Night, Sea, And Stars

by Heather Graham

It was paradise; it was Eden, and like the magic of Eden, they were perfect creatures as they faced one another, man and woman, tanned to that glowing silken sheen by the sun, strong and firm and lithe of limb.

  Skye was sure she had never seen anything more splendid than his naked form touched by the golden sun. She closed her eyes for a dizzying moment. He was hers, but he wasn’t hers. No, the night was magic. It was hers. The breeze whispered, the surf intoxicated. With a little whimper, she moved to him.

  Standing on tiptoe, she planted light kisses against his lips, up the line of his cheek to his eyes. His hands splayed over her hips to grip her buttocks firmly, drawing her to him. But she held away, savoring each salt taste of his skin as she continued her kisses, grazing his shoulders lightly with her teeth, following the touch of her lips with that of light fingers. Lower and lower she moved, teasing male nipples, luxuriating in the sound of his shortening breath, in the feel of his tensing flesh. Her kisses moved downward until she dropped to her knees and his fingers traced a pattern of fire as they grazed up her spine from tailbone to nape, resting in her hair as he groaned. He tilted her chin firmly so that she would meet his eyes openly even in the burning heat of the passion she wantonly offered.

  Her eyes were beautiful, he thought, and then he couldn’t think. Paradise. He had been offered paradise. Sensations spread through him that were agonizingly sweet. And then his groan of delirious pleasure rent through the still, sweet air. He was drawing her to him, lifting her to lay her once more beside the flames that displayed the feminine curves and angles so willingly offered him. Insane and pulsing with desire as he was, he still had to pause. Perhaps it was only a second, a second in which paradise was forever ingrained in his mind—the giving in delicate face and fascinating eyes; the rise of firm, hard-tipped breasts bathed in the firelight; the shadows of slender hips; the beautiful long limbs that shifted with exquisite intimacy to open and accept him.

  Magenta and gold exploded within Skye’s mind and vision.

  Kyle had never been more tender, more gentle, yet never more ardent, more wild. Her heart was seared by the crackle of the fire that seemed to rage around them; her head was filled with the glowing gold. The music of the breeze and surf touched her ears in a wild rhapsody. Kyle touched her, and touched her; all through the magenta storm that assailed them, he touched her, taking her lips, cradling her breasts, holding her hips with firm possession, rhythmically driving them tighter and tighter together, melded as one.

  And when the climax caught them in an explosion of color— violet and gold and searing red—he kept on touching her.

  And then he was kissing her, tongue and teeth teasing from head to toe, then taking and demanding, seeking intimacies that drove her crazy, drove her mad, drove her to cry his name and demand that he be within her again.

  Sunset was indigo night, the water one with the sky. They didn’t think to eat that night, nor to move to their shelter. They stayed beneath the velvet of the sky, beside the fire of paradise.

  They both knew that strangely this, of all sunsets, had marked a proverbial new day in Eden.

  And not even Kyle was worried. He had meant to tell her that they shouldn’t have fires at night anymore, that to rest they needed the cover of complete darkness.

  He knew that beyond a doubt nothing would break the spell of the night. He knew he had been granted magic, given paradise.

  It was incredibly rough going. Even with his crudely created tools, Kyle was having difficulty with the raft. It was different than benches and chairs he had created for their use; the raft had to be secure, had to be completely and painstakingly safe.

  Neither of them minded the time. If it weren’t that she spent strange moments, assailed by chills, looking over her shoulder although she knew danger couldn't actually sneak upon them, Skye would have been happy. Happier than she had ever been in her life.

  Kyle had warned her of the danger of the fire at night, and she had nodded agreement that it no longer burn. She had feared the nightmares, but the nightmares no longer came. She slept, knowing that he held her.

  She frowned. That had been five nights ago… hadn’t it? She wasn’t really sure, time had lost all meaning. Days had passed, weeks had passed. She closed her eyes, her features tense as she tried to concentrate. “Six weeks,” she said aloud suddenly. “We’ve been here a full six weeks as of today.”

  Kyle paused in his efforts to hack through a tree limb. His shoulders were bathed in perspiration; he ran the back of his forearm over his brow and watched her. He looked at the pseudo-hatchet in his clenched hand and then dropped it with a casual sigh, rubbing the growth of his beard as he sat beside Skye. “Six weeks, huh?”

  Skye nodded. Her hands also became still on the vines she had soaked, stretched, and soaked again, and now braided for strength. She glanced at Kyle’s profile, at the way he looked out at the sea from the ridged height of the plateau where they worked.

  “It bothers you, doesn’t it?” she asked.

  He shrugged, his arm coming comfortably around her although his gaze remained on the sea.

  Of course it bothers him, Skye thought blankly. That was normal. Why wasn’t it bothering her? There should have been something…

  And then she again began to wonder why it was she could sell her very soul for Kyle and she wasn’t even missing Ted. Skye closed her eyes, forcing herself to think, to search for a past that could fill her heart with a normal remorse.

  Everything had always been so easy, so good. She had met him at the opening of a play and immediately been intrigued by his quiet charm, impressed by his natural manner. He was not her picture of the stereotypical producer. He had not come on to her, but flowers had arrived at her apartment the next day. And then he had called for dinner.

  A picture of Ted finally filled her vision, and stayed—warm, deep eyes, tawny hair, quietly but impeccably dressed as he stood at her door that first night.

  She had been a fledgling in business then, and he had advised and encouraged. He saw her steadily, but never remarked upon the months when she would leave and spend time in Sydney. Why hadn’t she ever pushed him to come? she wondered. Everything should have been there. But it wasn’t. And somehow she had known. And she had known about Steven, and she couldn’t talk, couldn’t share, even when she knew she was going to lose her twin, the brother with whom she had an indefinable bond. The lifelong friend whom she had naturally teased and tortured, but with whom she had shared her adolescent dreams, the years of growing up, of learning to live in the world.

  She was over Steven’s death now, she realized. And it was because of Kyle. But it wasn’t Ted’s fault that he had never helped her; she had never allowed him in. Why? she wondered again desperately. There wasn’t a single thing wrong with Ted. He was good, he was kind and gentle. He had been as tender and giving as a man could be.

  We love where we love, she thought sadly, then gave herself an inward, bitter grimace. How profound. She should love Ted because they were free and they were right, and she shouldn’t love Kyle because he really wasn’t free, and he was an enigma of a man, giving so much, yet holding back, taking her, caring for her, and still at times giving her the feeling that she was a well-kept possession, kindly treated unless she tread over certain bounds.

  In every relationship, she thought with a sudden bit of astute wisdom, no matter how equal, one partner held a percentage more of the power. With Ted it had been her.

  With Kyle, she was forced to admit, he held the power. He knew it and would have it so. And she was forced to admit that it didn’t matter, which was hard. She was proud, she was independent. She ruled her own world, or she had.

  “Thinking about home?”

  His query was soft. Skye opened her eyes to see that he no longer gazed idly over the ocean, but gazed intently upon her.

  “Sort of,” she murmured.

  She sensed a tension in him, but still his reply was quiet. “We will get back.” He was silent for a moment and then q
ueried, “Why didn’t you ever marry him?”

  Had he known that she had been thinking of Ted? If so, had he read her thoughts? She hoped not. It would be terrifying to have him know how vulnerable she was, how she had ceased to care for anything but him when she knew well his mind still dwelt elsewhere

  Skye shrugged. “Is marriage so all-important?”

  “Marriage is a commitment,” he replied. “Are you afraid of commitment?”

  Again Skye shrugged. She didn’t want this conversation; she didn’t want any intrusions from the real world.

  “You made a commitment,” she reminded him. “And look at your past years. I think my way is preferable.”

  “But I took a chance,” Kyle crossed her. “I tried.”

  There was so much she didn’t know. He had told her once that he had never loved his wife. Was that true? Or had he said so because he had loved too deeply. Had he retained his marriage all these years in hope?

  Would she one day deny that she had ever loved him?

  “What is she like?” she heard herself ask, wincing as the words left her mouth. What was she expecting? What did she want? An assurance that all was really over? That she wasn’t just another of his easily taken mistresses, that his wife was a terrible creature? God, yes, she wanted him to say something, anything, to justify her losing herself, everything, becoming his lover when she knew all the circumstances. I had no choice, she told herself quickly. But that was a lie. Even that first time he had known she would accept him, give to him all the passion he had awakened.

  “Lisa?” he inquired dryly.

  “Yes, Lisa,” she said simply.

  Kyle shrugged. “She is quite a character.”

  What the hell did that mean? Skye wondered. And then she didn’t want to know. She wanted to believe that his Lisa was a withered crone, a shrew. “Oh,” she murmured, and then she realized his mind wasn’t really with her, he was looking back to the sea.

  “I wonder,” he said idly, “how Michael and Chris are doing with the company.”

  “Who are Michael and Chris?”

  His attention turned back to her and he laughed. “Mike is my brother. And Chris is my son. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him.”

  He started telling her about his brother, about the company, how they worked together. He didn’t mention Chris again, but she had sensed the pain in his voice.

  His son. Her heart bled for the boy, bereft of his father. And it also bled for herself. Chris was a part of another life, his life. Chris, and his mother, Lisa. All must be waiting, praying. Kyle belonged to them, not her.

  Somehow she gave correct replies to him at appropriate times. This was what she had wanted from him. She had wanted him to open up. But she was losing more than she was gaining.

  And she was so lost. She had lost Delaney Designs. She had lost Ted. And in six weeks the years of her own past were lost.

  “Ohhh…” Kyle stood suddenly and stretched with a grimace, easing tired muscles. He reached down to give Skye a hand and bring her to her feet.

  “I’m tired. Let’s take a little walk and call it quits for the day.”

  Skye nodded, vaguely resenting herself. He beckoned; she came. Where was she? She had to grasp on to something, find herself, tear away.

  No. Her heart constricted. Life was too uncertain. A past meant nothing if the prospect of any future was debatable.

  She walked along by his side.

  They stumbled upon the garden that night. Skye caught her foot in a root, and when she bent to disengage her toes, she pulled at the root. Something plump and orangish appeared in her hand.

  “I’ll be damned,” Kyle murmured, taking it from her.

  “What is it?” Skye asked.

  “Looks like a sweet potato or a yam,” Kyle replied, biting into it and grimacing at the raw taste. “It is a sweet potato.” He began to pull at the various grasses and weeds around them, exposing haphazard rows of the root.

  “A garden?” Skye inquired incredulously.

  “Looks like it.”

  “But how?”

  Kyle shrugged, intent upon digging clear their discovery. “Someone lived here at one time. Probably recently, if these have survived.”

  “You mean whoever had the Coke bottle?”

  “Carrots!” Kyle exclaimed cheerfully, ignoring her question at first, and then answering, “No. Whoever had your Coke bottle was just passing by. Probably off a dinghy from a larger boat. You can’t move much in here because of the reefs. No, at one time this island must have had a small population. Maybe a small group that just decided to quit civilization for a while. Who knows? People have been coming and going throughout these islands for centuries—hey, would you quit standing there and help.” He stopped himself suddenly, staring at her with a broad smile. “I’ll bet we could unearth all sorts of useful things buried by time and storms. And just think, if you weren’t a klutz, we might never have discovered all this!”

  “I’m not a klutz!” Skye protested automatically, but she was laughing with him. Then the delicious change of diet offered her suddenly jolted her stomach and she was pushing him aside to dig. “Must you just sit there? I'm starving.”

  The prospect of food had a dizzying effect on her. Skye wasn’t even aware that her dark mood left her, and that she was living for the day.

  It rained in the night, and they consumed their badly cooked but delicious meal in the hut, both feeling as if they had been treated to a feast in a gourmet restaurant. Onions had also been found between the carrots and potatoes, and the flavoring to their usually bland fish seemed the highest of epicurean delights.

  Kyle broke open a bottle of Burgundy, and as the storm played around them, they rested in comfort.

  The rain was further insurance of their water supply.

  It wouldn’t be so terrible to stay and take our chances of discovery, Skye thought, basking comfortably in the harbor of his arms, if only they needn't fear the coming of a thief. Or drug smugglers, but the drug smugglers would leave them alone if they were left alone.

  And what were their chances in the Pacific? In the endless sea where storms of death and destruction could strike at a moment’s notice, where deadly sharks abounded, where they could drift for eternity beneath a merciless sun, slowly draining their water supply, their lives?

  In the morning she told him she didn’t want to leave.

  “Listen to me, Kyle,” she persisted as he gave her a hard, impatient look that clearly certified her as crazy, a foolish woman who hadn’t listened to or understood a single thing he had explained to her about the danger of the gold. “We finish the raft, and we take the gold out—as far out as possible. And then we dump it. If there is a homing device, it will lead straight to the ocean floor.”

  He still stared at her coldly. “I don’t understand your sudden reticence. Don’t you trust my ability to get us out of here?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, I trust you, but not the elements—and we have everything here now, enough to keep us alive if it takes them months and months to find us—”

  “Not,” Kyle interrupted impatiently, “if we hit a dry spell. Not if one of us becomes seriously ill.”

  They were lying together on the sand floor of the hut. Moments ago they had been in one another’s arms.

  Now Skye turned from him, fighting anger, fighting a haze of tears. He didn’t care if he killed them both, as long as he could try to return to the life of power he craved.

  He cared for her, she was sure. He spent half their time together making love to her, whispering how beautiful she was, how he cherished every inch of her. But obviously, she wasn’t enough. He couldn’t accept his imprisonment with her, she couldn’t make up for the loves that awaited him, even if time spent in that prison was pleasurable…

  “Skye.” He reached for her arm but she eluded him, trying to grasp her clothes. Those he managed to wrench from her. “Skye, dammit, what the hell is the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” she
said curtly, shrugging and moving to exit minus shorts and tattered blouse. What difference did it make if she were decently clad or not?

  “Skye, I’m talking to you!”

  Now was as good a time as any to reassert herself. “Kyle, I’m not in the mood to talk at the moment.” She left the hut and ran blindly toward the interior of the island. She would have time. Kyle was still probably so stunned that she hadn’t allowed the seizure of her clothing to upset her that it would take him some time to realize she had actually defied one of his holy commands.

  Defiance wasn’t worth much. Tears started to trickle down her cheeks, and then she was furious because she was crying. Oh, Lord, why did she have to feel so abnormal, why were there threats every way that she turned.

  And why the hell did she have to feel so damned sick she wondered suddenly as she reached their work site of the previous day? Probably because she had glutted herself with the fresh vegetables. Under normal circumstances, she reminded herself wryly, she didn’t like sweet potatoes or yams or whatever they were.

  The Outer Limits. There was nothing normal left. She had stepped into a small jet and the normal world had been left behind. And she couldn’t just be happy to be alive because being alive had made her think so very much, had brought her to know Kyle.

  She wiped away the moisture that touched her cheeks, knowing she wouldn’t cry again. The cool, unruffled Skye who could walk down the hectic streets of New York with calm purpose, heels clicking steadily on pavement, was a long way away. Perhaps she was lost forever. But this morning she was gaining a little of that woman back.

  She had never been a complete coward. And now she forced herself to accept the fact that it was a fear of far more than sharks that kept her clinging to the island. And in accepting, she was ready to leave. Love, if it was real, withstood all storms. And if Kyle didn’t love her, she would have to learn to live again without him.

  The sweet potatoes took another acidic venture up her throat. “What I wouldn’t give for an Alka-Seltzer,” she said aloud to herself wryly. And then, to her amazement, bracing her shivering form with both hands upon a convenient palm, she was sick.