Seeing Stars

by Vanessa Grant

  It might not have been too bad if he'd taken her home afterward, but anchoring overnight in an open anchorage on a lee shore, she'd probably spend the night listening to the wind and wishing she were anywhere but here.

  What the hell had he been thinking of? He didn't have a lot of extra time for screw-ups, and for all he knew, she was down below getting cabin fever, wishing she were anywhere but on Blake McKenzie's boat in the middle of nowhere.

  He swept a tangle of hair off his forehead with one hand and figured he'd better get down there and work on damage control.

  Down below, he tossed his life jacket into the hatch beside the chart table, found Claire standing in the galley and wondered if he should start up the diesel to fire the heater.

  "Cold?"

  She shook her head, but she was frowning as she said, "I went through the cupboards. You had a container of clam chowder in the fridge."

  "You don't like clam chowder?"

  "I love it, but I'm not sure how to light the stove."

  He showed her, and then he pulled out some vegetables and started to make a salad.

  "Can I help?" she asked, and he got out a paring knife and set her to work on the carrots, on the theory that she'd feel more at home if he let her help. At least, it would have been true if she were Grace, his sister, but he wasn't certain about Claire.

  Where the hell had all this uncertainty come from? He was nervous in a way he couldn't remember being before. He frowned and pulled out the loaf of sourdough bread he'd picked up at the bakery this morning, let Claire set the table, and dished out two bowls of thick clam chowder. By that time it was getting dark enough that he lit the kerosene lantern over the dinette table, and went back to the cockpit to turn on the anchor light.

  She waited for him to return before she began eating, and he turned the stereo on before he sat down, adjusting the volume so it wouldn't interfere with conversation. He was sitting before he realized the music was Nana Mouskouri singing love songs, which would have made more sense after dinner.

  She took a spoonful of the chowder, then another. "This is great. Did you make it?"

  "Grace did," he said, and she frowned.

  She stopped eating, and he realized he hadn't even begun and took a spoonful of chowder, then buttered a piece of bread to keep his hands busy.

  "Want one?" he asked, and when she nodded, he buttered one for her. He couldn't remember ever feeling this awkward with a woman, and while Nana sang Love Changes Everything, he wondered what he was going to say to get rid of that frown on her face.

  Claire finished her bowl of soup and ate half her salad before she stopped and put her fork down. He heard her sigh.

  "More soup?" he asked, which wasn't the brightest conversational gambit he'd ever come up with.

  "Hmm." She seemed to consider it, then shook her head. "I might have another piece of that sourdough bread, though. I'll get it."

  He slid out of his seat before she could, saying, "Don't move. I'll get it."

  "I haven't done anything but stand around in the cockpit and pull on a couple of ropes this afternoon, but I'm absolutely exhausted."

  "Sea air," he said, delivering the bread. "And constantly balancing against the motion of the boat."

  "Is that it?" She leaned her head against the bulkhead and closed her eyes, giving him the chance to study her and realize she did look tired.

  "Neither one of us got much sleep last night," he said softly.

  "No," she agreed, her eyes opening, staring into his. "I had a great time, Blake." Color stained her cheeks and she stammered, "I didn't mean.... Well, I did have a great time last night, but I meant today. Sailing. It was wonderful."

  He realized his heart was pounding. "Yeah?"

  "I'm glad you let me go up to the bow pulpit. I'll never forget that... racing over the water... magic." She laughed, a breathy chuckle that played along his nerves and made him need her, as if it had been weeks since he'd touched her deeply... even months, instead of somewhere around fourteen hours.

  He made himself breathe.

  "So I could probably talk you into coming sailing with me again."

  Her smile was slow and disastrous to his pulse, making him wonder if a man could develop a blood pressure problem overnight.

  "I'd love it," she said in that lazy, husky voice, "but we probably can't."

  "Let's sit in the salon," he suggested, deciding Nana, who was now singing The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, was a good idea after all.

  "I'll do the dishes," she said, beginning to clear the table.

  "We'll do them together," he corrected, realizing that now that she was talking again and he wasn't worried he'd messed things up with this trip, there were advantages to working on dishes in a confined space with a woman he wanted badly, a woman who moments ago had admitted that last night had been great.

  He turned on the water and laughed at her surprise at hot water from the demand heater. "Propane," he said.

  "Isn't propane dangerous on a boat? It's heavier than air. Wouldn't it settle in the bilges and—"

  "Yes," he agreed, thinking how good it felt to be with a woman who wasn't afraid to show a few brains. "But it's convenient, and I've got two sniffers in the bilge, and the tanks vent overboard." He watched her slip their bowls into the soapy water, and said carefully, "About sailing..."

  She turned her head toward him, both hands in water, and he knew that in a minute he would take her lips and make her eyes lose their focus the way they sometimes did when he kissed her.

  "It's wonderful," she said. "Far better than the circus rides I used to be too much of a coward to go on. But as for going out again, I don't think I can get Jake and the others far enough along on the telescope before Friday. I figure we need the next three nights."

  He gave in to temptation and took her shoulders in his hands, bent and took her lips when she turned with a question in her eyes. He let himself dip just deep enough to feel her response before he pulled back and found her staring up at him with her lips parted and her eyes wide with clear invitation.

  He made himself resist, because they had things to talk about, things that he figured needed to be said before he let this go any further. Because one thing was for certain. If he really took her into his arms, really kissed her, nothing was going to get done or said until they'd both exhausted themselves in pleasuring each other.

  "I had plans for the next three nights," he said softly. "Not the sort of plans that would include a trio of teenage boys."

  He saw her flush rise from her throat into her face and realized that the light from the lantern only made her more beautiful to him. He was down for the count, and it was a good thing the lady seemed to be just as shattered by their kisses as he was.

  "Not all night," she whispered. "Jake and the... we wouldn't work all night." Her face was flushed even more deeply now and he let himself take her lips again, just one more time.

  "Blake? My hands... I'm... the dishwater."

  "We'll let the dishes soak," he said roughly, grabbing a towel and getting in her way as she tried to dry her hands.

  She turned away and carefully hung the towel back on its rail.

  "You could stay longer," he said.

  "On the boat?"

  "No, in Port Townsend." She turned to face him, and he had no choice but to draw her into his arms. "Claire, there are things we have to talk about."

  He realized he had her backed up against the cook stove and muttered, "Let's get out of here. Let's... in the salon..." He led her through the narrow passage to the salon where there was more room, then he sat and drew her down with him, into his lap.

  "God, you feel good," he breathed as her weight settled against the part of his body that demanded he abandon talk and focus on action. "Claire, about Friday..."

  "This is Monday," she said, her voice husky enough that he wondered if her pulse was beating with the same frantic pace as his. "We don't need to think about Friday for... for days."

&nbs
p; "Yeah, but..." He put his thumb on the pulse beating at the base of her throat. "This morning, in the shower. Claire, I didn't use protection. It's never happened before. I've always—"

  "It's all right." Her eyes wouldn't meet his, and he knew it wasn't all right at all, because the part of him that wanted her to be pregnant with his child, that urged him to use that possibility to bind her to him, couldn't be allowed to control his actions or his words.

  "If anything happens," he said, "if you're pregnant, promise you'll tell me."

  "I won't be." Her fingers covered his thumb over her throat. "Don't worry, Blake. It's all right."

  "Promise you'll call."

  Her fingers left his and drifted down to her blouse and his breath jammed up in his throat as she slowly unfastened one button, then a second, then drew his hand down from her throat, down until it brushed black lace.

  He swallowed. "What are you wearing?"

  She placed one hand flat against his cheek and he felt a pulse pounding. Hers? Or his? Neither... both, together.

  "Find out for yourself," she invited as her lips settled onto his and took away the last vestige of his sanity.

  Somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, she must have lost every inhibition she'd carried around for thirty-one years. Otherwise, how could she have half undressed, flagrantly inviting a man to want her, then kiss him as if... as if...

  Kisses like that were probably illegal in half the states in the union. Kisses that ended with a woman coming up for air, wearing nothing but a black satin teddy, sitting in the lap of a man still fully dressed, straddling him, held close against his sex with two strong, skilled hands that were right now cupping her buttocks through the satin.

  She stared into his eyes, just stared, caught like a deer in headlights as his hands slid up her body, caressing her with satin.

  "I need you," he said, staring up into her eyes as he spoke, sending the words pulsing through her. "Now. Right now."

  She felt her own pulse throb against his need. She swayed slightly as his hands released her, gasped as his thumbs stroked her nipples through the satin, then slipped away to touch her breasts, her belly, her buttocks, with satin seduction.

  "I want you to take me," she said clearly, arching into his kiss as he bent to caress her breast with his mouth, through the satin. "Now, Blake. Please."

  But he knew ways to torture her with seduction first, to drive a high, breathless scream from her as she peaked for him once, then again, and he urged her up the steep slope of passion a third time, his mouth now rough on her flesh, his breath painfully ragged.

  She was conscious of nothing but him, but when he struggled out of his jeans and reached back for something, she knew, and in that moment she understood that she wanted, needed more than memories from this man.

  She touched him intimately, bringing a groan to his throat. "Now," she urged. "Please, Blake... now."

  She felt him tremble, but when his hand pulled away from his jeans she could see the foil package and, heart pounding with something more than passion, she took it from him.

  "Claire—"

  "Don't." She swallowed and said, "I'm on the pill."

  He was motionless, as if frozen, then he said, "Are you sure?"

  "Yes." And if there were a hell for liars, she'd be going there, because she somehow stared him straight in the eyes and saw that he believed her.

  "It's been over a year for me," Blake said, "and I've always... there aren't any other risks. Claire, I... God, if you do that..."

  "Hush," she said, placing his hand over her breast, feeling his sex harden under her, knowing that whatever sins she committed with her lie, at least she would be able to tell his child that she had loved his father.

  * * *

  As Blake had predicted, the morning sea lay calm under an overcast sky. Claire drained the cold water on last night's dishes and washed them while Blake made a breakfast of bacon and eggs. Then she slipped their breakfast dishes into the water and waved away his offer of help.

  "I'll get the anchor then," he said, pulling her close for a leisurely kiss. "You don't mind? I want to be at the shipyard before the boys turn up."

  That brought a smile from her. "Setting them a good example?"

  "Something like that."

  She was still smiling when he went up on deck, smiling as she heard the engine start, then footsteps on deck, followed by the sound of the anchor chain being hauled in. Of course, she thought, he would take the precaution of starting the engine, making sure it did start, before he raised anchor. For a man who'd once been a hell-raising teenager, who still loved speed and risk, he had a remarkably cautious streak.

  Then her smile died, leaving her with both hands in the dishwater, her heart pounding with something like panic. If he knew, she thought. If he knew what I've done.

  Staring straight into his eyes and saying, I'm on the pill. Knowing as she spoke that if she weren't already pregnant with his child, the chances were very good that by the time the night was over she would be.

  She'd lied, twice: first in telling him there would be no repercussions from their unprotected lovemaking yesterday morning, then telling him she was on the pill. She'd lied, knowing it was wrong.

  Now, staring at the dishwater, hearing his steps above her, she knew she'd tell the same lie again, because she wanted the child.

  It wasn't as if she were trying to trap him into marriage or support payments. She would never tell him... he would never know. The old phrase echoed in her mind: what he doesn't know won't hurt him. It, too, sounded like a lie, but she'd done it now, and there was nothing to do but go on.

  She washed the last dish, drained the water, and rinsed out the sink. Then she dried the dishes, putting the cutlery in its drawer, the plates into form-fitting teak shelves. When everything was shipshape, she traced the silky teak shelves with her fingers. He'd built this beautiful boat, sanded and oiled the teak and mahogany. She wondered if his child would inherit Blake's talent for creating beauty.

  She'd better control those thoughts, or Blake would notice. He was too perceptive, and he seemed to have an unerring instinct for her moods and her fears. It wouldn't do to let him know she had a secret.

  Later, once Friday came, she could let herself think about the possibility of a child, could let herself plan.

  Through the window, she saw movement and realized the sounds of the anchor chain had stopped. She grabbed her jacket and went up above and found Blake at the tiller, bringing the boat around in a circle until the bow pointed to the buildings she could see onshore in the distance—Port Townsend.

  He flashed her a smile. "No sailing this morning. There isn't a breath of wind. Want to steer?"

  "Yes, please."

  He handed the tiller over to her, standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders.

  "Where's the marina?" she asked, and he pointed it out to her, his hand over her shoulder, his face close to hers. She turned her head and met his lips, a brief, sweet kiss that ended with his eyes smiling into hers. She got her breath again and concentrated on steering until she knew her voice would be steady.

  "What will you be working on today?"

  "More sanding. I'll set Jake and Tim to work on that. Jake's getting pretty good at it now that he's actually turning up to work. I'll work on the mast boot."

  She smiled, wondering what the devil a mast boot was, and the notes of Nana Mouskouri's Only Love played in her memory as a slow swell rolled under the boat. She felt Blake's body sway with the practiced rhythm of a sailor.

  "Can I help with the sanding? I enjoyed the other day."

  "You can't really enjoy sanding."

  "Don't you?"

  She felt his shrug. "I enjoy coaxing beauty out of a good piece of wood."

  She liked that image, and it was easy to picture him patiently coaxing the beauty from wood that looked plain until he put his hands on it.

  "That's what you do with the boys," she said. "You coax the beauty out."
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  He didn't reply and when she twisted to see his face, she realized she'd embarrassed him. It pleased her, knowing she could.

  "How long do you want with the boys tonight?" he asked.

  "Three or four hours."

  His hands dropped and settled around her waist, drawing her back against him. Oddly, it wasn't a sexual embrace.

  "Why don't I take you out for a late dinner afterward, then dancing?"

  "All right," she agreed, thinking it would be best to spend as much time as possible between now and Friday morning in the presence of other people, where he was less likely to ask the sort of personal questions that might trip her up.

  She should have welcomed the silence that fell between them, but it unnerved her, as if it contained a threat. She guessed they were halfway across the passage between their anchorage and the marina when he finally spoke.

  "When are you due back in Arizona?"

  "A week from Saturday."

  "So you could stay a few days longer?"

  "I can't." A few days more and she'd give herself away, she knew she would. She couldn't afford to spend more time, to fall even more deeply under this man's spell. "I've only got the condo for a week, and besides—"

  "Stay at my place."

  "I have to be in San Francisco Saturday for an appointment. Then there's a symposium of astronomers, starting Sunday."

  She started to breathe again in the silence, feeling as if she'd just skated past some very thin ice.

  "Where's the symposium?"

  "Pasadena."

  Mercifully, a boat appeared from their right, crossing their path, and Blake took over the steering. By the time the boat had crossed ahead of them and disappeared in the direction of Keystone, they were close enough to the marina that Blake had to concentrate on navigating, directing Claire to put down the fenders and get the docking lines ready.

  She enjoyed the bustle of docking, and enjoyed watching Blake skillfully jockey the boat into position in the limited space of the marina, bringing it to rest perfectly aligned in its space. She enjoyed watching him jump lightly onto the dock—the float, she corrected with an inward smile—and efficiently fasten the first line.