Eden's Spell

by Heather Graham

  For the first time Katrina really gave her attention to the day. Whitecaps were forming; rain was definitely in the air. She couldn’t see the color of the clouds, because everything around her was dull gray, and darkening.

  “We can’t stay out here,” she said flatly. “If this isn’t a true tropical storm, forming, it’s at least going to be one hell of a severe gale!”

  “I know,” he murmured a little absently. Then he was gone, back down the companionway. Katrina raced a little breathlessly after his long strides through the storage compartment, the sleeping cabin, and into the galley. He was at the chart desk, at the radio, identifying himself over and over again at 44DFS.

  All he received in return was static.

  An oath escaped him as he threw the earphones down on the desk, removed his cap, and threaded his fingers wearily through his hair.

  Then he glanced at Katrina, as if just realizing that she was there, silently and warily standing behind him. “You got any kind of a safe harbor on that island of yours?”

  “Just the beach—that’s the most protected area.”

  “It’s surrounded by reefs.”

  “Yes, it is,” Katrina said. “But if you know what you’re doing …” She shrugged. “There is no dockage, though. All you can do is take her into the cove, anchor, and hope for the best.”

  He seemed to mull over her words, watching her distrustfully. Then he stood, approaching her with a little smile. “Why do I get the feeling that you’d love to see the Maggie Mae in a thousand pieces?”

  Katrina was tempted to back away from him. There was still a fury burning deep inside her; he’d no right to play God with them! And she still didn’t know … didn’t understand … everything that had happened.

  She didn’t like the feeling that she wanted to like him, to touch him, to laugh with him. She even had the wistful feeling that she would like to get to know him very, very well.

  He was an attractive man, she reminded herself stiffly. Very attractive, and painfully beguiling to her, although she didn’t know exactly why. Except that he was so tall, so nicely muscled, so lean. Everything about him spoke of the differences in the sexes, differences she had forgotten for years now, so determined had she been to live in the past.

  James—who had been too young to die. James, whom she had loved from the very first time she had ever seen him, sitting astride his motorcycle, looking at her in such a way that her heart had seemed to melt, her insides to go ragged….

  Katrina turned away from Taylor abruptly, tears stinging her eyes. What had she done to herself? she wondered with dismay. Set herself apart from life for so long that when this stranger abruptly tore into privacy and dreams, she had lost all sense of reason? Surely if she had just dated now and then, she wouldn’t feel all these rather humiliating and rather desperate sensations now!

  “I’ve no intention of hurting your precious ship!” she lashed out. She spun back around, ready again to do battle. “Nor am I your prisoner. There’s definitely a storm brewing out there—strong enough to clog your pathetic excuse for a radio. If you want your ship safely in, I’ll pilot her for you. If not, I’m taking my son back home so that we can batten down.”

  “I’ll take her in. Now,” he said stiffly. “And you’re not running off with my dinghy, because I’ve things that have to be salvaged off this boat!”

  With an abrupt and very militaristic about-face, he left her standing there and quickly clambered up the few steps to the deck. A second later she heard him swearing softly. Then he came down the steps, drenched.

  He shot her one of his level silver glances—as if it had been entirely her fault that the rain had already started. He dug into a cabinet beneath the chart desk and procured a couple of yellow slickers, tossing her one.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Do you intend to let me know where these reefs lie, or not?”

  She shrugged slowly. “Sure. But you should know that I still intend to sue you and everyone else I can think of, and to speak to every reporter I can find this side of the Mason-Dixon line.”

  “Don’t waste your time,” he told her briefly. “Go straight for the National Enquirer. They’ll give you top billing.”

  He was back on the deck again. Katrina followed him, staggering a little against the sudden force of the wind and the pelting rain. She hadn’t been afraid before—now she was. She was accustomed to the weather; she had seen the water rise and churn many times before. But staring beyond portside, she could dimly see her small island, Rock Cay. The palms were already being flattened by the force of the wind.

  It was difficult to stand. Katrina wound her fingers around the cabin door frame.

  “It’s bad!” she yelled out. “You need to hurry!”

  He grunted something, busy winding the winch to pull in the anchor. Beneath the rain and the slicker she could see the workings of his broad shoulders, and for a moment a thought chilled her.

  What if he had been a maniac? She had always felt safe and comfortable on the island, closed off in their own private world. There was no crime on Rock Cay; Jason went into Islamorada by motor launch for school, and they had friends there as well. There were the tourists, and there were the islanders, and everything was always easy.

  But if this stranger had been a maniac, a criminal—what would she have done? she wondered with dismay. He was a head taller than she, and probably had a hundred pounds over her. She could have never fought him. And then, what of Jason?

  Jason … still back in the cabin, alone.

  Ignoring Taylor, Katrina raced back through the yacht and burst in on her son again. He was kneeling on the bunk, watching the weather with avid enthusiasm and a certain wisdom.

  “Man, is it blowing! Is this going to be a hurricane?”

  Katrina shook her head. “I don’t know, Jason. But listen to me. We’re going to try and get into the cove. Stay here until I call you, okay? Then we’ll have to take the dinghy, or maybe even swim into shore. And, Jase, the water is going to be really rough. It—”

  “Currents, Mom, I know.” He sighed with a patience that belied his years. Then he grinned at her a little crookedly, softening his words. “Quit worrying about me. I’m almost as big as you are and I’m actually a better swimmer.”

  “Well!” Katrina said, but then she laughed, even if the laugh was a little nervous. “You may be the better swimmer, but you’re going to listen to me, young man. You may be almost as big but you’re not bigger than I am. And I am worried, so take heed—okay?”

  He nodded. She started to hurry back, but he called her.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. He’s here.”

  “That’s half of why I’m worried,” Katrina muttered, and Jason chuckled; the sound, again, was disturbingly old for his youth.

  “I like him. We’ll be okay.”

  “How can you like him or dislike him?” Katrina asked irritably. “You’ve only known him a short time.”

  “No,” Jason protested. “I conquered the Odites with him.”

  “That was a dream, Jason.”

  “Maybe. But you don’t need to be with someone long to know if you like him or not. You just know.”

  Katrina hadn’t the time or energy to argue with such logic. She raised a brow, left the cabin, and clambered straight up the side stairs to the deck.

  The Maggie Mae was a three-masted sailing yacht, but like most such vessels, she had been supplied with a motor. Her sails were all neatly furled and tied; Mike, bareheaded now against the lash of the rain, was already behind the round, wood-spiked wheel.

  The motor was humming briskly, and they were headed toward the beach on the island.

  Katrina had to cling to the mainmast to reach him. She had just sat down at his side before they keeled port again, sending her crashing against his shoulder.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded harshly, barely aware that she was straining to balance away from him.

  �
�I went to see my son!” she snapped back.

  He grunted out something, then said, “All right—we’re almost there! What the hell am I doing?”

  He was shouting; she shouted, too, in order to be heard above the growl of the motor and the howl of the wind and sea.

  “If you’d just give me the damn wheel—”

  “Nothing doing!”

  “You admit you haven’t the faintest idea of what—”

  “I’ve been on ships since you were in grade school, lady! Now just point out the—”

  “You’ve been on ships, but not here! Give me the wheel—”

  She reached for it; too late. They both heard the long, tearing scrape against the hull, like the sound of nails scraping over a blackboard—amplified. It was a sound that would have assured even a complete landlubber that the Maggie Mae had been hit, and badly.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Katrina exclaimed.

  “What I’ve done! Dammit! I should have known you were out to destroy everything!”

  “Destroy! If you would have—”

  “Oh, shut up—and get Jason!”

  Oh, God, yes, Jason!

  Katrina was up with one last, backward epithet for him. She was only dimly aware that he was up, too, headed for the port.

  Jason—no fool—was already out of the cabin and scampering up the stairs. “We hit, huh.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah—” And Katrina had a few things to say about Mike being an idiot. The wind and rain swallowed most of her words as she grabbed his hand, the two of them slipping and swaying together as they hurried over the deck by way of grasping the mast.

  She didn’t see Mike anywhere; the deck itself appeared to be gray, the wind had risen to such a lash that the rain wasn’t just falling, it was being hurtled at them in sheets.

  “Here! The dinghy.”

  Almost blinded, Katrina stumbled that way. She was soaked to the bone. Even with the wind, it wasn’t cold, but the feeling of being so very wet was miserable and chilling. Jason, she realized, had nothing on but his trunks, and yet he was probably just as well off, since nothing was protection against the onslaught.

  Mike was struggling to hold the dinghy next to the Maggie Mae. “Come on!” He urged her.

  “Jason—go!” Katrina said to her son, glad then that he was agile, that he was accustomed to boats and water, that he was a little boy full of ability, independence, and coordination. Still, she steadied him when he leapt to the rim with his bare feet.

  Mike caught his body and set him into the one of the seats. Then he looked back to Katrina.

  She, too, balanced onto the rim, comfortable with her own coordination. But just then a gust of wind sheeted against her with enormous strength and she plummeted back to the deck of the Maggie Mae, the breath knocked from her, her head spinning. Water filled her mouth instantly, and she choked, tears stinging her eyes.

  She hadn’t seen him come, she didn’t even know how he was there so quickly, but he was. His slicker was gone; even his shoes were gone. And his arms were around her, helping her, lifting her up.

  She choked, coughed, and assured him, “I’m all right. I—”

  “Is your head okay? Seeing any spots?”

  “No. No!”

  She didn’t have to climb to the rim again, he was lifting her over it, setting her feet into the tossing dinghy. He let her go because she was then below his reach. She quickly ducked to a sitting position to keep the dinghy from capsizing.

  Then the sharp sound of a snap brought her staring back up with horror; the line had broken, and the dinghy was instantly pitching away from the Maggie Mae with no lead, no purpose or reason.

  Mike was still on deck.

  Shouting at her, of all damned things.

  “What?” she screamed against the fury of the wind. “Come on!”

  Could he swim? she wondered, her heart pounding mercilessly. He was a sailor, wasn’t he? But even if he could swim, the water was murderously rough! Currents were seething all around them. Breaking surface did not mean that one could breathe; the rain was like a blanket, cold and miserable. And there were the reefs below them, beautiful coral shelves that could be wickedly sharp and dangerous when the water was this strong, strong enough to toss a body about as if he were feather light. She knew how cruel those reefs could be. So beautiful yet so treacherous, waiting like sirens of time to prey upon the unwary, merciless even to those who knew and loved them.

  “The oars, Mom!” Jason already had one; she was staring back at the Maggie Mae with open mouthed horror while her eight-year-old was maturely taking things in hand. “He said to get the oars!”

  Nodding dumbly, she reached for the second oar and set it into the water. The initial force threatened to wrench her arm from her shoulder. How was Jason managing this?

  And how could she be falling apart when she had her son to worry about?

  But she looked back to the Maggie Mae. Taylor was no longer anywhere in sight. The deck looked bleak and naked. The sea seemed to stretch into countless yards between them, all frothing gray and vicious whitecaps.

  “Oh, God!” she gasped out.

  “He’ll come!” Jason promised her. “He’ll come!”

  When? she wanted to shriek. Moments passed, endless moments, in which she saw nothing but the engulfing wrath of the waves, rising higher and higher. And she knew that below them, not far below them, the coral reached out in its deadly dance. The reefs were alive, with a combined will that beckoned, demanding its sacrifice. Long ago, pirates had likened the reefs to a seductress, one who lured boats to shipwreck, who reached out with eager, eerie fingers to claw at a man….

  “There he is!” Jason yelled out.

  And he was, his head just breaking surface about ten yards away. Somehow, the sight of him steadied Katrina. She held her oar firm against the power of the water; she defied it with confidence. She couldn’t row back to Mike’s position, but with Jason’s help she could keep the dinghy from drifting away.

  He disappeared again; panic began to gnaw at her. But then a hand, large and bronzed and powerful, shot out of the water. Fingers found a hold on the dinghy.

  Katrina dropped her oar into the boat and grasped his wrist with both hands. His head appeared again, and then his other hand. His steel gaze caught hers for just a second, and ludicrous as it was, he seemed to smile—amused by the anxiety he found in hers.

  Then the muscles in his arms tightened and bulged, and he pitched his body into the dinghy.

  For a moment he just lay there, legs crooked over one seat, torso bent. He gasped for breath and searched for her oar again. They still weren’t home safe; they wouldn’t be until they reached the beach. And even then there would be a quarter of a mile to go inland, through falling palms and branches, until they reached, the house.

  “You okay?” Jason shouted out.

  That seemed to rouse Mike.

  “Yeah, son, I’m fine.” He gathered his length together carefully, not rising to rock the boat as he slid up to sit next to Katrina, reaching for her oar.

  “I can do it—” she began.

  “Not half as quickly,” he told her, and for that she had no argument. She didn’t have his strength.

  The shore couldn’t have been a hundred yards away, but it seemed that it took them an hour to get there. With every movement forward the wind pushed them back. The rain filled the dinghy until it seemed that it would sink with the weight.

  But then they were there; the dinghy scraped the beach.

  Katrina hopped out of it, grabbing the line. Jason was quickly at her side, and the two of them together grappled the towline. It dragged their weight, the tide ready to swallow it up again.

  But then Mike was with them, adding his weight to theirs. Slowly, the dinghy crawled onto the shore. When it was deeply imbedded into the sand, he dropped the rope, the signal for Katrina and Jason to do the same.

  For a moment they all fell to the sand—and gasped f
or breath. But the rain had not relented, and even as Katrina panted, willing her exhausted muscles to work again, there was a hand stretched to her.

  Mike.

  She took his hand and stumbled back to her feet. Jason, it seemed, was in control now. “Come on!” he called out.

  Katrina was proud of him, very proud. He had met it all as a challenge, without complaint. He had to be freezing, clad only in his bathing trunks. And here he was like some adventurer, ready to forge ahead, already running into the trail …

  “Stop him!” Katrina cried out with sudden horror. The palm fronds were touching the ground; she heard a horrendous snapping sound, and knew that somewhere, something larger and heavier than a palm had lost a branch.

  Later, she would realize that there was one definite thing she had to appreciate about Mike Taylor. He could assess a situation quickly, without needing explanations.

  He was after Jason, like a shot; he was standing above the boy when a whole bunch of coconuts fell like cannons.

  Katrina screamed as the pair fell, and rushed to them. “Jason!”

  Jason crawled out from beneath Mike’s bulk, white and blanched with horror. “Mom!” For that instant he sounded like what he was—a very frightened little boy.

  Katrina fell to her knees at Mike’s side. Oh, Lord, what if he was unconscious, what if he was … No! She wouldn’t think it!

  “Captain Taylor!” She began to toss the coconuts a little madly away from him; then she heard him groan. His eyes opened, then shut instantly again as the rain lashed into them.

  “Can you get up?” Katrina pleaded, pulling at his arms.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said hoarsely, a frown furrowing his brow.

  “Come on, please!” Katrina urged him to take his hands in her own. She didn’t know if he was injured; she just knew that they had to find shelter, before something was uprooted completely and trapped them.

  “I’m up, I’m up!” He gasped, and then he was standing, shaking his head slightly. He was wet to the bone, his shirt so thoroughly plastered to his body that he might as well have been bare chested. Katrina could see the sinews there, deep lines and grooves that clearly delineated a well-toned structure, and she felt somewhat better. He couldn’t be really hurt; he appeared too powerful to be felled by any storm.