Against the Wind
by
Virginia Kelly
Previously published under the name Lindsay Alexander
Copyright © 2000 Virginia Kelly Vail
Revised and edited, 2012
All rights Reserved
Cover art by: Hot Damn Designs
This book may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, or stored, in any form, by any means, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication: to Bruce, as always
with thanks to:
Ann, Linda, Sheila and Susan,
for their continuing help and support
Chapter 1
“Blair.”
The sound of Michael’s voice saying her name after such a long time stunned her. With the wind howling across the open deck behind him, she grasped the doorknob for balance.
The man she thought she’d never see again stood outlined against the storm-darkened sky. The angles of his body appeared more pronounced, his cheeks leaner, the dark brown eyes she thought she remembered so well, darker.
“Is your grandmother home?” His question skidded along her nerves.
Of course. He and Grandma Alice had kept in touch while Blair hadn’t. Couldn’t.
Her choice made it impossible.
She forced an answer past her lips. “She’s in Europe.”
“Are you here to board up?” He shouted to be heard over a sudden gust that lashed at them, precursor of the hurricane churning in the Gulf.
“And to get some of her things.”
He braced one hand against the doorframe, close to her shoulder. Several days’ growth of beard made him look rough, disreputable. Twin brackets of pain around his mouth startled her.
“Are you okay?”
A smile kicked up one corner of his lips, but didn’t reach his eyes. “Just a little sore from an accident.”
He glanced over his shoulder, first at the oyster shell drive, then at the sand dune that blocked the view of the crashing surf of the Gulf of Mexico. The wind snatched at a jacket he held folded over his arm. Blair reached out to grasp it, but touched his arm instead, startled at the feel of her fingers on warm flesh. It had been exactly six years and three months. To the day.
Not long enough.
He looked at her with an unfathomable expression, then glanced down to where her fingers held his arm. She dropped her hand, remembering she had no right to touch him anymore. “Come in.”
He walked past her and lowered himself slowly onto the couch. Very un-Michael like.
Blair shut the door with exaggerated care. She would deal with him, with his mind-numbing reappearance, by focusing only on what she could handle. She would treat him as she would any guest in her grandmother’s house. “I think Grandma has some aspirin.”
“That’ll work.” His chest rose and fell with a quick breath. He’d always gone too fast, wanted too much. Lived too hard. And she’d wanted to be with him.
“I’ll get it.”
Fumbling, Blair managed to get the childproof cap opened. She handed him a glass of water and the tablets.
A gust of wind whipped around the southeast corner of the house, screaming as it tore toward the north and west. Hurricane Nell would visit the barrier island in a few short hours.
Blair twisted her hands together, conscious of her shaky legs. She needed to move, to get away from him. “I have to pack some things and board up the windows.” To emphasize her point, she picked up the hammer she’d put down on the coffee table when she’d heard his knock.
“Where’s Drew?” Michael’s voice sounded harsh.
“He couldn’t come. He’s on some assignment.” Why would he ask about her brother? “You should know the Bureau wouldn’t give him any time off to help me.”
He took a deep breath and let it out. “So you’re alone?”
“Yes.”
He stood and walked toward her, his face pale, the man she’d known hidden behind the cool stranger he’d become. “Let me do it, Blair.”
From the looks of him, she shouldn’t. But no one ever told Michael Alvarez what to do. At least she never had, so she handed him the hammer, explained where the plywood was kept, and watched him don his jacket and walk out into the wind.
Blair wanted to call him back and ask why he was here, but she couldn’t force the words past her lips. It didn’t matter why he’d come. He was here. She focused on that.
Anything to keep from remembering how things had ended for them. She pulled Grandma Alice’s pictures from the walls of each room and took the albums from the living room closet. After packing everything in large, brown plastic bags, Blair turned on the television.
A windblown CNN reporter huddled under a bright yellow rain slicker, microphone to his mouth. “Hurricane Nell, moving over the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico and heading northwest, is now packing winds of one hundred twenty miles an hour. A mandatory evacuation of low-lying areas and barrier islands along the northwest Florida Gulf Coast has been ordered. Landfall is expected within eight hours.” Across the bottom of the screen she read that she and every other beach resident had to leave within two hours.
Blair grabbed the manila folder with her grandmother’s important papers and turned off the television. She’d better help Michael. They needed to get off the island soon or they’d be stranded by the rising tide and predicted storm surge.
Wind slammed the front door shut as she pulled the hood of her rain slicker low over her face. While the rain had started only moments ago, it was the wind that bore out the forecast. Blair shouldered her way down the stairs.
She headed toward the back of the house, where she’d heard Michael hammering. The house stood on supportive pilings behind a dune that would protect it from Nell’s storm surge. At least Grandma Alice always said the dune had protected her. Watching the wind whip at the sea oats, blowing a haze of sand toward the house, Blair wondered if her grandmother’s confidence was justified.
Once down the steps, she walked around her car, curious to know where Michael had parked his. She remembered the Jeep he’d had years ago, the way he loved to drive. Not carelessly, but fast, every ounce of his concentration on the road. Did he still drive that way? Did he still live that way?
As she stepped out from under the protection of the house, sheets of rain, blown off the Gulf by Nell’s relentless power, pelted her.
“Michael!” Wind and rain swallowed her words.
Just how bad had his accident been? Had it been a wreck in his Jeep or some speedy sports car? “Michael!” She walked around the end of the house, fighting the force of the storm.
And saw him, lying on the sand, next to a sheet of plywood.
She rushed to his side, letting go of the slicker hood, letting go of the distance she needed to keep between them.
He lay on his right side, hugging his left shoulder. Even in the muted light of the storm-tossed afternoon, she could see he was pale. “Michael?” Rain pounded her face, blurring her vision.
He jerked his head toward her, eyes squinted against the rain. “My shoulder,” he gasped and struggled to sit up, his face a mask of pain. “Wind caught the plywood. Wrenched it from me. Strained my shoulder.”
Blair steadied him as he stood, then they stumbled around the house and up the steps. By the time they reached the living room, Michael was shivering so hard his jaws were clenched. He leaned back against the door, eyes closed.
Blair wiped the rain away fr
om her face. Michael looked cold and exhausted. She kicked off her soaked tennis shoes and braced her left shoulder beneath his right arm. “Lean on me.”
“I’ll knock you over, niña.”
The endearment he’d used so many times before caught her unaware. “You need to lie down.”
He didn’t argue, but he didn’t let himself relax completely against her, either. They made their way down the hall, Michael’s shoes squishing with each step. Once inside the guestroom, she propped him against the wall and squatted down to take off his shoes. Teeth clenched, he helped.
She pulled off his jacket before unbuttoning his soaked, short-sleeved shirt. She’d pulled the shirt out of his jeans, when steely fingers grabbed at her hand.
“No.” The word was a hoarse whisper.
“You’re wet, Michael. You have to get dry and warm.”
He looked at her, his brown eyes wary. His mouth tightened and he released her fingers.
She reached behind him, grimacing when she felt what she thought he was hiding. A gun—a big mean one—in the small of his back. With typical coordination, despite the shivers, Michael pulled it away and held it pointed down.
She pushed the shirt off his shoulders. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw what really concerned him.
The surgical precision of an inches-long cut did not cover the round, red scar low on his left side, above the waist of his jeans. Blair’s eyes stung with building tears at the sight of yellow bruising along Michael’s ribs, radiating up and around his right side. A bullet wound. She’d never seen one, but she knew. In Michael’s life, it had to be, and explained why he looked so tired, why the accident with the plywood had hurt him so badly. With his help she managed to pull off the shirt.
Shaken, knowing this had been part of her fear all those years ago, she concentrated on the practical—getting him out of his clothes. She struggled with the wet denim, trying to unfasten the single button of his jeans. The zipper was easier, but the wet fabric stuck. Helplessly, she looked up at him, only to see his jaws clenched tighter.
He opened his eyes, so hot, so full of pain, and looked directly at her. “I’m hurt, Blair, not dead.” The old Michael would have said the words teasingly. This Michael didn’t.
They got the jeans off and he stumbled toward the bed.
Trapped by memory, too aware of reality, Blair indicated his soaked boxers. “Can you—?”
“Turn around. I’ll take them off.”
Six years and three months ago, she wouldn’t have turned away. He wouldn’t have asked.
She turned back when she heard him get into the bed and pull up the bedclothes. With exhausted eyes steady on her, he said, “Don’t ask questions, Blair.”
He hadn’t changed. Nothing had changed. She looked down at him. “I wasn’t going to.”
“I see your questions.”
Because she didn’t want him to see the feelings she’d kept buried for so long, she moved away. “I’ll get a towel for your hair.”
The phone rang, shrill and loud, making her jump. She bent to the bedside table and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Blair, are you okay?” Her brother’s voice rose over the crackling line.
“Yes, fine.” She struggled for words. “Drew, did you—”
She caught Michael’s movement. He put his finger to his lips, signaling to her.
He didn’t want her brother to know he was here.
“What is it?” Drew’s voice pulled her attention back to the phone. “Blair?” He sounded more insistent.
She looked at Michael, at his pale face, at the way he focused on her. “Sorry, connection’s bad. I’m almost through boarding up the windows, then I’ll leave.”
“How bad is the weather?”
“Very windy, rainy. There’s a mandatory evacuation.”
“Get out.” Drew said.
She looked into Michael’s eyes, searching for answers. When she didn’t find any, she turned away. “I plan to. I’ll finish boarding up and grab Grandma’s pictures and some papers. Then I’m out of here.”
“Good girl.”
“I’ll talk to you later.” A long silence followed her statement. “Drew? You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Do you remember Michael Alvarez?” Drew’s question rose over the worsening static on the line.
Blair spun around, her gaze fixed on the man in the bed. “Michael Alvarez?”
Michael shook his head, his dark eyes steady on her.
“Why do you ask?”
“He’s—” Drew paused as the line exploded with noise. “I didn’t think he’d get in touch with you.”
“Why would he?”
The connection popped. Finally, Drew said, “Never mind. Finish up and get out of there. Call me when you get home.”
She hung up, never taking her eyes off Michael, and asked, “What’s going on?”
Chapter 2
She’d always been a quick study. Michael had loved watching Blair Davenport’s expressive face. Watching—and wanting—her had been an obsession. Something he should have fought harder.
Having her for that one week had been heaven. Losing her, hell.
Coming here and finding her promised to be a disaster. And if he wasn’t careful, they’d both regret this meeting more than the one six years ago.
Exhausted, he closed his eyes and listened to the storm. She had every right to expect him to explain, but he couldn’t tell her why Drew was looking for him. She’d never understand why he’d chosen to hide and recuperate here, where so much had happened between them. He didn’t understand it himself.
“Well?” Her tone wasn’t that of the patient, somewhat compliant girl she’d been. Had she ever been compliant? If she had been, wouldn’t she have come with him when he’d asked?
“I’ll be out of here after I rest.”
“That’s not an answer, Michael.” She gave him one of those polite looks he imagined she used on recalcitrant servants.
“It’s the only one I have.” He struggled to keep his eyes open.
She studied him, the green of her eyes darker than the raging Gulf. “We still have power. I’ll put your clothes into the dryer.” She bent, picked up the wet mess from the floor, and walked out.
Already half asleep, Michael watched her leave. The familiarity of her walk, the sway of her hips, reminded him of so much. She wore her sun-streaked dark hair, wet from the rain, in a ponytail. Six years ago she’d worn it down, let him run his hands through it while he—
His body protested the image. With conscious effort he let himself slide into sleep.
***
The sound of the wind woke him. Momentarily startled and a little disoriented, he remembered exactly where he was, exactly what had happened.
He was in Alice Davenport’s house with Blair, the only woman he’d ever wanted to marry, who’d come into his life at a time when he’d least expected. He could hear her moving around. He sat up, the ache of his month-old wound a persistent throb, a constant reminder of the need to hide. Gingerly, he rotated his left shoulder and found he wasn’t as sore as he’d thought he’d be. He stood, relieved that he didn’t feel as exhausted, and pulled the sheet around his hips. He considered draping the thing higher across his left side to hide the fresh scar, then discarded the thought as ridiculous. Blair had already seen it.
She came down the hall as Michael tucked the sheet around his waist. She paused in the doorway, her arms full of his clothes, and stared.
He wished he could step into her thoughts, inside what made her tick. He thought he had, years ago, but he’d been wrong.
“They’re dry,” she announced, the polite look still firmly in place.
“Thanks,” he said, making no move toward her.
She appeared to struggle with herself before stepping into the room. “There’s an evacuation order. We have to leave. Someone from the Sheriff’s Department should be
around to get us out if we don’t.”
Michael couldn’t read her at all anymore. She was a blank page to him. The knowledge he had of her was of a laughing, passionate young woman who’d ripped away the only real hold he had on life in a time of turmoil.
“Do you mind if they see you?”
Yes, she was a quick study. “I’d rather they didn’t.”
“Then you should leave now.”
“No more questions, Blair?”
“Would you answer them if I asked?”
No, not one bit compliant. He wondered why she bothered to ask if he minded if the deputies saw him. “I can’t.”
“Then get dressed.” She dumped his clothes on the bed. “I finished covering the back windows so all we have to do is lock up. Where’s your car?”
“I don’t have one.” It lay submerged in the bay, a sacrifice to expediency. Another fact she would never know.
She seemed to bite back some comment, before saying, “Then you’ll come with me.”
Blair Davenport had grown up, taken charge. She was twenty-eight now. At twenty-two, she’d wanted simplicity, someone to give her direction, yet freedom. He’d wanted to be the one to see her spread her wings, but—
Hell, Michael wasn’t sure what had happened. He was only sure he’d spent six years cursing the insanity that had prompted him to ask her to marry him.
***
Blair leaned back against the door. Despite the weight loss and the marring of his body, Michael Alvarez was still the most attractive man she’d ever seen. She wondered about the women in his life. There had to be at least one. She couldn’t imagine Michael’s life without women. Even Grandma Alice had succumbed to his charm.
As Blair had so long ago.
Falling in love with Michael had been easy. Letting go, after a week of passion, was harder than anything she’d ever done. She’d survived the loneliness of her refusal to marry him with nothing more than sheer determination and years of struggle. Years of struggle that wouldn’t end by giving in to whatever aberration made her so susceptible to him.
Against the Wind Page 1
