by Lori Wilde
The success he’d worked so hard to achieve. The big house and expensive car and invitations from people who knew people. None of it meant anything anymore.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to pick up the pieces after the accident. He’d gone back to work. He’d even tried to drive once his concussion specialist had told him he was clear to do so.
Nausea burned the back of Nate’s throat and he swallowed urgently. It was pathetic, but the memory of the afternoon he’d tried to get behind the wheel again still had the power to freak him out. Opening the car door. The smell of leather and expensive electronics. The steering wheel, the gearshift, the windshield. He’d slid into the driver’s seat and been instantly transported to that night. The sound of screeching rubber, the smash of rending metal and shattering glass, the explosion of the airbags. The blood. The pain. The helplessness.
Nate gripped the edge of the hammock and swung his legs to the ground. He braced his legs wide and stared hard at the grass, his body tense, his breath coming fast as he battled with remembered panic and fear.
He closed his eyes, but nothing could block out the sound of Olivia’s screaming. She was always there, in the back of his mind. Dying over and over again. And there was nothing he could do to help her or stop the pain or soothe her.
Anger and despair welled up inside him. This was Jarvie’s fault. If he hadn’t come… Why couldn’t he leave Nate alone?
It took five minutes to get the nausea under control. Nate pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the house, heading straight for the fridge. He needed more beer to drown Olivia out. He needed to drink until he was numb again.
He stared at the empty shelves in the fridge. It took him a few seconds to understand there was nothing left to drink. He swore under his breath and pulled the freezer door open, looking for the bottle of vodka he kept there. He dragged it out and swore again when he saw there was barely an inch left.
How had he let that happen? He always had beer and vodka on hand. Always. He slammed the freezer door shut and leaned his forehead against the cool white metal. He hadn’t restocked because he’d been so busy thinking about Elizabeth, fantasizing about getting her naked again, that it hadn’t seemed important.
Stupid. So stupid.
He’d have to go into town, buy some more beer. Enough to get him through the night. He headed for the door but the clock on the kitchen wall caught his eye. It was past twelve. Which meant the pub would be closed for the night.
He stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, panic fluttering in his chest. He needed that beer. How was he going to get through the night without it?
He walked into the living room and sank onto the couch. Maybe if he tried to sleep now, before the beer buzz wore off, he’d be able to get past this shit that Jarvie had stirred up. Then tomorrow it would be business as usual, back to his routine. He’d stock up on alcohol again, make sure he had backup this time. Batten down the hatches and wait for things to settle.
He lay down and rolled to face the back of the couch. His legs were too long and he bent his knees and drew them up. He had a sudden flash of how he must look—a grown man, huddled on the couch like a child.
Pathetic. So freaking weak.
He wrapped his arms around himself as the trembling began. He could hear Olivia screaming. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed and prayed to whoever might be listening to let him make it to dawn.
ELIZABETH WOKE FROM A DEEP sleep to the sound of someone pounding on her hotel-room door. She sat up with a start and reached for the robe she’d left lying across the end of her bed. The glowing bedside clock told her it was three o’clock as she crossed to the door.
She was pretty sure she knew who it was, but she stood on tiptoes and looked through the spy hole just in case. Nate stood on the other side, his face downturned as he leaned one arm against the door, his expression distorted by the fish-eye lens.
She twisted the lock and opened the door. Nate dropped his arm and straightened. “Hey.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
She could smell beer. He was glassy-eyed, with a fine sheen of sweat on his face. He smiled, but it didn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
She stepped to one side silently, watching him carefully as he entered her room. Something was going on. He’d clearly been drinking—hardly new—but there was something else. Something wrong behind his eyes.
“How about I make us a coffee?” she said.
She turned toward the small counter in the corner but Nate came up behind her and slid his arm around her, his hand sliding unerringly onto her breast. He began massaging her through the silk of her robe, his hips pressing against her backside as he nuzzled the nape of her neck.
Impossible to stop herself from responding to his touch, but there was something so desperate about the way he held her, as though he was trying to merge his body with hers. He started to peel off her robe, his movements jerky and impatient.
“Nate. Has something happened?” she asked.
She twisted in his arms so that she could see his face but he immediately ducked his head and started kissing her, forcing her head back on her neck with his need.
His hands cupped her backside through her robe, lifting her against his hips as he rubbed himself against her over and over. His whole body was trembling, his muscles bunched as he held her tight.
Emotion closed her throat. He hadn’t said a word, but she could feel the pain in him—he vibrated with it like a struck tuning fork. She wrapped her arms around him and smoothed her palms up and down his back, trying to reassure and calm him.
“It’s okay, Nate,” she murmured against his mouth. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
His breath seemed to get stuck in his throat then and he broke their kiss, pressing his face into the soft skin beneath her ear, his arms as hard as steel as he held her close. The trembling increased and he made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. She had no idea what to say or do, so she followed her instincts, soothing him with her hands, offering him what reassurance she could.
“It’s okay, Nate,” she said again. “You’re safe here.”
She rested one hand on top of his bowed head, the other in the middle of his back, holding him to her as tightly as he was holding her. She wasn’t going anywhere and she wanted him to know it.
Slowly the trembling faded. She felt Nate come back into himself and a new kind of tension took over his body. He started to push her away, no doubt feeling self-conscious now that the moment of crisis had passed. She didn’t give him a chance to withdraw; instead, she encouraged him toward the bed.
“Sit down,” she instructed.
He hesitated a moment. She knew he was trying to formulate an excuse so he could leave. She pushed him toward the bed.
“Go on,” she said.
His face was shuttered when he looked at her. Then he took a step backward and sat on the bed. She knelt and pulled off his boots and socks, then she tugged at the waistband on his jeans and unzipped his fly. He leaned back as she peeled his jeans over his hips.
“Lie down,” she said.
This time he obeyed as meekly as a child, shuffling over to make room for her. She lay down beside him and drew his head onto her chest, wrapping her arms around as much of him as she could hold. He lay there tensely for a beat, resisting the comfort she offered. Then his body relaxed and he turned his face into her breast, his breath coming in noisy gusts.
She felt dampness against her skin and knew he was crying. Tears stung her own eyes but she blinked them away and simply held him, her hands smoothing soothing circles on his back.
After a while Nate’s grip softened. His breathing became deep and slow. She brushed the hair from his forehead and looked down into his face, still tight with anguish even though he was asleep.
Whatever was wrong, she was deeply touched that he’d come to her, even if he’d had to dress it up as sexual need to allow himself to do
so. Which was crazy when she considered how long they’d known each other.
A warning bell sounded in her mind. She silenced it. Right now, Nate needed her. That was the only important consideration. Reality could wait until morning.
8
NATE WOKE TO DARKNESS and the soft rise and fall of Elizabeth’s breast beneath his cheek. It took a moment for memory to fully return. Scorching heat rose up his chest and into his face as he remembered the way he’d pounded on her door and then jumped on her like a desperate madman. God only knew what she must think of him. It was a wonder she hadn’t called security and had him thrown out.
He eased away from her until he was on his back, his head on a pillow instead of the cushioning warmth of her body. His face felt stiff from his tears. He ground his teeth together, furious and humiliated in equal measure.
He’d lost it last night. Big-time. Not since the early days after the accident had he been such a basket case.
He almost laughed as a thought occurred to him: if Jarvie could have seen him last night, there was no way he’d want him back in the business. Maybe next time the night terrors struck he should record it and send the disk to Jarvie for his edification. No doubt he’d never be bothered again once his old friend understood exactly how screwed up Nate really was.
“How are you feeling?”
The gentle inquiry came out of the darkness. He tensed. He’d planned on being long gone by the time she woke. Save them both from the awkwardness of having to look each other in the eye after his meltdown.
“Do you want some water? Maybe some aspirin?”
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
There was a short silence. Then he heard her inhale.
“Want to talk about it?”
He smiled grimly. Did he want to talk about it—the million dollar question. Everybody who claimed any friendship with him had been eager to talk in those early days. They’d all wanted to “be there” for him. And all he’d wanted to do was forget.
But he couldn’t simply pull on his jeans and bugger off, not when he’d cried like a baby in Elizabeth’s arms. He owed her something. Some explanation, at least.
“Sorry for barging in on you like that. It won’t happen again,” he said.
“I didn’t ask for an apology, Nathan. But if you don’t want to talk, I understand.”
Her hand found his arm, then his hand. She slid her palm against his and wove their fingers together. She didn’t say anything further, simply squeezed his hand comfortingly.
Hot emotion choked his throat for the second time. He swallowed, the sound audible in the quiet room.
Bloody hell. He really was losing it. Might as well hand his cojones over now.
“I noticed that some of the other catamarans had two sails up yesterday. Is that normal or are they different from the Rubber Ducky?” Elizabeth asked.
For a moment he was thrown by the abrupt change of subject. Then he understood what she was doing: giving him some breathing room. He squeezed her hand and she returned the gentle pressure.
“You’re talking about a jib,” he said. His voice caught and he cleared his throat. “They make the cat more maneuverable and help with tacking. We had a good northerly the other day, though, so I didn’t bother rigging it.”
“Right. So when you’re sailing alone, how do you manage it as well as the main sail?”
“You cleat the main sail first, then move forward to set the jib…”
They talked sailing for a few minutes. The faintest tinge of light was starting to creep beneath the blind. Gradually the tension in his chest eased. He turned his head and studied Elizabeth’s profile, barely discernible in the dim light. Her small nose, the shape of her mouth and slope of her cheek.
He made a decision and returned his gaze to the ceiling.
“I had a car accident,” he said. “Six months ago. I was driving to Melbourne from the island with my little sister, Olivia. There’d been another accident earlier. There was oil on the road. The car skidded…”
Elizabeth’s hand tightened on his and he took a deep breath.
“We hit a tree, front left-hand side. The car…the car folded like a piece of freaking origami. I hit my head, passed out for a bit. Olivia—”
His throat closed as his sister’s screams echoed in his head.
“You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay,” Elizabeth said.
“I want to.”
It took him a couple of shots at it. He held on to her hand for dear life as he told her how he’d woken and found Olivia pinned by twisted metal. How her face had been dark with blood, how icy her hand had been when he’d found it. How she’d whimpered and cried and begged. How he couldn’t do anything, trapped beneath the steering wheel and the collapsed dash.
He stopped only when he got to the end. He couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t explain how Olivia had pleaded with him to do something to stop the pain, right up until the moment she’d fallen silent and the desperate, labored rasp of her breathing had stopped, and how he’d held her hand until the rescue crew arrived and cut him free and forced him to relinquish his grip.
Elizabeth rolled onto her side and put her arms around him and held him tightly. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Then she lifted her face and pressed a kiss to his chin.
“I’ve sorry. Which is woefully inadequate, of course, and does nothing to change anything. But I’m sorry it happened, and I’m sorry your sister died. And I’m sorry you have to live with the memories. I can only imagine how hard that must be.”
He hadn’t told her because he wanted her pity or her sympathy or even her empathy. He’d told her because she deserved to understand why a grown man had hammered down her door and tried to lose himself in her arms last night.
And yet somehow, her calm, honest words soothed something inside him.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her closed eyelids, then the end of her nose. She lifted her face and he found her mouth, returning the gentle pressure of her lips against his.
Slowly his offering of gratitude turned into something more needy and demanding. She shifted against him, her hips pressing against his thighs. His tongue slid into her mouth and stroked hers slowly, languorously. Her hand smoothed beneath his T-shirt to slide up onto his chest, her fingers shaping his pecs before skimming over his nipple.
He rolled toward her, pushing her silk robe out of the way. She arched her back as he lowered his head to pull a nipple into his mouth. Her hands found his shoulders and kneaded the muscles there as he suckled and teased and tasted her.
They pressed together, skin seeking skin, hardness seeking softness. She tugged on the waistband of his boxer-briefs, releasing his hard-on. Then she lifted her leg over his hip and guided him into her wet heat. He gritted his teeth as his erection slid inside her.
She felt so good, so tight and good. He rocked his hips and she rocked with him. He cupped her breasts and teased her nipples and kissed her and kissed her. Her palms smoothed across his back, her fingers clenching into his skin with each slow, slippery thrust.
And then she was coming, throbbing around him as she gasped into his mouth and his own climax was washing through him like a tidal wave, relentless and all-conquering and undeniable.
He stayed inside her afterward, savoring the closeness. His eyes were very heavy and he closed them briefly.
She knew now. She knew everything. Pressing one last kiss to her cheek, he drifted into sleep.
ELIZABETH WAITED UNTIL HE was breathing steadily and slowly before pulling away from him. He frowned as she slipped free and she caressed his chest soothingly until he settled again.
She crossed to the bathroom and shut the door as quietly as possible. Then she sat on the closed toilet lid and pressed her face into her hands.
The horror of what he’d been through was almost impossible to comprehend. Being trapped with his sister yet unable to do anything as she died….
It was more than any person should have
to bear. It was cruel and unlucky and hard. The stuff of nightmares.
For a moment Elizabeth teetered on the brink of crying, overwhelmed by his pain and grief. She breathed through her mouth in big gulps, pressing her fingertips against her closed eyelids, willing the tears away.
Slowly she got a grip on herself. Her losing it wasn’t going to change anything. Nate didn’t need her to beat her chest with anguish over his sad story. He was living with the aftermath of major trauma. Grappling with grief and guilt and anger and loss on a daily, perhaps hourly basis. He needed comfort and support and patience, not tears.
She let her hands fall into her lap, then she stood and went to the basin and ran the taps. She washed her face and patted it dry. With a bit of luck, Nate would still be asleep and she could climb back into bed with him.
It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light of the bedroom when she exited the bathroom, but the moment they did she saw what her instincts had already told her—the bed was empty.
Nate was gone.
She was surprised, and yet she wasn’t. He was a man, with more than his fair share of pride. She’d heard the shame and self-laceration in his voice when he’d told his story. She bet he gave himself a hard time for every moment of weakness or doubt.
She sat for a moment, thinking. Just as they had yesterday, her instincts told her to go after Nate. But there was something she needed to do first. For both of them.
She showered and dressed and walked up the hill to the backpacker’s lodge where she’d noticed a sign advertising an Internet café. She paid her money, then settled into a worn-out office chair in front of a worn-out computer and rested her fingers on the worn-out keyboard.
She wasted a few minutes logging in to check her e-mail account. There was a note from Violet there, full of apologies for “blabbing to D.D.” about Elizabeth’s whereabouts. Elizabeth sent a quick response, assuring her friend that she’d done the right thing. She explained that she and Martin had agreed to part as friends and started writing a description of the island and the weather before she caught herself and realized she was stalling.
