Oh, Gap, was this all just going to turn into a story to tell around the dining room table on Thanksgiving and Christmas? When she grew old, would she forget? Would memories of Michael fade away like some old photograph, his face blurring in memory until she could no longer remember the exact color of his eyes, or the shape of his mouth, or his sudden heartstopping grin?
“Concentrate,” she commanded. “Concentrate.” But her thoughts wiggled around like so many worms: jumbled, disorganized, uncontrollable. Was she having the best time of her life? Or the worst? Did she want to find civilization in the next second? Or the next century? Was he wild? Or wonderful? Or both?
And did she love him?
The last thought stopped her short. Her heart skipped a beat. She had not meant to ask that, did not want to ask it. Or answer it. She slid him a sideways glance, one little glance in the dark, and yet the sight of him, asleep, long legs stretched out across the deck, an arm flung over his eyes, filled her with yearning. She wanted to do everything: touch him, kiss him, cover him with a blanket, tuck him in, throw herself on top of him—wake him and make him love her!
Nice thoughts for a girl from Indiana, she frowned. She needed a drink, just a sip of tepid coffee from the bottle in the basket. Could she get it? Stretching, her fingers just reached the lid. Holding tight to the tiller, she pulled it a little closer, edged the top up, felt around for the bottle. Where was it? Darn! Looking in, she saw it had tipped, and the coffee was now mingling with the seawater in the bottom of the boat. Damn!
And then she looked back ahead, and the star had disappeared.
Gone!
She looked around wildly, feeling lost, absolutely lost. Panicked. Frantic.
Huge sobs tore from her throat and there was nothing she could do to stop them.
“What?” Michael demanded, leaping awake, stumbling, finding a hold on the edge of the boat. “Oh, God, what? What is it, Cathy? Are you all right?”
“No,” she sobbed. “I lost it. I lost the star. I don’t know where we are. I—I lost it!”
“That’s because the sun is coming up,” he said softly, and wrapped his arms around her. “Look over your shoulder, love. See the light?”
Cathy felt her breath stop in her throat. “What?” she whispered, knowing he’d repeat the whole thing and go on to explain where they were and how and when. “What?” she whispered.
“Love,” he whispered back only what mattered. “Love.”
Eleven
“Michael, this is incredible!” Cathy sat with her chin resting on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs, bottom planted on the wet sand.
The sudden sight of a cay and their rough-and-tumble landing had left her no time to be embarrassed over his last words. “Love,” he had called her. She stored it away and carefully kept her voice playful.
“Michael, are you listening? This is incredible. The more time we spend together, the fewer clothes I’ve got. I mean”—she threw her hands wide—“I started out a week ago in a sundress, shoes, sweater, underwear … carrying a purse, no less! And here I am in a pair of raggedy shorts and a T-shirt. And wet! I’m always wet! I spend more time in the water than Flipper!”
“But can you balance a ball on your nose?” He laughed, paying little attention to her complaining as he lugged the little catboat farther up onto the sand. Straining against the rope, muscles bunching with the effort, his body made her ache to touch him, ache and tremble with something she was afraid would be called lust.
When he stopped, she quipped, “Why don’t you pull it up a little higher, Michael. Just another tug or two.”
“You really like to see me sweat.”
“Darn right.”
“Well, I’ve had it.” He flopped down onto the sand beside her, folding his arms behind his head. “I am beat, darlin’. That was one hell of a landing!”
“Those waves—” She shook her head at the memory. “Is everything ruined?”
“The food’s all wet, but we’ve got plenty of fresh water and the matches are dry.” He pulled the little waterproof tin out of one pocket and dropped it in her hand. “And the blanket will dry. All we’ve got to do is find something to eat.”
“How about a phone? A motel with clean white sheets and an eighteen-inch color TV? A Burger King with large fries and a chocolate shake? An airport?”
“I’ll keep my eye out.” He smiled. Rolling onto one hip, he laid his head in her lap, the dampness of his thick dark hair chilling her thigh.
She drew her fingers through his hair, fingertips alert to the texture, the feel of his rough, shaggy mane. It was strangely erotic. And then she suddenly realized that he was growing a beard. She brushed the backs of her fingers against his cheek. Rough. Prickly. It made her oddly aware of his maleness, his potent sexuality, as if here on the beach some more primitive Michael was taking over, breaking through his polished, civilized shell.
“Sony about that.” He broke into her thoughts, rolling over so that his head was nestled between her thighs, his cheek pressed against her belly. “I know I must look like hell, but”—he shrugged—“no razor.”
“I … I don’t mind,” she stuttered. “It’s kind of nice. Different.” She swallowed. “But nice.”
“Thanks.” He grinned. “I’ve got to admit it feels good, kind of wild and woolly, shipwrecked on some deserted island like Robinson Crusoe. Hell, I’ve always loved that book!”
Cathy was barely listening, her thoughts were racing so. For as long as he’d had no razor, she’d had no shampoo, no Dial, no nice little Lady Sunbeam of her own. What she must look like—
Just then he rolled toward her again, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face against her. “You smell so good, Cathy. So clean, like sea foam and sunshine.”
Her whole body shivering with awkwardness, Cathy could barely speak. “Thanks,” she finally managed to say. She tried to ease out from under him, but he held her tight.
“Don’t go yet. You know, Cathy, I’ve never felt so good. I mean I feel good, alive, healthy, fantastic!” He leaned back and gave a little chuckle deep in his throat. “You know how much time I usually spend working out in a gym on the fiftieth floor of a modern Manhattan high rise, full of the best equipment? Every Tuesday and Thursday I have a massage to try to unknot the knots, ease the strain.” His blue eyes were focused somewhere to the right of her cheek, his brow drawn low. “You know what? None of it works.”
Then he gave that low chuckle again. “I wouldn’t tell my masseur, or the guy who runs the gym, but it never came close to this. Hell—” He laughed, looking right in her eyes. “Just think how many major industries we could ruin if we could package this! Good-bye health spas, cosmetics, deodorant soaps. The whole advertising industry would hate us.”
The thought gave him great pleasure, and he lay there, grinning from ear to ear.
His mood was contagious, and she smiled back at him as she traced the curve of his mouth. “I must admit, Winters, you do look good.”
“Not as good as you, darlin’,” he answered, his voice grown suddenly husky. “Your skin is smooth and soft as a peach, sweeter, smoother, with a little color here”—he touched her nose, her cheeks—“and here, and here.” The corner of his mouth tugged down in a wily grin. “And here.” He pressed a blunt finger to her throat, trailed it down to the rise of her breast. “And here.” Lifting onto one elbow, he pressed his lips where his touch had been, his mouth warm and wet and startlingly erotic.
Cathy felt his mouth trailing wet kisses down her throat, and found herself teetering on the edge of her invisible line. Ecstasy beckoned from the other side.
She should stop him. There was no future in this. She knew better. She was a realist. She was a responsible, sensible—
“Oh, Cathy,” Michael groaned, his breath flowing down over her breasts so that her nipples tingled and tightened. Stars sparked behind her eyes. She arched her back, took a trembly little breath … and leapt right over her line.
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br /> His body read her response immediately. It sent Michael staggering back with her away from the water, up to the dry, warm, smooth sand, and he dropped to his knees, still holding her, laid her down, and covered her slim body with his own.
She took his weight with joy, loving the solid strength of him, the heaviness that meant his bones, muscles, flesh, and form. She could hardly breathe, but every shallow breath filled her head with his smell, salt dried in his hair, suntan oil, and sweat.
Loving it, wanting more, she slipped her tongue out to stroke along his rough cheek. He turned his face, nipped the tip of her tongue between his teeth, then teased her with hot, hungry kisses. Starting at her mouth and working his way down, he tasted her warm, silken flesh, licking, kissing, pressing his mouth to the curve of her collarbone, the fullness of her breasts, the tight buds of her nipples through her tank top.
Then, with cool, slow hands, he lifted the bottom edge of her shirt and pulled it up, exposing her pale breasts, their puckered rose-colored tips. His mouth closed over one nipple, wet and hot and rasping in slow, maddening circles that made her writhe with pleasure. She lifted her legs and locked them around his hips, pulling him closer, but he arched back against her legs, letting only his mouth touch her, until he rubbed his head between her breasts, whispering, “Slow, slow, Cathy.”
“No, come to me, Michael,” she cried softly, her voice hoarse and unfamiliar, her hands sliding hungrily over his back and shoulders. “Come, come here,” she demanded softly, trembling, aching, but he knelt over her, touching her lightly from throat to belly, his hands circling in delight over her hot skin, until they slid down and tugged at the waistband of her shorts.
She lifted her hips between his thighs, relishing how well they fit together, keeping her hips up even as she moved and circled.
He gave a deep husky laugh and pressed her down, the sand warm beneath her bare buttocks, and him so warm and heavy on top.
“You too,” she whispered, and he slipped out of his shorts and for the first time, after all this time together, she saw him naked. He was so perfect, so breathtaking. She just had to touch him. Had to! He was so beautiful, his body so wonderfully carved into muscle and sinew and flesh. She could not stop looking. Couldn’t! And then … slowly he lowered himself on top of her, and she could feel him from chest to toes, pressed against her, and she let her head fall back, her eyes closed, weak with desire. Helpless.
Yearning. Waiting.
His breath whispered in her ear, “You are so beautiful, so beautiful, Cathy.”
She sobbed with impatience, “Now, now, Michael, please now!” as he whispered, “Slow, Cathy, slow,” and touched her everywhere with teasing touches. Finally, crying, trembling, and shaking, she pulled him deeper into her until he filled her with wild unbelievable feelings, tremors and tears, and a delicious joy that exploded out of her in cries of sheer ecstasy and madly abandoned laughter.
Michael lay panting on top of her, holding her tight, his weight heavy now that he lay sprawled and spent. The breath was squeezed from her chest, and she held him, breathless, loving being scrunched, until he lifted himself up on both hands and smiled down at her. “I didn’t squash you, did I?”
She couldn’t speak, could only smile up into his eyes, where she saw herself, irrevocably changed by their loving.
Oh, here they were, not rolling and tumbling and caught in some wild frenzy soon over with, but grinning at each other in pure happiness. Connected. Looking into each other’s eyes and seeing something miraculous reflected there.
Placing a hand on either side of his face, Cathy drew his head down toward her and kissed him gently on the mouth, her tongue tracing the curve of his lips.
“So,” she said finally, “that’s what all the fuss is about, hmmmm?”
“Oh, love—” he breathed, lifting his face just enough to dust kisses on her cheeks and chin. “Oh, my love—”
“Shhh,” she said, putting a finger on his lips. “You don’t have to put words to it, Michael. I’m happy to take it for what it is … a fairy tale … a magic moment.”
He kissed her on the lips, stopping her words, her breath, then brushed his words against her cheek. “Don’t you know, Cathy? Don’t you know it’s the truth? I love you.” He kissed her ear. “I love you. I thought you knew.”
And curving up to him, pressing her mouth to his bronze warm skin, she answered. “Yes, yes, and I love you too.”
Twelve
They lay there for a long time, sprawled on the empty beach, content to listen to the surf and each other’s breathing. When Cathy shifted on the sand, Michael pulled her back close, pillowing her curly head on his shoulder. “Don’t go yet, don’t move. I’m too happy.”
Cathy rolled onto her side and kissed his chest. “Me too. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
But she was the first to break the spell. She worried that someone was going to come strolling down the beach and find them lying there, bare and blushing. Someone on their way to market, or out fishing, or kids come to swim.
The thought got her up and moving. She dashed down to the water and jumped in, splashing and swimming, dipping under to wash her hair and springing up again, water cascading down her golden body.
Michael watched her from his bed in the sand, his eyes dark with pleasure and desire.
When she walked back up and picked up her shorts, he leaned up on one elbow. “Don’t. Come on back here. Let’s make love again and then I’ll find you a sarong and wrap you up, island girl.”
“Come find the sarong first.” She laughed, stepping into her shorts and pulling on her top. She turned and faced him, hands planted on her hips. “Well, Mr. Crusoe, I’m hungry and wet for a change. What are you going to do about it?”
“Sleep,” he replied, dropping one arm over his eyes.
Cathy tiptoed to the water’s edge, caught a little sandcrab. Tiptoed back. Knelt. Placed the crab on Michael’s chest.
It was hard to tell whether Michael or the crab moved faster. “What the hell!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. The three of them raced for the surf, the crab disappearing and Michael ducking Cathy until she leapt up against his chest, wrapped her legs around his hips, and buried her face against his neck. “Stop! I give, I give,” she sputtered.
“Oh … there is a Santa Claus,” Michael said, carrying her just to where the sand was dry before he made love to her again.
By mid-afternoon, no one had passed by, but Cathy’s tummy was grumbling with hunger. “Michael. Michael …” She poked him. “We have got to find something to eat. Now!”
“A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou …” he quipped, lazy and grinning like a fox.
“Enough ‘thou’ for now. I want the bread and wine, Winters!”
“Heartless woman.” But he got up, pulled on his shorts, and tossed her her clothes. “Come on. We’ll explore.”
They walked along the beach again, finding tide pools and rocks and long stretches of pink sand, but no sign of people. Inland was a dense green garden. They wandered in, avoiding the sharp edges of the palmettos, and walked through the cool interior, stilling the loud cacaphony of bird calls with their presence. “Sorry, guys, just passing through,” Michael said, laughing.
Back on the beach they continued their circle, the sun sauntering on its arc through the blue and dazzling sky.
All of a sudden Cathy yelled, “Look, look there; there’s something on the beach!”
They sprinted off together, but then Michael stopped, laughing, his hands resting on his knees. “Relax, darlin’, there’s no hurry.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s us, dear one. Our boat. Our basket.”
“You mean we’ve come all the way around? There’s no one but us? No little village? Nothing?”
“Nice, huh?”
“Except for the fact that I’m starving.”
“No problem.” He gave a mock bow and strode off down the beach, calling over his shoulder in a thi
ck French accent, “What would Madame care for? Conch? Mussels? Crab? Yellowtail? Fresh coconut milk to drink? Papaya for dessert?”
Cathy caught up with him and grabbed him around the waist. “Can you really do this, Michael?”
“Yes,” he said down to her upturned face. “I can do anything. Haven’t you learned that yet? And so can you. Come on.”
“Me?”
“You bet. What’s Robinson Crusoe without his pal Friday?”
So he taught her how to find conch and crawfish, and how good crabs could taste and, in the days that followed, how to fish with a long, pointed stick, and even how to dive for lobsters.
That first night they collected wood for a fire, carefully used one of the matches, and dried the blanket and then sat together, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, watching the flames and the sea beyond.
“Is this really happening?” she whispered, nestling against him. “If it’s a dream, don’t wake me up. Let me sleep a hundred years, and wake only to your kiss.”
“Wrong fairy tale,” he said. But he kissed her anyway.
Their passion woke instantly. It was never far away. Beneath the most ordinary action lay an awareness of each other’s body, each other’s response. He could bend to pick up a stick, and she would have to reach out and touch his bare thigh. She would shake out the blanket, and he would come close behind and kiss the nape of her neck. Her shivers made him tremble. His heat made her burn.
She could barely look at him without wanting him. The sight of his bare chest drove her mad, and she would touch, kiss, touch until they were down on the sand. She would get up, swim, try a little fishing, and she would see the water running in rivulets down through his dark hair, down his chest and belly, and she would have to go swipe at them with the tip of her tongue, and there they would be, down on the hot, smooth surface of the rocks. She got a penny-size bruise on one buttock that way, and when he saw it he had to kiss it and make it better.
The Great American Bachelor Page 11
