“Wouldn’t you like to towel off and get some clothes on?” she suggested.
He shook his head as she pointed toward the duffel. “I think I’ll drip-dry. It’s hotter than hell in here.”
“That it is,” she agreed, wondering how she was going to get past him and over to the other side of the cabin. She didn’t want to chance even the briefest contact with his dripping body.
He solved the problem by moving into the larger part of the room himself, the only area where there was enough space for two people to cohabit without touching. She followed him and sat on the farthest end of the bed.
Sam was well aware of the extremes she was going to to avoid him. “I suppose we ought to talk about this,” he said.
“About the case?” Her smile was quizzical, as though she had no idea what he meant. “I’ll make another run at Arthur tomorrow. I’ve got some ideas.”
“About this.” He indicated the cabin. “About us, in here. “
“We’ll make do. People have survived in worse circumstances.”
Sam sighed. She was acting as though it was nothing, as though they were Andy Hardy and one of his girlfriends stranded on a raft. The way she was gazing up at him with her luminous gray eyes, he couldn’t decide whether she was incredibly naive or exercising total denial.
She patted the bunk. “We can take turns if you want.”
“Bev, Bev,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “Time for a reality check.”
“Reality check?” Bev didn’t like the sound of that.
He reached her in one stride and Bev expected to be pulled off the bed to her feet. She scooted back as he knelt in front of her and rested his hand on her knee. If only he weren’t such a large man, she thought, feeling a wave of helplessness as his hand dwarfed not only her knee but her leg. If only she were a bigger woman, a stronger woman, a better woman.
The memory of their steamy interlude in the kitchen began to screen through her mind, and she locked her legs together. She couldn’t let that kind of wantonness wash over her again.
“Remember how this worked?” he said, drawing her toward him.
Bev felt her legs give way as he pressed between them, her dress sliding up. She knew instinctively she would be lost if he got that close to her again. She couldn’t let him near her inner thighs. There was something about having him lodged between her legs, his hipbones pressed up against the exquisitely sensitive nerves and muscles, that shut down all her inhibitions.
“Only we never got to this part, did we?” he said, stroking her jawline with his fingers. He tilted her head up and brushed his lips across hers. “We never got to the kiss,” he murmured as though the idea of a kiss with all its tender possibilities surprised him.
Bev was surprised too. In fact, the sheer lightness of his mouth as it moved over hers, the breathy, sexy warmth of him, was so unexpected that she relaxed her guard for a second. And with that tiny capitulation, her body went crazy. Her heart began to race, and she emitted a soft sound, not a sigh, more a surrendering of the breath stored in her lungs.
His hand tightened on her upper arm.
“Don’t make noises like that, Lace,” he said against her mouth, his voice raspy. “Not unless you want me to take your sweet body here and now.” He urged her closer, lifting her up to him as he deepened the kiss. She could feel the wild sexual pull in him, the need to crush her in his arms, to drag up her skirt and drive himself deeply inside her.
She could feel the answering need in her own throbbing pulsebeat—the one in her throat, the one deep inside. What kind of strength did it take for a man to hold back when he sensed that a woman wanted him? When that same foolish woman melted under one tender kiss? When she throbbed every time he spread her legs?
“Come here, Lace.” He caught her by the backside and dragged her up against the part of him that throbbed too. The sudden heat, the unyielding hardness, made her whimper.
“God, do I need to get close,” he said harshly.
But, seconds later, when he had her firmly pressed against him and when he had her so aroused she couldn’t say her own name, he drew back. His breath was ragged, his features hardened, ravaged by desire.
“See what I mean?” he said, touching her face. “See what I mean?”
He released her all at once and pushed back, taking a moment to catch his breath.
Bev was staggered by his ability to cut himself off. She was panting as if she’d run a mile uphill, her heart roaring in her ears, and worse, there was a deep, clutching ache in her nether regions that felt as though it would never let up. How had he done it? How had he stopped?
She felt a flash of anger, at him for having that kind of control, but more so at herself for being weak and ineffectual, a slave to her own raging hormones. She wanted to berate herself endlessly, but she couldn’t stay focused. She was too fascinated by what was happening to his towel as he rose to his feet.
The knot that held it on his hips had loosened, and for one breathless second she thought the towel was coming undone. Her heart went wild at the prospect of seeing him that way. Her stomach lurched, and she felt a shuddering wave of disbelief at what was happening to her. She wanted to gawk at an aroused naked man. She must be going crazy!
“The towel!” she said, her voice a squeak.
He caught it before it came loose, and Bev hunched over on the bed—relieved, disappointed, horrified! She squeezed her eyes shut, jerked her dress down, and moaned. She wasn’t going crazy, she was already there. She was a fruitcake!
The bed moved as he sat next to her, and she turned away from him, curling into herself. “Don’t touch me.”
“I was making a point, Lace,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “We’re hot for each other. It isn’t going to be easy, staying in a cracker box like this. We could be on each other constantly, going at it like rabbits. Is that what you want?”
Going at it like rabbits? Good grief, he was crude. “Why do you suddenly care what I want?” she asked, uncurling to look over her shoulder at him. “You didn’t the other day in my kitchen.”
He groaned softly. “Because you’re someone’s daughter now—Harve’s daughter. And because I’m an idiot!”
She met his eyes and they held one powerful message. In spite of his promise to her father, Sam Nichols wanted to strip her naked and throw her back down on the bed. Well, maybe that would be the best thing, she thought, her heart pounding recklessly. Maybe they’d get it out of their systems. “I don’t report to my father,” she said, folding her arms. “Not about my personal life. I’ve been married, divorced. I do what I want.”
His baby-blue eyes went dramatically dark, and his harsh breath brought her back to reality with a start. What was she trying to do? Talk him into attacking her? A quick perusal of the situation, of the tiny cabin and his still-aroused body, persuaded her to go cautiously. Another awareness drove that cautiousness home. She would be incredibly foolish to let herself get causally involved with Sam Nichols. She hadn’t yet had time to analyze the reasons, but she knew that she could get very attached to a man like him. He had all the right stuff—dark good looks that made him physically irresistible, scars that tugged at her emotionally.
She took a deep, steadying breath. “All right,” she said finally. “I guess we need some ground rules. First, clothes. I don’t think we ought to be parading in front of each other half naked, do you?”
“Consider it done.” He rose and crossed the room to his duffel bag, letting the towel fall as he pulled a pair of jeans out of the bag. Bev closed her eyes before she could get a good look at his muscular backside. She was learning.
Once he had the jeans on, he turned back to her and dug a silver dollar out of the front pocket. “Sleeping arrangements,” he said, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Who gets the bunk? Want to toss for it?”
“Heads,” Bev said instantly.
The coin went sailing up in the air, flashing as it arced and dropped back to earth. Sam caug
ht it and slapped it onto the back of his hand. “Tails.”
Bev moved in for a closer look. It was tails, big as life. She glanced down at the woven carpet. “Well, I meant to say that,” she said softly, looking up at him. “I meant to say tails.”
“Too bad you didn’t.” Laughing, he pulled both pillows and the blanket off the bed and handed them to her. “Here, you can have these, babe. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
Maybe he was resistible, she decided, giving him the full benefit of her contemptuous glare. Yes, he definitely was. He was rude and crude. And he still didn’t have the manners God gave a donkey.
Bev would never have gotten an argument from Sam about the deplorable state of his manners, but she might have been surprised to know that his conscience was in fair working order. Fortunately, he’d always been able to ignore the small voice in his head when it stood in the way of getting something he wanted. But with her, he was having some trouble finding the off button. Must be because of Harve, he told himself.
He rolled to the side of the bunk and studied the figure curled up in the fetal position on the floor. Beverly Jean, he thought, contemplating her name, B.J., babe, Lace. She was the cuddly type, a woman who brought any number of pet names to mind. She was hot-blooded too, which never failed to surprise him. But her body heat wasn’t what concerned him at the moment. It was the anguished little sighs she made as she tossed and turned.
He wasn’t quite egotistical enough to think it was leftover passion. She was trying to get comfortable on the floor, and she was probably going to keep both of them up all night in the effort.
“Come on up here,” he said. “There’s room for both of us.”
“Oh, sure,” she bit back. “I’ll bet you’ll even let me choose whether I want to be on the top or the bottom, right?”
“Hey, who mentioned sex? I’m talking about getting some shut-eye, okay? Just sleep, nothing sweaty.”
“No thanks,” she said coolly, turning away from him. “I’m fine.”
He exhaled heavily, swung off the bed, and bent to scoop her up. She stiffened like a board when he touched her, making his task that much more difficult.
“Don’t you dare,” she said as he worked his hands beneath her rigid body. Pain ripped through his side as he lifted her and rose to his feet, all in one gut-wrenching motion. It took a brutal determination not to drop her as frayed nerves and straining muscles screamed at him.
“Lighten up,” he said, clenching his jaw. “I’m trying to do something nice. Don’t make me regret it.”
He deposited her on the bed and sank down beside her, his forehead filmed with perspiration. Something told him this wasn’t going to be the last time she would bring him pain.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m just great,” he said, flinching as she touched his shoulder.
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
The softness in her voice, the concern, seemed to make everything hurt more. “Lay down, dammit,” he growled, not meaning to be so surly. “Go to sleep.”
She moved away from him, pressing up against the wall. She was obviously apprehensive, but he didn’t have the energy to reassure her, or the desire. Try to be a Boy Scout, and this is what you get for your trouble, he told himself. If she hadn’t figured out yet that Sam Nichols was one nasty package, then maybe it was time she did. It was the way he’d grown up, the way he’d survived growing up. She’d get used to it, and if she didn’t ... well, that was her problem.
He stretched out on his back and stared at the ceiling, wishing like hell he were in his rathole of an apartment with a six-pack of beer, drinking himself to sleep.
She lay down finally, on her side, staring at him. “Sam, I know you’re hurting. I’ve got some aspirin in my bag.” She touched his arm lightly, tentatively, a sweet promise of something more. “Would that help? Sam?”
He could hear the apprehension in her voice, the catch of emotion. She was frightened of letting herself get too close to him. She knew as well as he did what happened when they got close. They went crazy. They blew the fuses and shorted out the circuits. But there was something else happening between them too, a strange new urgency ... a need to touch and discover, a need to make contact.
He could hear it in her voice. And he could feel it taking shape deep inside him, grabbing hold like a fist. He could feel it ... and it scared the holy hell out of him.
Her fingers hovered on his arm. “Sam?”
“Get some sleep,” he said abruptly. “You’ve got to bag a con man tomorrow.”
Seven
DO THEY HAVE chiropractors on cruise ships? It was the first question to filter through Bev’s slumberous thought processes as she woke up the next morning. Her muscles were stiff and achy from the cramped position she’d slept in. Her spine felt as though it would never unkink. She moaned softly and rolled to her side, contemplating the wrinkled sheets where Sam Nichols had slept next to her the previous night.
It was another moment or two before it dawned on her that she was alone in the cabin, that Sam had already gone out. Did that mean he was a morning person? she wondered, gingerly stretching her arms and legs. Another bad sign. She was a night person. It was probably the only bohemian aspect of her entire personality, and she couldn’t believe it was the one vice Sam didn’t have. If he was the type that rose with the birds, they were truly incompatible.
She propped herself up on one elbow and considered the possibility of actually sitting up. She didn’t want to rush her body into a vertical position, especially after the night she’d had. Sam’s jeans were draped over the chair at the foot of the bed, which meant he must be wearing the calypso gear again.
By the time she was on her feet and mulling what she was going to wear that day, she’d come to a couple of conclusions about Sam Nichols. His sexual prowess and his cynical sense of humor were obvious. He was also a profoundly private man. It was hard to imagine him as sensitive, or vulnerable in any way, but what else could account for the way he guarded his emotions and turned surly when someone got too close?
In his own way he’d been reaching out to her the night before, she realized. The offer to share the bed had been his way of extending himself. She could only guess at what it must have cost him to come out from behind his tough façade, even briefly. The roughneck with baby-blue eyes, she thought, smiling. Did he have a soft side? Was it his own tenderness he was protecting?
She felt a welling of sympathy. If she was right about him, he was sorely in need of someone to talk to, someone who cared enough to probe for the real Sam Nichols. But would he ever allow it?
She’d taken her shower, dressed, and was putting the finishing touches on her makeup before she realized she’d spent the entire morning thinking about her bunkmate. She would have to watch that kind of preoccupation. It could get dangerous, especially if she was wrong. What if the tender side of his nature was only wishful thinking on her part?
With one eye closed, she applied a liberally glued false eyelash, and a guilty smile appeared as she thought about Sam’s reaction to her sarong the night before. He hadn’t seemed too receptive to her sex-bomb look. In fact, he’d been downright insulting.
So let him stew, she told herself. The things Sam Nichols didn’t know about her would fill a book. He had no idea how long it had been since a man had looked at her with anything but polite disinterest in his eyes. Or how badly she needed to be appreciated for her femininity. Perhaps she hadn’t fully understood those things herself, until this trip.
She winked at herself in the mirror, testing the eyelash. “Lookin’ good,” she murmured. Moments later she whisked up her purse and left the cabin, a jaunty swing in her step. With her eyelashes attached and her pushup pads in place, she felt bold, a woman who knew her way around the promenade deck. If Sam Spade took exception, she would just have to remind him that the bait idea had been his.
Bev found the object of her search near the pool havin
g brunch. Arthur Blankenship sat at a table by himself, absently buttering a croissant as he read silently and avidly from what appeared to be a popular novel. He was so engrossed he didn’t notice her strolling by him, even when she paused and glanced over his shoulder to get a look at what he was reading.
Haunted Summer. Interesting choice, Bev thought. She hadn’t read the book but she was familiar with it from college, where she’d briefly majored in English before dropping out to marry Paul. The story, as she recalled, was a rather erotic account of the weekend that Lord Byron, Percy Shelley and his wife, Mary Shelley, had spent one summer at Diodati, Byron’s villa in Geneva, Switzerland.
Bev glanced around the deck to make sure she wasn’t noticed, and then she casually bumped the back of Arthur’s chair, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her as the dancing dervish of the night before. He didn’t even look up, so she nudged the chair again, harder.
Again, no response. Was he awake? Alive?
Perplexed, Bev stood back to rethink her strategy. The obvious solution was to tap him on the shoulder, and she was about to do that when he glanced up and saw her.
“Oh!” he gasped, lurching forward as he tried to stand up. The book caught the edge of his saucer and tipped over his coffee cup, which fortunately was nearly empty.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Sweeping the napkin off his lap, she blotted the spilled coffee. She was making a career out of serendipitous accidents. “I hope your book didn’t get wet.”
“N-no, I don’t th-think so.”
Bev picked the book up. “Haunted Summer?” she exclaimed. “Where did you ever find a copy? I’ve heard it’s marvelous.”
Arthur jerked his head up almost painfully, as though he’d been caught at something. “I b-beg your pardon?”
“Isn’t this the story about Shelley and Byron? I love Shelley’s work, don’t you? ‘And we sail on, away, afar, Without a course, without a star.’ That’s from Prometheus Unbound. Lyrical, isn’t it?”
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