September Morning

by Diana Palmer

  ***

  They landed at Queen Juliana airport on Sint Maarten—the Dutch side of the divided island. As they stepped out onto the ground, the first thing Kathryn noticed was the hot, moist air that enveloped her. She stared at the blue skies and palm trees and the flags flying proudly at the terminal. She remembered the island with pleasure, as she had stayed many times at the family's villa.

  A customs official took their immigration cards, and their passports, with a minimum of fuss. Blake obtained a rental car, and they were on their way.

  “Where is your house?” Vivian asked, staring out at the red-roofed homes they passed as they drove along the paved road.

  “On St. Martin,” Blake replied as he drove. “The French side of the island, which is, by the way, very French. The Dutch side, which we're in now, tends to be more Americanized.”

  “It's confusing,” Vivian laughed.

  “Not really,” Maude told her. “One gets used to it. The division is political as well as lingual, but the people are delightful on both sides of the island. And you'll love the shops in Marigot—that's very near our villa.”

  “And the restaurants,” Phillip grinned. “You've never had better seafood.”

  “What do you like about it, darling?” Vivian asked Blake.

  “The peace and quiet,” he replied.

  “Which you don't find much of during peak tourist season,” Phillip laughed.

  “Well, this is hurricane season, not tourist season,” Maude said, shivering at the thought. “I do hope we don't run into any rough weather.”

  “Amen,” Blake said with a faint smile. “I've got to fly over to Haiti on business while we're here.”

  “What for?” Vivian asked with blunt curiosity.

  Blake gave her a lazy sidelong look. “I might have a woman stashed away there,” he said.

  It was the first time Kathryn had ever seen Vivian blush, and she made a good job of it. Her pale face turned a bright pink. “Oh, look, cattle!” she said quickly, gazing out the window toward a green meadow nestled between mountains.

  Blake only chuckled, concentrating on the road as they passed from the Dutch side of the island to the French.

  Maude jumped as they hit a pothole. “Oh, you can always tell when we pass into St. Martin,” she moaned. “The roads over here are just terrible!”

  “Just like home, isn't it?” Phillip asked, winking at Kathryn.

  “I think we have very good roads at home, Phillip,” Maude said, “an excellent county commission and a superb road department. Remember, darling, I helped Jeff Brown get appointed to the state highway board, and I think he's done a fine job.”

  “Forgive me for that unthinking comment,” Phillip pleaded. “Heaven forbid that I should sully the name…”

  “Oh, do be quiet,” Maude moaned. “Vivian, here's Marigot,” she said, pointing out the window toward the bay where fishing boats dotted the Baie de Marigot past the powdery beach. There were red-roofed houses stretching all the way down the beach, thick in places, mingling with hotels. Kathryn felt a shiver of girlish excitement as they stopped at one of them minutes later. It was Maison Baie—roughly, Bay House—and her eyes lovingly traced the white stone building with its graceful wrought-iron balconies and breezeways and long windows. It, too, had the classic red roof, and carved wood doors.

  “Is this yours?” Vivian asked, her eyes also taking in the graceful lines of the house and its colorful setting with palm trees, bougainvillea, and sea-grape trees farther out on the powder-fine sand.

  “Yes,” Blake replied, cutting the engine. “Maison Baie. It's been in the family since my father was a boy, and the second generation of caretakers—a retired sea captain named Rouget and his wife—live here year round, looking after it.”

  “It's very pretty,” Vivian said enthusiastically.

  Kathryn stayed beside Phillip, feeling the coolness of the house wash over her as they walked inside. Rouget, a tall, thin man with white hair, came to meet them, welcoming them in his native French. Blake replied, his accent faultless, and Kathryn had to work to keep up with the translation. She'd forgotten just how French this side of the island really was. Her rusty attempts to speak the language had always amused Blake. Glancing at him, she wondered if anything she did would ever amuse him again.

  The look on her young face was revealing, and Phillip drew her away before Blake could see it. She smiled at him gratefully as they left the spacious living room to settle into their respective rooms. Already she was hoping the visit would be a brief one.

  ***

  That afternoon Vivian persuaded Blake to take her back to Marigot to look in the shops. Maude and Dick Leeds, deciding that the sun was a bit much, lounged on the balcony with chilled burgundy provided by Rouget. Kathryn spent the rest of the day lying quietly in bed, feeling out of sorts. The combination of the flight and the sultry, tropical climate had put her flat on her back. When night came, she was barely aware of Maude's fingers gently shaking her.

  “Darling, we're going into Marigot to have seafood. Do you feel like coming with us?” she asked.

  Kathryn sat up, surprised to find that the nausea and weariness were completely gone. “Of course,” she said, smiling. “Just give me a minute to change…”

  “What's wrong with what you have on?” Blake asked from the doorway, and she felt his dark eyes sliding up and down her slender body in the peasant dress that had ridden up above her knees while she rested. She pulled it down quickly and, smoothing it nervously, got to her feet.

  “I…I suppose it would do, if we're not going anywhere fancy.”

  “The restaurant isn't formal, Kathryn,” he said, moving inside the room. “Still queasy?” he added gently.

  That soft note in his voice almost brought tears to her eyes. She turned away to pick up her brush. “No,” she replied. “I'm all right. Just let me run a brush through my hair.”

  “Don't be long,” Maude teased. “I feel as if I haven't eaten for days.”

  Kathryn nodded, expecting Blake to go, too. But he didn't. He closed the door quietly, an action that made Kathryn's heart go wild. She watched him in the mirror.

  He moved up behind her, his dark eyes holding hers in the glass, so close that she could feel the blazing warmth of his big body. He was dressed in a red and white patterned tropical shirt, open at the throat, revealing a sensuous glimpse of curling dark hair and bronzed flesh. His slacks were white, hugging the powerful lines of his thighs. She could hardly drag her eyes away from him.

  “Do you really feel up to this?” he asked quietly. “If you don't, I'll stay home with you.”

  The concern in his deep voice would have been heaven, if it had been meant differently. But it was the compassion of a man for a child, not of a man for his woman.

  “I always get airsick,” she reminded him dully. “I'm all right, Blake.”

  “Are you?” he asked tightly. “The light's gone out of you.”

  “It's been…a long week,” she whispered unsteadily.

  He nodded, dropping his narrow gaze to her long hair, her shoulders. His big hands went to her waist, testing the softness of her flesh through the thin dress, rough and vaguely caressing.

  “I…I think we all needed a vacation,” she laughed nervously. The feel of his hands made her heart turn over in her chest.

  “Yes.” He drew her slowly back against his big, hard-muscled body, so that she could feel his breath against her hair. “You're trembling,” he said in a deep, lazy tone.

  Her eyes closed. Her hands went involuntarily to rest on top of his as he slid them closer around her waist. “I know,” she managed weakly.

  His fingers contracted painfully. “Kate…”

  She couldn't help herself. Her head dropped back against his broad chest and her body openly yielded to him. In the mirror, she watched his dark, broad hands move slowly, seductively up her waist until they cupped her high breasts over the green and brown pattern of the low-cut peasant dress. S
he let him touch her, helpless in his embrace, the hardness of his thighs pressing into the back of her legs as he moved even closer.

  His dark eyes held hers in the mirror, watching her reaction. His cheek brushed against the top of her head, ruffling the soft dark hair while his fingers brushed and stroked, the action even more erotic because she could watch it happening.

  Her fingers came up to rest on top of his, pressing them closer to the soft curves, while her heart threatened to choke her with its furious thudding.

  His face moved down and she felt the heat of his lips at the side of her neck brushing, teasing, his tongue lightly tracing the line of it down to her shoulder.

  “You smell of flowers,” he whispered. His hands moved up and under the low neckline to surge down and capture her taut, bare breasts.

  She moaned helplessly and bit her lip to stifle the sound that must surely have passed even through the thick stone walls of the house.

  “I wish to God we were alone, Kate,” he whispered huskily. “I'd lie down with you on that bed over there and before I was through, you'd be biting back more than one sweet moan. You'd be biting me,” he whispered seductively, while his hands made magic on her arching body. “Clawing me, begging me to do more than touch your breasts.”

  “Blake…” she moaned, with a throb in her voice that broke the sound in the middle of his name.

  She whirled in his arms, rising against his big body, her arms going around his neck, her lips parted and pleading.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered, trembling. “Blake, Blake, kiss me hard…!”

  “How hard?” he whispered huskily as he bent. His mouth bit at hers sensuously, lightly bruising, open, taunting. “Like that?”

  “No,” she whispered. She went on tiptoe, her green eyes misty with mindless hunger, her lips parted as she caught his head and brought his open mouth down on hers. Her tongue darted into his mouth and she withdrew tauntingly just a half-breath away. “Like that…”

  His mouth crushed hers, his tongue exploring the line of her lips, thrusting past them in to the warm darkness of her mouth, his arms contracting so strongly that they brought the length of her body close enough to feel every hardening line of his.

  “Do you…want me?” she whispered achingly.

  “God in heaven, can't you feel it?” he ground out. “Stop asking silly questions…closer, Kate,” he whispered. “Move your body against mine. Stroke it against me…”

  She eased up on tiptoe. “Like this, Blake?” she whispered shakily.

  His mouth bit at hers. “Harder than that,” he murmured. “I can't feel you.”

  Trembling, she repeated the arousing action and felt a small shudder go through his powerful body. “Do you like this?” she managed in a stranger's seductive voice.

  “Let me show you how much I like it,” he whispered. He bent and lifted her off the floor, looking down into her green eyes as he started toward the huge mahogany posted bed against the wall.

  Her arms clung to him, her lips answering the suddenly tender kisses he was brushing against her lips, her eyelids, her eyebrows, her cheeks. The chaste touch of his mouth was at odds with the heavy, hard shudder of his heartbeat against her body, the harsh sigh of his breath that betrayed the emotions he was experiencing.

  “Are you going to make love to me?” she whispered against his lips, knowing in her heart even as she asked the question that she was going to give him everything he wanted.

  “Do you want me to, Kate?” he whispered back. “Are you afraid?”

  “How could I be afraid of you?” she managed in a tight voice. “When I…” Before she could get the confession out, before she could tell him how desperately she loved him, there was a sharp, harsh knock on the door, and he jerked involuntarily.

  Vivian's abrasive voice called, “Blake, are you there? We're starving!”

  “My God, so am I,” he whispered, and the eyes that met Kathryn's as he set her back on her feet were blazing with unsatisfied desire.

  She moved unsteadily away from him, her heart jerking wildly, her breath coming in uneven little gasps. She went back to the mirror and picked up a lipstick, applying it to her swollen mouth while Blake took a steadying breath and went to answer the door.

  “I'm so hungry, darling,” Vivian murmured with a smile, her hawklike eyes catching the slight swell of his lower lip, the unruly hair that Kathryn's fingers had tangled lightly. “Can't we go to dinner now that you're through talking to sweet little Kate?”

  “I'm hungry myself,” Kathryn said, avoiding Blake's eyes as she edged out the door past him, managed a tight smile in Vivian's direction, and almost ran from the room. What in heaven's name had possessed her to allow Blake such liberties? Now the fat was really going to be in the fire. She had let him know how desperately she wanted him, and she was afraid that he'd take advantage of it. What Phillip had said was true—Blake could lose his head. If he did, he'd be gentleman enough to marry her. But she didn't want Blake on those terms. She only wanted his love, not a forced marriage. What was she going to do?

  ***

  The little French restaurant was as familiar to Kathryn as Maison Baie, and she remembered the owners well—a French couple from Martinique who served the most delicious lobster soufflé and crêpes flambées Kathryn had ever tasted. Her appetite came back the instant she saw the food, and Phillip's pleasant company at her elbow made it even more palatable.

  She avoided Blake's piercing gaze all through the meal and when they got back to the house, she quickly excused herself and went to bed.

  ***

  That night set the pattern for the next two days. Blake wore a perpetual scowl at Kathryn's nervous avoidance of him, and Phillip's efforts to play peacemaker met with violence on Blake's part. He stayed away during the day with Vivian, taking her on tours of nearby Saba and St. Eustatius—known to the locals as “Statia.” But in the evenings he and the slinky blonde stayed close to home while he discussed the mill problem with Dick Leeds. It was at the end of one of these endless discussions that Kathryn accidentally came across him in the deserted hall upstairs.

  His dark eyes narrowed angrily as she froze in front of him, on her way to change for supper in Marigot.

  “Still running away from me?” he asked scathingly.

  “I'm not running,” she replied unsteadily.

  “Like hell you're not,” he returned gruffly. “You practically dive under things to keep out of my way lately. What's wrong, Kathryn, do you think you're so damned irresistible that I can't keep my hands off you?”

  “Of course not!” she gasped.

  “Then why go to so much trouble to avoid me?” he persisted.

  She drew a slow, steady breath. “Phillip and I have been busy, that's all,” she managed.

  His face tightened. A cold, cruel smile touched his hard mouth. “Busy? So you finally decided to taste the wine, did you, honey?” His voice drew blood. “It's just as well. You're too much of a baby for me, Kathryn. I hate like hell to rob cradles!”

  He turned on his heel and left her standing there.

  She couldn't bear for Blake to think that about her, to look at her with eyes so full of contempt they made her shiver. But what could she do? The impact of his anger made her reckless and when the delicious white wine was passed around at the restaurant that night, she had more than her share of refills. Throwing caution to the wind, she sipped and swallowed until all her heartaches seemed to vanish. When Blake announced that he was flying to Haiti the next morning, she barely heard him. Her mind was far away, on pleasant thoughts.

  “Honey, you're drunk,” Phillip said with some concern when they got back to the villa. “Go to bed and sleep it off, huh?”

  She smiled at him lazily. “I'm not sleepy.”

  “Pretend, before you give Vivian something else to laugh about,” he asked softly. “And don't push Blake's temper any further tonight. I'm surprised he hasn't lectured you about the amount of wine you drank. He didn't like it, tha
t's for sure.”

  “Be a pet and stop preaching,” she murmured, fanning herself with one hand. “It's so hot!”

  “Feels like storm weather,” he agreed. “Go to bed. You'll cool off.”

  She shrugged and, to Phillip's quiet relief, went up to her room before the others came inside the house.

  Chapter Nine

  But once she got into bed, she was only hotter. It was too sultry, too quiet, and her thoughts began to haunt her. Blake's harsh words came back like a persistent mosquito—too much of a baby, he said. Too much of a baby.

  She tossed and turned until it became unbearable. Finally she got up, put on her brief white bikini and grabbed up a beach towel. If she couldn't sleep, she might as well cool off in the bay. Just the thought of the cold water made her feel better.

  She made her way downstairs in the dark house with the ease of long practice, and walked a little unsteadily out onto the beach. Her bare feet smarted on the grainy pebbles until she reached the softer sand where the foaming surf curled lazily. The air was static, the beach completely deserted. She stood and breathed in the delicious scent of blooming flowers that merged with the tangy sea smell.

  “What are you doing out here?” came a harsh, deep voice from the shelter of a nearby palm.

  She watched Blake move into view in the moonlight, wearing a pair of white shorts and the same red and white patterned silk shirt he'd been wearing the other night. Only tonight it was unbuttoned all the way down his massive chest.

  “I asked you a question,” he said, and even in the moonlight she could see the boldness in his dark eyes as they sketched her slender body in its brief white covering. The way he was looking at her made her pulses pound.

  “I came out for a swim,” she said, very carefully enunciating each word. “I'm hot.”

  “Are you?”

  Her eyes traced the hard lines of his body, lingering on his massive chest with its wedge of dark, curling hair that disappeared below his waistline. Her lips parted as she felt a surge of longing so great, it moved her toward him without her even being aware of it until she was close enough to touch him.