Island Interlude

by Anne McAllister

  Libby tried not to let it bother her. Deliberately she hung on Michael's arm. She kissed his cheek. She snuggled against him whenever she could. But far from deterring Alec's onslaught, it seemed only to make it worse.

  'Trying to make me jealous, are you?' he demanded on the third morning when he had walked in on her kissing Michael. She had seen him coming up the walk, had felt that familiar stab of irritation that accompanied his arrival, and had wrapped her arms around Michael. Take that, she'd thought, knowing he could see them as he came up on the porch.

  That he had was quite obvious. His glare was intense, and his usual, 'Hi, how you doin'?' to Michael had a terse, hard edge to it.

  It took him only moments to find an excuse to get her alone in the kitchen, Michael having gone upstairs to ask Sam a question that Alec wanted answered.

  'I am not trying to make you jealous,' Libby said tightly, turning away from him, concentrating on pairing the clean socks in her laundry basket. 'I'm not trying to do anything to you. You're here. You see what you see. You take what you get.'

  'I think maybe it's about time I did some taking,' Alec said. 'Is it so wonderful kissing the prof? See if you feel the same way kissing me.'

  And before she could protest he took the socks from her hands and dropped them on the table, then pulled her into his arms, kissing her with a hungry thorough­ness with which her kiss with Michael couldn't compare. And her traitorous body loved every minute of it, soaked up every single feeling, while her mind fought for control.

  But it was Alec who pulled away, not her. And when he did so, he looked straight at the stairway and gave an apologetic shrug.

  'Just making a point,' he said to Michael, his voice almost casual.

  Libby hated him more at that moment than she had at any time in the past eight years.

  Michael's face was white and expressionless. Only his eyes moved. From Libby to Alec and back again. He looked crushed, betrayed.

  She pressed her hand against her lips. 'Damn you,' she said to Alec in a voice as cold as ice. 'Damn you to hell.' And she walked past both of them right out of the door.

  She didn't know how far she walked or for how long. Her route was as aimless as her life.

  Alec had made his point all right. There would be no marriage with Michael now; she knew that. They all did. She wouldn't even blame Michael if, by the time she got back, he'd already gone.

  What, after all, was there to wait for?

  Angrily she wiped tears from her eyes and kept walking, wanting to put as much of the island between herself and Alec Blanchard as possible.

  When she got back it was almost dusk. Michael was still there, but Libby found him tossing dirty clothes into his suitcase with quick, jerky movements. His face was taut with strain. 'I'm leaving,' Michael said.

  'Yes.' She came into the room and sat on the bed, folding her hands in her lap, looking down at them. 'I'm sorry.'

  His mouth twisted. 'Me too.'

  She raised her eyes and met his. 'I love you,' she said softly, sadly.

  He didn't make her feel a fool for saying it. He just smiled, albeit painfully. 'Yeah, I suppose, in a way, you do. But not like you love Blanchard.'

  'I don't love Alec!'

  'Don't you?' Michael cocked his head, considering this. 'Well, maybe you don't. But you sure as hell feel something for him.'

  'I hate him for what he did today.'

  Michael sighed. 'Truth hurts.'

  Libby shook her head, wanting to cry. 'I wish it could be different.'

  He gave a dry half-laugh. 'So do I.' He tossed the last of his clothes into the suitcase and banged it shut. 'I'll be gone in the morning.'

  She shut her eyes briefly. 'I—I'll see you in a few weeks.'

  He shook his head. 'No.'

  'I'll be coming back.'

  'Maybe. But don't come and see me. Spare me that.'

  Libby looked at him, hurt, but she knew he was right. 'Whatever you want.'

  Michael's mouth twisted. 'Whatever I wanted, Libby, it wasn't this.'

  They looked at each other, helpless to change any­thing. The end had come. There was nothing left to say, nowhere else to go.

  Sam didn't see why he had to leave. 'You just got here,' he complained when informed the next morning of Michael's imminent departure.

  'I have work to do at home,' Michael said.

  'Can't 'cha do it here?' Sam asked. 'Mom is.'

  'Her work is here. Mine's at home. This was a holiday, Sam, that's all.'

  Sam sighed. 'Well, all right.' Then he brightened. 'But we'll see you when we get home.'

  Libby said nothing.

  Michael said, 'I'll be around.' And if Sam heard the reservation in his voice, he didn't indicate it.

  They walked Sam to school together, then continued on towards the dock where one of Maddy's brothers waited to take Michael and a couple of German tourists to north Eleuthera.

  Michael tossed his suitcase to Gilbert, then started to climb into the boat. Libby caught his shirt-sleeve. He paused, looking down at her.

  Her face felt suddenly hot. 'I just… wanted to say…thank you.'

  Michael smiled grimly. 'You're welcome. For what it's worth.'

  'It's worth a lot,' Libby said and meant it. 'I'll see you… eventually.'

  'I won't wait for you.'

  'No. I know that. You know what you need to do.'

  'Yes,' Michael said, stepping down into the boat and looking back up at her. His gaze was pitying. 'Do you?'

  Libby didn't.

  She got nothing done all day, trying to figure it out. Her work lay in a shambles on the table. She couldn't concentrate on it. Her son gave up trying to talk to her. She didn't hear.

  'You're missing Michael,' Sam decided.

  Libby wished she were. She gave her son a vague, wan smile, and played three games of Chinese checkers with him, proving how very distracted she was by losing all three times.

  She was overjoyed when Arthur appeared at the door and wanted to know if Sam could spend the night at his house.

  'Can I, Mom?' Sam pleaded.

  Libby almost couldn't wait to get him out of the door. She loved him dearly, but she needed some time, some space. She needed a change, to be alone. She smiled, 'Of course you can,' and saw him off with an almost tangible relief.

  She came back inside and tried to work. She couldn't concentrate. Not tonight. Wearily she dragged herself upstairs and undressed for bed.

  She couldn't sleep, either. She lay there and stared at the ceiling.

  The night was hot and sticky, even the fans not cooling the house. Downstairs would be better, she told herself. But even on the sofa, though it was cooler, there was no use trying.

  Besides, she thought as she lay there, wide-eyed and weary, for the first time in days she was alone. She had at last the freedom to wallow in the mess her life had become.

  She closed her eyes and remembered when it was simple, let her mind rove back to the day when she had first set foot on Harbour Island eight years before.

  'It's beautiful,' she'd murmured then. 'Magical.'

  And so, for a time, it had seemed.

  Well, she thought, she could do with a wave of the wand now. Magic was what it would take to set things right.

  What she got was a knock on the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WASN'T so much knocking as pounding, loud and erratic.

  Libby scrambled to her feet and went to the door, jerking it open before she had time to think.

  It was Alec. He loomed over her, very tall, very dishevelled.

  'I thought you'd left!'

  She gave him an odd, disbelieving look. 'Why would I?'

  'Michael left.'

  'Thanks to you,' Libby said bitterly.

  Alec pushed past her into the room, then turned to face her. 'And a damned good thing, too.'

  'I'm sure you think so.' Libby's anger surged in her. Had he come to make sure, then? How could he have thought Michael would t
ake her with him? 'What do you want, Alec?'

  'You know what I want.'

  'Sam.'

  He just looked at her. Then, slowly, he shook his head. 'No, Libby, not Sam. Not just Sam. You.'

  She stood with her back to the door, her heart slamming like a jackhammer in her chest as she faced him.

  The cool, calm, charming Alec Blanchard who'd harassed her for days was nowhere to be seen. His eyes were bloodshot, his dark hair ruffled. He hadn't shaved. She hadn't seen him since yesterday when she'd walked out of the house. Then he had looked mocking and commanding. Now he looked awful.

  'I've always wanted you, Libby. Since the moment we met.'

  'Spare me, Alec'

  He shook his head. 'You haven't spared me.' He gave a harsh laugh. 'Especially lately. Lord, how could you throw that bastard in my face day after day?'

  'I never—repeat, never—threw anyone in your face! Michael came to see me. He was my fiancé; he had a right to. No one asked you to be here.'

  "Was?'

  'What?'

  'He was your fiancé?' Alec's dark eyes were glittering as he repeated her words.

  'Was,' Libby said tightly. 'Thanks, again, to you.'

  'Was.' Alec tasted the word as if it were ambrosia. He shut his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and looked right at her. 'Thank heaven.'

  'Heaven had nothing to do with it. It was entirely your doing. You're a bastard, Alec'

  But Alec didn't seem to hear her. He just muttered, 'Thank heaven,' again and dropped on to the sofa like an anchor settling at the bottom of a fifty-fathom sea.

  'Get up,' Libby commanded.

  He picked up her pillow and wrapped his arms around it, crossing them over his chest as he glowered up at her. 'No.'

  'Go home, Alec'

  He shook his head slowly. 'No.'

  'Damn it,' she raged at him. 'Why? Why are you doing this to me? I could understand you being indifferent to me, but to destroy a relationship for me just to get Sam—'

  'It has nothing to do with Sam,' Alec said. He gave a savage laugh. 'And to say I'm indifferent—there's a laugh.' He looked up at her. 'I've never, ever been in­different to you, Libby.' The absolute certainty in his tone unsettled her.

  Afraid of the look in his eyes, she bit her lip, hesitated. 'Maybe not indifferent, but…' She sighed. 'If it's access to Sam you want, we can… work something out.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I… realise that you want to be part of his life. I… I accept that. To a point,' she added hastily, lest he think she was capitulating altogether.

  'So you're willing to offer me visitation rights? Is that what you mean?'

  'Not… rights exactly. Not in the formal sense. But I—I won't stop you seeing him.'

  'Lady, you couldn't stop me seeing him!' Alec said harshly.

  'I—I—'

  'But Sam is only part of it,' he went on. 'Only half. Not even half. What about you?'

  'What about me?' Libby said nervously.

  'I told you, I want you, too.'

  'You don't,' Libby said at once.

  Alec scowled. 'Oh, really?' His tone mocked her.

  'Really,' Libby insisted.

  'How do you figure that?'

  'You couldn't. If you did, you could have had me years ago, and you know it. You chose Margo.' She lifted her chin defiantly.

  The pain-filled look he gave her only confirmed her suspicions. But he cast the pillow away and lurched to his feet. 'Not now,' he said harshly. 'Now I'm choosing you.'

  And what little control he had left completely de­serted him. He reached for Libby, hauling her into his arms.

  His kiss was searing, desperate, flaming out of control almost at once. This was not Alec the tender lover of her past, nor was it Alec the lost and lonely soul. This was an Alec pushed beyond endurance, an Alec coming on full force with no holds barred.

  At first Libby resisted, fighting him, fighting herself. 'I don't want this!'

  'You do. You do,' Alec insisted. 'We both do. It's what we've been dying for since we saw each other again!'

  'No, I—'

  'Love me, Libby! Damn it, you do! I know you do!'

  And Libby knew that, despite her better judgement, despite all her resistance, despite the denial she'd given Michael, it was true.

  She loved him helplessly, desperately, foolishly. It didn't matter that he was still in love with his dead wife. It didn't matter that she should have known better. It didn't matter that she'd have been smarter loving any man but Alec. She couldn't stop herself. She didn't know what to do.

  Desperately she remembered Michael's words. 'A little hair of the dog that bit you?' he'd asked her that morning after she'd spent the day with Alec at Spanish Wells.

  Was loving Alec again the only way she'd get rid of her obsession with him?

  Was that what she needed? To share with him the most intimate expression of oneness that two people could share?

  Would that quench her thirst for him, satisfy her need? And what about his need?

  Alec's lips were moving on hers hungrily, eagerly. His tongue thrust into her mouth, bringing with it the smoky taste of whisky and something indefinably Alec. His body moulded itself to hers and she felt the hard tension of his arousal. She matched it with her own.

  And then she knew there was no other way. Their lives were too entwined to pretend indifference. There could be no indifference where Alec was concerned. To pretend otherwise was to fool herself. If she was going to get over Alec, it was going to be Michael's cure—or nothing.

  It only remained to discover which.

  Alec was backing her towards the sofa and beginning to fumble with the buttons of her shirt, his mouth still locked on hers.

  Libby shook her head. 'No.'

  'No?' His voice was raw. 'For pity's sake, Lib—'

  'Not here, I mean.' She straightened and pulled away from him, caught hold of his hand, leading him towards the stairs.

  He followed her. His eyes never left her, and when they got to the top of the stairs and she led him into her bedroom he pulled her once more into his arms.

  His lips brushed against her ear, then traced the line of her jaw and found her mouth once more. She opened it to the thrust of his tongue, wanting it, wanting him. Now, admitting her desire, she felt the restraints fall away.

  'Please, Alec!'

  'Please?' He smiled. 'Oh, yes. Let me see you, Lib. Let me look at you. It's been so long.'

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her on it and coming to lie beside her. His fingers shook as they skimmed away her gown and exposed her bare breasts to the moonlight that shone through the open window.

  One finger touched her pale skin, making her shiver. He bent his head then, kissing her breasts, laving the nipples, making her bite her lip. She squirmed under his touch.

  'Cold?' Alec lifted his head, still smiling.

  'Hardly.' Her voice shook. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging on it, trying to pull him up so she could kiss him as well. But he wouldn't let her, instead kissing her again, moving from one breast to the other, then going lower until his mouth reached the waistband of her panties.

  He rose up then, sitting back on his heels to look down at her. His face was taut, hungry, the skin tight over the bones. His hands came up to touch her shoulders, then skimmed down across her breasts and ribs. His fingers curled around the waistband and tugged.

  Libby lifted her hips, letting him remove the panties. But then she was through being acted upon, done receiving.

  She caught the hem of his shirt and slid it up, pulling it over his head, then ran her hands down his hair-roughened chest.

  His chest was broader than she remembered, the whorls of hair darker, thicker and springier to her touch. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the middle of his chest, then touched him with her tongue.

  He flinched. 'Libby!'

  She smiled, doing to his nipples what he had done to hers. '
Turnabout's fair play.'

  'You never used to do things like that!'

  'I've grown up.'

  He was silent for a moment, rigid under her minis­trations, his eyes locked with hers. She knew he was wondering if there had been others. She thought he might ask. But finally he just pressed his lips together and then inhaled long and slow. And when she looked up at him, he just looked at her sadly for a moment, then shook his head.

  Libby nearly told him there hadn't been. How could there be, she wanted to ask, when she'd never got over him?

  But she didn't, because maybe in the morning she would be over him, maybe in the morning sanity would have returned, and she didn't want to look a fool.

  She didn't worry about foolishness now though. She didn't even have time to think.

  Alec was kissing her again, at the same time fumbling to undo the button of his shorts. Libby brushed his hands away and did it for him, then eased down the zipper and hooked her fingers over the band of his briefs to pull them off as well.

  Alec kicked them away and lay down beside her, his body fitting itself against hers, hard to soft, rough to smooth, and Libby's arms went around him tightly.

  For a long moment neither of them moved. It was as though they were readjusting, remembering, reliving. It was, Libby thought, like coming home. As if eight years ago she'd been cast away and since that time had been slowly, desperately, at times without hope, making her way back.

  And then she felt Alec's knee nudge hers apart, felt him lift himself so that he was poised over her. His dark face was intent, his jaw rigid as he loomed above her.

  He paused then, waiting, tentative almost, and it was Libby who reached up and brought him home. A ragged sigh escaped him. He muttered, swallowed hard, withdrew a bit, then came into her again. And again.

  She lifted her hips, meeting him. 'Alec?'

  He clenched his teeth, shuddering. 'Oh, lord, Lib! I'm sorry. I can't… I need… It's been so long!' He moved more quickly now, desperate for her. And Libby moved with him, never taking her eyes off him, feeling the need building just as he did, feeling the storm peaking inside.

  And then it broke, shattering her, shattering him. Shattering most of all every illusion she'd ever had about loving Alec and forgetting him.