In McGillivray's Bed (11 page)

Lachlan scowled. “Why the hell not?”

Hugh shrugged. “We have to both want the same thing. We might not.” He might as well lay the groundwork for when she would leave.

“Don't be stupid,” Lachlan protested. “You're the best guy in the world—besides me.” He grinned.

Hugh grinned back, but his heart wasn't in it. “Even so. It might not work out. I'm staying here. It's a given. She might not. I can't force it. And neither can you,” he warned his brother, who was likely to try.

“But she says she wants to,” Lachlan argued.

“Now,” Hugh agreed. “Who's to say how she'll feel a ways down the road.”

 

S
HE
felt more and more at home.

As the days passed, she settled in. She worked at Erica's two mornings a week, at Otis's one. She spent the other mornings helping Molly at Hugh's shop doing the accounting and the billing.

“It's a waste of your talent,” McGillivray told her.

“But it makes me happy,” she told him.

He wasn't convinced, but other than rearranging the cells in his brain, she didn't see how she could convince him. She did think that he realized she liked other parts of life on Pelican Cay.

He'd taken her out to see the wreck one afternoon. He'd begun the expedition in his usual grumpy fashion, but he'd responded to her determined questions, and he'd been pa
tience personified when he'd taught her to snorkel. And after, when she'd told him it was one of the best days of her life, he'd actually looked pleased before he'd shrugged and turned away.

That had been a letdown. But Syd was accustomed to disinterest. Her father had been a past master at it. His, she'd learned long ago, was the real thing.

McGillivray's wasn't.

It was
studied
disinterest.
Determined
disinterest.

How did she know?

Because sometimes when he thought she wasn't looking, she caught him watching her, studying her almost. And when she turned then and spoke to him, he would quickly look away.

Why?

He liked women. They'd established that the first evening. He liked her. On a purely physical level he'd been attracted to her right from the start. They'd established that, too. And though he liked to pretend she annoyed him even now, she dared to think he actually enjoyed her company.

If he didn't, why was he getting up to go swimming with her in the mornings now? And why did he let her come along when he walked Belle on the beach at night? And why did he sit around in the evenings and talk to her? He knew more about the history of Pelican Cay than anyone on the island, she was sure of it. She'd asked a lot of people a lot of questions. No one knew more than Hugh.

At first he stopped himself whenever he began to talk about the early days, saying, “It doesn't matter. You wouldn't be interested.”

But if she persisted and asked questions, he always answered. She could always get him talking again, telling her about the island's past, its pirates and its politicians, its rascals and its rogues, the swashbuckling seafarers who had long ago called Pelican Cay home. The island and its stories were in his blood, she could tell.

And as the days passed, the island and its stories—and Hugh McGillivray—were in hers.

She felt a connection to him she'd never felt to any other man. It was electric and it was sexual, no doubt about that. She hadn't even had to have made love with him to know that. But it was also something more.

He was a kindred spirit. She sensed it. He was a friend—when he wasn't trying to deny it.

He could be her soul mate. And there was a mind-boggling thought. But it was true—all the things she'd always wanted in a man and had begun to think she'd never find, she was discovering in Hugh McGillivray.

But McGillivray was keeping her at a distance.

Why?

Because he didn't trust her. That much she understood at once. He knew who she was, where she had come from—and he didn't trust that she would stick around. He didn't trust that her mornings as an accountant-bookkeeper would satisfy her.

And in the long run, he was probably right.

Well, fine. The jobs had been a stopgap measure, a means of paying her way, of making sure she was self-sufficient. She could do more. Right here on the island she could do more. She was sure of it.

She'd learned a lot from Hugh about the island's history. She'd learned a lot from the islanders about its assets. She'd also learned from her earlier work how to make the best of what she was given. She'd tossed out some ideas to Lachlan that first evening. They had come off the top of her head. Now she had more.

She picked up the phone and called him. “Lachlan? Sydney, here. I've been thinking. I have something I'd like to talk to you about. I wonder if you'd have time to see me tomorrow morning.”

“How about lunch?” he suggested. “At Beaches? Dave Grantham came in this afternoon. He said he'd talked to
you once on the phone. I know he'd like to meet you again.”

“Sounds great. I'll meet you there.”

She hung up, pleased. One step toward her future had been accomplished. Tomorrow she would take the second.

But first she had the past to deal with.

 

“H
I
, D
AD
. It's Sydney,” Syd said into the phone. “I just wanted to tell you I'm resigning.” Her voice sounded firm and resolute and she was glad. It was the first time she'd ever told her father something he didn't want to hear.

“Sydney?” Simon St. John sounded momentarily mystified. “Oh, Margaret,” he corrected her. “Good to hear from you. And of course you're resigning,” he went on cheerfully. “I told Roland you wouldn't want to continue working after you were married.”

So he
had
known. She'd always held out hope that the idea had been Roland's alone. Now she felt a hollow ache in her midsection. But it didn't hurt the way it would have a week before. It simply stiffened her resolve.

“I'm not married, Dad,” she said calmly.

There was a moment's stunned silence.

Then, “What? Not married? What do you mean? Roland said you and he were getting married after the merger. Two mergers, he said.” Simon's voice went from pleased as he reported Roland's witticism to perplexed as he tried to reconcile Syd's denial of it. “What happened? Why not? Don't tell me you're dithering? You were never the dithering sort, Margaret.”

“I'm not the dithering sort now, Dad. I didn't marry Roland because I didn't want to.”

“But he said you would!”

“He was mistaken.”

“Put him on the phone,” Simon demanded. “I want to talk to him. Now.”

“I'm sorry. He's not here.”

“What do you mean not there? Where are you, Margaret?”

“I'm in the Bahamas. I don't know where Roland is. But I just called to tell you I'm staying. I don't expect you to understand. But this is something I have to do.”

“Staying? For how long? For heaven's sake, Margaret! Have you lost your mind?”

“No. I think I finally found it,” Syd said, and knew the truth of the words she spoke.

“Have you had an accident? Have you fallen and hit your head?”

“No, Dad. I haven't fallen. I'm fine. In fact, I've never been better.”

“Then, I don't understand.” He sounded almost petulant now. “Why isn't Roland with you? What's going on? I thought you were on your honeymoon!”

“No honeymoon. No Roland. I have to go, Dad. I just wanted you to know I'm fine. Tell Roland ‘thank you' when he calls. I'll be in touch.”

“Tell Roland ‘thank you'?” His voice was rising. “For what? Now you listen to me, Margaret—”

But Syd had listened to him far too long already. “Bye, Dad. I love you.”

And she hung up.

 

“Y
OU'RE
what?” Hugh stared at Syd when she met him at the door of the kitchen, a bottle of champagne in her hand. He shook his head, certain he hadn't heard her right.

“I'm the new coordinator of the Pelican Cay Development Organization,” she repeated, which was more or less what he thought she'd said the first time. She was beaming and waving the champagne.

“Coordinator of the Pelican Cay Development Organization? What the bloody hell is that?”

He'd been counting the days until he could tell her their charade was over, that she could pack her bags and head
for the big city and bright lights, certain that she'd be happy to leave him and the island and her humdrum accounting jobs.

And now she was
what?

“It's a new position,” she admitted. “Just formed. Just funded actually. But it's real.”

“Says who?”

“Your brother, for one. And Lord Grantham. Lachlan and David and I had lunch today.”

He might have known! Damn his meddling, interfering brother anyway!

“The organization exists. You must know that.”

“They hold bake sales,” Hugh said scathingly. “And they sell used paperbacks for the library.”

“Well, now they're doing more than that,” Syd said stiffly. “It doesn't pay much yet. But that's okay because I can live on savings for a while. I will get a basic salary. Enough to live on. But it's a place to start. To develop. To make a commitment,” she said, looking straight at him. “And when things get rolling, it will be terrific.”

Bloody hell. Hugh pushed past her into the kitchen. She'd set the table with a tablecloth and candles. Like some damned celebration!

Syd followed him in. “We're going to put Pelican Cay on the map,” she told him. “We're going to develop the tourism industry, target suitable U.S. and European markets, manage growth, involve the entire community and make sure that the island thrives without being overwhelmed.”

Hugh stared at her. “We are? Or
you
are?”

“All of us,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze. She ran her tongue over her lips. He couldn't help noticing them even though he jerked his gaze away. “I'm the facilitator,” she continued. “That means I smooth the way.” She explained the term as if he was a grade-school kid.

“I know what it means,” Hugh told her through his teeth. “You said you would leave.”

“I said we would both know when it was right,” she corrected.

“It's right,” he told her. He'd been living in some sort of fool's paradise all week. Spending time with her, going swimming with her, taking walks with her, talking for hours with her. Pretending they were a couple! And it was killing him.

He ground his teeth. “When you and I split, you said you'd leave. You agreed.”

“We haven't split.”

“We will.”

“We don't have to.”

“We damned well do!”

“Why? We can make it work,” she told him, “as long as we think ahead. As long as we account for all the possibilities and factor everything in.”

“Oh, really?” Hugh said savagely. “What about
this
possibility? Have you factored in
this?
”

He took three swift steps across the kitchen, snatched the spoon from her hand and dropped it on the counter, then hauled her hard against him and kissed her!

The kiss was fierce, furious, frustrated. In it was all the desire and yearning he'd ever felt for the woman who would someday share his hopes and his dreams and his joys, his very life. In it there was all the pent-up need and emotion and desperation he'd felt for days.

Days, hell! Months! Years!

If only…

And then, dear God, he wasn't just kissing Sydney St. John.

She was kissing him back!

Her mouth was open, her tongue was tangling with his. The soft curves of her body were pressed against the hard planes of his own. The bottle slipped unnoticed from her hand, fell on the floor and rolled, and her fingers tangled in his hair. His arms wrapped around her, drew her even
more tightly against him. His hips surged with a need he'd denied far too long.

“Yesss.”

He heard the word hiss through her lips, felt her hands slide between them to press against his chest. But not to resist. Not to hold him off. To touch, to stroke, to incite.

He jerked back while he still had a sane cell in his brain. His chest was heaving. His heart pounded like the propellers right before takeoff. He stared at her, aching, needing. Wanting.

And furious as hell that
she
wanted, too!

H
UGH
flung shirts and shorts, underwear and socks—everything he'd need for a couple of days away—into his duffel bag. Not that a couple of days was going to solve the problem.

Nothing would solve the problem short of Sydney St. John flying away and never coming back. But she wasn't doing that. She was waltzing around the house like they hadn't nearly burned it down last night!

No thanks to her that they hadn't.

Cripes, he could still taste her now, could still remember the way her mouth had opened to him, the way she'd drawn him closer, pressed harder, urged him on.

He jerked open another drawer and dumped half the contents into his bag. God knew if he would need any of it. He just needed to get away.

He sent up a prayer of thanksgiving for Tom Wilson's stopping him on his way into The Grouper last night, saying he had business in Miami beginning tomorrow and wondering if Hugh might be able to take him.

“If you can take me on from there, too,” he'd said, “that'd be fantastic. If not, I can hire a pilot once I get to Miami.”

“I can do it,” Hugh had said. If it hadn't been already dark he'd have suggested they leave right then.

Instead he told Tom he'd meet him at the dock at nine, then he'd shouldered his way into The Grouper determined to drown his desire in a bottle of whiskey.

It would be all over the island in minutes, he knew.

“Hugh's in The Grouper.
Alone!
”

The buzz had begun almost as soon as he'd come through the door. He ignored it. So what if they muttered and tittered and gossiped that he and Syd were having problems?

By God, they
were
having problems.

If lusting after the most unsuitable woman in the world wasn't a problem, he didn't know what was. And having her welcome his advances was an even bigger disaster!

What the hell had she been thinking?

Well, obviously she hadn't. So he was going to have to think for both of them.

Something about the purposeful way he'd strode in and demanded whiskey must have made things clear. Michael the bartender wordlessly handed him a bottle and a glass and nodded his head toward a small table in the back.

Hugh took it, then sat with his back to the wall, hunched over his glass, glaring at anyone who showed the slightest sign of coming near.

Only one person had. Lisa Milligan came in with a couple of girlfriends, saw him by himself and her face lit up.

Bloody hell.

“Hugh. Haven't seen you around lately,” she said smiling as she stopped at his table. “Did your friend leave?”

“No.” He set his glass down with a thump, then poured himself another.

“I, um, see.”

He doubted it very much.

She didn't leave, though. Instead she cocked her head and asked sympathetically, “Is something wrong?”

“What do you think?” he snarled, sick and tired of being Mr. Nice Guy, careful of everyone else's feelings. Look where the hell that had got him. And what about his own feelings for a change?

Lisa shifted from one foot to the other nervously. “Would you like to, um, join us?” she asked after a moment, her tone falsely cheerful. But she seemed so worried
and so helpless that Hugh couldn't bite her head off, even though he wanted to.

“No. Thanks.” He took a deep breath and sighed, then added more whiskey to his glass and downed the whole thing before looking up at her. “You're a sweet girl, Lisa, but I don't want any company tonight.” Or ever.

Which was probably what he should have said a long time past.

Lisa smiled wanly. She nodded. “Of course.” She backed away, still smiling her nervous smile. “Maybe another time, then?”

Hugh stared into his whiskey glass. “Yeah, Lisa. Maybe another time.”

After Lisa, no one else came near. Lots of people looked his way, murmured to each other, sighed and shook their heads, then moved on. They ought to know in Nassau tomorrow that he and Syd had broken up.

Who gave a damn? Hugh thought viciously, downing another shot and slapping the glass on the table. They'd never been together in the first place.

He'd just wanted—

He poured another whiskey and stared at the liquid swirling in the glass. He studied it in the dim light. Lifted it. Tasted it. Swallowed it. It burned like the others had. It didn't seem to be deadening anything—least of all the memory of the taste of Sydney St. John's mouth.

He didn't pay any attention to the passage of time. There was no point. He wasn't going home until he had to.

All the same, well before he was ready he heard, “Closin' time, mon,” and looked up to see Michael standing beside the table, his windbreaker on, the keys to lock up in his hand.

There was nothing left in the bottle, anyway. Hugh nodded and hauled himself to his feet. The room reeled lazily, dipped and swayed.

“You okay?” Michael asked.

“Just swell,” Hugh lied. “Never better.” He spotted the
door and aimed toward it. It kept moving. Stools got in the way.

Michael's hand settled on his shoulder and steered him around them, then outside onto the steps. “You drink the whole thing?”

“Yep.”

“Lotta whiskey.” Michael shook his head. “Can you make it home?”

“Eventually.”

“I can call a taxi. My dad'll give you a lift.”

Hugh tried to shake his head. “I'll walk. 'S a nice night.”

“Storm brewin', so they say.” Michael studied the stars. “Blow through in a coupla days.”

Storm had been here already to Hugh's way of thinking. He shrugged. “Long as it lets me go. I'm flying out in the morning. Goin' to Miami.”

“With your lady?”

“No!” Hugh's ferocity surprised even himself. He rubbed his hands down his face, then said it again more quietly. “No.”

Michael patted his shoulder. “Like that, is it?”

“Like what?” Hugh scowled.

White teeth flashed in the darkness. “Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.”

Wasn't that the truth, Hugh thought as he walked slowly home.

And this morning he had the hangover to prove it.

His head pounded. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a tide pool. His eyes felt as if they had barnacles under the lids. And he wished to God Syd would stop banging pots and pans while she sang in the kitchen. How the hell much noise did a woman have to make?

He rolled up a pair of khakis and tossed them into the bag, then threw in his loafers on top of them. Maybe he'd go out tonight. Live it up a little. Meet a gorgeous woman to take his mind off the gorgeous woman driving him crazy.

He zipped up the bag and walked out into the kitchen. Syd had her back to him, still singing cheerfully, rubbing his face in his pain.

“I'm going to Miami,” he said harshly.

She turned around. Her gaze flicked from his face to the duffel in his hand, but she didn't say anything, just looked at him.

“I could give you a ride,” he offered. One more chance.
Say you're leaving like you promised.
“Get you back to your real life.”

She shook her head. Slowly. Adamantly. “This is my real life. I resigned my job.”

The last thing he wanted to hear.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. And find yourself a place to move to while I'm gone.”

Something—hurt?—flickered in her gaze. She pressed her lips together. “I'll do that,” she said stiffly.

“I'm staying over,” he told her, his tone flat and abrupt. “Don't know how long I'll be gone. I can't take Belle. Do you want her here? If not, she can go to Molly's.”

“I'll keep her.”

They stared at each other. Seconds passed.

“You can leave anytime,” Hugh told her. “If you change your mind, just drop her with Molly.”

“I told you I'm staying. I'm not going to leave.”

Their gazes locked. Hugh's slid away first. He found himself staring at her mouth, found himself wanting to kiss her again.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered. “I'm outta here.”

 

S
YD
stared at the lists on the table.

Lists of contacts, of artists, artisans and craftspeople. Lists of island attractions and accommodations, of restaurants and motorbike rentals, of fishing guides for hire and scuba diving gear.

“All the possibilities,” she'd told Lachlan and David
yesterday, waving the lists at them. “I always think of all the possibilities.”

But it wasn't true.

Not when it mattered. Not when it came to herself.

Just like when Roland had announced their impending marriage, she'd missed something vital.

Not anymore, she decided. Like Sleeping Beauty, kissed out of her slumber, Hugh's kiss had awakened her to a new reality—and all sorts of possibilities she hadn't dared think about.

But now she did.

Last night she had responded instinctively, eagerly, desperately. She had wanted Hugh McGillivray as she'd never wanted anyone in her life. She'd wanted his kiss, his body.

Love?

“Love?” She said the word aloud, tasting it, testing it. She sat still, staring into space. And then, because she was Sydney St. John, who had grown up making plans and drawing up lists, she printed the word out one letter at a time:
L.O.V.E.
on a piece of paper and stared at it.

“Love?” she said in barely a whisper this time. “I love him.”

The knowledge was deep and profound and so very basic that it took her by surprise. It wasn't like a business plan or a merger or anything else that you had to think about beforehand and study all the angles of. It had simply happened.

“I love him,” she said again, testing the words once more. He was completely wrong for her. Too hard, too sloppy, too opinionated, too stubborn.

And yet…

“I love him,” she said.

Belle's tail thumped.

So did Syd's heart. She took a quick tremulous breath, realized she was strangling the pen in a death grip and consciously made her fingers loosen and relax. Instead they shook.

A kaleidoscope of McGillivray impressions formed and reformed in her mind—McGillivray playing with Belle, McGillivray running on the beach, McGillivray teaching her to snorkel, McGillivray telling her about some esoteric bit of island lore. McGillivray in bed with his arm around her. McGillivray's lips on hers. McGillivray's tongue tangling with hers.

Oh, heavens. Oh, dear. Oh, help.

Oh, yes.

The question was: What was she going to do about it?

Because even as she recognized her feelings for what they were—considerably more than simple lust—at the same time she had to acknowledge that he certainly wasn't in love with her.

She'd thought when she'd taken the job Lachlan and David had offered that doing so would prove to Hugh that she would stay, and that then he would trust her, and might be willing to explore “possibilities” with her.

Now she wanted more than possibilities.

She wanted his love.

And he loved Carin Campbell. Carin was—he'd never denied it—the woman he'd hoped to spend his life with. And even though he couldn't—and had accepted it—that didn't mean he wanted second best.

He had kissed her. He had wanted her. But it had been nothing more than pure physical hunger. Urgent hunger, to be sure. But urgency wasn't love.

All it meant was that he was a male living in close proximity with a female he found sexually appealing.

Nothing else.

Yet.

Time stopped.

Syd did, too. She stared at the word
love
on the paper in front of her. She knew the truth of it for her. But not for Hugh.

He wasn't in love with her
yet.

Syd drew a slow, careful, apprehensive breath. Was it
possible for Hugh McGillivray's feelings to change? Could urgent physical attraction turn into something more? Something deeper? Something lasting?

It had for her.

The simple realization jolted her, made her heart kick over, made the next breath she took come in a fast gulp. Her feelings for him had changed completely since she'd first met him. Why, then, couldn't his change as well?

“They could,” she breathed.

“They
can,
” she said more firmly. She ventured a smile, then dared a grin. “Think of it as a challenge,” she whispered to herself. Because God knew it was. A far bigger challenge than organizing the assets and opportunities for tourism on Pelican Cay.

But Syd relished a challenge. She thrived on them. She didn't know how to change a man's mind. She didn't know how to alter his feelings.

She only knew she had to try.

“You never know until you try,” her father always said.

Simon St. John had made his fortune trying and succeeding at things that other people hadn't thought were possible. He'd also had some colossal failures, Syd reminded herself. He had not been a notably good father, in fact.

But he'd made the effort. He'd done his best in his limited way. And that was better, she had to admit, than not trying.

Heaven help her, she was apparently Simon's daughter after all.

 

T
UESDAY
passed and Hugh didn't come back.

Syd prowled the waterfront most of the day, ostensibly creating a map of Pelican Town with “points of interest” for visitors, but all the while watching for signs of his seaplane. It never came.

He didn't come back on Wednesday, either. She worked for Erica in the morning, then gave Belle a bath, washed the curtains, cleaned the windows, scrubbed the floors, then
went into the shop and reorganized the filing so she could be there if he rang.

He never rang.

Thursday she had scheduled up a daylong meet-and-greet chat session at the Moonstone with all of the island's artists, artisans and craftspeople. Lachlan had offered her the use of the front parlor and the services of Maddie, his spectacular cook, and Syd thought it would be an excellent way of getting everyone involved and making more one-on-one connections.