustfully into the curve of his arm.

  A set of encyclopedias, for heaven's sake! Myth­ology and the classics and millions of facts without interpretation. And a young girl with an insatiable hunger for the printed word, eagerly devouring those facts and reaching for more. Then another thought occurred to him. Women's lib. She hadn't known about women's lib.

  He found himself shaking her awake. "Those encylopedias, Kate. What year were they pub­lished?"

  "What?" she asked groggily.

  "The year they were published," he demanded.

  "Oh, that," she muttered, "1960." Then she was once more asleep.

  He slowly settled back down on the pillow, his eyes staring blankly into the darkness. "Well, I'll be damned!"

  Jeffrey Brenden was leaning on the rail of the ship, his curly gray-streaked hair ruffled by the brisk morning breeze. In the oversized jeans and gray sweatshirt he'd obviously borrowed from a member of the crew his slight wiry frame appeared even more slender than it had last night. However, his brown eyes were shrewd and alert as he glanced up as Beau approached.

  "Ah, my generous host, I assume." He stretched out his hand, his grin warm and genial. "Julio tells me I have a great deal to thank you for." He made a face. "I'm afraid I don't remember. It seems I was more than a little sloshed last night."

  "More than a little," Beau agreed dryly. He glanced around the empty deck. "Where's your friend Rodriguez?"

  "He and the captain are having breakfast with the crew." Brenden's lips twisted ruefully. "I wasn't up to even staring a cup of coffee in the face this morning." His eyes traveled wistfully over the tall masts. "This is a beautiful ship, Mr. Lantry. I've always wanted to own a sailing ship."

  "Why didn't you buy one?" Beau asked causti­cally. "According to Kate, it
would have fit your image a hell of a lot better than a plane. She says you're something of a modern Sir Francis Drake."

  "I'm a smuggler," Brenden said simply. "Kate always lets me justify it with that romantic non­sense, but I know what I am." He smiled a little sadly. "Lately it's been difficult to ignore. Despard's been rubbing my nose in it."

  "And Kate's," Beau said deliberately. "Do you think it's fair to involve her in your illicit enter­prises?"

  "Kate's never been involved," Brenden said defensively. "I've always kept her out of it."

  "You might have difficulty in convincing the authorities of that. She could be considered an accomplice, you know." His lips tightened. "And it's obvious you'd have trouble keeping her from involving herself, if last night is anything to go by."

  There was a touch of fond pride mixed with rue­fulness in Brenden's smile. "You're right. She's a determined little monkey when she makes up her mind to do something. She always plunges head­long into the fray and to hell with the con­sequences." His eyes were full of memories. "I remember even when she was a child, she was like a little mother. She used to tell me, 'Don't worry, Jeffrey, it will all work out. I'll make it work.' " He turned around, leaning his elbows on the rail. "And do you know something? Most of the time she'd actually do it."

  "You've known each other a long time," Beau observed. "She said you were friends. How did you get together?"

  "Her mother was an American showgirl in a nightclub in Rio de Janeiro." He shrugged. "We lived together for a year or so. Then Sally decided to move on to greener pastures. She just packed up and left one day while I was in Santiago." He paused. "She left Kate behind."

  "Charming," Beau grated through clenched teeth. He felt the same surge of savagery he'd known last night when he'd seen that bastard hit Kate with the pistol. "She just forgot about her, I suppose. Like an old pair of shoes."

  "Sally wasn't all that bad," Brenden said quietly. "She just wasn't the maternal type. She didn't know how to cope with a seven-year-old." He grim­aced. "Neither did I."

  "So you didn't bother," Beau said grimly. "You just dragged her along with you over half the Southern Hemisphere into every dive and hell­hole."

  "Would you rather I'd left her on her own in a for­eign country?" Brenden asked. "At least she had a roof over her head." He met Beau's eyes steadily. "I never tried to be a father to her, but I did the best I could. We got along."

  "For God's sake, you didn't even send her to school!"

  "There were reasons." Brenden looked away eva­sively. "Kate's sharp as a whip. She probably knows more than any of those fancy college graduates."

  "I don't doubt it as long as the subject matter is pre-1960," Beau bit out. "But what about every­thing that's happened in her own lifetime? The space age, the Vietnam war, women's lib, Ken­nedy's assassination?"

  "She picked up a lot of that on her own," Bren­den said defensively. "And the rest isn't all that important for her to know."

  "Did you tell her she didn't miss much there either?" Beau laughed incredulously. "I bet you did. And what's worse, she probably believed you."

  "I did the best I could," the older man repeated stubbornly. His expression turned sulky. "And why the hell is it any of your business anyway? You did us a favor but that doesn't make you Kate's keeper."

  "She obviously needs one," Beau said curtly. "You haven't even asked where Kate is, or don't you really give a damn?"

  Brenden went still. "I give a damn." His eyes nar­rowed on Beau's face. "Where is Kate?"

  "When I left her, she was curled up asleep." Beau paused deliberately. "In my bed."

  There was a flicker on Brenden's face that might have been pain and then it became totally impas­sive. "I see."

  "Is that all you've got to say?" Beau could feel the fury blazing up in him and made a futile effort to control it. "Is it such a common occurrence that you don't even raise an eyebrow? Aren't you even going to ask if I enjoyed her?"

  "No, I'm not going to ask you that," Brenden said heavily, turning back to stare out to sea. "That's between the two of you. It's none of my business."

  "Funny, I thought it was very much your business. Kate was willing to throw herself into my bed to bail the three of you out of the mess you'd gotten yourselves into. Evidently that kind of commit­ment only goes one way."

  Brenden was silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

  Beau drew a deep breath. "I don't know what the devil I'm getting so hot about. If her so-called friends don't care that she's willing to make a prosti­tute of herself, why should I?" But he did care and the fact that it did matter made him even angrier.

  Brenden's glare was glacier cold. "Kate's not a prostitute. Before you throw that first stone, you might consider you were willing enough to take advantage of her generosity yourself and no doubt will again at the next opportunity. Julio's been having a chat with the crew and what he heard about your way with women doesn't make you sound like an angel."

  "I never claimed to be a celibate," Beau said, his eyes smoldering. "But I'm no pimp either."

  "And neither am I," Brenden snapped back, obviously stung. "If I'd been myself I would never have let her do it."

  "But you're not rushing down to my cabin to pull her out of my lecherous clutches," Beau said sar­castically. "You seem amazingly complacent about the whole business."

  "Not complacent," Brenden said, his voice heavy with weariness. "But for once in my life I'm trying to be practical. What's done is done. It's up to Kate if she wants to stay where she is. If she doesn't, I'll find a way to help her."

  "It's not likely she'd make that choice, once she'd made a bargain," Beau said with a sardonic smile. "Even I know her well enough to know that and you sure as hell should."

  "Yes, I know that." Brenden's eyes met his. "And perhaps it's just as well in the long run."

  "For you?"

  Brenden shook his head. "For her." He smiled sadly. "You've just taken pains to tell me what a lousy protector I've been. Maybe it's time I let some­body else have a shot at it."

  "You're absolutely astonishing," Beau said blankly. "You've never seen me before in your life, yet you're willing to trust Kate to me. What's to pre­vent me from using her any way I please and then kicking her off the ship at the next port?"

  "Nothing," Brenden said. "Except for the fact that since the minute you saw me, you've been reading me the riot act for treating her so badly. It doesn't seem likely you'd do that and then go off and do the same thing yourself." He shrugged. "And when you get tired of her, I think you’ll be generous. You're obviously a very rich man from what Julio gathered. You'll see she's secure until she is able to take care of herself."

  "You're speaking as if I'm some Regency buck offering an obliging mistress carte blanche." Beau shook his head dazedly. "Kate was right. You're something from the eighteenth century."

  "It takes one to know one." Brenden's brown eyes were narrowed and shrewd. "I think you may be something of a throwback yourself, Mr. Lantry. There aren't many men who wander around the Caribbean on a sailing ship entangling themselves in situations like the one at Alvarez's last night."

  "Don't depend on it."

  "I learned a long time ago not to depend on any­thing," Brenden said. "But I still find it difficult not to hope." He suddenly looked much older. "Par­ticularly when it comes to Kate. She's always given so much to everyone. I'd like to think that there's justice somewhere in this god-awful world." His hands closed tightly on the rail. "She sure won't get it as long as she sticks with me. She could have gotten herself killed last night. Despard doesn't play around, he goes straight for the jugular."

  Beau tried to hold on to his anger. Damn it, he would not be sorry for the appealing old reprobate. "I doubt if it's the first time. Why this sudden attack of conscience?"

  "Maybe I'm getting too old to fool myself any­more, " Brenden said. "Time has a way of fraying our illusions around the edges." His lips twisted. "It has a habit of transforming dashing pi
rates into shabby petty criminals. Anyway, I've decided to opt out of the dreams game," he said gloomily. "I'm going to reform."

  Beau's eyes narrowed suspiciously on the other man's face. "Reform?"

  Brenden nodded. "There's a nice little widow who owns a coffee plantation on Santa Isabella, an island not too far from here. I've been keeping com­pany with her off and on for the past five years." His mouth curved in a rueful grin. "She doesn't understand about pirates and smugglers either. A very practical lady, Marianna." His face softened. "But loving, very loving. I think I'll just have you drop me off at Santa Isabella and see if she's still interested in a more permanent relationship.'

  "And what about your friend Julio?"

  He shook his head. "He'd never leave Kate. He puts up with me, but Kate makes his world go around. It's been that way since she yanked him out of the guerrilla army four years ago in El Salvador."

  "Guerrilla army?" Beau asked. "She said he was eighteen now. That would have made him only fourteen."

  Brenden nodded. "The guerrillas raid the vil­lages and round up all the able bodied males and 'draft' them into the army." His lips tightened grimly. "Some of them aren't over eleven or twelve years old. The other side is almost as bad. Julio was a big strapping kid even then, so he was a prime candidate. He'd been running errands and doing the shopping and cooking for us for about three months and Kate took a real liking to him. She was almost wild when she heard what hap­pened to him."

  "So she went after him." It was a statement, not a question. It was the kind of impulsive action Kate would inevitably take.

  "We went after him," Brenden said. "And almost lost our scalps in the process. We ended up taking off in a hail of machine-gun bullets. Kate was afraid the civil authorities would try the same thing so she wouldn't even let us stay in the coun­try. " He shook his head. "Pity. I had to scratch the caper I was putting together."

  "How unfortunate," Beau said ironically. "I imagine revolution-torn countries are very condu­cive to your line of work."

  "They are rather," Brenden agreed. "All that tur­moil . . ." He trailed off and straightened briskly. "Well, I'd better hunt up Captain Seifert and ask him to set course for Santa Isabella. He says we're just outside Castellano territorial waters so it shouldn't take more than a few hours to reach there." He arched an eyebrow. "With your permis­sion, of course."