HiddenDepths

by Angela Claire

  * * * * *

  She came awake slowly to the feeling of pain. It was a familiar sensation, but a distant one, like a long-ago dream or a faint memory. She did not welcome it back. But she could stand it if she had to. She always could. If she had to.

  “Good. You’re awake.”

  He was familiar too. Hauntingly, tantalizingly familiar. And he was welcome. But she wasn’t dreaming him this time. It really was him. Evan Reynolds. He was standing by the bed, with that same relaxed stance she remembered, hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, intense green eyes focused in on her as if there was no one else in the room. Of course this time there was no one else in the room.

  She struggled to sit up, breathing through the pain, one hand going automatically to the bandage she had felt before she even knew it was there.

  “Here, drink this.”

  He handed her a glass of amber-colored liquid and she took it from him, sipping slowly. A lifelong teetotaler, she felt the whiskey burn her throat, but she would take any sedative she could get at this point.

  Oh God. She had come here. She had actually come here. Care of a stolen boat and the expert seamanship she had garnered from her childhood and had needed that night to steer through near-hurricane conditions. She had come here. Like some kind of demented salmon, she had traveled over the waters back to where she instinctively longed to be. Back to him.

  She glanced up at Evan Reynolds as he watched her.

  She was certifiably wacko. Wacko and embarrassed.

  But the survivalist in her knew deep down it was a good plan. They wouldn’t find her here. She could recuperate.

  If he didn’t throw her out, that is.

  She placed the empty glass down on the nightstand. “Thank you,” she croaked, trying to stay sitting upright until he leaned over her and gently pressed her bare shoulders down. When he pulled the covers up over her, she realized she was naked.

  Not that it was anything he hadn’t seen before.

  “It’s cleared up this morning. We can cross back to the mainland. I’d like to get you checked out in a hospital.”

  “No. No hospital.” Her voice didn’t even sound as if it was hers.

  “Look, I stitched up your wound, but I’m no doctor. I have no way of knowing whether you might have internal injuries or something might be broken.”

  Two conditions with which she unfortunately had plenty of experience and she knew she didn’t have either right now. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not a doctor either.” He paused. “Or are you?” he added sardonically.

  She said nothing.

  “Is Andrea Prentiss really even your name?”

  She closed her eyes, feeling the dull magic of the whiskey. She felt so warm and safe, with only the manageable pain of the knife wound, stitched up and bandaged. Life was good right now and that was all she had ever really asked for.

  She drifted off to sleep again, at the last hearing his soft voice. “We will talk, Andrea.”

  The second time she awoke a hand was at her shoulder nudging her, and the pain was sharper. Evan Reynolds was seated on the bed beside her, holding out some tablets and a glass of water. “You were moaning in your sleep and going for your bandage. I was worried you’d hurt yourself. Here take these.”

  She did, automatically, as he added, “They’re codeine. I found them in a knapsack I’d forgotten about. They should help.”

  Instead of the khaki pants, he was in gray sweats this time and a Yale T-shirt. The room was dark too, just the illumination from the moonlight through the windows.

  She drank the whole glass of water.

  “Are you hungry? I can make some soup.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”

  “When was the last time you’ve eaten?”

  She felt her head clear a bit despite the codeine, which probably wouldn’t have kicked in yet anyway. Now would come the questions. And she had never wanted those. She really just wanted to go back to sleep.

  As if he heard her thoughts, he warned, “You’re not going back to sleep this time. You’ve been out for almost a full day.”

  That caused her to sit up a little. “I have?” The croak she remembered in her voice from the last time she had tried to talk was gone.

  “Yes, and I have to change your bandage. I still worry about internal damage.”

  “Don’t. I know what that feels like. I don’t have it.”

  He frowned at her, but let it go. The implements to change her bandage were ready on the night table and he pulled the bed covers down to her hips and pulled up the shirt she just noticed she was wearing so it bared her wound. As he bent over her, she registered a number of sensations simultaneously. The soft cotton of the shirt, which must have been his, the fact that her hair was tied back in some version of a long braid so it was not all wild around her as she last remembered it, and the warmth of his breath on her abdomen as he carefully peeled back the bandage, washed the wound with a warm white washcloth, reapplying some salve, and then applied a clean bandage. All these things overwhelmed her at once. She felt…taken care of.

  It made her want to burst out in tears. But hell, she’d put him through enough.

  As he got up to discard the used bandage, she pulled her shirt down and her covers up. But before she could snuggle up to drift off again, he was back beside her with a hand on her shoulder.

  “Really, Andrea. You have to stay awake. You need to eat something. Or at the very least don’t you need to use the bathroom?”

  The observation embarrassed her and she mumbled, “Of course,” starting to will her languid limbs into motion again, trying to get out of bed. God, she was so very tired.

  His arm came around her waist. “Here, let me help you.”

  He walked—well, half carried her—to the adjoining bathroom, but she managed to do her business while he waited outside. When she was done, he led her to an armchair by the windows and urged her gently down.

  “Sit here for a second while I change the sheets. Does it still hurt much?”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’m just tired.” Her head fell back against the cushion of the chair, but she forced it up again. “I’ll get out of your hair soon. I promise.”

  He was ripping the sheets off the bed, throwing them into a corner, and efficiently putting on another set. “And how would you do that?” he muttered. When he was done, he turned to look squarely at her. “This island isn’t that big. I went around it at least twice while you were out trying to see if there was any trace of a boat. But I didn’t find one.”

  She said nothing.

  “How the hell did you get here, Andrea?”

  She shook her head.

  “More to the point, where have you been? Where did you get that knife wound?”

  Talking was only slightly less palatable to her right now than moving was, but she forced herself to do a little. “You have a boat. You can take me back now.”

  Explaining had never been on the table.

  “And how should I do that? Bundle you up like a hurt kitten and deposit you back on the mainland? Hope you can catch a ride or what?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “That’s easier said than done. Especially when I’ve just spent a day nursing you back to health. I don’t go for having my work undone.”

  “A hurt kitten. Work. You’re full of compliments for me.”

  “I’m not in a complimenting mood, Andrea.” He stopped abruptly. “Is it even Andrea?”

  Well, that was no surprise. Once she left Michael Reynolds’ employ, she knew they would quickly discover her résumé, her whole background, had been fabricated. The only reason they hadn’t before that was that Michael’s previous assistant had been so harried and eager to get on to her next position away from such a demanding boss that she had barely glanced into her successor’s credentials. Then Andrea herself was supremely in charge of such matters once she had assumed the role as Michael Reynolds’ executive assista
nt.

  Mr. Reynolds. An ogre according to most of his prior assistants, he had been the perfect boss for Andrea Prentiss. So aloof he insisted on the formality of not even using first names between them, he had no more interest in her or looking into her background than he did in most people if they were competent and appropriate to their purpose. And although most men would see a young woman’s purpose as sexual—she had no illusions about that—Mr. Reynolds had more than he needed on that score and he had never wanted sex from an executive assistant. Too messy for him and consequently perfect for her. He wanted intelligence, capability and above all else, unflappability. Emotionless unflappability. And for that, she was ideal. Speaking so many languages didn’t hurt either.

  She didn’t regret her years with Michael Reynolds. Underneath that hard exterior, he was a good man and she had been happy for him when he fell in love with Vanny Donald. She was only sorry she couldn’t stay to arrange the wedding—assuming he had ever gotten around to asking Vanny—but by then it had proven too risky to stay, for a number of reasons. One of which was standing in front of her now, grilling her.

  “Andrea will do,” she said.

  “So what’s the deal, then, Andrea? Why the big charade, with Michael I’m talking about. Eight years and you’re not even who you said you were and then you disappear without a word?”

  “Thank you for the recap. I’d quite forgotten.” She was trying for her frostiest Stepford secretary voice, but it was rusty and further undercut by the fact that he scooped her up as if she really did weigh no more than a kitten and carried her to the newly made bed, depositing her in the middle, sitting up. He then fluffed the pillows behind her. She wanted to be mad, but it felt so fresh and warm and comfy in his bed. All those years of living as Andrea Prentiss had softened her too much and the last six months had not whipped that need for softness out of her. Sadly. From the way he was glaring at her, she probably wasn’t in for too much more of it. Once she was fully healed—forget about even taking her back in his boat—he’d probably rather toss her into the ocean and make her swim back.

  She had a horrible thought. Worse than being tossed into the ocean. “You didn’t tell Michael I was here, did you?”

  “Michael, is it now? Not into the character of prim and prissy executive assistant anymore?”

  “Did you?”

  He watched her carefully, then sat on the edge of the bed. “What if I did? Why does that scare you so much?”

  Panicked, she tried to get out of bed and with no more than one hand, he prevented her. “Settle down. My communications systems aren’t exactly state of the art. They were down for the storm and calling big brother wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind when they got restored.”

  “So no one knows I’m here.”

  He paused.

  “I have to leave if they do.”

  “No. No one knows you’re here. Hell, I’m not even sure you’re really here. I’d watch you sleeping and think that maybe I was just dreaming this whole bizarre episode.” He swiped his slight five-o’clock shadow. “The only reason I know it’s not is if I dreamed you showing up here, it sure as well wouldn’t have been with a knife wound and half unconscious.”

  The way he said it and the way his eyes quickly swept her face and then skittered away again made her think that he meant he would have dreamed her showing up for sex. That was all he wanted from her originally anyway, wasn’t it? What had possessed her to show up here as if he would care that she was hurt and in trouble?

  The thought made her angry even though she had no right to be, especially after the way he had taken her in. “I’m sorry I wasn’t up to one of our little rendezvous. Is that why you patched me up? Hoping to get some recompense in our usual fashion of exchange?”

  “Fuck you!”

  She swallowed, ashamed of herself. God, she was so out to sea on this one. She should have never gotten involved with Evan Reynolds and she sure as hell should have never come here.

  “That was uncalled for,” she admitted softly. “I’m sorry.”

  If he was pacified by her apology, he didn’t show it. “What is this all about, Andrea? I have a right to know at this point. Am I harboring a criminal or something?”

  “Would that bother you?”

  “Depends on the crime,” he said carefully.

  “I’ve never been convicted of any crime,” she hedged. Yet. She might be one bloody corpse away, though.

  “So what is it, then?”

  She weighed whether to tell him. For the first time in her life, she wanted to tell someone. She never had before. Not the expensive school therapists. Not the few friends she had ever had. Never her mother. The one time she had even hinted at the truth, her stepfather had beaten her so badly—

  She shut off the thought.

  “Out, you!”

  For one horrified second, she thought Evan was talking to her. But he was looking at the doorway to the bedroom, pointing at something she couldn’t see. She heard a whimper and twisted, trying to make out what he was looking at.

  “Don’t.” He turned back to her, pressing her gently against the pillows. “You’ll hurt your stitches turning that way.” Glancing over his shoulder, she heard quick taps against the hardwood floor and saw big brown eyes and silky golden fur. She didn’t know much about dogs, but if she had to guess she’d say it was a golden retriever. Evan got up and spoke to the dog, pointing at the door again. “I mean it. Out.”

  She smiled as the dog ignored him with a soulful look and flopped down on the floor by the side of the bed, tail wagging.

  “You have a dog.” She stated the obvious.

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  She held a tentative hand out toward the thing and it lunged up to lick her hand, startling her.

  Evan grabbed the dog’s collar as she laughed.

  “He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just a big puppy. But right now he probably weighs more than you do and I don’t want him to hurt you.”

  She petted the dog’s big sleek head. “He won’t hurt me. Sit,” she said with more authority than she felt and the dog obeyed. Pleased—she still had a little of the Andrea Prentiss left in her—she asked, “What’s his name?”

  Evan sat back beside her on the bed. “You tell me. I haven’t gotten around to naming him yet.”

  “How long have you had him?”

  “About a month.” At her expression, he added, “I know. I know. I think his feelings are starting to get hurt.”

  “At least have you built him a doghouse?” She had been touched by his long-ago story even if she hadn’t shown it at the time.

  “I didn’t have to. I’m an even bigger pushover than my grandfather ever was. I let him sleep inside from the get-go.”

  She shook her head. “But then I showed up and you kicked him out of the bedroom.”

  “You’re more fun,” he quipped, giving her a little thrill of excitement.

  “Not lately.”

  He turned away to pet the dog.

  “How about Bingo?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “Is that a macho enough name? It sounds kind of lightweight, like an entertainer or something. He’s ostensibly a guard dog. I don’t want to offend the poor guy’s masculinity.”

  “It can be a macho name.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Bingo it is, then. Although I guess he didn’t do a very good job on the guard-dog front since he let a little slip of a thing like you sneak onshore.”

  Well, that was an opening if she had ever heard one. “I’m, ah, in trouble, Evan. I guess that won’t come as any surprise to you.”

  “No.”

  “And I, ah, well, I guess you won’t swallow ‘I was in the neighborhood’, will you?”

  He said nothing.

  “I don’t want to burden you with this.”

  “You already have,” he pointed out.

  She smiled slightly. “Yes, I guess I have.”

  He didn’t smile back.

  “B
ut I can’t tell you what it’s all about, Evan. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  He stood up and said coldly, “What do you want, then?”

  She had thought herself long past getting her feelings hurt, but a need for physical softness wasn’t the only thing she craved apparently. Her eyelids felt heavy and something around the vicinity of her chest throbbed painfully, but it wasn’t her knife wound. She shook her head, blinking back the sudden moisture. “Nothing. I’ll go as soon as you say.”

  He glanced at the darkened windows, then back at her. “You won’t have something to eat?”

  She closed her eyes as he flicked off the lamp. “No,” she whispered and felt him slide into bed beside her, tugging her down, into his arms, spooning against her.

  “Then go to sleep,” he added, “You too, Bingo.”

  She sighed. He had known what she wanted without her having to say it.

  Chapter Five

  Evan held the painfully thin Andrea Prentiss in his arms as her breathing slowed and became even. Despite that he had only been able to give her a sponge bath while she slept and hadn’t even been able to wash her hair, just braid it, she smelled clean and fresh snuggled up in his arms, in his shirt, in his bed. What did she want? Hell, the better and more elusive question was what did he want?

  After stitching up her wound last night, he had found sleep impossible in the guest bedroom, less because of the unfamiliarity of that bed and more due to his worry for the injured girl in his own bed. He’d finally settled on dragging a comforter back into his room and settling into an easy chair, alternating between dozing and watching his unexpected guest sleep, the dog letting out a plaintive sigh every once in a while from the hallway where he’d been exiled.

  Although Evan was fully awake by dawn the next day, Andrea was definitely out for some time after. When she stirred enough to take the glass of whiskey, she went right back to sleep, her body and probably her spirit as well obviously exhausted.

  He had left her long enough to walk around the island, twice just as he’d told her, his puppy enthusiastically at his side, and there was no evidence of a boat other than his own. But it could have been dashed against the rocks, all trace of it swept out to sea again. It probably was, although that still didn’t explain why she was here, even if it explained how.