Rapture's Rendezvous (4 page)

Maria had almost forgotten about Alberto. Oh, how could she have? They had never been apart. Did this blonde American have a way of making her lose her wits? “Yes. He is my kin,” she answered. “He is my twin brother.”

“Damn it, you say.”

“Yes. And may I ask you something, sir?”

“Michael. Please call me Michael.”

She cleared her throat nervously. “Okay, Michael,” she said, then added. “Can I ask where you are from?”

He opened the door widely, stepping into total darkness, except for what the small porthole emitted in wavy grays onto the low ceiling. “Good ol' Saint Louis, Missouri,” he said. “In America, of course.” He suddenly tensed, aware that he had just blurted out what should have been kept confidential. Damn. Damn. He knew that she would cause him to have a loose tongue. God. She was too beautiful.

Maria laughed. “How funny that name is.”

“America?”

“No. Saint Louis.”

“Yeah. I guess it is at that,” he mumbled, searching for the wick of a whale oil lantern, then struck a match and lit it.

Maria stood straight-backed, watching the soft glow of the lantern, with her eyes growing wide, seeing the way in which this cabin was furnished. It was as though she had stepped into a grand hotel suite, of which she had seen pictures in books. “It is quite fancy,” she said, almost afraid to step onto the highly polished floor. Her gaze traveled more around her, seeing plushly upholstered furniture in a beige leather fabric.

But the one piece of furniture that grabbed her attention most was a bed that filled the full depth of the far end of the room. Not a hard, uncomfortable bunk or bed of leaves … but a true … bed.

An aroma of mustiness filtered upward to be fast dispelled when Michael lit a fresh cigar and settled down onto a chair, crossing his legs before him. He
couldn't help but feel a bit guilty, seeing the look of disbelief in her eyes as Maria continued to look around her. His cabin
was
quite elaborate, in comparison to the way the immigrants were traveling.

But having had to travel on such a long journey as this, he hadn't been able to say no to what the ship's captain had offered in the way of luxury. But the captain of the
Dolphin
had no idea of Michael's true identity. If he
had. .
. Michael would have been treated even more poorly than a rat that is discovered on ship. . . .

“And would you like to put on something less wet?” he asked, eyeing her between squinted eyes. “What?” she gasped.

He laughed softly. “Don't be alarmed,” he said. “I only want to give you loan of my robe, until we can get your clothes dry.”

Maria looked further around her, seeing the small stove glowing orange in a corner, and a desk and built-in dressing table next to a basin that had been attached to the wall. Beneath the basin was a commode, making Maria turn her eyes quickly away.

She shivered again, realizing just how cold and uncomfortable she was. She eyed the stove once again and inched her way toward it.

“Well? What do you say, Maria?”

She turned to face him with wavering eyes. “I am a bit cold,” she whispered.

He pushed himself up out of the chair and went to a closet, pulling from it a maroon-colored satin night robe. He tossed it to her, then sat back down, watching her.

She placed her violin case on the floor and clutched
the soft fabric to her. “Could you please close your eyes?” she asked quietly. She had learned to not be ashamed of her body while living in such close quarters at both her Papa's and Gran-mama's houses, but she had yet to let
any
man .. . not even .. . Alberto .. . see her fully unclothed. She had become aware of the size of her breasts and sensed that that was what most men liked about a woman's hidden proportions.

“Sure,” he laughed, standing, to move to his desk, to busy his fingers while turning pages of his journal, in which he had yet to record on this damn blustery day. His brows furrowed, remembering the storm. He had been quite aware of the creaking of the ship's timbers. Was this to be the last voyage of this ship
Dolphin?
Had it seen its last days of bringing immigrants to America's soil? Damn it. He hoped so. He had yet to see any immigrants treated fairly. They would be better off if not given passage to a land that didn't truly welcome them with open arms. . . .

Kicking her shoes off and stepping from her trousers, and then having pulled her jacket over her head, Maria worked quickly to cover herself with this sleek, shining fabric that had been so generously loaned to her. She liked the feel of it next to her skin, almost a caress, it seemed, as she tied its belt securely around her tiny waist.

“I'm now fully covered, Michael,” she said, curling her toes leisurely onto the warmth of the flooring beneath her feet. She flipped her dark hair away from her face and over her shoulders, smiling shyly as he turned to face her. The strange look in his eyes made a weakness settle in her knees and an ache begin between her thighs. She touched her forehead lightly and
quickly turned to put her back to him, stooping to pick her clothes up, to arrange them on a chair next to the stove.

The pounding of her heart was a true warning of what was happening inside her. It had to be because she was suddenly being awakened to the desire for a man.

“You are quite a beautiful woman,” Michael said, clearing his throat nervously. He had known that the loose clothes had hidden many things . .. but he hadn't expected to find such exquisite proportions as his eyes had feasted on until she had turned from him. Such large, firm breasts compared to such a tiny waist? Yes, he had made quite a discovery here.

“And I do love the robe,” she said, running her fingers over its smoothness. “I've never had such softness against my skin.”

He went to stand beside her, but didn't dare attempt to touch her. He was afraid to move, lest haste only result in waste. “But it is only my night garment,” he said, puffing on his cigar.

“My night garments have only been of cotton,” she whispered. “As well as all my day garments.”

He ached to touch her. “You were made for satin, Maria,” he said, then turned with a start when a knock on the door interrupted their awkwardness. “Damn,” he uttered beneath his breath, crushing his cigar in an ashtray. “Who the hell?” he mumbled further, going to the door to open it with a jerk, then smiled, remembering having ordered this before taking his stroll on top deck. This was perfect. Maybe he could tempt Maria with food and receive a reward for all his generosi-ties … ?

Maria's eyes widened when she saw a ship's steward
offering Michael a huge tray of silver-ornamented covered dishes. The aromas soon met her nose, making her lick her lips hungrily. She
had
been right. To be in Michael Hopper's presence
had
meant dry clothes . . . food….

“Thank you, Shawn,” Michael said, accepting the tray. He placed it on a table that sat between two chairs and closed and latched the door, turning to smile again, but this time toward Maria.

“A feast is what I now offer you,” he said, gesturing with a hand for her to sit down opposite him.

She put her hands to her throat. “For me?” she whispered, watching hungrily as Michael lifted first one lid and then another from the dishes. Steam spiraled upward, curling around her, enticing her even more, as she saw a deep-browned baked duck, sliced carrots swimming in a cream sauce, and slices of cheese and apples piled high on another platter.

“Come. Sit,” Michael encouraged, popping a cork from a wine bottle, to pour the crimson liquid into two tall, thin-stemmed wine glasses. “There's enough food and wine for two. Please enjoy it with me.”

Maria sank down onto the chair and accepted a glass of wine, then a dish piled high with food. She hesitated before eating, feeling a sudden guilt, remembering poor Alberto and what he would be fed on top deck. But she set her jaw firmly, thinking it to be his own fault for having left her side for a silly card game. Had he not, he would most surely be sitting beside her in the warmth of this cabin, also being served such delicious-smelling food.

She took a quick sip of wine, then set the glass down, to be able to eagerly pick at the meat with a fork. Smiling
at Michael, she savored the mixtures of tastes and the pleasant, calm feeling they were creating inside her stomach. “It is so very good,” she said, then sipped on the wine again, this causing a rosiness to creep up into her cheeks.

Michael cleaned his plate and emptied his glass, then leaned back against the chair as he lit another cigar. “Now tell me a little about yourself,” he said, placing his folded hands on his lap, twiddling his thumbs.

Maria licked her lips and relaxed against the back of her own chair after having placed her empty plate and glass on the table before her. “What would you like to know?” she asked, feeling deliciously contented.

“Where are you and your brother headed?”

“To America.”

He laughed. “I know, my sweet,” he said. “But where in America?”

“I forget,” she said, blushing. She scooted to the edge of the chair, causing the robe she wore to fall clumsily open. Her blush deepened as she pulled the edges closer together. “I have the name of the town in my violin case,” she said quickly. “I can look, then tell you.”

His brows furrowed as he turned his cigar between his lips. “The name is unimportant,” he murmured, looking toward the floor. He cleared his throat nervously, now eyeing her closely. “And what type of employment will your brother be seeking?”

Maria leaned against the back of the chair again, pulling her legs comfortably beneath her. “Whatever Papa has found for himself and Alberto,” she answered. “But I cannot tell you what. Papa failed to mention it in his last letter to us.”

“Oh, I see,” Michael grumbled. “And it is your Papa
who sent tickets for your passage to America?”

“Yes. After waiting so long, he finally did so.”

He felt a bit confused, having thought all along that most aboard this ship were headed for the coal mines owned by Nathan Hawkins. But . . . yes . . . there had to be a few who weren't….

“And how about yourself, Michael?” Maria said eagerly, shaking her head to free her eyes of some loose strands of hair.

“Eh?” he said, not having expected her to blurt out that sort of question so suddenly.

“What is the purpose for you being on this ship?” she asked further, gazing around her once again, at the plushness of her surroundings. Then her gaze met his. “Are you even the owner of this ship, Michael?”

Michael began laughing, choking on his cigar smoke. “Me?” he said. “Not quite.”

“Then what
do
you do, Michael? How do you make a living for yourself?”

His face became all shadows as he leaned over to pour two more glasses of wine. “I'm with a winery,” he finally answered. “I've been to Italy . . . to . . . uh .. . check the quality of the grapes, to choose which of these we want to plant in our fields back in America.”

He watched her eyes, relieved to see that she believed him, as had also the ship's captain.

“Then America does have grapes?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes. Many,” he answered. “More wine?” he added, smoothly, holding a filled glass before her.

“I don't know why not,” she giggled, having liked the way it had warmed her insides. Another glass might even make her so warm, it could linger with her on into
the night, when she would be lying, shivering, on top deck.

She took a sip, then another, realizing that the usual tingling was working up her spine, as always happened when drinking any wine .. . even her own Papa's homemade brew that had been so sorely missed after his departure to America.

“And did you find our country's grapes to your liking?” she asked, then bolted upright when a sudden commotion erupted outside the closed door. “What was that?” she whispered.

Michael rose and went to her, but still refrained from touching her. “As you should know, there are many strange noises on a ship,” he said. “It's nothing to worry about.”

A louder thud and men cursing loudly prompted Maria to lunge for Michael, then suck in her breath when she found his arms enfolding her.

“Maria?” he said softly, eyeing her questioningly with his blue eyes, then moved his lips to cover hers, causing Maria's heart to thump wildly against her chest. He kissed her softly . . . testing . . . then pulled her closer to him in such a quick way, her breath was almost taken from her.

She opened her eyes, searching this face so close to hers, seeing how he had his eyes tightly closed, as though in a swoon, while continuing to kiss her.

It was a first for her. No man had ever kissed her before and she found that Michael's lips were creating many more pleasurable feelings inside her than she had ever thought possible. She closed her own eyes, squirming, to shape her body to his, not caring when the gown she wore flew open, making her feel even more clearly the hardness of his manhood pressing
against her.

She knew that she should be feeling wicked, but the warmth coarsing through her veins and her heart pounding so rapidly convinced her that in no way could such a sensation of excitement be wrong.

She moaned throatily as one of Michael's hands moved to secure a breast, causing her nipple to draw tightly, aching as his fingers teased and pulled at it.

She threw her head back as his lips left her mouth and exchanged places with his fingers, now licking and sucking on the hard points of each breast, until Maria felt she might melt onto the floor into one throbbing mass of flesh.

“Maria, you are so damn beautiful,” Michael said thickly, then scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed.

“And you, Michael?” she whispered. “You've set me on fire inside.” She reached her arms out to him, begging him to come to her, wanting more, but had to remain patient as he began to undress in front of her.