What the Waves Bring

by Barbara Delinsky

  She sighed. “Not unless your bout with the sea has vested you with superhuman strength. Don’t you remember the fiasco with the car?” When he shook his head, she enlightened him. “When I first managed to haul you up from the beach, I had grand hopes of driving you directly into town. Unfortunately—and to make a long story short”—she grimaced—“my tires are now hubcap deep in mud!”

  “Phones?” He systematically explored the possibilities, though his voice grew progressively weary.

  “Still out.”

  “Neighbors?”

  “Not for a mile.” She paused, smiling. “The way you fire off questions, I would almost imagine you to be a police investigator.”

  As though shot with pain, his jaw tensed. “Who knows,” he growled, standing quickly, “maybe I am.” When he swayed, April bolted up to his aid. Knowing intuitively that his anger was directed at the situation rather than at her, she ignored it and it passed.

  “Perhaps you should rest awhile. You really did endure an ordeal yesterday.” Wrapping her arm about his waist to lend marginal support, she helped him back to bed. He seemed suddenly exhausted.

  Yet when she was about to leave, his hand reached for hers and held it firmly, his thumb gently caressing her wrist’s inner pulse. “Sorry to conk out on you like this, April. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.” Even as he spoke, his grasp loosened. The other arm, thrown limply across his eyes, gave April the message. Turning unsteadily, she left him to sleep.

  During her subsequent period of midmorning solitude, April pondered her stranger and his improbable predicament. Amnesia—it sounded absurd! Yet, the man claimed to remember nothing. And he was quite believable. If only there were some link-up to the outside world, she might ferret out the information he could not provide! Yet power, both phone and electric, remained out, confirmed conclusively by her frequent checks. At one point, she opened the front door, then closed it again in disgust at the endless downpour. Somewhat later, she climbed the narrow stairway to the enclosed cupola, from which she had originally spotted her dark and nameless mariner. Despite its many problems and inconveniences, Ivan’s effect on the seascape was nothing short of spectacular when viewed from this post of utter protection.

  The shoreline was edged with voluminous lacings of pearly froth, yielding to the charcoal gray mass of undulating saltwater as the storm whipped its tail back and forth. Sea grass lay, low and nearly prone, under the force of the wind, rising but occasionally to sway in clumped defiance. Overhead, holding it all in, was a leaden sky, its fiercely dark and impenetrable layer of rain clouds boding more of the same.

  But within several days the sun would surely shine. Her mind held that bright image as she descended the stairs, washed up, and changed into fresh clothes. A yawn made its helpless escape as she took refuge in the corner of the living room sofa. What of her handsome stranger then? When all links with civilization were repaired, where would he go? What would he do? From all indications, he was intelligent and refined. For some woman, he must have made a devoted husband; for some children, a loving father.

  As she sat with her arms curled protectively about her middle, the memory of his touch returned to her—his hands moving gently on her arms; his grasp of her wrist, firm yet kind; his thumb, tender against her life’s pulse. An eerie tingle passed through her, which she determinedly ignored as untimely and inappropriate. Yet she held his image in her mind as her own fatigue crept over her.

  The very same image was before her when she awoke. “Good afternoon,” it said softly, its gaze directed at her slow-opening eyes.

  She jerked her lids open and looked quickly around in an effort to reorient herself. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  He sat on the sofa by her hip, very close and astonishingly intimate, one arm propped against the back of the cushion on her opposite side. “I’m not really sure, since I slept for a while myself. But it’s nearly two o’clock now.”

  “Any lights yet?”

  The dark swath of hair fell dashingly onto his brow as he shook his head. “Nor phones. I checked.”

  Self-consciousness flooded her at his nearness. “How long have you been sitting here … watching me?”

  When he grinned, there was a devilish twist to his lips that she hadn’t seen before, one that stirred her pulse dangerously. “For a while. You’re very lovely to watch.”

  “I-I think I’d better get up,” she stammered, tearing her gaze from the handsome face and struggling to raise her body from its prone position. But the bulk of his weight effectively imprisoned her, and he seemed disinclined to move. “Uh … excuse me …”

  “Where are you off to?” he teased gently. “There’s really nowhere to go until the storm abates.”

  “Well, I can’t just lie here. There must be something I can do to keep busy …”

  “There is.”

  She should have felt it coming, yet despite the strong vibrations coursing through her own body, she was unprepared. When he lowered his head, she froze. Then his lips touched hers lightly, tasting and teasing with feather-faint brushes, moving across her closed mouth in gentle exploration. When he drew back, the light of desire shone bright from deep within his dark and mysterious depths.

  “Can you kiss back?” he murmured softly.

  Hers was a fast whisper in return. “No.”

  “You seem very sure. Why is that?”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “To the contrary. I’d say”—a black eyebrow arched roguishly into his forehead—“considering the fact that I was stark naked in your bed when I awoke this morning, that you can’t consider me a total stranger.”

  “That was different,” she argued quickly, her cheeks flaming. “Your clothes were drenched. If I hadn’t taken them off, you might have caught pneumonia. I acted out of pure necessity. But … I don’t even know your name … nor do you!”

  He grew more serious, his voice dropping in deep flow. “Does that really seem so important right now?”

  April seized her chance, mustering the courage to confront him bluntly. “Yes! It does! For all either of us knows, you may have a wife and family worried sick right now—even mourning you. How can you think to kiss me … with that hanging over you?”

  The dark gaze that had been soft and open seemed to instantly cool, then harden. His low curse was muffled as he pushed himself from the sofa and paced across the room. “Don’t you think I’ve considered that?” Hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans, he glared out the window. The shirt he had thrown on over his turtleneck jersey hung loosely but April could not help picturing the broad chest it hid. “I’ve thought of nothing else for the past two hours! I’ve gone over everything, trying to remember something. I’ve studied every inch of this place, hoping that some small item will trip the switch. And still I come up with nothing! There is no clue to my identity—or the possible existence of family. Even the monogram on this shirt is meaningless!”

  Monogram? Why hadn’t she noticed it earlier? April caught the word and clung to it as he growled on. This was a new face he was showing her, a face charged with determination and bearing the vehemence of his character as he whirled around and strode toward her. “From what I can see, we’re going nowhere for a while. From what I also see,” he said, the chill in his eyes showing signs of thawing, “we are well-stocked and relatively comfortable.”

  From where she sat, upright now on the sofa, April watched his approach, tilting her head back to take in his towering height. Her mouth felt strangely dry as she waited for him to go on. When he did, his voice held a clearly sensual note.

  “To sum it all up, I see myself stranded, with neither past nor future, in a small house, with a very beautiful woman—”

  “Not beautiful,” she interrupted, turning awkwardly away, her heart pounding, her mind in a whirl.

  But his strong fingers curved at her jaw, forcing her gaze back to his. “Yes. Beautiful. Warm. Giving. Compassionate.” He paused, studying the tr
emor of her lower lip, then traced it with his thumb. “You rescued me from the storm and took me in, didn’t you?”

  A strange euphoria had begun to seep slowly through April’s body, generated by the nearness of this man and the inexplicable excitement of his touch, which now curled its way to the back of her neck. All she could do was to nod mutely.

  “Then, let me do something in return.”

  Swallowing hard, she struggled to speak. “You could build a fire …”

  “I could.”

  “Or”—she moistened her lips with inadvertent allure—“make us some lunch …”

  “I could.”

  “Or …” Her mind drew a blank, all power diverted to her budding senses.

  He drew her to her feet with a gentle hand, threading his long fingers through the thickness of her chestnut hair. “Why not kiss me, then we’ll decide what to do …”

  “No …” Her whisper was feeble, her entire being mesmerized by the aura of masculinity that had enveloped her and seized control. His mouth took hers while her lips were still parted, coaxing her response with the persuasiveness of his tenderness. Now it was she who was the helpless one, tossed about on a sensual sea that threatened to overpower her. Mindlessly, she returned his kiss, welcoming his tongue with her own, clinging to him as he had clung to that fragment of wood on which he’d first floated to shore.

  It was this darting allusion to reality that kept her from surrendering to the depths. Gasping, she turned her head aside, appalled to find her arms around his neck, continuing to hold him as her knees found their strength. The thunder of his heart by her ear was small solace for her lapse.

  “That shouldn’t have happened,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “I’m very glad it did, April,” he contradicted, his arms now about her waist, holding her close. “We’ll never make it through this unless we can be honest with one another.” His voice was a gentle croon, by her ear, his breath fanned the hair by her cheek. “I find you very appealing, and I believe, unless you’d like to deny your response just now, that the feeling is mutual.”

  Mortification brought April’s head more deeply against his chest, as she burrowed in a vain attempt to escape the facts. Much as she wished it, she couldn’t deny his claim. Even the smell of him, healthy, musky, and male, tempted her senses. When she pushed herself away defensively, he let her go, mindful of her inner war.

  “Come, April.” He took her hand, startling her with his abruptly eased tone. “Let me fix you some lunch. Then, we’ll go to work in the other room, while you tell me more about yourself and”—his eye flipped toward the corner—“that machine.”

  “My Apple?” Her shaped brows lifted in surprise, then knit as quickly in puzzlement. “What work in the other room?”

  “It looked to me,” he said, grinning disarmingly, “that you’re in the middle of a project. Stripping the walls of that, uh, charming wallpaper?”

  “Oh, that.” She returned his grin. “Wasn’t it awful? Say, are you an expert in renovations?” The words were no sooner out than she caught herself. “I’m sorry …”

  The man before her took a deep breath, raising his gaze to focus on some distant mind-point for a fleeting moment before looking down at her. “Don’t apologize, April. I may well have been a handyman—” He stopped, noting her vigorous headshake. “Why not?” His dark brow furrowed.

  “No calluses. I looked for that.”

  He was mildly amused, the corner of his firm lips quirking upward. “What else did you decide?”

  As April reported her observations, he listened raptly. “ … and the labels on your clothes tell us nothing, except they are of good quality.” It seemed suddenly a game, a route to mental survival, one that might salvage an otherwise awkward moment. In this spirit, she examined the monogram of his shirt. “H.E.A.”

  The subject of her speculation drew himself up, feet firmly planted, hands hugging his hips. “Well … ? Any suggestions?”

  April’s gaze flicked to the window. The outer pane was still saturated with rain, lending an impressionistic sheen to all without. “Come here.” She motioned enthusiastically, the thought dawning sweetly. Her hand reached for his arm as she drew him to the window. “Look out there—at those small bushes, the low-growing ones on the moor. Do you see?”

  “Uh-huh.” He spotted them dutifully, then lowered his gaze to her teasing eyes.

  “Those are heath plants. Rugged. Resilient. Strong. They’ve survived the elements of this island for hundreds of years.” With a nod of utter satisfaction, she grinned. “I’ll call you Heath!”

  “Heath …” he said, sampling the name. “Heath. Not bad—”

  “Not bad? It’s perfect!” April interrupted buoyantly. “And it’s as close to H.E.A. as we’re bound to get!” For an instant, she held her breath, mindful that the final approval must come from the subject himself. It came with a heart-stopping smile.

  “Heath it is, then. Now,” he said, shifting the topic quickly, amusing April with his establishment of priorities, “I saw some very appetizing salami on the verge of smelling up that icebox of yours. Got any Swiss cheese?”

  Gamefully, she prodded. “If you can’t remember anything, how would you know to look for Swiss cheese?”

  His brilliant white smile was proof of his joining the game. He, too, recognized its therapeutic value. “Who knows, perhaps I come from a long line of mice.”

  “Fat chance!” she chuckled, appreciatively eyeing his masculine physique for a final moment before heading for the food.

  Over salami and cheese on rye, Heath probed the very professional side of Dr. April Wilde. “Exactly what is your work? A doctorate in counseling sounds pretty vague to me.”

  “In New York I had a small practice counseling private patients. But the larger part of my work deals with writing.”

  “I’m listening …”

  So was April. “I think the storm’s letting up.”

  “Uh-huh. Either that, or we’re in its eye.”

  A mischievous grin toyed about her pink lips. “You may be right at that, Heath.”

  Even as he pondered her humor, he urged her on. “What do you write?”

  “Journal articles. Expert opinions. But, most regularly, I have a syndicated column. It appears now in two dozen newspapers across the country.”

  Her pride was contagious. “Very impressive.” He nodded, balancing his chair precariously on its hind legs. “And what do you talk about in this column?”

  For an instant, her mind was diverted by his agility. “Maybe you were a gymnast? Or a stunt man?” She lifted an eyebrow toward his back-tilted chair, then turned her attention to his question. “Hmm? Oh, it’s a question-and-answer type of thing.” She held his gaze, alert to his reaction. “Readers of the papers write to me, care of the newspaper office, and then I choose freely which issues to discuss. Though I usually deal with psychological matters, there are frequent references to more mundane matters,” she smirked, “such as managing a budget.” Suddenly, she had an idea. “I can show you my next column.” She hesitated. “ … if you’d like.” Her voice ended on a softer, less sure note.

  “I’d like that very much.” His forcefulness restored her confidence. “But how do you manage to handle all your work from this house? It’s rather remote, isn’t it?”

  April grinned triumphantly. “Bingo! My Apple—a computer! It sends whatever I want over the phone lines to a terminal in New York.”

  The dark head dipped in understanding. “Very clever.”

  “Except,” she said, quickly qualifying his assessment, “when the phone lines are dead and there is no electricity …”

  Her remark suddenly reminded them of their predicament. With a jarring thud, the legs of his chair hit the floor. “That does seem to be a problem.” He stood with a frown, withdrawing before her eyes to a more preoccupied state. Without further word, he gathered the dishes and brought them to the sink, once again prompting April to contemplate his dome
sticity. Someone had trained him well, she mused with feministic fervor, as she studied the enigmatic fierceness of his dark form. Yes, he was aptly named. He was strong and resilient. At the moment there was a bit of that brooding, moody Heathcliff about him. She smiled—then sobered instantly. How little she really knew of him! What would the next day or two reveal? A shiver of apprehension ran through her limbs as she forced herself toward the living room and the manila parcel on her desk. Moments later she spread its contents on the clean kitchen table. Heath stood over her shoulder as she singled out the letter in question and her response, for them both to peruse.

  “Not bad,” he murmured. “Very smooth. Reassuring. You are the compassionate one.” Where there might have been mockery, there was none. “No wonder you took me in …”

  He was too close for comfort. Looking up, her face was mere inches from his. But his attention was suddenly on the outer label of the large manila mailer. “‘Eye of the Storm’?” he queried softly.

  “My column,” she explained, mindful of its deeper application to their present situation. “That’s what it’s called.”

  A slow smile spread over his features, reaching even the deepest recesses of his dark eyes. “‘Eye of the Storm.’ Very appropriate.” His downcast gaze caught April’s, sending ripples of comprehension in its wake. His strong arm circled her shoulder, drawing her close against the lean lines of his body. “This certainly is the eye of the storm,” he said, echoing her thoughts, “isn’t it?”

  Lids down, April savored the safety she felt. Safety. Contentment. Happiness. Her whisper was a soft purr. “Yes. It is.”

  Indeed, she could have stayed there forever, held securely in her sea-tossed mariner’s arms, had it not been for a thunderous crash that reverberated through them both with lightning force.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “What was that?” she cried in nerve-shattered alarm, her gaze flying toward the back door, from which the uproar had come. Tearing from his arms, she covered the distance to the door in an instant, threw it open and gasped.

  Heath was immediately behind her. “Wait a min—” he began, but his plea fell on deaf ears for April had already ventured onto the back porch and stood amid a perilous carpet of broken glass. “April!” His bark was more gruff.