by Q. Zayne
I sobbed so hard my whole body shook. As I feared, I couldn’t hear a predator approaching.
“Excuse me, forgive me for interrupting. I’m Gabe. This is my island. Welcome. I wonder if you need any help.” The low, cultured voice shocked me into silence.
The hitching sobs wracking me stopped. My humiliation was complete. Wrecked and now found bawling like a baby by the man who owned the island. Fuck me. He sounded educated and charming. I’d grown up in the company of intelligent men, enjoyed bantering and matching wits with Dad’s friends. Maybe things would be okay. He’d have a way to communicate with the mainland. Maybe I could get supplies and equipment dropped and repair my boat. Hope surged. I wiped my face with the bottom of my T-shirt. It was still wet and didn’t help much. I scrambled to my feet and faced my rescuer.
The stranger was so tall and so close I craned my neck to see him.
He stepped back. Golden light from the dying day hit him dead on.
“Oh!” I covered my mouth. He looked like an ad for menswear for a super expensive magazine, or someone you’d see on the cover of an adventure novel: strong, tanned face, crinkles around the eyes — outrageous eyes the color of the sea when it’s that unbelievable blue-green that looks like it goes on right to the bottom where the treasure ships wait.
His thick beard made him timeless, like a ship’s captain from another century. The pure masculinity of it drew my eyes, and it seduced me into imagining his mouth and chin naked, the way a striptease artist plays on what’s hidden more than on what’s revealed.
Damn, he looked fine. All big, muscular shoulder, open-collared linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up over cords of arm muscle, pale jeans rolled up on strong, hairy calves. And clinging, those worn-to-hell perfect jeans gripped his meaty thighs, big package and the muscular cuts on his hips that framed his happy trail. Damn. The man was porno on feet.
I closed my mouth. Glanced away. Had to be a hallucination. Glanced back. Still there. Still hot.
Yes, he looked as old as my father with dark hair sporting silver streaks and silver curls in his chest hair. He could be any age from 35 to 60 or so. He had that timeless presence, total male confidence. I stood there staring like a mouse mesmerized by a snake.
“I won’t bite,” he whispered. “Allow me to offer you some hospitality.” He handed me a beach towel I hadn’t noticed in my distraction by his other assets.
He turned his back. “When you’re dry, you’re welcome to my shirt. Not much point getting dry and putting on wet things.” His deep voice caressed me.
This was getting out of hand. I felt like I’d dropped into one of those movies shown only on TV stations for women.
Of course he’d give me his shirt warm from his body and stand there in reach of my hands naked except for those jeans that showed off every contour of his smoking hot body below the waist. This was not fair. This was insane. And whatever happened, I’d never tell Dad. I blushed.
I slid off the too-big wet shorts, yanked off my T-shirt, and buffed myself dry with his big, thick, warm beach towel. Damn, that felt good. I wrapped the towel around my body, hoping it disguised my hard as hell nipples jutting right at him. I was a good girl. The shipwreck addled my mind. As soon as he got away from me I’d be fine, I’d be normal and stop thinking about having no-strings sex with a strange older man on his island.
“Ready for the shirt?”
“Yes.” I watched all that rippling muscle as he removed it. I caught his expert catch.
Warm from his body. I pressed the soft linen to my face before I could stop myself. So sue me. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen up close. And his shirt smelled like a forest and that intoxicating musk of a clean man’s fresh sweat. Earthy as hell and so sexy. And unlike other muscle studs I’d seen on beaches near home, he didn’t wax to remove his body hair and didn’t look like he spent hours in front of a mirror. No signs of muscle implants, pimply steroid-abuse, makeup or cosmetic surgery.
I slipped into the shirt. It felt so good on my skin and enveloped me in his fresh scent. It came to below my knees. I buttoned it, flapped my arms. I looked like an albino bat. I giggled. I draped the towel over my shoulders to conceal my nipple missiles.
Such a gentleman. He still stood there with his back turned. I admired those dips right below the low-slung waistband of his jeans. Sweet. Lick-able man candy. God, I was such a sailer.
“Okay, I’m dressed.”
He turned around, flashed me his white, even teeth.
Swoon.
“You look much more comfortable.”
“Yes, much better, thanks.” I scuffed at the sand.
“How did you get here?”
“Shipwreck.” I gestured back at the beach.
“Shipwreck?” His brows rose, making waves across his forehead.
I bet he was a sailor. He looked like a man of the sea, the deep squint lines, those magical eyes. That’s the color a merman’s eyes would be.
“Yes. The storm crashed my sailboat.”
“I’m so sorry. Are you all right? Are there any others?”
“Yes. No harm done. Except to The Chameleon. My boat.” I looked around, noticing how alone we were. It seemed a bad move to admit I was by myself, but a lie wouldn’t be much use. He might want to go find them, or send other people to find any fictional survivors. “There’s no one but me.” I spread my hands.
“Were there — casualties?”
“No, I mean, I’m sailing alone. So it’s just me and my boat.” I blinked, every time I pictured The Chameleon crashed on the rocks, tears threatened.
“Terrible about your boat.” He looked genuinely sympathetic. “May I ask why you’re sailing alone, and from where? To where?”
He frowned, looking like he wanted to give me the lecture I’d heard at every port about how dangerous this was. I’d stopped admitting to being alone when I put into port, to avoid unwanted offers of male companionship, the predictable bitter accusations that I had to be a dyke, and the well-meaning but condescending lectures about the dangers I faced. Tell me something I don’t know. I felt safer on the sea than in port. The odds of being raped at sea were far lower than the odds of being raped on an American college campus. Sometimes I’d been tempted to tell the lecturers that I’d made it halfway around the world with my virginity intact, but I knew better than to add any fuel to their fantasies. And I didn’t want that little fact in the newspapers!
“I launched from Santa Cruz, California and I’m heading back.”
“Oh, so you’re on your return trip.”
“No, I’m sailing around the world.”
His eyes widened. He scanned me from my toes to the top of my head.
“Wow. That’s ambitious.”
A sigh escaped me. So glad he didn’t want to tell me what to do with my life and judge me. I couldn’t have stood that. I sagged on my feet, weaving, despite my attempts to keep my posture erect.
“You’ve had an ordeal. Let’s go back to the house. A meal and a warm night’s sleep will help you mend. We can talk more tomorrow.”
I blinked at him. I’d avoided accepting hospitality from strangers. Travel books advised against it, due to the risks of being robbed or raped — or in some locations, losing an organ or being abducted by sex traffickers. But I was done in. Short of asking for the use of his beach towel so I could sleep in the jungle on the mud in easy tasting reach of any venomous or hungry creatures, I didn’t see any options.
“Okay,” I whispered. A chill went up the nape of my neck. I didn’t like this.
“Great!” he said, beaming, as though I was doing him a favor, making his day by crashing into his island and accepting his hospitality.
Maybe he was lonely.
A Special Doctor's Exam
Not sure what I expected as I followed the gentleman island-owner through the jungle. He could be some eccentric with a fishing shack in the middle of nowhere or one of those greedy billionaires exposed when news about all his tax-
dodging shell corporations hit. Maybe that’s why he was holed up in some damned-near uncharted part of the seas. He had courtly manners, though. He stopped to hold vines and snappy branches out of my way. From some guys those gestures would have seemed condescending, or just, ‘here, Pussy, I can’t wait to get into your panties,’ but from him, every smile and move seemed caring. He came across like he was just some pleasant, rich-as-hell guy who liked to be a good host and was pleased out of his boxer briefs to have company.
I did my best to smooth my crazed hair as I walked behind him. It got to ass-length and cutting it hadn’t been a priority. Snarled by the storm, I looked like something straight out of a Gothic, one of those books with a girl running from a dark mansion that were about all my Mom left me. Was I the stranded governess whose ship was wrecked by greedy scavengers or the crazy lady escaped from an attic? I felt more like the latter as I watched my host’s ass and concluded there were no boxer briefs under those threadbare jeans. The man definitely went commando.
Gabe held thorn-covered canes out of my way, his secret smile deep in his beard making his eyes glow. I ducked under the heavy spray of windblown baby pink roses the storm must have knocked from their trellis. It seemed ridiculously romantic. I felt like a new bride being taken to see my new home by my stranger husband. Was this how it felt to be a mail order bride? Upon arrival, everything in your life was at the whim of a man who owned you. No one knew where I was. The comparison cut close. I was about to spend the night with this man.
But damn, if I had to sleep with a stranger, he could hardly be more fine.
My cheeks felt super warm as I walked at his side. I had never in my life felt more like a 19 year-old virgin.
The trail curved and the place transformed from pure jungle into a landscaped park. Flower gardens, vegetables and fruit trees growing in profusion guarded by funny, well-dressed scarecrows. A lovely patio had inviting wrought iron furniture ready for an upper-crust tea party or a movie scene of a European outdoor cafe.
The house held dominion over the grounds, reaching for the clouds as though a plantation architect from the old south and Gaudy had a love child. My senses couldn’t entirely parse the profusion of wrap-around porches on each story, the widows walks, cupolas and spires. Surely the place had more than one ghost. I wasn’t ready to go in there. I wished the man would take my hand. My mind delivered me back to my first haunted house. I peed myself.
I blushed and turned away, pretending to admire lush tropical flowers that looked like one of those sexy Georgia O’Keeffe paintings come to life. Damn, was everything on this island out to make me horny?
We walked through the patio. I looked through the French doors and came to a dead stop. A troupe of smiling, attractive girls around my age filled an enormous kitchen, all of them engaged in cooking, baking and arranging food. A lovely white-haired woman with a full figure directed it all. It looked like a scene out of an old family movie from my parents’ era. The girls wore pastel dresses with fitted bodices, flared skirts and crinolines. Crinolines. I imagined if I opened the door I’d hear the soundtrack and see the choreographer and cameraman. Perhaps the director was offset beating off to the perfection of his fantasy. Someone had brought to life an outrageous flashback of young womanhood in the what, 1940s? 50s? Right down to the intense scarlet lipstick and dark-lined eyes reminiscent of some of the most enduring beauties of the silver screen. Not one woman in that enormous kitchen had short hair. Time travel. Maybe that was it. Or I’d cracked my head when The Chameleon wrecked and lost my mind.
“That’s Renee,” Gabe said in a soft voice. “She manages the kitchen. She’s a genius at feeding us all.”
The older woman smiled and waved. Her smile gave me confidence. I wasn’t alone with an eccentric billionaire after all. I eyed the faces of the younger women. They looked so happy. Not an effect of the retro makeup. They appeared radiant, glowing with joy. Had I ever felt like that? Except recently, alone on the sea? And many years ago, falling asleep in Dad’s arms, before I hit puberty and he wouldn’t let me sleep with him anymore. Maybe they were all on designer drugs.
My stomach rumbled. When had I last eaten?
His smile deepened. “I’ll have food sent up to your room. You can go right up and get some rest. You’ve been through an ordeal.”
The path reached the front of the mansion. The columns made the whole thing even more imposing. My mind couldn’t make sense of all the different influences. Had this been the hideout of some dictator or a mafia boss? This was a world I couldn’t wrap my thoughts around. I was so far out of my element, I didn’t know what to think. I mourned The Chameleon. As intrigued as I was by the stranger, I wanted to be on her familiar deck heading back out to sea. I couldn’t afford to lose much time or I’d lose my shot at the record.
“Don’t worry about a thing. You’re safe here. You can go to your room and lock the door. Soak in the hot tub, call for a masseuse, and after you’ve had time to clean up, our doctor will take a look at you. Eustace is a skilled physician and a personal friend. You’ll be in good hands. Relax. By the way, my name is Gabe. You’ll find a tasseled bell pull in the room. If you want anything at all, at any time, my staff will see to your requests.”
He took the stairs with the light, bouncy steps of a boy and opened the mansion’s massive doors for me.
Those huge doors opening gave me a chill.
I stepped forward, craned my neck to see the interior, and stepped inside. I had the odd urge to turn around and run.
The place reassured me, though. White walls, island-style rattan furniture with cheerful cushions in tropical prints, lovely old black and white nude photos gracing the biggest, most elegant staircase I’d ever seen.
A tall, handsome Black man dressed in a colorful shirt and low-waisted drawstring pants approached us. Astonishing that his pants stayed up on his narrow hips, though his big basket no doubt helped. His spear-printed shirt flapped open as he moved showing off a glorious washboard stomach that I wanted to play like a xylophone. Wow. What a body. He smiled right at me and I waved. I felt like an idiot. At least I managed not to giggle. I couldn’t help flipping my hair. I wanted to slap my wrist.
“Lucas, please take our guest to her room.”
Weird. He made it sound like I was expected. The man smiled and his radiant smile lit me like the sun. His even features and dark eyes appeared guileless and as handsome as Gabe. Was everyone on this island beautiful?
“Hi,” my voice came out a whisper.
“Before we part, what is your name?”
“Angie.”
“Like an angel.”
“You, too.”
His brow creased, giving his gorgeous face a storm-cloud look. He sighed.
“No getting around it. The parents named me for the angel Gabriel, yes. Barely ever saw them, but they had to saddle me with their fantasy. Perhaps they hoped I’d fulfill a dream of goodness to make up for everything evil they did.” He turned without warning and stalked away.
A shiver went down my spine and left me with an odd sensation at the base of my tail bone. He said I was safe here, but was that true? ‘The parents’ seemed a distancing term. He appeared to be a rich man, but not a happy one.
“Don’t worry about Gabe,” Lucas said in his deep, melodious voice. “He’s moody. Always has been. We go way back. He got worse when his bride was killed.”
“How horrible.” Weird, but somehow knowing Gabe suffered such a tragedy made him less frightening. And I found Lucas’ deep voice comforting.
I realized, with an unpleasant shock at my ignorance, that Lucas wasn’t a servant. He headed up the majestic staircase as though he had no doubt I’d accompany him. So I did. What else could I do? I stole glances at the gleaming bodies of naked women in the caressing shadows of the black and white photos, enjoying the sculptural quality of light on their curves. No starved girls here. The photos had a timeless quality, yet they looked familiar. I suspected I recognized them, but I couldn�
�t call to mind the famous man’s unusual name. Another flashback to the 40s? Perhaps Gabe was older than I thought. I didn’t care. He was still hot. He had a magnetism that threw me.
I glanced at Lucas’ big, bare toes. OMG, his feet were huge. Weren’t fingers and toes supposed to give away the size of a man’s snake? That was probably a myth. I hoped imagining he had a big one wasn’t racist. What was with me? I didn’t usually go around undressing guys in my mind. Maybe it was all the time at sea. I ignored being lonely, but I was human. No wonder there was so much mermaid lore. Hormones and solitude in a boat were a heady mix.
He opened a door for me, the sun loving his arm muscles and making it clear that he didn’t wear underwear, either. Maybe I died and the afterlife was full of hunks.
I hesitated. Was I walking into a trap, or a fairy tale? It was the weirdest thing, I felt so comfortable with Lucas, more so than with Gabe. I couldn’t imagine that he’d touch me in a way I wouldn’t want. Maybe I was naive. And maybe I wanted him to touch me.
I stepped into the room, and stopped, shocked at the room’s opulence and my lusty thoughts. I stood open-mouthed on the lush Persian rug with its intricate mandala pattern. The view of the sea out huge picture windows and a French door that led onto a balcony captivated me. I felt more at home already. This was the longest I’d been on land in days and the absence of motion, the different sounds, the ocean’s whispering so far in the distance when I’d spent the trip living in her voice.
“Everything feels strange.” I hesitated to say it out loud, but I needed to talk.
“This room seems to have that effect on many of Gabe’s guests.”
“Do you get shipwreck survivors often?” The question came out with a strange bitter edge. God, was I jealous that Gabe had other visitors? What did I think, I was the first girl he ever brought here, a man that age? I was a virgin, but no guy that old could be. And he’d lost his bride. Pair that with the trellis of baby pink roses and the magical time travel movie kitchen and the romanticism went way over the top.
