by Susan Cliff
She showed it to Logan, who stopped what he was doing immediately. “Wow.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a whalebone club.”
“For hunting?”
“I don’t know if it would take an animal down from a distance, but it could certainly finish one off. It’s probably more of a close-quarters combat weapon. It looks old, too. It might be worth a lot of money.”
She wasn’t as excited about a killing weapon as he was. He did some martial arts moves, testing his new toy. She removed the shells from her nylon bag and put her towel inside. She’d rinsed off in the waves this morning, but she longed for the clean feel of freshwater. Some fresh clothes would help, too. Her red dress had faded into a rose-pink after hanging out in the rain. She tucked it into her bag before she set off.
“Where are you going?”
“To the waterfall.”
He nodded and went back to his tai chi or whatever. She took her time at the falls, scrubbing the grit from her hair and body. After she was finished, she washed her bikini and T-shirt. Then she put on her dress and panties, feeling like a new woman. She picked up the parasail on the return trip, dropping it at Logan’s feet.
He gave her a dark look and walked away to clean up while she made dinner. The octopus soup reminded her of San Francisco. She felt a pang of homesickness, even though she didn’t live there anymore. She didn’t have a home to speak of. She hadn’t decided where to go. The job on the cruise ship had been temporary, but she didn’t want to drift around forever. Before the breakup, she’d been ready to settle down and have kids. She’d already done her share of traveling. She’d been to Europe and India and South Africa.
She knew where she didn’t want to go: out on the open ocean with Logan. She wouldn’t take that risk, with or without a sail. If he tried to drag her away, she’d jump overboard and swim back to shore.
They ate in the early evening, hours before sunset. He devoured several bowls in a row. Judging by his appetite, the soup was a hit. She cleaned up and he started one of his projects. He needed cordage for his new bludgeon. It had a small hole bored through the handle, as if the original owner had kept it tied to his belt or wrist. She imagined that it had belonged to a powerful Polynesian warrior.
Cady wasn’t content to sit down by the fire and weave another basket. Maybe his frenetic pace was rubbing off on her, or she’d been cooped up in the shelter too long. She wanted to do something physical, but relaxing. She wanted to relieve her tension, and release all of the emotions she’d been keeping bottled up inside.
She wanted to dance again.
She walked toward the shore, where the sand was smooth and flat. She started with some basic stretches. She wasn’t as flexible as she used to be, but she could still do a standing front split, with her left foot planted and her right pointed at the sky. She held that position for as long as she could, hugging her right leg. Then she let go and sank to the sand for a center split. From there she leaned forward into a pancake, her chest flat.
Not bad.
Not effortlessly graceful, but not bad. She tried an elbow stand and fell over repeatedly. The Valdez she’d nailed at fourteen was out of reach. She didn’t even attempt an aerial. Her back walkover felt rusty, but she managed a back bridge without trouble. She could still do an excellent one-handed cartwheel, toes pointed.
Before she knew it, night had fallen. She dusted off the sand and returned to the fire pit. She gulped water. A light perspiration coated her skin, and she was breathing hard. Even so, she felt good. She felt strong.
Although she hadn’t been weak or inactive before she came here, she’d felt sort of lost and adrift, without an anchor. The hard work had whittled her into shape. She hadn’t been this toned since her competitive dancing days. But the real change was on the inside. She was a stronger person. If she could survive here, she could survive anywhere.
When she returned to the fire, Logan glanced up at her. He was building a new fish basket. His shoulder muscles were tense, his neck corded. “You dance like a pro,” he said in a low voice.
She nodded her thanks, flushed with pleasure. She hadn’t known how he’d react to her practice session. They were both on edge, humming with desire. If he’d been practicing martial arts shirtless, she’d have watched with hungry eyes. But she hadn’t forced him to watch. She hadn’t been trying to tease him.
She hadn’t even been dancing for him. She’d been dancing for herself.
Maybe it had been a small act of defiance, because he’d threatened to physically overpower her. She wasn’t sure if he meant that, or if he was just working through his feelings about his fallen comrade. Either way, the prospect of him dragging her away like a caveman excited her. She was thrilled by his display of passion, his raw masculinity, his strong-willed determination.
She wouldn’t bend to his will. She might enjoy the tussle, but she wouldn’t bend. She wouldn’t leave on that raft.
Anything else he wanted? She’d do.
Chapter 15
For the next few days, Logan buried himself in the raft project.
Like everything else on the island, it posed a greater challenge than he’d anticipated. First he dragged the deflated raft out of Sea Krait Cave to inspect it for tears. After washing the material, he discovered the damage wasn’t limited to small punctures. There were several jagged tears along the hull where the raft had crashed against the reef. The patch kit was intact, but it was useless. The patches wouldn’t cover the tears.
He’d paced up and down the beach, swearing. He couldn’t order another kit, or slap some leaves over the gaping holes. He needed waterproof glue and larger patches. The canvas umbrella might work. The only adhesive he knew of was the sticky sap he’d used to reinforce the lashing on the bamboo raft. He’d have to heat the sap and mix it with something to make tar. With tar and canvas, he could make patches.
Collecting sap from several different trees took him all day. Transforming the sticky substance into tar proved even more time-consuming. He boiled the sap in one of Cady’s cooking shells and mixed in some ashes from the fire. That made a lumpy paste. He added coconut oil and ended up with something that looked like wax. He had to dump out the mess and start over. For the next batch he used sand, which hardened immediately and ruined the shell. He chucked it into the ocean with an angry roar.
On the third day he ran out of sap. He tried to harvest more, but the trees were tapped, so he peeled away sections of bark to use instead. He piled the bark pieces into another clam shell and burned them at high heat. It was similar to the process Cady had used to make coconut oil. The result was a dark, pungent liquid.
“What’s that?” she asked.
He wasn’t sure, so he just shrugged. “It smells like kerosene.”
She gave him a dubious look. She’d been helping him by gathering wood, but she didn’t know the proper ingredients for tar. Apparently he didn’t know, either. He should’ve studied more long-term survival strategies.
“Try not to blow yourself up,” she said.
He set the liquid aside, gritting his teeth. The sand by the fire was getting cluttered with his failed science projects. The wax he’d made yesterday had formed a hard lump. He tossed it over his shoulder, irritated. She snatched up the wax and studied it with interest. Then she dipped it in the water bucket and rubbed it against her skin.
“This is genius,” she said. “You made soap!”
He wasn’t impressed by this accidental achievement. Soap wouldn’t repair the raft. Neither would kerosene.
“I’m going to use this right now,” she said, squealing with delight. She grabbed her towel and rushed down the beach to take advantage of the novelty.
He watched her go, his eyes narrow. He had enough trouble keeping his thoughts pure when they were both filthy. Imagining her naked in a soapy lather did
n’t help. Between his struggle to make tar and his struggle with desire, he was in a constant state of frustration. He’d been restless, cranky and quick-tempered.
He blamed his dark mood on her evening dance sessions. She was so goddamned beautiful with her sleek silhouette against the sunset backdrop. Every move she made took his breath away. Of course he looked at her body and imagined them entwined in a series of inventive, acrobatic sexual positions. But he also admired her physical strength. He appreciated the form of art. The exquisite grace of her motions.
Something had strengthened inside her, too. She was getting used to basic survival. She was getting good at it. She collected wood and foraged for food like an expert. When he didn’t catch any fish, she provided a plethora of tasty vegetarian dishes. She didn’t jump at every shadow or scream when a bug crawled on her. Dancing had given her a new sense of calm. Her morale was way up.
So was his dick, unfortunately. He couldn’t tell her not to dance, and he couldn’t seem to look away. He spent his nights by the fire, alone and aching. Taking care of his own needs hadn’t put a dent in his desire. Denying himself might be a better strategy. He needed his body to go into sexual hibernation. Maybe at some point, he’d stop wanting her.
He wasn’t going to hold his breath.
While she was gone, he sharpened his knife and polished it against his pants. Then he held up the blade and studied his blurry reflection. He almost didn’t recognize himself. He’d been taking care of his teeth and washing regularly, but he looked rough. More like a scraggly pirate than a clean-cut soldier. His beard itched with sweat.
She’d left half a cake of soap behind, so he warmed up some water on the fire and attempted to shave. Although the soap didn’t really make bubbles, it smelled nice, like smoky coconut, and made a slick surface for his blade. He ended up with a smooth jaw and a few patches of stubble.
He checked his reflection again. Better.
She returned from the waterfall with a smile on her face and a pink flower in her hair. She was wearing an outfit she’d made from extra scraps of parasail. It consisted of a sarong skirt and a triangle-shaped top. The fabric clung to her breasts like tissue.
Yeah. Not holding his breath.
“Oh my God,” she said, dropping her bag. “You shaved.”
He touched his cheek, self-conscious. “Does it look okay?”
She stared at him for a couple of seconds. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Yeah,” she said in a husky voice. “It looks okay.”
He got the impression that she thought he looked better than okay. Warmth suffused his chest, because it felt good to be admired. It felt good to be admired by her, the object of his obsession. He’d forgotten how important routine comforts were to survival. Something so basic as shaving had become a luxury—and it made him want more luxuries. He longed for the comfort of physical contact.
The center of his desire wasn’t always below the belt. Right now it was in his hands, which itched to touch her skin. It was in his mouth, which watered to taste hers. He didn’t need to throw her down and rip off her clothes. He just needed to kiss her. He needed to remember how it felt to hold a woman.
He could tell she was on the same page. It wasn’t hard to read her. She was standing there with a flower in her hair, fragrant and doe-eyed, lips parted in invitation.
When he pulled his gaze away, it felt like he was ripping the bandage off a wound. He glanced around for a distraction, his face hot. He couldn’t stay here with her another minute without crossing the line. His fishing gear was in the shade nearby.
He had to cool off. It was either that or spontaneously combust. “I’ll be at the reef,” he muttered, grabbing his snorkel and spear.
Fishing had been more miss than hit lately. He hadn’t been getting lucky near the shore. Both of the fish baskets were empty, which had been the case since the storm. He wondered if some fish were seasonal, traveling with warm currents, or if they learned to avoid traps. Could fish learn? On impulse, he dragged the bamboo raft out of the sea cave and launched it. He’d seen some lobsters on the other side of the reef.
He ventured into the turquoise water, his trident resting on the raft beside him. His shoulders relaxed and some of his tension uncoiled as he took in the spectacular view. There were lush green kelp beds and bright coral blooms.
This is exactly what he’d needed. Some alone time on the ocean to commune with nature and clear his head.
He selected a promising-looking spot before donning his mask and snorkel. Then he dove under the surface, trident in hand. The sediment had settled since the storm, leaving the water crystal clear. The sea floor was painted with brilliant colors, teeming with vegetation. He didn’t even hunt on his first few dives. He just enjoyed the sights.
His patience was rewarded with a flash of red shell. He struck fast, pinning the lobster against a rock with his trident.
Victory.
Grinning around the mouthpiece, he kicked toward the surface. Then a dark shape appeared in the water, like a cloud blocking the sun.
Shark.
Before he could even identify the species, the shark struck. Logan’s spear snapped in half and a heavy tail smacked him in the face. His snorkel flew out of his mouth as if he’d been backhanded. Stunned and out of breath, in a flurry of swirling water, he realized what had happened.
The shark had robbed him.
He broke through the surface, gasping for air. He shoved his mask onto his forehead and stared at his broken spear, dumbstruck. His raft was about twenty feet away. Although the shaft of the spear could be used as a weapon, it would also slow him down. The shark circled, as if considering a second bite.
It was his old friend, Mr. Tiger.
Logan dropped the spear shaft and swam for his life. His heart thundered in his chest with every stroke. The raft seemed like it was a mile away. As soon as he reached it, he heaved his body out of the water with lightning-quickness. The raft rocked back and forth, threatening to dump him. His paddle toppled overboard with a splash.
Shit.
He rested on his stomach, quaking with fear.
Yeah, he felt fear. He felt it hard. That shark was ten feet long, with razor-sharp teeth and powerful jaws. It had snatched the lobster right out of his hands. It could have easily taken off his arm.
He had his knife strapped to his waist, but he didn’t draw it. He hadn’t brought the whalebone club with him. He gripped the wet bamboo and stared at the paddle floating beside him. It was a better weapon to fend off the shark. It was still within reach.
Should he go for it?
He lifted his head to search the area. His breath came in short pants and his vision was blurred, especially on the right. Maybe he had a black eye. The shark’s tail had slapped the hell out of him. Colors were strange and shapes were fuzzy. He felt like he was looking at an X-ray. He didn’t see the shark.
He had to make a decision. Paddle or knife. Paddle or knife.
If he chose the paddle, he’d have to stretch his arm out. That was risky. So was sitting upright and straddling the raft to defend himself, with his legs dangling like bait. His other option was to draw his knife and stay in this prone position. He wasn’t a fan of that, either. He couldn’t even see out of his right eye. He didn’t want his face near the water.
He took a deep breath, praying the shark wouldn’t bump the raft and knock it over. Or just come up and take a bite out of it. If he didn’t act fast, the paddle was going to float away. Gut clenched, he extended his left arm. His fingertips glanced off the handle and pushed it out of range. Cursing, he used his hand to dog-paddle closer. He reached out and gripped the handle, yanking it toward him.
And the shark struck again, jaws open.
His entire body jerked from the impact. The paddle flew out of his grasp. Teeth met flesh. Bamboo splintered. Blood
splattered.
Then the shark rocketed away, fin flashing.
Logan tucked his injured arm against his body and tried not to panic. He didn’t fall off the raft, by some miracle. His left hand was wrapped in a tight fist. The rest of his arm was intact as far as he could tell. Warm blood trickled from his elbow into the water.
Logan didn’t know if the shark had aimed for his arm or the paddle. Maybe the predator had learned that humans meant easy fish. Meat on a stick.
He moved into a straddle position. The raft was damaged, but still buoyant. The view was still spectacular. It was surreal. The wounds above his elbow appeared superficial, to his relief. He was damned lucky. If he hadn’t been holding the paddle, he might have lost his arm. The aluminum handle had taken the brunt of the blow. There were several seeping punctures, but no hanging skin flaps or missing chunks.
He was going to live—as long as the shark didn’t come back for more.
Now he drew his knife, because he had nothing else to defend himself with. He gritted his teeth, ready to stab the bastard in the eye. But the shark didn’t return.
He sheathed his knife and paddled to shore with his good arm. When he reached the sand, he dragged the raft to a safe spot and stumbled down the beach. He wasn’t looking forward to Cady’s reaction. She was going to say he was reckless, that he took too many risks and that she didn’t want him to die.
He grimaced, holding his arm close to his body. He was okay. He was in shock, because getting bitten by a shark was a major ordeal, but his wounds weren’t serious. He probably didn’t even need stitches. He wouldn’t get any, regardless.
When he reached Shelter Bay, she was heating up water in her turtle shell pot. She took one look at him and rushed forward.
“Oh my God. What happened?”
He couldn’t play off a shark bite as something else. The punctures formed a telltale half crescent on the underside of his arm. “I had a little accident.”
“Little? Are you for real?”
He sat down on the driftwood bench. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he felt weak. “I hope you’re not squeamish. I need you to clean it.”
