A Matter of Circumstance

by Heather Graham

  Night had almost fallen. It seemed to come so quickly out here on the water. Only a few stretches of gold and crimson lay against the eternal sea and sky. And then, as if they had been a delusion, those colors faded to black.

  They moved through the galley, through the salon, down the hall. He used his foot to kick open the door, then laid her on the narrow bunk, swathing her in the blanket, holding her, his eyes enigmatic, only the pulse in his throat displaying any emotion.

  “I—I’m sorry—” Mandy began.

  “I swear to you,” he interrupted her, “I am a cop! If you trust me, I’ll get you out of this!”

  He had every right to be furious, she knew. He’d put his own life on the line—for her. She shivered all over again, knowing she would never have had the nerve to dive into the water if she had known about all those sharks.

  Suddenly there was a rapping at the door. Miguel stood quickly and opened it.

  The older, gray-haired woman was there, a wooden tray in her hand. She spoke Spanish softly and gazed down at Mandy with the closest thing to sympathy that she had yet seen.

  The woman lifted the tray, offering it to Miguel.

  “Gracias, gracias,” he told her, then she asked him something, and he answered her, stepping aside to allow her to enter the room. She sat down by Mandy’s side, touched her forehead and cheeks, offered a weak smile, then wagged a finger beneath Mandy’s nose, giving her a motherly scolding. She touched Mandy’s cheek once again, shivered and then left.

  “What…?” Mandy began, struggling to sit.

  Miguel stuffed a shot glass of amber liquid into her fingers. “Drink it—it’s rum. It will stop the chill.”

  She couldn’t drink it. “Miguel…”

  “Señora Garcia,” he told her, wrapping his fingers around a second shot glass and setting the tray on the opposite bunk, “is not at all happy that her son took you. They meant to take your husband. Drink that!”

  “Miguel…”

  “Mrs. Blayne, by tomorrow they plan to reach some remote and private island where they have a little cottage. Juan will then return to Miami with the ransom note. Obviously your husband won’t have any real power to give the Garcias what they want, but negotiations will start. At that time they will also be one man short. They don’t want to hurt you. If you would have just one bit of faith in me and give me a little time, I could manage to settle this thing without risking your life.”

  “Miguel…”

  “Drink that!”

  She brought the shot glass to her lips with still-trembling hands, then gasped at the potency of the liquor, choked and coughed. He sat beside her and patted her back, but with little mercy. He tilted the glass toward her lips again.

  “All of it!”

  On her next try she drained the glass. He took it from her hands as she wheezed for breath once again. He swallowed his own without a grimace, haphazardly returned both glasses to the tray, then turned back to her.

  He touched her lip, her cheek. “Good,” he said. “You’ve got a little color back.”

  She lowered her head, her fingers plucking at the blanket. “I’m sorry. I had to do it.” She moistened her lips and stared at him again. “Thank you,” she whispered stiffly. “You saved my life.”

  “Line of duty,” he told her, his eyes narrowing peculiarly on her hand. He clutched it, looking at the raw marks that still surrounded her wrists. “Do they hurt?” he asked, staring into her eyes again.

  She shook her head. It was only a little lie.

  The door suddenly burst open to reveal Julio Garcia. He gave a curt order to Miguel. Miguel shook his head vehemently. Chills of fear crept over Mandy again; she knew that they were arguing about her. Her wrist was suddenly shoved up toward Julio’s face. He hesitated, then said something back to Miguel. Miguel glanced her way curiously then nodded to Julio. Then Julio, too, was gone, snapping out the cabin light as he went.

  Darkness fell all around them. Mandy knew that she was still shivering, that he was still staring at her in the darkness.

  “What…what was that all about?” she asked faintly.

  “He wanted me to tie you up again.”

  “You tied those knots?”

  “Yes. I had to make them good.”

  She sniffed in the darkness. “They were.”

  He didn’t reply at first. Then he merely said, “Move over.”

  “What?”

  “Move over. I can tie you up, or sleep next to you.”

  Something rebelled inside her. She wanted to tell him to tie her up, that she would rather suffer through that again than have him sleep beside her.

  But she didn’t. She didn’t ever want to experience that panicky feeling of being so helplessly bound again. She didn’t want the rope chafing her flesh until it was raw. And she felt so horribly tired and exhausted.

  She moved as close as she could to the paneling that rimmed the bunk, painfully aware of his length and heat as he crawled in beside her. He didn’t say a word. In time her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she realized that he was lying there very stiffly, hair still damp from his dive into the water, his profile clean and fascinating as he stared upward into the night.

  “Miguel?” she whispered softly.

  “What?”

  “I really am sorry. I felt that I had to try…. It isn’t that I distrust you so much, it’s just that the opportunity was there. Thank you. I mean it. And I’m terribly sorry about putting you in danger.”

  She felt him shrug. The narrow bunk was barely wide enough for one person; two would necessarily feel each other’s slightest movement.

  “It’s okay,” he returned in the darkness. And then he was silent again.

  “I know you’re angry—”

  “I’m not angry.” He rolled toward her and touched her cheek in the darkness, lightly, for the briefest moment. Then he jerked his hand away from her, as if remembering something.

  “I know what it’s like to run for freedom, Mrs. Blayne. To seek escape at any cost. Go to sleep. You’ll need rest and awareness, should another opportunity come along.”

  She swallowed and nodded, but knew she would never sleep. Escape…freedom. They seemed like hollow empty echoes now. He knew what it was like. That was what he had said.

  She wished fervently that he was not beside her. And yet she was fervently glad of him, too. Of the feel of heat and strength.

  She might detest him for some of the things he had said and done, but he was on her side; she had to believe that. And even if she feared him just a little in the deepest recesses of her heart, she could not help but admire him and believe in him.

  Only a fool—or a very brave man—would dive into water teeming with sharks to save a woman who had done nothing to deserve it of him.

  Sleep was impossible. She lay there miserably for hours and hours, not daring to move, not daring to get any closer to him.

  Memories drifted in and out of her mind, good ones, bad ones, some from the distant past, some more recent. She couldn’t tell if the man beside her slept, or if he continued to stare into the darkness, lost in the recesses of his own mind.

  Somewhere in the night exhaustion and nerves overwhelmed her and she fell into a restless sleep. But even there the memories plagued her. Her son’s tiny coffin seemed to float in space, and then the larger one, Paul’s. Then the coffins began to change. Darkness and shadow became red, dripping red, blood red, and she could hear and see the terrible gnashing teeth of the sharks….

  “Shh, shh! It’s over! I’m beside you…you’re all right!”

  She stiffened, unaware that she had cried out, biting her lip.

  “Mandy, go back to sleep. Easy…”

  His hand was on her hair; his body was like a heat lamp next to hers. His voice was like the soothing whisper of an ocean breeze.

  And maybe because she was still half-lost in a shadow land herself, she allowed herself to listen to that whisper, to be soothed by that strong masculine touch.
>
  She sighed softly.

  “You’re all right,” he whispered again. “It was just a dream.”

  The tension fell away from her body, and she slept. And this time no dreams came to plague her, just the pleasant sensation of being held safely in strong arms.

  CHAPTER 5

  In the morning she came awake with a curious sense of peace, followed by a haunting disillusionment.

  The senses could play such tricks upon the mind! She’d awakened to so many brilliant mornings feeling the lapping of waves, the movement of the ocean beneath her, the coolness of the dawn, and salt-flavored air all around her. Awakened smiling, warm, secure, content, her husband’s arm wrapped around her, the lazy tempo of a night’s anchorage away from the bustle of the city like a blissful balm.

  All the things that went with it came back to her: laughter from above; calls that the “sleepyheads” should awaken; the smell of sizzling bacon—and then whispers. Whispers because Peter would be telling Miranda that the kids should be up, and Miranda would be hushing him, lowering her voice still further, and reminding him that the “kids” were still newlyweds, and newlyweds didn’t spring right up from bed; they liked to stay there a while.

  And of course by then Mandy and Paul would both be awake, staring at each other, giggling and trying very hard to shush each other so that his concerned parents wouldn’t hear them. Then they would shoot out of bed anyway, because Jonathan would have awakened by then, and they were both still so overawed at being parents that they sprang to attention the second he opened his tiny mouth and let out his earsplitting cry.

  Then they would be grabbing for robes, because the older Blaynes would come bursting in, so overawed at being grandparents that they too sprang to instant attention.

  And then the bacon would burn, and it would have to be started all over. But it wouldn’t matter, because they would have all weekend to dive and snorkel and swim and fish and play, and the real world would be miles away. The Flash Point would be their fantasyland until they all returned to their responsibilities.

  Mandy opened her eyes and felt a nearly overwhelming hopelessness sweep through her. Those times were gone, Miranda was gone, Jonathan was gone and Paul was gone. She blinked against the sudden agony of reality. She hadn’t felt this way in ages; she’d learned to insulate herself, to remember the good times, to find other things in life. She could even laugh aboard the Flash Point, bring flowers to the cemetery and smile as she remembered her infant son’s beautiful smile.

  It was this boat; it was this stinking boat. It was so much the opposite of all that had been beautiful. She was a prisoner, not a beloved wife, not an adored daughter-in-law, doted upon by her husband’s happy parents. This was a rotting hulk, not the graceful Flash Point. It was all a mockery. There wasn’t a grain of truth in any of the sensations.

  Except that, rotting hulk or not, this vessel rolled on the sea just like any ship. The sea, the sky, the salt air—they were never ending. No matter what came and went in life, they would remain the same. But the warmth…

  Mandy rolled over quickly. Miguel had taken the sodden robe off her when he put her on the bunk. Now she was barely covered by the worn blanket he had bundled around her. She was still warm, still warm from his body heat, gone now, but haunting her as thoroughly as the dream.

  Mandy pulled the blanket back to her chin, wondering at the anguished stream of emotions he could elicit from her. She felt drawn like the proverbial moth to the candle, but she felt a little ashamed, too. He’d dragged her around half-naked—completely naked actually—bound her, knocked her out, reviled her—and saved her life. She knew exactly what he thought of her; he had said it in so many words. He’d prejudged her as a mercenary bigot, and he deserved to pay for that. Yet in his absurd way he was going above and beyond the call of duty, and he was certainly the most extraordinary man she had ever met.

  And that was the main reason she resented him, Mandy thought. In the past three years she had become very independent. She’d been friends with Peter; she hadn’t leaned on him. They both had their own work, and work had kept them sane.

  But last night…last night had taught her something that she hadn’t wanted to learn. Paul was gone; love was gone. Oh, every minute hadn’t been perfect. They’d fought; they’d yelled. Any two people did that. Neither one of them had been able to cook worth a whit; she’d wanted a puppy; he’d thought one child was enough. Little things, big things. That was life. You just couldn’t zoom through agreeing on everything. But through all those things there had been love. She’d barely known two years of it, but it had been good and solid and real. She had known when she buried her heart and very nearly her existence with her husband and son that she could never settle for anything less—and also that she didn’t ever want to know that kind of love again. The pain of loss was so unbearable, so like a set of knives that whittled and whittled away at the insides….

  She closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling.

  No, she didn’t want to love again. And she certainly wasn’t in danger of falling in love with this stranger. But it was dismaying to learn that sensation remained; just like the endless sea and sky, the basic need remained. A need to be held, to feel strength when one was failing, security when all was darkness. To admire, to respect a man, to like the feel of rippling muscle beneath her fingers, the tangy scent of sea and man, the gentle touch of fingers against her cheek.

  She gave herself a furious shake, hoping to clear her mind of fantasy. She had to learn to get through these days one by one. She needed some good common sense. If only she had paid attention yesterday she would have known that the sharks were in the water and she would have never made that ridiculous attempt to escape. She had to learn to be wary and alert—and to try to remember that this was a team effort.

  She started suddenly, aware not of sound but of a presence at the door. It was open, and Miguel was standing there, watching her with a strange dark expression. She frowned, and the expression faded. He was once again the same enigmatic man she was coming to know.

  “I was trying to let you sleep,” he said, sauntering in. His hair was damp, and he smelled like soap, and though he was still clad in cutoffs, they were different ones, undoubtedly borrowed from one of the other men. He carried a towel-wrapped bundle, which he gave her, tossing it over the blanket to land in the vicinity of her middle.

  “Clothes. They’re Maria’s. She wasn’t very happy about lending them, but Señora Garcia told her that you couldn’t run around naked.”

  Mandy couldn’t keep a rueful smile from creeping across her lips as her lashes fell over her cheeks. “Thanks,” she said softly. “And thank Señora Garcia. Is there any chance of coming up with a toothbrush?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. Check below the sink in the head, there’s a nice supply. Seems Julio is a tooth fanatic. He told me his teeth were riddled with cavities when he first came to the States. He’s been trying to preserve the rest ever since.”

  “What about you?” she murmured.

  “What?”

  She kept her lashes downcast, wondering why she was so curious about him. “When you left Cuba…”

  “I wasn’t born in Cuba.”

  “But you said—”

  “Oh, I am Cuban. Half. I just wasn’t born there.”

  “Here?” She gazed up at him.

  He grinned at her, sudden amusement in his eyes. “Here? Was I born in a boat? No. I wasn’t born in the water, or in the Bahamas, which is where I’m pretty sure we are.”

  “I meant—”

  “I was born in Dublin, Mrs. Blayne.”

  “Dublin! Ireland?”

  He quickly brought his finger to his lips. “Would you please shush! Are you that determined to hang me?”

  “No! Really, I’m sorry!”

  She sat up as she spoke, and the blanket dropped to her waist.

  She reached for it again quickly, embarrassed, and dragged it back around her before looking a
t Miguel again.

  That strange expression was back…dark, tense. And hungry. Suddenly she was aware of exactly what it meant. He might be a cop, but he was a man, too, a man who found her appealing. He might think very little of her as a human being, but as a woman he found her appealing. Sexually appealing.

  And that fact was not something he realized with any great fondness.

  She tossed her hair back, a little bit indignant, and a little bit shaken.

  She suddenly felt like teasing him! It would provide revenge that seemed very sweet. After all, he thought she was a mercenary woman who had married an old man for his wealth and position. And he was thoroughly convinced that she was a complete bigot. He deserved any torture she could dish out, even if he had dived into the sharks.

  “Oh!” she murmured, sweetly distressed, holding the blanket to her breasts but allowing it to fall from her back. Then she had to lower her head and smile discreetly, because she had drawn exactly the response she wanted from him. He had stiffened like a poker. His jaw had squared, and she had heard the grating of his teeth.

  She cleared her throat. “Really!” she whispered softly. “I wouldn’t want to hang you at all. I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me!”

  “For you and your husband, right?” he asked her softly.

  “Peter? Ah…yes, of course.”

  She lowered her eyes again, very aware that he was doing his best to keep his distance from her because she was—in his mind—a married woman. His own assumption! Poor baby! Compelled by a sense of duty to dive into sharks after her. Compelled to sleep beside her to keep her from being bound and tied.

  A part of her appreciated that sense of duty. But she didn’t at all appreciate his continual jumping to conclusions about her, nor any number of his macho techniques. She’d suffered at his hands; he could damn well suffer at hers. He had taken his own sweet time to inform her that he was a cop, and he’d grabbed her in the shower to do it.

  She gave him another wide-eyed innocent stare. “Do you know what the island will be like? I mean, what will the, uh, sleeping arrangements be?”