In McGillivray's Bed (12 page)

But by the time Thursday rolled around, there was only one person in the world she wanted to go one-on-one with.

And Hugh still hadn't appeared.

“He called this morning,” Molly said when Syd stopped by with Belle on her way to the meeting at the Moonstone. “I'm surprised he didn't call you.”

“I'm sure he called for business,” she said, smiling, and doing her best to look unconcerned.

“He didn't talk business,” Molly said. “He said he'd be in this evening. But then he didn't know about the storm.”

“What storm?”

It was a clear blue sky as far as Syd could see. Hotter and muggier than yesterday, and even more than the day before, but this was August in the Bahamas. Heat and humidity were to be expected.

“The Storm,” Molly repeated patiently. Her tone capitalized the S. “Obviously you haven't been listening to Trina. If you're going to be a real islander, Syd, you've got to pay attention to Trina.”

Trina was the “weather girl” on the local radio station. More than that she was a local legend because, Syd had been told, she predicted the weather better than the U.S. National Weather Service and the Bahamian Service both.

Privately Syd didn't think that would be very difficult. She was reasonably certain that
she
could predict the weather better herself.

Now she shrugged. “I've been…distracted.” The weather
had been the least of her problems the last few days. But because Molly seemed to be expecting it, she asked, “What did Trina have to say?”

“Storm coming from the east, should hit here this evening, moving on toward Florida overnight.” Molly repeated the words as if she had memorized them.

“Sounds about like most days.”

Granted she hadn't been here long, but she'd lived in Florida for three years and they'd had their share of brief tropical downpours that drenched everyone, steamed things up or cooled things off, and were gone in scarcely more than an hour.

They were not something, in her estimation, to be concerned about and, with apologies to Trina, she said so.

“Not this one,” Molly replied. “Trina says this one will be a humdinger. They might even have to give it a name.”

Syd looked doubtful. “As in a hurricane?”

“Well, those usually even the weather service notices,” Molly allowed. “This one isn't really big yet, but Trina says it will be. It's gathering momentum. Should be here tonight. So when you finish up at the Moonstone, you might want to stock up on candles and water and batteries and stuff. I don't know how much Hugh has laid by.”

Candles? Water? Batteries? “Are you serious? If you're serious, shouldn't I just cancel the meeting?”

“Oh, no. Everybody will be disappointed if you do that. They don't get invitations to tea at the Moonstone everyday. That was a great idea of yours, by the way, asking them all over there to talk. It raises the tone. Sets a standard. Says we're all in this together.”

“We are.”

“I know. And they'll be there. Besides, they're prepared for storms. And they know Trina has her eye on things. Don't worry. Lachlan will have the radio on. He'll let you know if you need to call it off.”

Syd nodded. “If you say so.”

“I do. Have fun,” Molly said, going back to the engine she was working on. “Drink a cup of tea for me.”

Syd started out, then stopped at the door. “What about Hugh? You said he was coming home tonight. He won't try to fly if there's a storm, will he?”

“Not if he's got a brain in his head,” Molly said cheerfully.

And with that Syd had to be content.

Actually, as she walked toward the Moonstone, she couldn't see what everyone was worried about.

Yes, it was hot, but most of the days were hot. It was still, but that was better than windy, wasn't it?

Trina, Syd decided by the time she got to the inn, was probably no more accurate than the TV weather people. Once she was there and Lachlan began introducing her to people, she got caught up in the moment and forgot all about it. Molly was absolutely right. The invitation to tea at the Moonstone was a great hit. She met Nathan Wolfe and his wife, Carin, almost immediately.

They were both welcoming and eager to talk to her. Carin particularly made a point of saying, “I'm so glad you're here. I'm so happy for you and Hugh. He's a wonderful man.”

“Yes,” Syd said quite truthfully. “I think so, too.”

I just hope he falls out of love with you.

Of course she didn't say it. She didn't want Carin feeling awkward. They chatted, they introduced her to their teenage daughter, Lacey, and their toddler son, Josh. They introduced her to other Pelican Islanders she hadn't met yet, including several that Lachlan had sworn would never show up.

Turk Sawyer, whose wonderfully creative paperweights made from island rocks and coral and barnacles she had admired in the Moonstone gift shop, never, according to Lachlan, left his front porch by the quay.

But he came today.

“My paperweights' been here. But I never been to the
Moonstone before,” he told Syd, his eyes never once looking at her. He was too busy taking in everything else. “Reckoned I'd have a look round.”

“Us, too,” said the Cash brothers, Erasmus and Euclid, who made the wooden sailing ships and sturdy children's toys that Syd had admired when she'd gone with Molly to Carin's Cottage. “Pretty fancy place.”

“I'm glad you're here,” Syd said, stepping into her role as island development coordinator. This was going to be her future, she was determined. There was nothing she could do about Hugh now. She could do something about this. “Let me get you some tea or coffee and something to eat.”

They shuffled their feet and shook their heads. “No, thanks,” said Erasmus.

“Might get crumbs on the carpet,” Turk explained.

“The carpet has seen worse than crumbs,” Syd assured them. “Come and talk to me. Tell me how you got started.” She ushered them toward the most comfortable chairs where they gingerly sat while she went to get them something to eat. “Is it true you only use local materials?” she asked when she came back.

They looked at her as if she'd asked if the world was flat.

“What else we goin' to use?” Euclid said, and Turk and Erasmus nodded. “An' where else we goin' to get it?”

Talking about that got them discussing their work. And Syd could see that they would have a lot to say in the right circumstances. It was just a matter of making them feel comfortable, of drawing them out.

“So what do you think about the storm?” she asked with a smile and a doubtful glance out the window where the sky was still blue.

“Gonna be a big 'un,” said Euclid.

“Yes sir,” Erasmus agreed with a nod. “Can tell by the way the leaves lift.”

“An' the birds set,” Turk added. “They be settlin' low.”

“Birds?” Syd said. “Leaves?” She sat down and, clutching her coffee mug, leaned closer. “You know this? You're sure?”

Three heads nodded sagely. “An' Trina says so.”

By midafternoon, everyone who came to talk with Syd about their work had also contributed to her growing lore about island storms. She'd heard how you could tell one was coming because the fish swam lower or you could tell because the reef turned black or you could know when the lizards' tails went purple.

And everyone added, of course, that Trina said so.

And still the sky was blue.

“Do you believe this?” she asked Lachlan after everyone had left to go buy candles or batteries or beer. “All this business about a storm?”

She half wondered if they were pulling her leg, trying to get her worked up over nothing. Testing her.

But Lachlan nodded. “Come here.” He took her arm and drew her toward the window, then pointed at the horizon. “See there?”

Syd saw a smudged purple line. Above it she saw some grayish clouds. Nothing that looked especially sinister.

“That?” Syd asked dubiously. She wasn't sure what she'd expected. A little wind? Some thunderheads? “It doesn't look like much.”

“It will,” Lachlan promised. “Time to batten down the hatches.”

Now there was a phrase that Syd had heard but never ever used. “Meaning what?”

“Bring in the beach furniture, the umbrellas, the potted plants. Nail down anything you can't bring in. Put shutters over the windows.”

The only shutters Syd had ever seen were strictly for decoration. “You're not kidding?”

“I'm not kidding. Let me finish up here and I'll come and help you with Hugh's.”

Syd looked again at the horizon. Was the smudge darker? Were the clouds closer so quickly?

What if Hugh really did try to fly home today?

“I'll go now and get started,” she said, suddenly in a hurry.

Even though it was now neat and tidy, Hugh's porch was still full of things that needed moving.

Syd gathered up everything she'd been at pains to organize and carried it into the house. She brought in the bicycle, unhooked the hula dancer lights and the pink flamingo and palm tree strings. She put the surfboard in Hugh's bedroom, the dog bed in the kitchen, the snorkles and swim fins and scuba gear in her room. The various and sundry mechanical objects she lined up in rows in the living room. And every time she went out for another armload, she studied the horizon.

The purple smudge was getting closer.

Lachlan arrived about the time that the first gusts of wind did. He brought in the porch swing and the hammock, then set about securing the shutters. Syd did what she could to help.

She followed Lachlan as he checked all the downspouts. “Have you heard from Hugh? He told Molly he might fly in tonight.”

“Don't you believe it. He's no fool. He's probably in some cushy hotel in Miami waiting for the all-clear.”

Syd smiled wanly. “I expect so.”

“He values his own skin.” Lachlan set the last shutter. “There, now. All right and tight. Should ride out the storm just fine. Come on. Get Belle's dish and food and let's go.”

“Go? Go where?” Syd shook her head, confused.

“To our place. You aren't going to stay here,” Lachlan said, realizing her intention before she spoke. “By yourself? Don't be ridiculous.”

“Hugh might come. If Belle wasn't here—”

“He'd know where to look for her. For both of you. Come on. Fiona's expecting you. There's more shelter where we are on the harbor side of the island. This place gets the view, I'll admit, just like the Moonstone does, but the harbor is where you want to be in a storm.”

Syd shook her head. “I want to wait here.” And when Lachlan opened his mouth to argue, she went on firmly. “You said it was okay. Right and tight, you said.”

“I know, but—”

“Truly, Lachlan. I need to stay. I'll be fine.”

She couldn't explain any more than that. Logically, of course, Lachlan was right.

But this wasn't about logic. It was gut instinct, no more no less. The last thing she'd said to Hugh was,
I'm not leaving.

So she wasn't.

“He isn't coming,” Lachlan argued.

But Syd didn't budge. “I'm staying here.” As she spoke she rested her hand on Belle's head. A wet nose lifted and touched her fingers.

Lachlan's jaw bunched. “Fiona will kill me.”

“No, she won't. She'll understand that it's my choice.”

“Yeah, right. Tell her that,” Lachlan muttered, glancing out the open door. “It's starting to rain.”

“Then you'd better go.” Syd went to the door and stood by it. The trees were beginning to sway. “Please, Lachlan. I'll be fine. I said I'd be here.”

He opened his mouth and looked as if he might argue, but then he closed it again and slowly shook his head. “By God, you're as stubborn as he is. You deserve each other.” Then he gave her a hard hug and said, “If my wife kills me, it'll be your fault.”

Syd nodded gravely. “I'll tell that to the jury,” she promised.

Lachlan grinned. “Pull the shutters across the door when I leave. Lock 'em down. If the water reaches the mangroves, though, you'd better head for higher ground.”

“I will,” Syd promised.

She watched him leave, then pulled the shutters tight. She felt as if she were in a tiny well-wrapped box. Just she and Belle. The rain began to come down harder. The wind picked up.

Hugh wasn't coming. She
knew
he wasn't coming. She even hoped he wasn't coming because it would be suicide if he tried.

But she needed to be here anyway.

She'd made a commitment. A promise.

The wind rattled the whole house. The rain pelted down. Belle lifted her ears and whined.

“It's the storm,” Syd told her. “Just like Trina promised.”

Belle whined again and went to the door.

“Oh, dear. Please don't say you need to go out,” Syd said, dismayed. Surely the dog didn't need to be let out now. The rain was bucketing down. The wind was banging the shutters.

But Belle went to the door and barked.

The shutters banged furiously.

“Oh, help!” Syd cried, frantic.

And outside a muffled voice shouted over the din, “For God's sake, Syd, open the damn door!”

“W
HAT
on earth are you doing here?” McGillivray demanded, looming, dark and drenched and furious, as he dripped water all over the floor while Belle leaped and bounced around him, barking with joy.

“Me?”
Syd stared, her relief at the discovery he was home and safe—if not dry—overridden by her astonishment at his sudden attack. “What am
I
doing here?
You're
the idiot who flew in the storm. You're supposed to be in Miami!”

“I told Molly I was coming back.”

“And Molly said she told you about the storm.”

He shrugged. “I left in time. No big deal. Don't make a fuss.” He dragged his sopping T-shirt off over his head. “I wanted to make sure the house was secure.”

Syd, who found herself staring at his bare chest, was suddenly dry-mouthed. She swallowed. “As you can see, it's fine,” she said frostily.

Which was mostly the truth. There seemed to be some leaks in the roof, though. A few drops were falling here and there. But that wasn't
her
fault!

And Hugh, looking things over, going from room to room, checking to see that everything was shipshape, finally grunted his approval. “Yeah, it is. But—” he rounded on her “—I would have thought you'd have the brains to go to Lachlan's!”

Syd lifted her chin. “I told you I was staying.”

“This is no place for a woman in a storm!”

“And I suppose because you're a
man,
that makes a
difference! I suppose, because you're a
man,
it was all right for you to take your life into your hands flying back here and then running across the island when there was no need!” Her voice was high and reedy. She didn't care. “My so-called stupidity pales in comparison! How dare you do something so stupid? You idiot!”

“Who's an idiot?
I
was out ‘wandering around' as you put it,” Hugh said scathingly, “because I ran into Lachlan on his way home and he said
you
refused to come home with him!”

“Then you should have known I was safe, and you could have gone home with him instead and stayed tucked up in his house until the rain stopped.” Syd could do scathing, too, when she put her mind to it.

Their furious gazes met, locked, battled.

Then Hugh, still scowling, looked away. Abruptly he hunkered down to rub Belle's ears and talk softly to her.

As if he was glad to see
her!
Which no doubt he was.

And Syd, watching, felt her fury ebb, overridden by the sheer relief of seeing him here in the flesh, of knowing he was safe even as the storm raged around them.

She'd considered the possibility that her analysis of the “love thing” as she'd come to think of it had been wrong. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, she knew that she thought things that, on further reflection, confronted with facts, she discovered weren't true at all.

The love thing was true.

If Hugh hadn't made it back…

She couldn't think about that. It was too awful even to contemplate. She wanted to go to him, to put her arms around him, to feel his body hard and solid against hers. But she couldn't. Not yet.

He stood up again, ruffled Belle's fur, then stepped around the stacks of magazines and car parts and snorkeling gear, to come Syd's way. She wondered for a moment if he had read her mind.

“I need a shower,” he said gruffly, and passed her deliberately without so much as a single touch.

Syd stared after him. This was the man who had kissed her senseless? Had he slaked his appetites in Miami? The very thought almost made her furious all over again.

But she didn't think he had.

He'd been careful
not
to touch her. As if it mattered. As if the lust that had raged between them three days ago had not been sated. As if the fire was banked and still simmering. As if a touch could stir the coals and start anew the conflagration.

“Want me to wash your back?” she called after him.

 

W
ASH
his back?

Dear God, that would be all he needed, Hugh thought as he let the warm water sluice over him and tried to get a grip.

He had so much adrenaline zapping through his system that if Syd had laid a finger on him, he would have lasted about two seconds flat—if that!

She was already under his skin, inside his brain, haunting his thoughts, plaguing his dreams. He'd spent the past three days trying to put her out of his mind.

She would want things he couldn't give. He told himself that over and over. Even if she wanted him now, she wouldn't want him forever. And she sure as hell wouldn't want to spend her life on Pelican Cay.

He knew that. So it was damned perverse that he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her for three long days.

Tom Wilson, who ran a retreat house for business groups on a small private island just off Pelican Cay, had several appointments in Charleston, Atlanta, Mobile and Orlando as well as Miami. He'd been delighted when Hugh had said he'd stick around and fly him.

“Thought you had a lady friend to get back to,” Tom had said.

He didn't even live on the island, but like everyone else, Tom had heard about Syd.

And of course Hugh couldn't deny it. But he'd shrugged. “She's got a life. She's busy working for my brother.”

“That's what I hear. They say she's really sharp. Knows her stuff. Very capable. Able to cope with anything.” Tom had obviously had an earful. “Grantham thinks she's brilliant.”

“Yeah.”

That was Syd. Not to mention gorgeous and witty and curious and surprisingly funny when she wasn't taking things seriously.

It had been like that the whole three days. Either Tom had said something that made Hugh think about her, or he saw something that made him think about her, or he heard something he thought she'd like to hear, that she'd laugh at or smile at or—

No, he didn't want to go there.

He wanted to forget Sydney St. John—and he hadn't been able to.

He hadn't even been able to go three full days without hearing about how she was doing. He'd actually called Molly this morning for no other reason than to casually ask about Belle—and the woman taking care of her.

“Reckon Belle must be lonely,” he'd said.

“Oh, no,” his sister had replied. “She loves Syd. She's always with Syd. I doubt she even misses you.”

Traitorous dog.

“They're both fine,” Molly had gone on blithely. “Don't worry about a thing. They can come stay with me during the storm. Or they can go to Lachlan's.”

“What storm?” Hugh hadn't heard about any storm.

“The one Trina says is brewing out to the east. She figures it will hit early this evening. But it should be all right. We'll take care of things.”

“Yeah. I might come home this evening.”

His mind was racing even as he said the words, figuring out what he needed to do before he could leave.

Belle didn't like storms at all.

Of course Syd had said she'd take care of her. But what did Syd know about tropical storms? Or nervous dogs in storms? She hadn't had any experience with anything like that. Once she learned a storm was coming, she'd probably even take off.

So it was primarily Belle he had come back for, damn it, and not Sydney St. John!

But if the first words out of his mouth when he ran up the dock and saw Lachlan jumping out of his Jeep by his house on the quay were, “Where is she?” he supposed Lachlan could be forgiven for thinking he meant Syd and not his dog.

“She won't leave your bloody house!” Lachlan had bellowed, outraged, over the rising wind. “She said she told you she was staying there!”

Hugh knew Lachlan wasn't talking about Belle and he couldn't deny the exhilaration that shot through him at his brother's words. At the same time, though, he'd been frantic, desperate to get to her.

“She's a bloody lunatic!” he'd shouted over the rain sheeting down. “Lemme take your Jeep.”

Lachlan tossed him the keys. “Get going. Get home!” At least he didn't argue with where Hugh needed to be. “She would have been fine here with us. But she wasn't going to come. Not as long as she thought you were coming back.”

Hugh knew how that felt.

If he had stayed in Florida, he would have been worried sick. He'd have imagined the worst. As it was, his heart was in his throat the whole flight home—and not because he was taking his life in his hands. He was worried about her, convinced that Syd would be scared, that—if she was even still there—she wouldn't know what to do.

But she hadn't been scared. She'd been fine. She'd been
capable. She'd coped. Exactly like everyone said she would.

He was the one who'd been frantic. Panicked. Desperate.

He was still desperate, Hugh thought grimly. And no better off than when he had left three days ago. Worse, if possible. Wanting her still.

Gritting his teeth, he deliberately shut off the hot water tap and cursed as pure cold water engulfed him.

Still, it was a hell of a lot safer than letting Sydney St. John wash his back!

 

“T
HE
roof leaks.” Syd announced.

“Uh-huh.” It had been leaking for the past three hours. Longer probably. The house needed a new roof. Not exactly news.

Hugh went back to his magazine and pretended to read. It was a six-month-old issue of
Charter Captain
and he had read every word of it at least three times
before
he'd picked it up this evening.

But it was better than the alternative, which was further contact with Sydney St. John.

His body still hadn't forgiven him for the cold shower. It didn't want anything to do with any further occasions for possible icy drenchings. So ever since he'd emerged from the bathroom, he'd been careful to keep his distance.

It hadn't been easy.

While he was in the shower, she'd heated up some conch chowder and had a loaf of crusty bread cut into chunks to go with it.

“Sit down and eat,” she'd said.

He had because it would have been churlish not to—and besides he was starving.

While they ate, Syd had asked about his trip to Florida, to which he answered briefly and vaguely. If she was miffed by his stonewalling, she didn't give any indication. She simply shifted topics and began talking about her meeting with the artists' cooperative.

“I met Carin and Nathan,” she told him. “I liked them both.”

“They're likeable people.”

“She's very nice.”

He lifted his gaze and stared at her. And was gratified to see a flush rise above her collar. “I'm glad you think so,” he said politely.

“I thought they all were,” she told him. “Very interesting, too.”

If he wondered how she would do with some of the more eccentric and crotchety members of the Pelican Cay community, he had his answer pretty quick.

She told him all about her conversation with the Cash brothers and Turk Sawyer.

“I didn't know they had conversations,” Hugh said before he could stop himself. The only “conversations” he'd ever had with Turk and the Cashes in the past twenty years had consisted of his observations and their grunted responses or his asking a question and their saying, yeah, no or dunno.

But Syd had apparently tapped their conversational well-spring.

They told her all about how they knew a storm was coming, about what they expected to find on the beach after, how they would use it in their work and how they got started in the first place.

“They told you all that? Hell, they must have talked your leg off!”

“I was just interested,” she said, “and they knew it. I'm sure they won't want to discuss their work with large groups,” she added. “But given the right facilitator, I think they could be persuaded to talk with a few interested people.”

“You could probably persuade pigs to fly, too,” Hugh muttered.

Syd simply laughed. “Thank you.”

It hadn't been intended as a compliment. Not exactly.
Though he was reluctantly impressed by her ability to deal with virtually everyone. What it meant, as far as he could see, was that she would soon be looking around for greater challenges—challenges she would never find on Pelican Cay.

“Then you can leave all that much sooner.”

She recoiled as if he'd slapped her.

Damn it all, anyway. He shoved his chair away from the table and carried his dishes to the sink.

“Leave them. I'll wash them,” Syd said.

He didn't volunteer to dry them. He just said, “Go for it,” and retreated to the far end of the room.

It was where he still was two hours later, even though Syd had long since finished the dishes and was prowling around the house, straightening some things and rearranging other things, moving bowls and pots and such, and passing through his line of vision, distracting him so often that he was having to read the same sentence ten and fifteen times—and even then his brain was more interested in watching her.

“We're running out of pans and pots and bowls,” she complained now.

Hugh grunted and tried to focus again on the article on new customs regulations. It might as well have been in Greek.

Syd emptied the frying pan from under the leak by the door and replaced it noisily. “I would think,” she said after a moment, her tone one of consummate politeness, “that as you take such good care of your equipment, you would pay equal attention to your home.”

Goaded finally to at least look up, Hugh saw her with her head cocked, watching him. There was a spark in her eyes that nearly had him looking away again.

Somehow he couldn't quite manage it.

“You would think that,” he agreed casually, determined not to be drawn further into whatever was sparking to life
between them. An almost tangible electricity crackled in the air, like the storm but personal. Very personal.