The Island

by Heather Graham

  Brad didn’t seem to notice. He was intent on the yacht. Then he turned, as if aware that he was being watched, and saw Ben staring at him.

  Ben waved.

  Brad waved back, then turned his attention to Sandy.

  It’s all just fine, Ben assured himself.

  And it was. They would be getting off the island.

  He was amazed to realize he was glad the weekend was nearly over. He usually dreaded going back to work after a break. What the hell. There ought to be some saying about the scumbag you knew and the scumbag you couldn’t quite recognize.

  HE LOOKED GOOD ROWING, Beth decided.

  She purposely turned her gaze to the yacht they were approaching, dismayed that she seemed to be doing little other than appreciating the physical assets of the man.

  Around boats, guys wore trunks, cutoffs, T-shirts, even no shirts. They tended to be bronze, and the club attracted a slew of well-toned, healthy, fit specimens of masculinity.

  Keith Henson just seemed to have it all and carry it off just a little bit better.

  This morning he was in blue-and-black swim trunks, the kind a million surfers wore, the kind that shouldn’t have been the least bit erotic. He had eschewed a shirt, since the day was hot—nothing unusual in that. But his skin seemed to be an unreal masculine shade of bronze, and his muscles flexed with each tug on the oars. Shades hid his eyes from her view, and she certainly hoped her own hid her thoughts equally well. Suddenly she blushed. She had been thinking about how he was dressed, but now realized that she, too, was skimpily clad in a bathing suit and sarong—an outfit that she would have thought nothing of if she weren’t with him.

  But there was something between them.

  She couldn’t stop herself from thinking of it as chemistry, though she was sure she never would have felt such a draw if it hadn’t been for his smile. Or the darkness of his eyes. Or the keen mind that seemed to lie behind his every word.

  His every lie.

  “Well, do you like her?”

  They had reached the yacht. He stood, rocking the little dinghy, and tied on. The aft ladder had been left down, and he swung on, reaching out a hand to her. With the dinghy bobbing on the waves, she accepted. She found herself noting the ease with which he helped her. The man was strong. Did that make him some kind of a criminal? And if he was, what kind of an idiot was she to be here with him?

  She landed on deck with ease and looked around. She estimated the original price of the boat at more than six figures.

  “Really, really nice,” she assured him.

  “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  He took her around the upper deck, then to the flybridge, and finally down to the cabin. She whistled softly.

  “It’s like a luxury-hotel suite,” she told him.

  “The great thing is that she can do anything. Despite her size, she’s got top speed, and she’s rigged for fishing as well as pleasure cruising.”

  “That’s why there’s the global positioning system, sonar, radar, communications—and whatever else is up there and down here?”

  “We all like to fish,” he said with a shrug. “What can I get you? Juice, soda…water? Want coffee? It will only take a minute.”

  “I’d love coffee,” she told him.

  He seemed to be involved in the task, but she had the feeling that he was watching her all the while. For her reactions?

  Or to make sure that she didn’t notice something she shouldn’t?

  “Make yourself at home,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She took a seat on the sofa in the main salon area. She might have been sitting in the salon of a resort. Beyond the windows, she could see the sea, the sky and a glimpse of the island.

  “How long do you think you’ll be in this area?” she asked him.

  “Oh, a while.”

  She laughed suddenly. “Do you ever have a direct answer for anything?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Okay, how long are you going to be here? A while. A ‘while’ can mean anything. If someone had asked me about this weekend, my reply would be clear and direct. I go home tonight.”

  He shrugged, pouring coffee into mugs. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be in the area. When we’re fished out, dived out and done, I’ll head back.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “Back to Virginia?”

  Even then, she thought he hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Do you have a house there?”

  “Yes. There—is that direct enough?”

  “What part?”

  “Northern Virginia.”

  “Does your city or town have a name?” she demanded.

  He came around and handed her a mug. “Whoops, sorry, did you want cream or sugar?”

  “Black is fine, thanks. Well?”

  “A fairly well known name, yes. Alexandria.”

  “There, see, it wasn’t so hard. You have a house, it’s in Virginia, in the city of Alexandria.”

  “Do you have a house?” he inquired in turn, perching on the arm of the sofa. Close again. The kind of close that made her wonder why she felt the need to analyze everything. Why not just take a chance? Why care so much about exactly who or what he was?

  Just enjoy the simple things in life, she told herself. Everything doesn’t need to last forever. She never just met a man and went with him…anywhere. It seemed that she had never been so emotionally confused before. Last night she had lain awake during all that had been left of the darkness, thinking, tormenting herself. She could…no, no, she couldn’t, sure she could, she shouldn’t, mustn’t…and then, why not? This sense of something hanging in the balance was new to her. This kind of need, this kind of longing…She couldn’t actually even remember ever being spontaneous, simply acting on instinct. And yet she was free and single, over twenty-one, always responsible, dependable…

  Surely everyone had a right to a moment’s insanity, to fulfill a fantasy. It was Sunday and she would head home, back to the real world, and most likely thought she would never see him again.

  “Hey, are you still with me?” he asked, bemused.

  “I, um…yes, of course.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  He arched a brow. “House. Do you have a house?”

  “Oh! I have a town house, yes.”

  “And that would be where?” he asked.

  “Coconut Grove, near the yacht club.”

  “Nice.”

  “I like it.”

  “However—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve heard that Coconut Grove can be a dangerous area.”

  “Any populated place can be dangerous. As you said yourself, even sailing the islands can be dangerous. But Miami has a bad rep. People are nice there. It’s like any other city. You’re most likely not going to be hit by a drug lord unless you’re dealing or something like that.” She shook her head suddenly, looking into her coffee cup. “You ask a simple question, and I give you a paragraph. I ask a question and get a one-liner. Maybe I’m the one with the problem.”

  She was startled to realize that he didn’t laugh, or even smile, as she had expected he might. He was looking at her very seriously. He reached out and touched her. Light, totally casual. He just touched her chin with the tip of his forefinger. “I don’t think you have a problem at all,” he said very softly.

  There it was. The moment when she was supposed to stand and say, “I have to go.”

  But she didn’t. He eased down from the arm of the sofa, next to her, his scent a mixture of the wind, sea and salt, his flesh still reflecting the heat of the sun, emitting power from every pore, and she didn’t move. She waited.

  His sunglasses were gone, and his eyes seemed as dark as ebony, as mysterious as an abyss, and he was studying her, long and intently. Once again she thought it was time to back away, because then he would rise, as well, and the moment would be broken.

  But she didn’t move, and his fingers slipped in
to her hair, cradling the base of her skull. Then, at last, his lips touched hers. At first it seemed like nothing more than a hot and teasing whisper of air; then the fullness of his mouth pressed over hers. She wasn’t avoiding, wasn’t protesting; she was set adrift in a sea of fascination and discovery, her arms rising, hands resting on his shoulders, fingertips awakened by the simple feel of skin. He kissed her hard and deep, and she felt an infusion of warmth and arousal.

  It was he who broke the kiss, easing away, and his voice was definitely husky when he spoke. “I think you’re supposed to tell me that you need to get back.”

  She nodded. “You should be telling me that this isn’t your boat.”

  He nodded in response. “We should go.”

  “Certainly. Now.”

  “Remember, I told you that you should be afraid of me.”

  She shook her head, studying his eyes. “I should be. But I’m not. I mean, I am. But I’m not.”

  “Tell me to take you back,” he said.

  She shook her head slowly. “I guess I’m just not afraid enough.”

  “Still…we need to…not…”

  “You’re right.”

  But neither moved, and when he kissed her again, she let her fingers play down the length of his back, and she felt his hands on her. Then, he broke away again, his voice extremely deep as he said, “I really should take you back.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “What you don’t want is to be involved with me,” he murmured.

  “I don’t recall saying that I was involved.”

  He moved away. “Ah, Ms. Anderson, you are far too decent, believe me. So if you’ll just say…” His voice trailed off.

  She smiled, her senses perfectly attuned, her mind suddenly set upon her course. She moistened her lips slightly, her smile deepening. “You want me to say I should go? I should. Do I want to? No. Am I going to? I don’t think so, but then again, that’s up to you now.”

  His groan was deep and shuddering, and then he stood with a suddenness that surprised her and swept her up into his arms.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said.

  “Absolutely not,” she agreed softly as she linked her arms around his neck.

  Her eyes locked on his, she was barely aware that he was heading for the elegant master stateroom. The bed was huge. He managed to rip off the black-and-white cover without losing hold of her, and when he laid her down, the sheets seemed cool against the sun-touched heat of her flesh. He quickly lay down beside her. Her sarong was a tangle around them both, quickly eliminated, and she would forever remember the contrast between the coolness of the bedding and the warmth and vibrance of his flesh. They met in a passionate, exploratory kiss, lips melding, tongues sliding, mouths locked. His hands were every bit as powerful as she had imagined, his fingers as gentle, his touch as magnetic. His lips fell to her throat, to spots just below each ear, to the center of her throat once again, and lower, the tip of his tongue teasing up and down her collarbone, then lower still. Her fingers slid into his hair, testing its rich texture, blond and then ash, where it had been bleached by the sun. She felt the pressure of his body against her. With his hips and legs pressed to hers, she felt the swell of his arousal, taut beneath the surf trunks. Then his hands, adept at manipulation, released the hook of the bikini bra, followed by his lips, firm against her breasts, and his hands, caressing, cradling. His lips teased after every touch, moving over her areolas, nipples, up the length of her throat again. The frenzy of caresses wet, hot, seemed to send streaks of pure fire sailing through her bloodstream, and rushing with ardent precision into the very heart of her sexuality. She didn’t remember ever feeling as she did now, and knew that was because she had never actually felt anything this vital, this passionate, alive, tempestuous…ever before.

  He paused, his eyes on hers, smile totally seductive. “This is insanity.”

  “We’ve agreed on that.”

  “You need to go back. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “We’ve agreed on that, as well,” she whispered.

  “You shouldn’t be involved with me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of being involved with you.”

  “One might call this involved.”

  “One might.”

  He shook his head. His lips touched down again. For a moment they teased a mere breath above her own. Then the kiss deepened, and their limbs entwined as their bodies met and melded. The naked length of his chest seemed glorious, the sound of his breathing filled her senses, along with the thrum of their hearts. His flesh felt like the sun and the sea, smooth, slick, hot. He moved erotically against her, her breasts crushed to him.

  She clung to him, splaying her fingers down his back, along his spine, down to the waistband of his trunks, around in front to the ties. Her fingers weren’t as adept as his, not quite as experienced. His hands covered hers, though he never broke the kiss. She was dimly aware when the trunks were gone, acutely aware when the naked length of his body pressed against hers. She felt his fingers slipping beneath the bikini bottom as he effortlessly did away with the last barrier between them, which in itself seemed an exotic ecstasy. She was pressed close to him again, and his fingers seduced a path down her spine, curved over her buttocks, brought her flush against his arousal. His lips continued to caress and assail. Then he moved, sleek, agile, shifting atop her, lips pressing against the hollows of her collarbone, teasing her breasts. His hand glided down the curve of her form, pressed apart her thighs. She felt the stroke of his touch first, and then the taunt of his tongue; felt as if she burned within, caught in a sudden, swift maelstrom of fire. Pure sensual ecstasy exalted her even as the rage of intimacy dismayed her, though for only a split second in the rush of sensation.

  He was an incredible lover.

  Subtle and bold. Teeth, tongue, lips, touch, all meshed in a passionate dance of sensuality that left her breathless, thundering, quivering somewhere between total vibrant ecstasy and simple delicious death. She arched, writhed, thrashed, cried out God-knew-what.…

  Trembled, throbbed…begged.

  Involved.

  Good Lord, yes, she was involved, any more involved and she would be living in his skin. She had sworn to herself that she had sense and reason and knew what she was doing, but this was…

  Involved.

  She was more involved than she had ever been. More touched, elated, electrified, swept away, taken…

  She tore at his hair, dragged him to her, and before she could even meet his lips again with her own, she shuddered with a new sense of sheer carnal elation as the force of his body thrust into hers.

  The ship rocked.

  God, the man knew how to coerce with the slowest, gentlest movements, and then to thunder and pulse with the force of a wicked gale in the North Sea. She knew there were moments when she literally forgot everything except the burning need to be with him, one with him, feeling the shudder and quiver, strength and power, the slick wet heat, the movement, the hunger….

  She must have shrieked, screamed…loud enough to wake the dead and half the ocean. She knew he must have felt the burst of the climax that violently seized her, so euphoric she thought she knew at last what they meant by a thousand little deaths.

  Surely he felt, he knew…

  And waited, his own climax erupting seconds later—or hours, she wasn’t at all sure, she lay in such a damp bath of steam that she wasn’t sure she was breathing, or that her heart continued to beat at all anymore.

  She had thought she could just walk away. Congratulate herself on a mature affair. On allowing herself adult pleasure, denying the complications of real emotion.

  But nothing came without a price, and she knew that. She’d told herself not to get involved…

  Too late. This was involved.

  Easing to her side, he held her, smoothed back her hair. She wondered desperately what their pillow talk would be after such a sudden and volatile interlude. When he rolled her to face him
, his eyes were dark and intense, and the slightest smile curved his lips. Again he touched her hair, and she had to wonder what he was seeing in her eyes, how much he could read from her face.

  God help her, she didn’t know what to say or how to act. She was afraid she would start stuttering, try to explain that she never did things like this, that he’d been unique somehow, and that he’d been more than she had ever begun to imagine.

  But there was no chance for awkward words, no reason to promise that of course they would see each other again.

  Beth’s eyes flew open as she heard the sound of a dinghy approaching, the sound of chatter and laughter.

  The girls!

  His eyes widened and his brows arched as he heard them at the same time.

  “Dear God,” she swore, flying up even as she spoke, stunned, horrified.

  Feeling like an idiot. Anyone could have come aboard at any time. What in God’s name had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking. She’d been reacting, and feeling….

  She hadn’t wanted to get out of pillow talk this badly!

  “Hey!” He was up, too, and reaching for his trunks in the blink of an eye. She looked in panic at the condition of the bed, and wondered about the state of her hair at the same time.

  “Got it,” he assured her, tossing over a brush from the nightstand and reaching for the sheets. She tripped back into her bathing suit, fingers shaking so hard she couldn’t get the bra top fastened.

  “Don’t panic, you’re a grown-up, you know,” he said calmly, fixing it for her.

  “That’s my niece!” she exclaimed, running the brush viciously through her hair. “And her friend, and they’re at a horribly impressionable age. I’m supposed to be a role model. You don’t understand. Her mother is dead—”

  “Don’t panic,” he repeated softly. “I do understand, and we’re fine. Get topside. I’ll finish making the bed.”

  She sped out of the cabin. There was a boating magazine lying in a wire rack by the table. She nearly ripped it apart in her haste to grab it. Then she sat on the sofa, her heart racing painfully again.

  The girls—and whoever had come with them—were just coming aboard.