Gentle Pirate (7 page)

In the light of day, the vandalism didn't look quite so bad as it had the previous evening. Then Kirsten realized that was because Simon had been busy. The furniture had been righted, books replaced, the broken lamp removed. She moved through the living room and came to a halt in the doorway of the small, sunny kitchen.

"Good morning, honey. How did you sleep?" Simon demanded cheerfully as he pawed through a drawer with his right hand. "Where do you keep the spatula?" Kirsten noticed he had replaced the two drawers that had been completely removed and emptied the previous evening.

She considered a moment. "Try that one, near the stove." Then she continued on into the little room. "On second thought, forget it. This is my kitchen and I'll do the cooking. Even if the suests are uninvited!"

"I was hoping you'd volunteer," he grinned, not the least abashed. "I've got the coffee going, though. Does that win me a gold star?"

Kirsten gave him a brief appraisal as he lounged his solid bulk against the refrigerator. Except for the shadow of a morning beard. Simon Kendrick appeared to be in discustinely stood shane. Not at all as if he had spent the night on a too-short couch. Perhaps he was accustomed to spending nights in places other than his own bed, she thought sarcastically. He was still wearing the slacks from last evening but the coat had been discarded and one sleeve of the white shirt rolled to the elbow in preparation for kitchen duties. The silver hook extended with a quiet authority from the other sleeve. He didn't seem to be so concerned with keeping it out of sight this morning, Kirsten realized fleetingly, and briefly wondered why. It was as if he had reached the conclusion that it didn't bother her.

"After that stunt last night, I'm not sure anything could get you a gold star. Maybe a medal of honor for managing to find the coffee making? in this mess, but not the gold star!" she announced decisively.

"I'll take a good-morn
^;
ng kiss, instead," he said softly, and before she knew what was happening he detached himself from the refrigerator and. taking one large stride forward, folded her into his huge embrace. Kirsten felt like a butterfly being trapped in a net.

"No!" she managed to get out and then his mouth was covering hers in a kiss that began as a huge, gentle, questing thing but abruptly exploded into a persuasive, sensuous, passionate demand unlike anything she had ever known. For a long moment Kirsten felt quite stifled with astonishment and then she begun to lose herself in Simon's arms. Her lips were irresistibly forced apart until the warmth of his mouth made her moan slightly. With a floundering, drowning feeling she made an effort to push him away her hands ___ against his massive chest. He seemed totally unaware of her efforts, merely pulling her closer as if he would taste all of her there in the morning sunlight. Kirsten wasn't even conscious of the moment when her arms gave up the struggle and wrapped themselves around his waist.

Her response seamed to mirror a deeper need in him and even as she felt herself molded more closely against the toughness that was Simon, the quality of his kiss deepened yet again in a dizzying plunging way that was frightening. The fear brought her back to reality.

"Simon, no! Please let me go!" she begged as his lips freed her mouth to attend to her throat.

"Don't ask me to stop, Kirsten," he whispered in a low, husky voice which seemed to come from deep in his chest. "I want you so badly…"

"You want me!" she snarled, suddenly pulling her hands back to place them flat against his chest again. "That's supposed to be enough, is it? The fact that you want me? Well, it isn't! Not nearly enough!" Kirsten pushed with all her strength and couldn't budge him. But she had his attention now. Simon lifted his head to gaze down into her angry face and she saw some of the passion fade from the hazel eyes to be replaced by a softer expression.

"Why are you so afraid? I promise I'll make you want me, too, It won't be all one-sided, honey." He ignored her pushing hands as if they weren't there, his tones deliberately soothing, which further irritated Kirsten. "You can relax and enjoy the relationship. I would never hurt you."

"Don't talk to me about 'relationships'! I'm not in the mood for the kind of relationship you have in mind and I never will be! When I fall in love it will be with a kind, gentle,
small
man who can't pick me up with one hand! One who won't try to rush me into a whirlwind 'relationship'! Is that understood?" She met his steady look determinedly, wishing desperately she hadn't just used the word love and willing him to ignore that phrase.

"Let me get all this straight," he said carefully, but not angrily. Nor did he release Kirsten while he ran through his logic. "You aren't interested in a relationship based only on, let's call it 'physical need,' shall we? And you want a man your own size." The hard lines around his mouth relaxed in a tiny smile. Kirsten refused to return it.

"Five foot four is a very respectable height," she gritted.

"It's just right. For you," he agreed readily.

"My neck is getting sore trying to talk to you now," she pointed out. Instantly his right hand moved up to start massaging that portion of her anatomy and Kirsten wished she had kept her mouth shut. She still wasn't free.

"The basic idea," she said very distinctly, "is that I prefer men who don't try and use their superior physical strength to get their way."

"And you want one who's passionately in love with you, don't forget," he added, his hand moving strongly against her neck. The hazel eyes studied every square centimeter of her taut expression.

"Yes!" Was that really so much to ask? she wondered.

"Would you believe me if I said I meet at least one of the conditions? That of being in love?" His words were low, sensuous.

"Of course not! You barely know me!" Kirsten replied sturdily.

"Ummm. So I guess I can forget that approach for a while, right? There's not a whole lot I can do about my size," he continued musingly.

"True." She pounced on that.

"I could promise not to haul you around with one hand. But one hand is all I have," he noted, a gleam entering the stern gaze. A gleam that was instantly replaced with a curious, questioning look. "Does the hand, or rather, lack thereof, bother you, Kirsten?" he asked with such totally unexpected vulnerability that she answered him immediately, honestly, without pausing to think.

"No, of course not! What bothers me is what you do with the one you have!" she grumbled and was rewarded with a pleased smile. Right away Kirsten acknowledged to herself that she had just made a bad mistake. It would have been expedient to have used Simon's one-handedness as an excuse. She felt like an idiot for having been trapped into such a quick answer, but then was forced to admit that she would never have been able to bring herself to use it against him. Lying had always been an exceptionally difficult skill for Kirsten and the clear eyes reflected that.

"Now that's settled," he remarked, leaving her to wonder what, exactly, had been settled. "I have to tell you I'm in a hell of a hurry for you, Kirsten, honey. I'm too old to waste time going through all the crazy, teasing, courting rituals and you're not getting any younger, yourself…"

"Thank you very much!" she snapped, stung.

"It's the truth, isn't it? You're what? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? And I'm thirty-seven. Why should we play games? That's for kids like Williamson or for someone like Liz Wilford…"

"She's not that much younger than I am!" Kirsten protested, feeling quite put upon now. Her gray eyes narrowed as Simon roared with outright laughter. His laughter was a very huge thing, well fitted to the rest of him.

"You see how poor I am at the business of wooing!" he remarked when he had himself under control again.

"Simon," she began furiously, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

For an instant Kirsten was paralyzed. Good lord! What was she going to do? How could she ever explain Simon's presence to Ben or anyone else?

Simon took one look at her stunned face and firmly set her aside. Before she could stop him he was at the door. Kirsten nearly collapsed with relief when the mailman handed him a package and disappeared.

"See? Nothing to get flustered about," he announced brightly, covering the distance to the kitchen in a few large steps. Kirsten took the package he thrust at her and numbly began fumbling with the wrapper.

"Even if it had been someone you know, what's the harm? Your friends will have to find out about me sooner or later," he continued with satisfaction, watching Kirsten as she worked on the package.

"There is nothing for anyone to find out," she insisted feelingly and then glanced again at the outside wrapper.

The original address had sent it to the town where she had lived as Mrs. Jim Talbot for such a short period of time. The block letters had been scratched out and a new hand had sent it to her father's address in California. That, too, had been partially obliterated and the last direction was in her father's neat handwriting. He was the only one who knew her current whereabouts, she reflected.

With a sense of foreboding, Kirsten finished tearing off the brown paper and examined the shoebox inside. She was aware of Simon's gaze over her shoulder as she lifted the cover and stared at the contents.

Inside the box were a medal (from Vietnam, she knew), a Zippo lighter, and an envelope with her name on it. "Why in the world would anyone send me Jim's things?" Kirsten said disbelievingly.

"These are probably some of what are usually called the 'effects of the deceased,' " Simon remarked, reaching into the box to lift out the medal. "Someone must have found them and decided you should have them." He fingered the decoration curiously. "Purple Heart? Your husband was in Vietnam?"

Kirsten nodded. "Long before I met him. I don't even know what sort of wound he received. Whatever it was, he recovered."

"What service?"

"The Marines," she told him bitterly. "What else?"

"Why do you say it that way?" Simon demanded, a strange glint in his eye that Kirsten recognized instantly.

"Oh, God! Not another one!" she groaned. "I should have guessed. What rank?" she added despairingly.

"Captain," he said, sounding somewhat apologetic. As well he should be, Kirsten told herself.

"It figures. Here, give me that," she said crisply, reaching for the medal. "Let's get something to eat. I'm starving." That was a lie, but she was desperate to change the conversation.

"Aren't you going to read the letter?" Simon was already moving his large hand back into the box before she could move it out of the way.

"Nope. If you want to know what I'm going to do with these things, I'll show you!" Putting the lid back on the shoebox after snatching the letter from him, she dumped the whole thing into the kitchen garbage.

"Hey, wait a minute! What about his folks? Maybe they'd appreciate having that stuff," Simon protested.

"As far as I know, Jim had no living relatives. What do you want for breakfast?" Kirsten opened a cupboard door and pulled out the skillet. "Omelets okay?" Perhaps food would distract him!

"Fine," he replied absently, his gaze on the garbage bag in the corner. "Maybe you ought to at least read the letter…"

"What is this? The old Marine esprit de corps coming to the fore? I will make one final pronouncement on the subject of Jim Talbot and that's it!" Kirsten turned away from the stove to face Simon momentarily, hands on hips. "He was a first-class bastard. Within a week of my marriage to him I knew I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. My only regret is that it took me almost two full months to work up the courage to leave him. But, then, he made it easy at the last. I was in the process of filing for divorce when he was killed in a car accident. The night I left I determined never to see the man again. As it turned out I did see him one more time. My lawyer contacted me when he was killed and I identified the body. I paid off the lawyer and left town. Fortunately I had enough to live on until this job with Silco came along. And that, Simon Kendrick, is that. Clear?"

"Very," he agreed dryly, leaning casually against the refrigerator again and gazing down blandly into her angry, upturned face. "I'm sorry, though, Kirsten, but I can't let it rest there. Why did you hate the man so much? In fact, why did you marry him in the first place?"

"None of your damn business!"

"Honey, everything about you is my business." Without another word he stepped over to the garbage can and retrieved the letter from the box.

"Read it," he said softly, handing it to her.

Kirsten shook her head mutinously, refusing to take it from him.

"Take it, Kirsten. I want all the ghosts put to rest." It was a command, clear and simple. And she wasn't going to obey it for the world.

"Kirsten, I never bluff. That means I never give orders I can't enforce. Don't make me force you."

"That's exactly what you're trying to do!" she ground out. "I won't be bullied! You Marines are all alike and I've had it with the lot of you! Get out of my kitchen and out of my apartment. Now!" Kirsten hoisted the skillet threateningly and was immediately sorry as Simon's right hand flashed out. disarming her instantly.

"Stop behaving like a child," he ordered, setting the pan down firmly on the counter and pushing the letter into her numb hand. "Open it," he grated, standing over her in a menacing manner that made her sorry she hadn't struck him while she'd had the chance. But then again, with his thick skin the skillet probably would only have bounced off, leaving him undented, she thought furiously.

Kirsten glared at him, knowing herself helpless and hating the feeling more than she'd hated anything else in the world except Jim Talbot. But she knew there was not one damn thing she could do to change the situation short of running, screaming, out into the parking lot. She was, Kirsten decided, a victim of her size and lack of self-defense training. Someday, she promised herself as her fingers ripped open the letter with a vicious gesture, she was going to remedy that last matter. Trembling with fury, she read the note in her late husband's handwriting.