In McGillivray's Bed (6 page)

“Good idea.” He understood the concept. He'd discovered it himself when he'd come up against the Navy's rules and regs. There were things he'd loved about the Navy, but in the end, it wasn't him. “So, what are you going to do?” he asked her.

“I'm going to live a little!”

The way she said it, it didn't sound like a
little.
It sounded as if she intended to live a whole hell of a lot.

Hugh tipped back in his chair. “Which means what? Besides your not wanting any rules?”

“It means I'm going to stop putting St. John Electronics first. I'm going to stop trying to be the son my father never
had. I'm going to stop doing what's expected of me and do what I want to do!” She paused, then plunged on. “First thing tomorrow, I'm going to get a job.”

He stared. “What do you mean, you're going to get a job?”

“Well, I can't presume on your hospitality forever.”

“Amen to that,” he muttered. “But you can't get a job. You don't live here.”

“I think I might.”

“What!”
The feet of the chair hit the floor with a crash.

Sydney shrugged. “Why not? I have talent. I have skills.”

“Oh, yes? Knowing which fork to use is a great talent. Can you arrange a charity luncheon with one hand tied behind your back?”

“I could. If I wanted to. As it happens, I have other duties. I am in the upper management of St. John Electronics!” She paused. “Or I was,” she reflected.

“Don't quit on our account!”

“I'm not. I'm quitting for me.”

Hugh shook his head. “This is insane. You can't just quit your job and move to an island you've never seen.”

“Of course I can. And I've seen quite a lot of the island. You drove me all the way across it.”

“In the dark. You don't know anything about it.”

“I don't need to know anything about it. Not yet. It isn't the island I need to learn about—it's me!”

Hugh put his head in his hands.

“Don't be melodramatic,” Sydney said. “It isn't going to hurt you. It might even be good for you,” she added thoughtfully.

Hugh's head jerked up. “What the hell does that mean?”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “Nothing. Much.”

He narrowed his gaze. “If you—”

“Oh, get over it. I just need to prove myself. And getting a job here will do that. I'm perfectly capable of running a
business, for goodness' sake. I ran St. John's while Daddy was recovering from his heart attack.”

“Yeah, right.”

Fire flashed in her eyes. “It didn't run itself for eight months, no matter what my father thinks!”

“You ran it and he never noticed?” Hugh said sarcastically.

“The doctors told me not to bring it up. Every time I mentioned St. John's, my father would get agitated. ‘Who was taking care of business?' he'd ask. And if I tried to assure him I was, he got even more upset.” She gripped her coffee mug so tightly her knuckles grew white. “Who was taking care of
me,
he'd ask. My father thinks women need to be taken care of. Always. So I stopped talking about it. I just did what needed to be done. I thought he'd understand when he got back to work that things hadn't just run themselves.” She shook her head. “The more fool I.”

She picked up another chicken wing and ran her tongue over her lips. Inwardly Hugh groaned.

“All right, don't believe me,” Syd said, misunderstanding the reason for his moan. “But I've done all I'm going to do for St. John Electronics. I've got talents. I've got capabilities. I can manage someone else's company! I just need someone to hire me.”

Hugh shook his head. “Just like that,” he said dryly.

“What do you mean, just like that?”

“There aren't a lot of jobs for managing directors on Pelican Cay. We've got a population of somewhere around fifteen hundred, give or take a parakeet or two.”

“Well, I'm sure someone will hire me.”

“I'm not.” Hugh was adamant about that. “You might be the greatest thing since sliced bread, but we don't need you on Pelican Cay.”
I particularly don't need you.
“We don't do managing directors. We don't do hotshot female executives. So you'll just have to go somewhere else to find yourself.”

She stared at him, opened her mouth, then she did it
again and looked at him pityingly. “As if you would know a hotshot executive of any sort even if it came up and bit you.”

“I—”

“Just because
you
have nothing better to do than fish all day doesn't mean the rest of the world is the same.”

“You ought to be glad I was.”

“I said thank you.”

“Did you? I don't remember.”

They glared at each other. Then Hugh leaned forward suddenly so that all four chair legs landed on the floor with a thump. Abruptly he stood up, carried his dishes to the sink, and dumped them in.

“Since you're so determined to work,” he said to her over his shoulder, “feel free.” He jerked his head toward the overflowing sink. There were enough dirty dishes there to keep her busy awhile. “I'm sure you can
manage
that.”

She sputtered indignantly. Served her right for being so snotty about his fishing trip. Deliberately Hugh yawned and headed toward the bedroom.

Behind him he heard her scramble to her feet. “Where am I going to sleep?”

“Not with me.”

“I didn't imply—”

“There's a hammock on the porch.” He cut her off, not wanting to discuss her sleeping arrangements any more than necessary. “Take that. Or you could try the sofa.” He glanced at it. There was a sea kayak on it, balanced on several loads of laundry. “Maybe not the sofa.”

“You don't have a guest room?”

“If you have a guest room, you get guests.” Like his well-meaning parents or his interfering aunt Esme. He let them stay with Lachlan at the B&B. Far less meddlesome that way.

But Syd turned to look in the direction of his spare room. “What's that?”

“A mess.”

It was his extra room. His “office” he called it. But it was more a closet than anything else. Lachlan had bunked there before he'd bought the Moonstone and the Mirabelle. Before that Great-Aunt Esme had commandeered it for her spring getaway one year and had expected him to clear it out for her. No one said no to Aunt Esme.

“We could clean it out,” Sydney St. John said.

“No way.”

“You don't have to. I will.” Captain Ahab was back.

“No, you won't. It's almost midnight.” He sighed when he could see she wasn't going to take no for an answer. “Look, okay. You take the bedroom tonight. I'll take the hammock. One night only.” Then he turned and snapped his fingers for his dog. “C'mon, Belle. Time to hit the rack.”

“By all means,” Sydney St. John said. “Get your rest for another hard day fishing tomorrow.”

Hugh's lips twitched. “I wish,” he said. “Unfortunately, I'm flying to Jamaica in the morning.”

Syd stared as if she hadn't heard him right. “You're—” long pause
“—flying?”

Hugh dug into the back pocket of his shorts and pulled a business card out of his wallet. He flipped the card at her as he headed for the door.

“Maybe we're not all hotshot executives, but you're not the only one who can manage a business, Ms. St. John. Have fun cleaning up the dishes.”

S
HE
had never done so many dishes in her life—and not just the ones in the sink.

Sydney did those as soon as Mr. “Fly Guy” McGillivray had banged out the door. Then, because she was still trying to work out the implications of that business card he'd flipped at her, she kept right on going. Heaven knew there were plenty of dirty dishes.

“Fly Guy” must do them once a week.

But the notion that he
flew
—that he actually had a business and supported himself by
flying
and apparently by doing other transportation-oriented things, as well—boggled her mind.

But that was what it said in big swooping letters on the business card: Fly Guy Island Charter. And below that in smaller type, the card proclaimed: “Whenever and wherever you want to go, call…Hugh McGillivray, Owner and Pilot.”

Which meant, she supposed, that there was more to the man than dark good looks, hard muscles, kindness to dogs, a don't-bother-me-while-I'm-breathing attitude and a smart mouth?

She considered the possibility that he could just have the cards made to toss at people who crossed his path and commented on his lifestyle. But she doubted it. It would take too much effort. McGillivray didn't seem given to over-exertion.

He hadn't even bothered, in the end, to take a shower.
Instead he'd headed for the beach saying, “I'll take a swim instead.”

He hadn't come back by the time she'd finished washing the dishes and had stripped the sheets off his bed and replaced them with clean ones. At least, she assumed they were clean ones as she'd found them in the same pile in the closet from which he'd taken the towel he'd given her.

There was a certain method to McGillivray's housekeeping. Dirty dishes were in the sink and on the countertop. Clean dishes were everywhere else. Dirty clothes were in a heap by the back door. Clean clothes and linens were in the closet in the bathroom and in heaps on the chairs. There were other piles, too, which she hadn't identified yet. She folded the clean clothes and took them into the bedroom. She left the dirty ones in a heap, but kicked them into the corner.

Now she padded out onto the front porch. She picked her way over the snorkles and swim fins and skirted the dog blanket and the portable cooler. Then she stood on the steps and let her eyes become accustomed to the darkness. There was a bit of moonlight spilling on the sea beyond some low bushes and across a narrow expanse of beach.

The sea where, presumably, McGillivray had gone swimming.

She didn't see him.

Just as well. She didn't want to think about him now. Didn't want to analyze the quickening sensation she felt every time she looked at Mr. Fly Guy McGillivray—or every time he looked at her.

It would be a distraction.

Syd didn't do distractions. She liked to focus. Zeroing in on a problem and assessing ways of overcoming it was her strength. Her father said that. Even Roland said it.

And now dear Roland had some firsthand experience with it, she thought grimly as she tipped her head back and let the night's soft breeze blow through her nearly dry hair.
The breeze soothed her, calmed her, made Roland and St. John Electronics seem as far away as another galaxy.

It really was gorgeous here—what she had seen of it. And quiet. Very different from Paradise Island. That had been glitz and glamour, casinos and jet-skiing and parasailing and lots of fast-paced to-ing and fro-ing. The only sound she could hear now was the soft rush of waves breaking on the shore.

She was tempted to walk down to the water, but she didn't see a path, and McGillivray's warning about the snakes was still fresh in her mind.

Were there really snakes?

She had no idea. With McGillivray, who could tell? His “gotcha” still rankled. Men ordinarily did not try to annoy Sydney St. John. On the contrary, usually they fell all over themselves trying to figure out what she wanted so they could do it.

Obviously not Fly Guy McGillivray. She studied the underbrush and thought she heard vague rustlings. She stayed where she was, studying his house instead.

It was a low-slung wood frame place of indeterminate age, whose color from what she could see on the porch seemed to be a sunny yellow. It sat on a rise overlooking the bushes and beach. In the distance through the trees she could see the lights of several more houses along a broad and gently curving cove. But they were scattered. There were a couple of larger places, probably inns, but even these were nothing like the string of high-rise hotels on Paradise Island.

Was Roland back there now? Or was he looking for her? Wherever he was, she hoped he was well on his way to panic. Serve him right.

If she hadn't jumped overboard, she realized, she would be in bed with Roland right now. The very thought made her shiver.

Or perhaps he wouldn't have expected theirs to be a
real
marriage.

No, that was the stuff of novels. Roland wouldn't have had the imagination to even think they might marry and not have sex. He would have married her for the business, but he would have expected his “conjugal rights” just as he had expected her to go along with his planned nuptials because it made good sense.

It would have been just another merger—only this time one of a physical sort. There would have been no passion. No love. No electricity. No spark.

An image of Hugh McGillivray flickered unbidden in her brain.

The sizzle between herself and McGillivray was exactly the opposite of the bloodless intellectual—and economic—merger that would have resulted from marrying Roland Carruthers.

Not that she was considering marrying McGillivray. Perish the thought!

Despite what Mr. Full-of-Himself Fly Guy implied, she had absolutely no interest in a relationship with him. Arrogant so-and-so! Syd wrapped her arms against her breasts and gave herself a little shake.

But the image didn't vanish. And she had to admit she was curious about that sizzle, those sparks. That wasn't something she'd ever felt before. Stirrings of interest, yes, now and then, when she'd encountered an attractive man.

But crackle, snap, pop? No. Never.

There had been times when Syd wondered if she had it in her to feel those things. Now she knew.

And her curiosity was piqued.

Would it happen again? She wanted to know.

Another reason to stay on Parakeet—no, Pelican—Cay. She would find a job and prove herself as she should have done years ago instead of trying to be the son her father had never had. And she would learn more about this intriguing sizzle between herself and McGillivray.

“You might be playing with fire,” she warned herself aloud.

Well, yes. There was a danger of that. There was a danger to McGillivray. Even a novice to sizzle could see that.

But Syd believed in learning from experience. The more she could learn about “sizzle” now that it had finally happened to her, the better prepared she would be to appreciate it when it finally happened with the right man.

The breeze from the ocean touched her face and she smiled into it, looking forward, not back, relishing the challenge.

Then in the moonlight Syd caught sight of a man coming out of the water.

A lean hard man.

A graceful glistening man.

A naked man.

And she stared, mesmerized, as McGillivray stood for a moment silhouetted in the streaming silver light. Her mouth grew dry, her palms damp. Her heart kicked over in her chest, and an urgent sizzling heat curled downward from the middle of her belly. Flames of desire licked at her.

If the thought of going to bed with Roland had left her somewhere between indifferent and nonplused, the thought of sharing a bed with McGillivray was a whole different story.

She held herself absolutely still, drinking in the sight of him and at the same time trying to get a grip on her buzzing brain and rampaging hormones. There was sizzle, all right. And sparks and fireworks and, if she weren't careful, a whole conflagration.

That was why she needed to stay. To learn to control the fire.

Tomorrow. And in days to come. Right now she was going to bed. Alone.

She'd made enough life-changing decisions for one day.

 

H
UGH
loved his hammock. As long as he didn't have to spend the night in it. It was great for lazy afternoon naps.
It was fine for wiling away a summer evening drinking a beer and reading a book.

But nights—whole nights—got long. Very long. Especially if a guy couldn't sleep.

Hugh couldn't sleep.

Ordinarily he slept like the proverbial baby. “It's all that innocence and virtue,” he always claimed.

“All that beer more like,” his sister, Molly, always countered.

But neither beer nor virtue nor a good long swim had taken him to dreamland tonight.

Maybe, Hugh reasoned as he tried for the hundredth time to find a comfortable spot, it was just too damn hot. Or maybe there wasn't enough support for his back. Or maybe it was not being in his own bed that was keeping him awake.

More likely, he decided grimly, it was who was in his bed instead of him that was making him turn over and over like a chicken revolving on a spit. It was well past three in the morning and he'd barely shut his eyes.

Every time he did, visions of Sydney St. John lying between his sheets popped into his brain. He ground his teeth and shifted again. And again. And again. The swim should have tired him out. It certainly should have taken the edge off his desire.

He wasn't a teenager anymore, for heaven's sake! He was an adult—a man in control of his urges.

Finally, in a fit of irritation, he flipped over with enormous force—and flung himself right out onto the porch floor.

“Damn it!”

Belle, who had leaped off her blanket by his feet, whined and looked at him warily. Then she took hold of the corner of her blanket and pulled it away from the hammock. He'd get away from him, too, if he could.

“Hell,” he muttered, rubbing the shoulder on which he'd landed, then hauling himself to his feet. He eyed the still-
swaying hammock with distaste. No point trying it again. It wouldn't work.

He might as well head over to the shop. There was a couch there. But even more likely to put him to sleep was the pile of paperwork he had been avoiding for the past couple of weeks. If anything could knock him out, he knew from boring experience, it would be that.

Hugh bent down to scratch Belle's ears. “Go back to sleep. I won't bother you anymore.” Then, yawning, he padded across the porch and opened the screen door to the kitchen.

He flipped on the light—and stared in amazement. The place was spotless. There wasn't a dirty dish in sight.

He grinned. So snooty Miss Sydney could turn to, when she was challenged. Somehow he wasn't surprised. Any woman who had the guts to jump overboard in the middle of the damn ocean—

Hugh shook his head, reminding himself that she was seriously wacko. She had to be to have done that. And she was even crazier to think that she was going to get a managing director's job on Pelican Cay.

She'd just been babbling over dinner, annoyed—and rightly so, he admitted—that she'd been wasting her time in a job where she was obviously capable but not appreciated. He didn't blame her for wanting to prove herself.

He just didn't want her proving herself here.

Well, he didn't have to worry about that. Only his brother Lachlan's inn-and-resort business was extensive and complex enough to require a managing director. And Lachlan did that himself. All the rest of the islanders ran their own smaller operations by themselves, too. Multinational corporations were not thick on Pelican Cay's sandy beaches as Sydney St. John would discover damn quick.

And then she'd be on her way.

The thought cheered him enough that he took down the sugar bowl where he kept a stash of dollars and coins, dumped it all on the table and scrawled a quick note: “Use
this to get yourself some clothes. If you need more money, give them this note. I'll cover for you. H.”

Neither place would be what she was used to—not if the beaded dress was anything to go by. But that would just encourage her to leave even sooner. In the meantime she could wear something of his.

He glanced around and realized that all his clean clothes were gone. The dirty ones were still there—in a pile in the corner—but the ones he'd washed last weekend were no longer in the chair.

“Hell's bells.” She'd obviously taken it upon herself to clean them up, too. Probably took them in the bedroom and put them in the dresser drawers like some obsessive neat freak. Which meant he was going to have to go into the bedroom to get something to wear.

She was asleep on his bed.

Long, bare limbs silvery in the moonlight slanting through the blinds, Sydney St. John lay on her back, one arm flung out, the other across her middle. A cloud of dark hair framed her face.

What a face, Hugh thought. The hell with managing director jobs, the woman should be a cover model.

He ought to know. He had flown enough of them to and from photo shoots all over the islands. He knew cover-model-quality cheekbones when he saw them. He had seen—and kissed—his share of cover-model-quality lips, too.

Sydney St. John had them both. And even that scattering of freckles he'd seen earlier wouldn't have deterred photographers. On the contrary, it would have enchanted them, made her look “approachable,” “wholesome,” “all-American.” Hugh knew all the adjectives. He knew they were all true.

In sleep, he admitted, even her stubborn chin had something to recommend it.

Then, as he stood watching her, her lips twitched and twisted. She frowned and muttered. Her long legs scissored
and she rolled onto her side, clutching the pillow against her breasts like a shield.

“No!” she said fiercely. “I won't!”

Hugh backed away. No point in eavesdropping. Especially when he didn't want to hear her distress. He jerked open a drawer. His clothes were all there, folded neatly. Now it was his turn to mutter under his breath.