The Virgin and the Vengeful Groom (10 page)

“How can you not know the names of your grandparents?”

“Easy. I was found under a cabbage plant by a stork who had amnesia. There, now it's your turn again.” She stood and stretched, and he nearly reached out and clasped a hand around her waist. Came damned close to it, it was that tempting. Seemed that natural. “I think I'll go outside and, um, walk awhile,” she said in that tone he was coming to mistrust.

“Yeah, why don't you do that?”

And while you're at it, get old and ugly and cranky, come back bitching and smelling of garlic and sweat. That way we might be able to stick it out a few more days, until one or the other of us throws in the towel.

 

Determined to concentrate on the task at hand so that Lily could take what papers he didn't want and leave, Curt spent the rest of the day sorting and skimming. Old letters, bills of lading, manifestos and personal memos—“bring home a doll for Annie, a peach tree and a bolt of calico,” all scrawled in faded ink, in a now familiar angular script. He was beginning to feel like an intruder. Who was Annie? Where was the peach tree? Why did he even care?

Because the truth was that he was beginning to care. Something no self-respecting rolling stone could afford to do.

Flexing a back that had grown increasingly stiff from hours of sitting in the same position, he anchored the various stacks against an errant breeze with a few clamshells he used for the purpose, and wandered out onto the porch. Lily was dozing over one of Bess's novels. “Want to go swimming?”

She glanced up, blinked several times and said, “What time is it?”

“Nearly eight. Still plenty of light left, though. We can
order pizzas, take a dip and be back by the time they're delivered.”

Bad idea. Lousy idea, but then, he was full of those. Bringing Lily here rated right up there at the top of the list of bad ideas.

“You're kidding, right? Secret number whatever is that I can't swim.”

“So fake it.”

“Curt, I don't own a bathing suit, and even if I did, I'm not about to walk across miles of blistering hot sand just to get wet. That's what showers are for.”

“The sand's cooled off, and salt's good for your skin.”

“There's nothing wrong with my skin.”

He wouldn't touch that one with a ten-foot oar. “Come on, you need a break.”

In the stare-down contest, Curt won, hands down. They met a few minutes later on the front porch. Lily was wearing a pair of baggy shorts that came almost to her knees, with the same men's shirt she'd worn all day now knotted at her waist.

“This'll have to do,” she said defiantly.

Remembering the woman he'd first seen behind a tableful of books, wearing a classy silk outfit with a string of pearls around her throat, Curt could only nod. It would do. Oh, hell yeah, it would do just fine.

They set out across the stretch of sandy yard. Behind them the calm waters of the Pamlico mirrored a faithful reflection of a pink-and-gold sky that shaded off into colors he couldn't begin to describe. Before them, each stunted, wind-sculpted yaupon and cedar cast a lavender shadow on the peach-colored sand.

Staring entranced at the sky, Lily stumbled. He caught her, but quickly released her. And then, fool that he was, standing near the edge of the narrow highway that ran the
length of the island, he reached for her hand again. Fingers entwined, they waited until traffic passed. Cars with surfboards or kayaks on top, SUVs with bumper racks of fishing gear. Once it was clear, they crossed the soft, warm asphalt to the other side. “Rush-hour traffic, I've been told, lasts roughly from early June through Labor Day.”

Lily smiled and made an effort to ease her hand from his, but when he held on, she didn't make an issue of it. Maybe he needed the support, although she didn't think so. He was moving much easier these past few days, as though he was no longer afraid of stepping on a land mine. It had been the first thing Lily had noticed about him—the way he moved. Like a jungle animal, she remembered thinking at the time. Even then she'd sensed a certain predatory element in the man.

Nothing had happened since to change her mind.

She had to hurry to keep up with his long-legged stride. “You doing okay?” he asked, and she nodded breathlessly. She happened to know he worked out in his room every morning before jogging across to the beach for his swim. An hour later he would come back, sweat dripping from every pore, trying to pretend he wasn't exhausted, that he wasn't ready to drop in his tracks. She'd asked him once if he was sure he should be exerting himself in his condition, and he'd snapped something to the effect that yeah, he should, and his condition was none of her business, so butt out.

She was trying to butt out, but it wasn't easy. “Know what? I really miss sidewalks,” she panted.

“Plenty of sidewalks in Norfolk.”

In other words, she interpreted, get off my island. Ignoring the unsubtle hint and the surprising way it hurt, she said, “My shoes are full of sand.”

“Take 'em off.”

“What, and blister my feet?”

“Sand's not all that hot,” he dismissed.

“Not if you're used to it, maybe.” He obviously was. The soles of his feet must be tough as leather, for all they were nice feet. Long and narrow, high-arched, with a dusting of dark hair on the top.

Oh, for Pete's sake, now she was getting turned on by a man's feet! There was a name for that sort of kinkiness. “Sure, and spend the rest of the night picking cactus needles out of my toes,” she muttered.

They were still holding hands. She made it, puffing and panting, to the crest of the dunes, then stood and gazed out over the glittery surface of the ocean in awe. Every ripple on a cobalt surface was rimmed with gold. A lazy curl of pink foam edged each wave where it brushed the shore. “Oh, my,” she whispered.

“You can do better than that. You're a writer.”

“Some things are best left to the imagination.”

He took her hand again while she shed her shoes, one after the other, and tossed them back up on the dry sand. Then he led her down to the water's edge, where a shallow, lace-edged wave curled about their ankles.

“See the moon?” Following his pointing finger, she saw the pale crescent directly overhead. “Means the tide's dead low. Good time for your first swimming lesson.”

“Whoa. I'm still not sure this is a good idea. I mean, doesn't it take some, uh—conditioning?”

“Can you float?”

“How the devil do I know? My bathtub's too short to try it.”

Curt opened his mouth to comment, thought better of it and took a firmer grip on her hand. With no wind and the tide all the way out, there was no more than a slight surface chop. Personally, he preferred an incoming tide with a
moderate current, even a bit of undertow to pit his strength against, but if she'd never even been in a swimming pool, this was as good as it got.

Ankle deep, and she was hanging on to his hand like a life preserver. The sandy bottom was hard, no sloughs or gullies. They waded out until the water lapped at the hem of her shorts, and she turned and beamed up at him like a kid who'd just kicked his training wheels.

“This is nice,” she said in that breathy, husky voice she used when she was excited over some new discovery in one of Bess's diaries. “I sort of thought it would be colder.”

Ignoring her words, he watched her face. What he saw there threw him into another tailspin. “Who the devil are you?” he asked softly.

“What? I don't understand.”

She looked every bit as confused as he was beginning to feel, but he wasn't about to let her off the hook. “You claim to be Lily O'Malley—”

“I am Lily O'Malley!” She shook her hand free from his, then clutched his arms as another wave swept up past her waist. The tide was beginning to turn.

“Right. You're Lily O'Malley, famous writer. Newspaper reporters recognize you, people line up for your autograph. You wear genuine pearls and hoard food, even wrapping leftover slices of pizza—” He cut off her automatic protest. “Oh, yeah, I've seen that pack you carry like you're not sure where your next meal's coming from.”

“You searched my personal property?” She looked so distressed he wished he could unsay that last. Sure he'd checked out what she called her personal property. He figured she owed him that much under the circumstances. Besides, he hadn't trusted her as far as he could see her
those first few days. If she was packing, he damn well needed to know it.

No gun. Candy bars, cookies, peanuts—every kind of junk food available, plus some floppy disks and the usual female stuff. One of those miniature purses women seemed to like, a lipstick, keys, wads of tissue and three pens. “Nah, I didn't actually search it,” he lied, ashamed of himself even though all he'd done was assure himself that she wouldn't catch him off guard and do God knows what. “But, yeah, I checked you out. I'd be a fool not to.”

“Like I was a fool to go home with you, you mean?” She looked so hurt he was ready to forgive her everything, stealing his personal property—forcing him into doing something he'd had no intention of doing.

“Damn right you were. What if I'd been a rapist? A murderer? What if I'd held you for ransom?”

“Like somebody would actually pay ransom for me?” she scoffed, trying unconvincingly to sound as if she couldn't care less.

“Your publisher?”

It took a minute to sink in. Slowly she nodded. She was still hanging on to his arm. The tide was still washing around them—not yet a problem, but incoming, all the same.

“Hey, lighten up and let's go. We're wasting time, and the tide's starting to change,” he said, his voice dangerously close to tender.

“I don't like for people to intrude on my privacy.”

“Duly noted. Matter of fact, neither do I,” he said with significant emphasis. “However, we seem to be stuck with each other for the time being, so why not declare a truce and make the best of it? Deal?”

While he waited for her to make up her mind, he felt the sand shift under his feet as the current grew stronger.
No matter how benign things looked on the surface, he knew better than to underestimate any situation. “You don't want to waste a great opportunity, do you? Never know when you'll find yourself in over your head.”

“Again,” she said drolly.

“Again,” he echoed, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Well…I guess. But I'm not ready to swim yet. Maybe we could start with floating?”

“You got it, but first, let's get out past these breakers.”

He led her out past the bar, to where the swells were just starting to make up. Standing shoulder deep—her shoulders, not his—he waited until she got the feel of the gentle currents before issuing instructions. Somewhat to his surprise, she trusted him enough to lie back on his arm, allowing him to support her while she floundered for balance.

“Easy, just let go. You're stiff as a crowbar. Let your arms and legs relax…that's it. I'll keep your head above water, you don't have to—yeah, that's great. You're a natural.”

“Look, Ma—it's me, Lily. I'm floating on top of the ocean.” She laughed aloud. He felt something shift deep inside him that had nothing to do with incoming tides or littoral currents.

A few moments later he eased his arm away, but brought it back under her shoulders when her face went under. “You let me go,” she accused, gasping, sputtering, blinking reddening eyes. He was still holding her, but the trust was broken. She grabbed him around the waist, hooked one hand into the waistband of his trunks and said, “I can't do this! You're trying to drown me!”

“You know better than that. Come on now, a few minutes more and we'll call it a day.” The seas were forc
ing her against him, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. A few more minutes with her hanging on to his pants and he'd never make it to shore—at least not without embarrassing himself. The water was tepid. What he needed right now was an ice-cold shower.

Firmly he removed her fingers, held her at arm's length and carefully positioned her to try again. “Come on, Lily, one more time and then we'll call it quits. This time, let's do it right. Up you go—I've got you, I'll hold your head, all you have to do is concentrate on relaxing. Easy, easy, I've still got you.”

She did it because he was bigger than she was. Because she was way out of her depth and they both knew it. He'd have to hand it to her—she didn't panic. Just one more facet of Lady Lily. For a civilian she was pretty damn cool under fire.

After a few minutes Curt eased her into an upright position. He waited until she was steady on her feet, then stepped back, still holding her arm because the tide was rising fast. “You did great. Tomorrow you'll be ready for the next step.”

“Any step I take tomorrow will carry me as far as the front porch, and that's it. As long as I stay away from boats and floodplains in the future, chances are I probably won't drown.”

“What about bathtubs? You ever hear of home accidents?”

“So I'll hose off outside,” she said, but that husky note of laughter was back in her voice.

“How come you never learned to swim?” he asked as they waded ashore.

“What, another secret? I think you owe me.” Lily had refused to hold his hand once she was sure she could walk without having a wave catch her in the back and tumble
her head over heels. Now that her lesson was over, she was almost sorry she'd given up so soon. Not that she'd expected to actually learn to swim her first time in the ocean. Like all her other attempts at making up for past educational gaps, she was good at going after exactly what she needed at the moment, faking the rest and writing around any hazardous roadblocks.

Still, it would've been nice, for once, to succeed her first time out.
Look, Ma, no hands! That was me, Lily, out there floating on top of the ocean!