The Great American Bachelor

by Adrienne Staff

  She caught his eye and stepped close to where he was kneeling, resting a hand on his shoulder. “How long do you think it will take?” she asked, her teeth chattering.

  “Not long.” He stood and pulled her close. “But don’t worry. We’re safe. We have plenty of supplies. And I’m here to protect you.”

  She gave him a faint smile, making him feel guiltier than ever.

  “Why don’t you get out of that wet suit?” he said quickly, and rooted around in the duffel bag until he came up with a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and even a lacy little bra and panties. “That’s what I call being prepared; the boy scouts would be proud of us! Here, you’ll feel better when you’re warm and dry.”

  “Where should I change?” She held the bundle to her chest.

  “Right here is fine.” He pretended to look around. “I’d say this is fairly private.”

  Not private enough, she thought. She headed up the beach toward the palms and palmettos. “You wait there,” she called over her shoulder. “But keep your ears open; get ready to come if I yell for help.” The thought of snakes had crossed her mind.

  In two seconds she was dressed and heading back down at a run, her wet suit swinging from one hand by its shoulder straps. “I’m back! I’m fine.” She gasped, laughing at herself.

  “And I’m very glad to see you.” Michael’s matching laughter turned to a husky groan as he buried his face in her wet hair. “Don’t worry, Cathy. Everything will be fine. This will be great, you’ll see. An adventure!”

  She almost believed him. At least she tried, following his lead as he sorted through the supplies, stowed them safely away from the surf, spread their suits out to dry, one next to the other. It all looked as ordinary as Gap’s Monday-morning wash.

  As night fell, she was tired, scared, and miserable. She wanted a bed to lie on, with walls around it, and a roof over her head, and either a house or a boat—correction, a ship—just something solid.

  Instead, she had a deserted island.

  True, she also had Michael Winters, the Great American Bachelor, alone on that island, but each time she began to relax and contemplate the pleasure of that fact, she heard a noise among the trees.

  “What was that?” she yelped, the hair on her neck and arms prickling.

  “Hmmm?” Michael was busy checking the contents of the first aid kit.

  “Michael, did you hear that noise?” She stood so close she stepped on his toes.

  “What noise?” he asked, slipping a reassuring arm around her waist.

  They listened, but there was only silence. The wind had died, and the waves slapped lazily at the sand.

  “Well, I heard it!” she insisted. “It sounded like some kind of animal—”

  “Probably a lizard. They’re all over the tropics.”

  She immediately pictured something huge and scaled, a darting tongue, beady eyes. “I hate lizards,” she announced, hugging her elbows with both hands.

  “They’re tiny, and certainly more frightened of you than you are of them.” He did not even glance up.

  She shrugged, sighed, and wandered down toward the water.

  In seconds she came running back, lifting her feet high off the ground with every step. “Michael, help! Ow! Oh, Michael. Ow! Oh, something’s biting my feet!” She was hopping from one foot to the other, grimacing at each tiny red-hot stab of pain. “Ow! Michael, help me!”

  “Sand flies,” he answered calmly, using his wet shirt to rub her ankles.

  “That’s not doing a damn bit of good!” she answered ungratefully. “Do something!”

  He looked down at her, his eyes dark with amusement, half boy scout, half devil. “What would you like me to do, Indiana?”

  “Save me!”

  “Okay.” Without another word he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder so that she was upside down, silenced by sheer surprise, clinging to him as he strode off up the beach. The blood rushed to her head. She grabbed on to the waistband of his trunks and held tight, her face pressed against the hard, smooth wall of his back, feeling his muscles working against her cheek as he loped along for a good quarter mile and rounded the point leading to narrow, surf-tossed beach.

  “There.” he knelt and laid her down upon the sand. “Better?”

  She thought about it for a second. True, her feet were not being bitten to pieces, but she was dizzy, her ears hummed, and he was awfully close. So close she could smell the saltwater and sweat on him. And his knee was pressing right there between her thighs, his skin hot and raspy with sand.

  “I’m not sure—” she murmured.

  His eyes slid down over her face and her body, half hidden in the dusk. “Maybe I’d better check your pulse,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat.

  She closed her eyes.

  He kissed her chin, the corner of her mouth, her ear, her eyelids. Thai, as quickly as those delicious kisses started, they stopped.

  Cathy took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Michael was staring down at her, his eyes all hot and hungry, blue as the center of a flame, hot and burning.

  “Cathy—”

  No man had ever looked at her like that before. No, she had never known a man who had that passion lurking behind his eyes, that flame burning. She knew if she let it, it would burn her to ashes and she would blow away on the wind.

  She scrambled out from under him, stood, and tugged at the bottom of her shorts. “Thanks. How’d you do that?”

  Crouched on the sand, he glared at her. “I didn’t get a chance to do anything, Cathy.”

  She blushed. “I meant saving me from the sand flies; how’d you do that?”

  He stood up, brushing sand off his calves and thighs. When he lifted his face, his eyes were a cool ice-blue. “No problem; you just have to know where the trade winds blow. Most things are easy once you understand what makes them work.”

  Cathy blushed again, caught on the point of the barb.

  But at the same time, her temper rose. She did not want to be easy, as he so neatly put it. She did not want to be an anecdote in the latest tale he told his friends around some fancy table in Manhattan. But she was having a very hard time resisting him.

  Her nice, safe life was falling away like the clothes on her back. Just the skimpiest bit was left to remind her of ordinariness and safety. And every day, every minute, it was getting harder to stay carefully on her side of the line.

  “So, what now, Michael?” she asked, her voice low and trembly in the growing dark.

  He looked at her for a long minute, knowing exactly what she was thinking, and knocked for a loop by the realization. This was ridiculous! In business he always had a sixth sense about what an opponent was thinking or planning, and he used it to his own advantage. He played the rest of his life by the same rules.

  But this was different. Cathy was different. He had the oddest feeling deep in his gut, something that made him feel strangely protective and tender. His hand reached out to her and he saw how her cheek pinked as his fingers brushed her skin, how his own hand shook. His heart was slamming against his ribs, and when he spoke, his voice sounded full of sand.

  “Wait here. I’ll go fetch the stuff and build us a fire, and I won’t let anything hurt you, okay, Indiana? Okay?”

  What could she do? That sudden tenderness of his brought her feelings back with a rush. “Okay.” She smiled back. “Whatever you say.”

  And when he came back and built a fire, she nestled against him, trying to think of clever, endearing, charming things to say … but instead she fell sound asleep.

  Michael never closed his eyes. And he never felt tired.

  What the hell’s going on, he wondered, and sat there all night, holding her close. He had a feeling the answer was like a tiny seed, hidden inside, just waiting for a little sunlight and rain.

  Nine

  Morning came earlier than it did in Indiana. Or Manhattan.

  The sun sent pink and golden messengers streaming ac
ross the eastern sky, then pushed its way up over the horizon like some impatient royal visitor. It made the whole world sit up and take notice.

  Birds sang and screeched and whistled. Sand crabs scuttled in and out of the surf. Lizards ran races along the palmetto leaves, flashing brown and green and vanishing into perfect camouflage. The pelicans came for breakfast, diving into the breakers, then throwing back their long, ugly heads and gulping fish.

  Cathy loved the pelicans. Stout and grayish-brown, they did their crazy dives and then bobbed awkwardly on the waves. But when they flew, they all flew together, in formation, like good, careful friends, each one watching out for the other.

  “Look at them, Michael.” Cathy had her head tipped back, one hand thrown up to shield her eyes. “They’re so beautiful.”

  Again he felt his heart knock around like a marble in a box. The sight of her was doing strange things to him. His concentration was shot to hell. He had counted their remaining supply of flares twice and still was not sure how many they had. He had dived into the surf three times already to cool down and found it wasn’t the sun giving him trouble. Damn. He let out a harsh breath and rested his hands on his thighs, head down between his shoulders.

  The touch of her small hand on his upper arm made him jump.

  “You okay?” she asked, her brown eyes deep and sweet as chocolate.

  “Fine,” he answered. “We’d better get this stuff loaded in the dinghy and head on while the weather holds, okay?”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” She flipped him a little salute and bent to lift the cooler into the raft.

  Her shorts hitched up and he could see how pink her thighs had gotten from all the sun yesterday, and the color on her shoulders and the back of her neck; even her nose was pink. It made him crazy.

  A groan rose in his throat.

  “Michael?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” She stepped closer and laid her palm against his forehead, her brow furrowed with worry, her breath sweet against his lips.

  That did it. He grabbed her tight and kissed her, his mouth opening over hers as if he would swallow her, he was so hungry for the taste of her. The muscles along his arms ached, needing to curve around her, needing it as if they were made to hold her and not holding her was pain. The way his skin needed to feel her skin, his bones needed to match themselves to her bones, the whole slim length of her belonging there against the length of him.

  “Whoa!” Cathy laughed then, struggling to slip her hands against his chest and catch her breath. “Michael, I thought you were the one who said we’d better get rolling.” She was smiling, questioning, laughing, and aching all at the same time. But her eyes still said no.

  “Hey, just a little early morning pick-me-up when there’s no fresh o.j. nearby,” he tossed back, grinning loose and easy as if he meant it. “Here, throw me those jugs of water, and the first aid kit, and we’re ready to go. Off in search of civilization, right?”

  “You betcha!”

  He pulled the raft down just to the edge of the water, got her settled safely in the back, and then got into the front, already paddling. “You okay back there?”

  “Fine and dandy.”

  “Now, we’ll be all right until we hit the breakers. Then hold on tight and I’ll get us through. After that it’s just a matter of paddling.”

  “I can help,” she offered, her words changing into a shriek as the first set of breakers tossed them up and sideways.

  It was a good thing Michael was strong. Each crest threatened to toss them over, toss them back on the beach, but he fought through, the muscles roping on his shoulders and arms, his back glistening with sweat and sea spray. Then they were over into the open sea, where the water smoothed out into a tightly pulled sheet of blue.

  “Wow!” Cathy gasped, laughing. “That was wild!”

  “Glad you liked it.” Michael laughed back, glad for the release that came with physical exertion. He could handle this. He could handle anything, always had, always would.

  He paddled all morning, heading south, keeping the ocean on his left and the string of cays on his right. They were all uninhabited, mostly tiny, thick with tropical plants and palms, separated one from the other by a shallow green sea. By mid-morning he was starving, and he let Cathy take the oars while he downed a sandwich and a few carefully measured sips of fresh water.

  When he took the oars back he saw how sunburnt her cheeks were. “Put that hat on, Cathy. And see if I put the suntan lotion in the first aid kit.”

  “Sunblock,” she called back, holding up the tube. “Want some?”

  “No, I’m fine. Just put it on your face and lips. And your eyelids too. Then keep the hat pulled low.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” she said.

  Michael turned and caught her grinning, and he felt that now-familiar thud in his chest. “Just keep on following orders, matey,” he joked back, then leaned into the oars with all his might.

  Just sifter noon they saw a large cay, a small fishing boat, and a dock.

  Cathy got so excited, she forgot to hold on. “Michael, look! People! A house! Civilization!”

  “Hold on,” he yelled back, trying to keep the raft steady.

  “Sorry.” She giggled, and settled down, but what she had started, the ocean made worse. The long swells rolling in toward shore seemed to rise and fall beneath them like a roller coaster. The little raft leapt and jumped, twisting sideways as the waves dropped out from under it.

  “Hold on, Cathy,” Michael yelled, all business now, grim and serious. “Just hold on. And watch out for the cooler; don’t let it hit you if we go over.”

  “Go over?” Cathy repeated, grabbing hold of the raft’s sides with shaking fingers.

  “Just hang on—”

  There was no hanging on. The reef below the water’s surface churned the ocean into whitecaps. The little rubber raft jumped and dipped, jumped again, then flipped completely over.

  Cathy took that familiar, horrifying plunge into deep water. And panicked.

  But Michael was right there beside her before the salt could sting her throat. Ignoring the coral, the lost gear, the sinking raft, he went straight for Cathy, caught her tight against him, and pulled her over the reef and into the calm waters of the lagoon.

  “You’re okay,” he whispered, brushing water and wet hair off her face with both hands.

  “You bet,” she said shakily. “Hey, I wasn’t even worried.”

  “You didn’t look worried,” he lied back. Grinning, he dropped an arm over her slim shoulders and headed them toward shore.

  Three men were on the dock, waving. The tallest, a brown, spare old man in a fisherman’s hat, called out to them, pointing up around the curve of the cay as he talked. “You see there, mistah? Up yonder? Dot’s de way into harbor here. Not down here, no sir.”

  “Sorry we didn’t know that sooner,” Michael answered with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I’ve never been here before, and we’ve got no maps or charts.”

  “Don’t think we’re on de maps,” the man answered seriously. “But you’re not the first. Over where you went down, a dinghy just like that one turn right over and everybody got lost. Two mens and one woman. Just about this time last year, yes.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible,” Cathy whispered, her hand pressed to her mouth.

  “Oh, dat’s not all. One time a boatful of ministers went down, right over dere, and only one swam to shore. Never did see hat or shoes of de others. Sharks run off with dem.”

  Cathy’s eyes were wide as saucers.

  “Enough.” Michael tugged her close, jumped up onto the dock and lifted her up next to him. “Enough tales of woe for one day,” he said sternly. “Let’s go find the town and make some plans, okay?”

  “Town’s down de road a ways,” the old man said, pointing off in the general direction. “Ask for Gloria when you gets there. She be glad to help.”

  A short while later, their feet, hair, and throats dusty,
they found the dozen or so small buildings that made up the town. Gloria was behind the counter of the little grocery store.

  Michael popped the tab off a beer and downed it in almost one gulp. He sighed when he finished, then wiped his chin with the back of one hand. “Want one, Cathy?”

  “What I really want is a nice warm shower. I feel like my skin is two parts dried salt, one part dust. And my hair—” Cathy pulled at her tangle of curls with both hands, and they sprang back, stiff and salty.

  “If a shower’s what you want, dere’s one out back,” Gloria offered. “First I make you a nice lime punch to take de thirst off, yes?”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Cathy felt better immediately. “Are you going to shower too, Michael?”

  “Are you making me an offer I can’t refuse?” He grinned.

  Blushing furiously, Cathy gave him a quick jab in the ribs with her elbow.

  “No?” He laughed. “Well, then I’m going to skip it. I’ll go see what I can dig up for our rescue, okay? I’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes.”

  Never had Cathy tasted anything as good as the lukewarm lime punch. It went down smoother than champagne. She carried the glass out back and checked out the shower. It was just a shower head attached to the back wall of the store, screened by three walls about head high. She stood for a moment, frowning, weighing the pleasures of warm, fresh water against the perils of this primitive plumbing. The thought of soap and warm water won out.

  She stepped inside, pulled her T-shirt over her head, stepped out of her shorts and panties, and unhooked her bra. She laid the whole pile carefully on a rock right next to the opening, flipped a towel over the top of the wall and turned on the water.

  “Yikes!” Well, it wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t salty. She lathered herself from head to toe, then stood under the spray, sighing happily. Oh, this was heaven! Maybe she should have invited Michael. She giggled to herself at the thought of his bulk squeezed into this little cubby along with her, his shoulders, chest, thighs … Whoa! Her giggle dropped an octave, and she turned her face up to the spray. “That’s gonna get you in trouble, Stephenson,” she said into the stream of water, the words and spray calming the hot rush to a manageable level.