The entire thing was such an offensive idea! Women ran kissing booths. Men did not. He was as good as selling himself to the women who bought tickets. Women, she knew perfectly well, would be lining up for days to get as many chances as they could afford. Because of the prizes, of course, not the kisses. But still, he’d be happily dispensing those. Disgusting!
Well, she, for one, wasn’t going to play his game or buy even one of his tickets.
Inside the main cabin, the light on her answering machine blinked frenetically. The first two calls were from Steve. She closed her eyes and let his warm voice wash over her. “Lissa, I know you’re upset. I wish you’d stayed and talked to me before you ran off like that. We’ll sort it out when you get back. Nothing’s going to happen unless you want it to happen. That’s a promise. You can trust me. Okay?”
“No,” she said. “It is not okay. Nothing’s okay. And there is nothing to sort out.” Especially considering the person she couldn’t trust was herself, not Steve.
Probably, if she’d realized the next call was from him, too, she’d have rewound the tape right then, erasing everything on it without listening. But she didn’t know, and the minute his voice came drifting up around her, it was as if she were caught in some kind of immobilizing web. “I talked to your dad about putting in a booth. He and the rest of the committee agreed, the more the merrier, and since he got Larry Cranshaw to play Robin Hood to his Friar Tuck, I figure I can make more money for the fund with my Cinderella booth. What do you think? Isn’t it a great idea? How do you like the signs?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “A great idea. I love the signs.” She ran both hands through her hair, shoving off the scrunchie that held it back. “I’m going to go and rip them out, one by one, break them into kindling and pitch them into the nearest incinerator!”
The rest of the calls were from her father and friends, filled with chuckling allusions to her “escapade.” Why had she spent even a second hoping Rosa would keep her mouth shut? Ginny’s message was the most irritating. “Can’t say I blame you. He really is a hunk. I only wish he’d turned his pretty blue eyes in my direction.”
“Yeah, well that makes two of us,” Lissa muttered, then listened to another message from her father. “How come you told Steve there were no more spaces for booths? His idea is fantastic. Of course, I didn’t tell him who the sandal belongs to, but I am helping him collect odd shoes from all over the island. The poetic justice of it tickles my fancy—Steve Jackson Junior helping Madrona Cove earn the money that will keep Steve Jackson Senior out of our hair! Talk to you later, honey. Give me a call the minute you get in, and I’ll update you on everything Steve and I have planned. I like your guy, Liss. I like him a lot.”
“He is not my guy!” she shouted, nearly loud enough for her father to have heard her in his trailer halfway up the hillside, almost a mile away. “I don’t want a guy,” she mumbled, unclenching her fists. “I don’t need a guy. I need … sleep.”
Quickly, she unplugged the phone, undressed, brushed her teeth and crawled into her walk-around queen-sized berth. Maybe if she slept, she’d stop thinking about Steve, about what had happened, and about what wasn’t going to happen in the future.
She had just dropped off, soothed by the gentle hiss of rain on the water, when something began bumping along the hull of the boat.
“Go away,” she told it, but it continued to bump and pound. It would stop for a few minutes, then start up again. Each time, it seemed to be just a little farther away, but it wasn’t going away fast enough to suit her. Obviously, a piece of driftwood caught by the tide had decided to snuggle up to her hull and it would stay there until she went out and got rid of it.
Grumbling with frustration and weariness, she pulled on her slicker over the T-shirt she slept in, stuck a rain hat on her messy hair and stomped on deck, grabbing a boat hook from its rack.
The wet deck felt cold under her bare feet as she made her way toward the bow, listening for the thump of the log. She only hoped she could reach it with the hook when she found it. Leaning over the rail, she checked for it, and drew in a sharp breath.
“Steve! What in the world are you doing down there?”
He lay over the bow of his boat, paddling with his hands. It was his boat that had been bumping into hers.
He looked up, his hair darkened with moisture, his mouth a grim, taut line and his eyes ablaze with temper. “F-freezing my ass off,” he said, his teeth chattering so hard she could hardly make out his words. “T-trying to get this b-boat to the d-dinghy dock. Engine broke down.” Obviously, the main boat dock was too high for even a tall man like him to climb out on, especially given his weakened condition.
Doggedly, he took two more strokes with his hands then grabbed one of her fenders, pulling himself along. Trying to make sense of it all, Lissa asked, “Where are your oars?”
“One broke. Tried to paddle. Lost that one. F-fell overboard trying to g-g-grab it.” His face was dead white, his eyes looked haunted, dark, as if he’d had about as much sleep as she had over the past couple of nights.
“Here,” she said, finally showing a little sense. She thrust the boat hook at him. “Grab on. I’ll tow you to the stern. You can get out there.”
She could see how cold he was by the whiteness of his hands, the weakness of his grip and the way his teeth continued to clack together. Even in July, thanks to the constant churning of Seymour Rapids, it was too cold to be in the ocean for more than a minute or two. And with the rain and the fog, no wonder he was shivering so furiously. He had to be chilled to the bone. She walked his boat to the low stern of hers, where she stepped down and helped him scramble out.
As he got to his feet, he swayed, caught her shoulder, and she stared at him in concern, steadying him with her arms around him. “Go inside,” she said, giving him a gentle shove toward the door of the cabin. “I’ll take care of your boat.”
Fear made her hands clumsy as she secured his runabout. The same fear sent her diving into the cabin, down the companionway. Steve was still standing there in jeans and a thin shirt so wet it clung to his body. Great, wracking shivers shook him.
“Here,” she said, “into the shower.” She shucked her slicker and dragged him through the door of the head, closed it and swept the curtain around to keep the cabinets dry. She turned on the hot water, uncaring that she and Steve were both still clothed. He was completely soaked anyway, and she was only slightly less wet from having manhandled him out of the boat.
Unhooking the handheld showerhead, she sprayed warm water over his soaked hair, letting it splash down over his shoulders and back. Moments later, she eased him down to sit on the lid of the toilet. She hooked the shower back up on its stand as hot water and steam filled the small cubicle.
Crouching, she pulled off Steve’s shoes, peeled off his socks and rubbed his icy feet in her hands.
His teeth continued to chatter.
“How long were you out there?” she demanded, shoving both his feet into the two inches of water in the bottom of the shower stall, and reapplying the hot water to his head, hoping he’d start warming up soon.
“S-s-since daybreak. Couldn’t sleep. You weren’t here. N-nothing else t-to do.”
She didn’t want to hear that. Didn’t want to discuss it. “You went out without a jacket?”
“The weather was gr-great.”
She unbuttoned his shirt and dragged it off him, rubbing his back and shoulders with a washcloth while directing the water with the other. “And you didn’t head in the minute it started to deteriorate?”
“T-t-tried. Engine qu-quit.”
“Stand up and pull down your pants.”
He tried to laugh though clattering teeth. “Y-you gonna spank me, Mom?”
“Oh, shut up,” she snapped, unfastening his belt, then his zipper when his shaking hands were unable to cope. She skinned him out of his jeans and underwear, trying hard to pretend she was a nurse. As a pretense, it simply didn’t work.
Opening the door, she led him out and spun him around, rubbing his back briskly with the towel, reaching up to scrub at his hair just as vigorously. Still he shivered. Still his skin felt cold to the touch despite the hot water and friction. What should she do? What was the first-aid treatment for hypothermia?
Body warmth. Hot liquids, sugars.
She dragged him to her stateroom and flipped back the sheet and thin blanket she used at this time of year. “Get in,” she said, gesturing to her berth.
He turned and leered at her. “You’re inviting me into your bed?” He actually managed a grin as he reached for her. “You really do something for a w-w-wet T-shirt, by the way.”
“Into bed, Jackson. You’re hypothermic. One of the symptoms is irrational behavior. You’re in no shape for what you’re thinking about. You need warmth.” Oh, for Pete’s sake! She shouldn’t have to tell all this to a deep-sea diver with Antarctic experience! Maybe stupidity went along with irrational behavior. Yes. She was sure it did.
“B-bed with y-you would d-do it,” he said.
She shoved him down, flipped the covers over him and reached under the sheet for the damp towel, which he relinquished by lifting his hips. She jerked the towel out quickly and rummaged in a locker for the down comforter she used in the winter.
With that over him, tucked in tightly, she rushed to the stove and put on the kettle to make hot chocolate. While the kettle took its own sweet time boiling, she kept glancing over her shoulder through the doorway at Steve. He was still shivering. His teeth still clattered together. The water finally started bubbling, and she tossed an envelope of hot chocolate powder into a cup, stirred in the water and carried it to him.
“Sit up,” she said. “Drink this.”
His teeth jittered against the cup, but he downed most of it before thrusting it away. He lay back, vibrating her berth with the violence of his shivering. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark on his pale face. His lips looked bloodless.
“Oh, lord!” Lissa whispered, setting the cup aside.
He was right. Her getting into bed with him would do it, would help warm him. She knew there simply was no choice. In one motion, she tore off her soggy T-shirt, slid under the covers with him and wrapped herself around him.
He shuddered, murmured something, and his arms came tightly around her.
She rubbed his back briskly until her arms ached and fell still from exhaustion.
“Tell me that story,” he said, and she was glad to know his teeth had stopped chattering. “The one about the princess.”
“She was in love with a handsome prince,” Lissa said, desperately in need of something to keep her mind off the naked male flesh pressed against hers. “A dragon destroyed her castle and carried off her prince.”
“Haven’t you got that backwards?”
“Nope. The princess’s belongings were all burned up except for a paper bag. She put that on and went out, intending to fight the dragon and rescue the prance.”
“Hah! I knew y-y-you had it b-b-backwards.”
“I did not. She set out to steal the prince back from the dragon, but it was a big, strong, dragon, too big and too strong for her.”
“Ah, so the prince got to do the dragon slaying after all,” he said, satisfaction clear in his tone.
Lissa laughed. “Don’t bet on it. This is one tough princess we’re talking about here. The prince was locked up in a cage in the dragon’s lair. The princess knew she couldn’t overcome the dragon physically, so she outsmarted him by sweet-talking him into doing just what she wanted. He was a terrible show-off, so he wore himself out trying to prove to her what a fierce dragon he was. When the dragon finally collapsed in a heap, she calmly walked into his cave and rescued the prince.”
“And they all lived happily ever after?” he said, and yawned prodigiously.
“Not exactly. The prince, who was a jerk, took one look at her and said he didn’t want a princess whose hair was a mess and whose skin was all dirty, and who was wearing nothing but a paper bag. So she told him off and walked out. She lived happily ever after and I have no idea what happened to the prince.”
Lissa waited for Steve to make a comment. The only sound was a soft, gentle snore. With a smile, she continued to hold him, keeping him warm, glad she had rescued him, and equally glad he hadn’t told her she was a mess and that he didn’t want a sopping wet princess in a slicker and a rain hat and not much else.
He was a much nicer prince than the one Robert Munsch had written about. In a few moments, she felt sleep stealing over her, and thought she was dreaming a particularly graphic dream, until she realized something had wakened her, something undeniably hard and hot pressing against her thigh, and Steve’s breath fanning her temple as he whispered her name.
“Lissa …”
“What …?” She tried to snuggle closer.
He tried to push her off. “God, Lissa, wake up. Listen to me. You’d better get out of this bed. Now.” He held her in a half-sitting position, above him, his eyes glazed, his breath rapid. “Please, Lissa. Go. Now.”
She was silent, looking into his beseeching eyes. She tried to draw an even breath, but she couldn’t, not with her body on fire, “I don’t … know if I can,” she whispered. Now she was the one who trembled. “I don’t think I want to.”
He groaned and slid his hands into her hair, his fingers tangling in her untidy curls, but she didn’t care if he saw her looking a mess.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” she said, leaning over him, kissing him, holding his face between her hands. “I want you, Steve.”
“Lissa …” His voice shook, rumbling deep in his chest. His face took on a look almost of pain, but his gaze burned into hers as if seeking further reassurance.
“Kiss me,” she said, and he did, then all she was aware of was the heat of his mouth on hers, the sexy, insistent thrust of his tongue, the seduction of it. She answered his demands, spreading herself atop him when he pulled her up over his chest. His hands cupped her buttocks, pressing her to him. Her blood pounded through her veins as need rose higher and higher.
“Lissa …” he groaned and she parted her legs, sliding them down the outsides of his thighs. His rigid erection pressed against her belly and she moved in a slow, steady rhythm that his hips repeated while his mouth continued to trace every inch of her face.
She strained to get closer, closer, no longer aware of anything but Steve, the scent of him, the feel of him, the taste of his skin and the rasping of his breath.
He slid her up his body until his mouth found her breasts, sucking while her back arched and her fingers raked his shoulders, caressed his cheeks, filtered through his hair. At last, at last, she brushed that tumbled lock off his forehead, tenderness and love pulsing through every inch of her.
He pushed the comforter back, gripping her body with his glorious, large warm hands. Holding her close, he rolled over so that he was atop her. He captured her legs with his, squeezing them together. She murmured a plea, aching to open to him, to accept him.
“Not yet,” he whispered. “Don’t rush this, sweetheart. It’s too good to hurry.”
As his touch stroked upwards, caressing the undersides of her breasts, her nipples hardened again, ached. His breath fanning over them did nothing to ease the sweet pain. Only his mouth could do that, but he denied her the relief she sought, finding other parts of her whose sensitivity amazed her. Everywhere he touched her, kissed her, she burned and ached and throbbed until her whole body was one mass of need, need that swirled and built and finally focused low in her belly, where she felt empty, like never before, too empty.
She wanted … She needed … He must … Her soft moans became demands. Her body arch
ed. She heard herself begging for his mouth, his lips, his tongue, for all the pleasures his touch promised.
And something deeper, some need, to be filled by him …
Heat scorched her body from within as the touch of his hands seared her skin. He slid off her, lying close by her side, his light stroking of her abdomen creating a fire that grew and grew until it threatened to incinerate her where she lay. He sat up and traced the shape of her body with his fingertips. His touch traveled down one leg to the tips of her toes.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “I’ve dreamed of doing this. Let me enjoy you. Let yourself enjoy me.”
His sensual assault continued, as his fingertips walked lightly up between her breasts, over her throat, her ears, filtering through the thickness of her hair, massaging her scalp, then working their way down again. He spread his flat, hard palms over her, pressing her breasts together, his thumbs expertly massaging her nipples. His hands moved lower, spanning her waist, his fingers sliding under her hipbones, lifting her as his mouth traveled down her legs to her knees, parting them. Hot breath fanned up her thighs, then across the lower section of her belly as he knelt over her, surprising, teasing, tantalizing her with each kiss.
His ministrations sent wave after wave of incomparable sensation coursing through her, leaving her teetering on the verge of a shattering climax.
He touched her intimately with his fingers, parting her moist folds, and she arched into his caress. “Please, please,” she said, determined to hold back, not to let this be like last time. “I need you. I—”
She gasped as he bent and kissed her there, long and deep until she felt herself begin to shatter.
“I want … you … inside … me,” she gasped, pulling his head up and away from her. She wrapped her hand around his hardness, feeling its heat, the pulsing of his need clearly matching her own.
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