The Virgin and the Vengeful Groom (9 page)

“Sorry,” Lily said quietly. “I'm so hot I can't even breathe. Could we please start over?”

Standing there in his trunks, with a wet towel draped strategically around his hips, he was tempted to tell her what he'd like to start. Instead, he said, “Sure.”

“Nice swim?” She forked a finger between the pages of the diary she'd been reading and tried to look as if she cared.

“Not particularly. Water's too warm.” It came out as a snarl, so he stretched his lips into a smile that was about as convincing as the towel around his waist.

She'd piled her hair up on top of her head. It was beginning to slide down, tendrils sticking to her damp face and that shallow valley at the back of her neck that was more tempting than the cleavage on any other woman.

Stand down, sailor!
He was beginning to breathe hard again. Twenty minutes of body surfing, a jog across a quarter mile of soft sand and his pulse rate hadn't even shifted into second gear. One look at the woman daintily blotting egg yolk from her mouth and he was all messed up again. Could perpetual horniness be a side effect of cutting his medication too fast?

“By the way, did you know you have mice?” she asked.

“So?”

“I just thought I'd mention it, in case you were tempted to leave food out. Mice like paper, too—at least they like to nest in it.”

He was tempted, all right, but it had nothing to do with food or mice or paper. He continued to watch for a minute, towering over her while the salt slowly dried on his skin. She went back to her reading—didn't even glance up.

And then she did, giving him that cool look she had down pat—the one he interpreted as
Buzz off, dude, I'm somebody and you're nobody.

Which more or less summed up his own feelings at the moment. Biggest mistake of his life, bringing her here. He
was beginning to regret even coming here himself. Wheeling away, he strode down the hall to his room, slammed the door, leaned against it for a moment, then hobbled across the floor, moving like an old man. Like the thirty-six-year-old washed-up has-been he was. If he'd been here alone he'd have stripped, stretched out on the bed with the fan blowing across him and slept until starvation drove him out to forage for food.

Instead, he shucked out of his damp trunks and pulled on a pair of clean, dry briefs. No point in clogging up his drainpipes with any more sand. Grabbing his last clean pair of khakis, he headed for the office to see what he could do about mouse-proofing a few cardboard boxes. It hadn't occurred to him before, but dammit, he hadn't gone to all this trouble just to provide a convenient nest for a bunch of rodents. Food was replaceable. Those papers weren't.

He could have bought traps or even poison, but for a guy who'd been trained as a professional bad dude—a lethal dude, to be more precise—he was rapidly losing his taste for killing.

So he had a few mice. So he had a few bugs. For all he knew, he might have a few reptiles. The last time it had rained, he'd found three tree frogs on his bedroom wall. But bad dude or not, he didn't feel like engaging in another search and destroy mission, not here in his own territory.

Which meant finding something—maybe the tool chest in the back of his truck—that would serve as a safe until he went through the papers, took out any he wanted to keep, gave Bess's stuff to Lily and turned the rest over to the local museum.

He heard the front screen swing shut. Sensed her presence before she spoke.

Only she didn't speak, so he glanced up and she did that
expressive thing with her eyebrows, which, roughly translated, meant “What the hell are you up to
now?
”

He was getting good at reading her. For a lady who made her living with words, she got a lot of mileage from a few silent, subtle gestures.

“You're right. Might be better to stash these things where they won't get chewed up before we're done with them.” He was in a surly mood, a challenging mood. In the mood for a good, clear-the-air fight, only he couldn't come up with any reasonable grounds.

“Good idea. Those old newspaper clippings are crumbling, anyway, but I'd hate to see them turned into mice nests.”

No jumping up on a chair and holding her skirts. Not that he'd expected her to. Besides, the lady wore slacks. She had the kind of body that looked great in pants, ditto that silk thing she'd been wearing the first time he'd seen her in person.

The kind that made a man wonder how she would look wearing nothing at all.

“I thought I'd stash 'em in the tool chest in my truck. We can take out a few stacks at a time to work on.”

No argument. “I'll help you,” she said, and, lifting the smallest of the boxes, she headed out the front door with it. For a woman who didn't strike him as particularly muscular, she had a surprising amount of upper-body strength.

Working together, they emptied the toolbox and stored all six boxes except for the items they were currently working on. For Curt it was the logbooks. Somewhere in one of them, there might even be a clue to the
Black Swan
's last voyage. So far about all he'd discovered was that the old man had a woman aboard and a kid named Annie, and that between the two of them they had him wrapped around their little fingers, even after Annie threw
up all over his best boots. It was all there, between bills of lading and weather data.

Lily kept out all five of Bess's diaries, but none of the novels. He was tempted to tell her to take what she wanted with his blessings. If she planned to stay until she'd read everything the woman had ever written, he would be climbing the walls. He could walk into a room an hour after she'd been there and sense her presence. Seeing her things lined up alongside his in the bathroom, he couldn't even shave without cutting himself.

Hanging over the side of the truck, she held up a bundle of letters tied together with a faded ribbon. “Have you read any of these?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you mind if I keep them out? I mean, they're probably personal.”

“And the diaries aren't?” he mocked.

She shrugged, and Curt wished he didn't notice the way her shirt slid over her body. There was nothing at all seductive about what she was wearing now, or any of the other outfits she'd worn since she'd been here. They certainly weren't what he'd have expected a famous author to wear. But they had the same effect as if she'd been wearing one of those silky things cut up to here and down to there.

Good thing she stuck to baggy cottons.

Good thing he wasn't up to peak condition.

Good thing neither one of them was up for anything of an intimate nature.

“Help yourself,” he growled. Reaching past her, Curt slammed down the lid. Startled, Lily fell back. If he hadn't been standing there—if his arms hadn't closed around her reflexively, she'd have fallen to the ground.

That was all it took. The fuse had been smoldering for days.

T
he kiss was hungry, hot, devastating. With a sultry sun beating down from a cloudless sky, they held on desperately, hands slipping on sweat-slick flesh, until the first explosive force was expended. Even then, neither of them made an effort to break away. They clung together for support, struggling for breath.

Curt's hands moved over her shoulders, exploring their way down the delicate bones of her back, cupping the swell of her hips to press her against his aching groin. Their mouths joined once again, almost awkward in their eagerness.

Out on the highway, a car whipped past, horn blowing. Dazed, they broke apart, staring as if neither of them could believe what had just happened. Curt knew as surely as he knew his own name that it wasn't going to end here. This thing—whatever it was—had been simmering beneath the surface since the first time he'd seen her in her silk and
pearls, with that fake smile and that haughty “back-off” look in her eyes.

And she knew it, too.

Oh, yes, Lily knew it. Knew that no matter how much she wanted to deny the inevitable, she couldn't do it. Eve and that damned apple. The dark, sweet taste of temptation—of his mouth on hers, his hands on her body. Wherever they were headed, she was going willingly, knowing she'd be hurt in the end, because there was no way on earth she could protect herself against something so powerful, so wonderful—so compelling. For the first time in her life she knew what it must be like to be addicted. To need—to want so desperately that nothing else in the world mattered.

It was Curt who finally broke away. His hands left her breasts, moved down her arms, tangled with her fingers for a moment and then…let go.

Lily sagged toward him, desperately needing his arms around her, his strength. Needing him to hold her, at least until the world settled down again, but he shook his head. Gently, almost sadly, he stood his ground. “If you're looking for an apology, forget it.”

God knows where it came from—pride, mostly—but Lily found the strength to lift her head and look him coolly in the eyes. “Did I ask for an apology?”

The good news was that he appeared to be almost as shaken as she was.

The bad news was that on his part, it was no more than a temporary physical condition. She knew all about easy sex. Knew who took, who gave and who ended up suffering most. She had no intention of becoming a victim of hit-and-run sex.

“Well, at least we got that out of our systems.” Suspecting her act might fall a bit short of the mark, she tilted
her chin and held his gaze as long as she dared, then turned toward the house.

It was only a kiss, dammit. It meant about as much as…as ketchup on fries. Nice, but hardly necessary.

She trudged through the sand, climbed the three wooden steps to the front porch, resisting the urge to turn and see if he was watching her. That burning sensation between her shoulder blades was probably only a laser beam from a passing spaceship.

The Lily who lived deep inside her, who never lied to her, whispered that it was a good thing he wasn't all that interested, because if he'd led her to his bed, she wouldn't have uttered a word. Not so much as a weak whimper, to her everlasting shame. It was bad enough that she wanted him so much she ached, without having to prove to herself that she was her mother's daughter.

Neither of them spoke about their mutual lapse in judgment. For the rest of the day they avoided each other, speaking only when necessary.

“We're about out of coffee.”

“I'll put it on the list.”

“Have you seen my keys?”

“They're by the phone.”

She added it to the growing list of flaws. He misplaced things and lacked the patience to look for them. That and his various physical infirmities should have dimmed his appeal. The trouble was that underneath that gruff, imperfect exterior, there was a wounded warrior who was beginning to bring out protective instincts she hadn't even known she possessed.

Unfortunately, those weren't the only instinct he aroused. Aside from wanting to comfort him, to offer to be his friend for life and then curl up in the security of his strong arms, there was this other thing—the explosive sex
ual attraction. Lily was pretty sure he didn't welcome it any more than she did, but there it was. It was nothing she hadn't described dozens of times in her books, yet ironically, she'd never before experienced it personally.

 

After spending hours trying to decipher faded, spidery handwriting, Lily gave up. Even when she could make out the words, following the obscure mind trails of a woman who had lived in an earlier century required more concentration than she could bring to the task at the moment.

Laying aside the stack of letters and diaries she'd been comparing, she wandered aimlessly through the empty rooms, absorbing the ambience. It was the way she worked best—gathering impressions, allowing them to sink in, to coalesce into something tangible. If she'd been a painter, she would have been an Impressionist.

After her second book had been published, she had attempted to use one of the countless tried-and-true methods for plotting. For days she had followed the prescribed course, charting conflicts and resolutions, action and reaction. Finally she had given up in defeat and gone back to allowing her subconscious mind to lead the way.

Like the radio interference that was so prevalent here on the island, Curt's presence was everywhere. She did her best to filter him out and focus on Bess. Sometimes it seemed almost as if she were losing her grasp on reality, something she'd been accused of more than once.

There was one room in particular that gave her the oddest feeling of…closeness. Almost as if, with a little effort, she could reach back through the fog of time and touch…

Someone. Something.

She could just imagine Curt's reaction if she were to try to describe it. “You're trying to tell me you see
ghosts?
”

“No, I'm trying to tell you I feel things. Impressions, that's all.”

“Sure you do, sweetheart,” he'd say. And then he would hum a few bars from that old TV show, meaning she was bonkers. Nothing new about that. Even as a child she used to disappear inside her own head when things got too ugly on the outside. Some had made fun of her—others had tried to take advantage of her. After the first few attempts, they'd quickly learned to leave her alone.

She made two sandwiches since she was making, and took Curt's to the office. This policy of conscious avoidance took too much energy.

He was hunched over an untidy array of charts. Sensing her presence, he glanced over his shoulder, and it struck her all over again that whatever the quality certain men had that drove women out of their mind—machismo or something—he had more of it than the law allowed. Ignoring the stuff was like trying to ignore a tornado, but she gave it her best shot.

“Hi. You forgot to eat.” When he didn't immediately chase her out of the room, she ventured further. “Curt, d'you know what I think?”

Reaching for the thick cheese and salsa sandwich, he said a bit warily, “Thanks. I forgot about food. Should I know what you're thinking?”

That garnered a quick grin. “Not really. Just a figure of speech.”

He waited. Lily took a big bite and chewed thoughtfully while she assembled her courage. “I've been reading letters from Bess's gentleman friend, Horace. I'm pretty sure he was a lawyer, and as her name ended up being Bagby, she must've married him before she died. Anyway, comparing the dates on the letters with the dates in her diary, I get the feeling she was behind something that happened
here between old Matthew and his wife—your great-great-grandmother Rose.”

“My grandmother who?”

“Rose. That was her given name, didn't you know?”

“No, I—actually, I don't know much about my family history. That's one of the reasons why these papers are so important to me.”

Was it her imagination, or was he trying to make her feel guilty all over again for buying the things? She'd thought they'd gotten past that, or at least reached a compromise. “Well, of course they are. I didn't think it was because you were into recycling,” she said dryly. She thought she saw a flash of laughter in his eyes, but it disappeared too quickly to be sure. He muttered something about a smart mouth, and took a bite of his sandwich.

Emboldened, she moved closer, standing behind him to look over his shoulder. “These aren't old. What are all those?”

“Geodetic surveys. Comparative studies of the shoreline, showing the rate of erosion over the past hundred years.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Erosion? Littoral currents. Storms.”

Curt knew what she meant. Why was he so interested. Not entirely comfortable with the answer, he countered with a question of his own. “Why are you so determined to pry into my family's secrets?”

It took her a moment. He could almost see the wheels spinning, but she was quick. “After a hundred years, I'm not sure you could call them secrets. Isn't there a statute of limitations or something?”

Wildflowers. Yep, that's what it was, all right. He didn't know if she bathed in the stuff or rolled in it—it was subtle, little more than the occasional whiff—but that was
enough. “Tell you what—I'll trade my secrets for yours. One for one. Pick your generation and start talking. For instance, where're you from? I can't seem to pin down your accent.”

Her jaw fell. She had a nice jaw. More stubborn than it looked. Nice teeth, too, although she could have done with braces when she was younger. “You're not serious.”

“Dead serious. Try me.”

He waited, enjoying the inner battle. She had secrets, all right. What woman didn't? Trouble was, she was a fiction writer. Like Bess. Lied and made a living at it, only she wouldn't call it lying. Women never did.

Oh, for goodness' sake, Curtis, stop pestering me about your father, he didn't want us, and that's all you need to know!

But why didn't he want us, Mama? Did I do something bad?

If you must know, he got sick and died. Like Badger.

You mean he ate poison meat?

I mean—oh, for goodness' sake, people die, that's all. They just…do!

“Where did you disappear to just then?” Lily asked curiously.

“Where did I what?”

She hooked the stool with her foot, dragged it closer and sat down. “For a minute you looked as if you were a thousand miles away. I feel that way, too, sometimes. Like I just slip back in time to another era, another place. And to answer your question, Boston, Baltimore, Detroit, Norfolk. Mostly.”

He frowned down at the geodetic survey. As if they hadn't been walking on eggshells ever since that business out by the truck, she slid the thing closer and pretended to study it. Deliberately he breathed in the scent of her hair,
her skin. A hair of the dog, he thought with bitter amusement. Or maybe a vaccination.

For all her inconsistencies, he was beginning to get a sense of Lily the woman, as opposed to Lily the successful writer. The first time he'd seen her, wearing a tailored suit of some rough silk material, with matching shoes and a string of pearls around her throat, he'd barely noticed the fact that she was one fine-looking woman. At the time he'd been stiff and sore, and mad as hell at having to drive all the way to Norfolk to track down a woman who had knowingly walked off with property she knew damned well she wasn't entitled to.

That image had begun to blur. Seeing her here day after day, he was coming to know the woman behind the facade, and that was a different Lily entirely. One who combined guts, class and a sense of humor. One whose vocabulary was better than his, yet who admitted that her education wasn't quite all it should be. A woman who was basically honest, but not above using questionable means to get what she wanted.

A woman who had screwed up his judgment—one who was hiding something besides the stash of junk food he happened to know she carried in that bag of hers. He might not have discovered all the secrets behind those rainwater-clear eyes of hers, but he wasn't finished with her yet.

“Secrets, remember? We're going to trade off, one to one?” she reminded him. “I told you where I was from, so now you owe me.”

If there was one trait Curt could lay claim to, it was tenacity. It was what had gotten him through a childhood made miserable by personal doubts, by being the new kid in a small town where new kids were made to prove themselves by taking on every schoolyard bully and beating the stuffing out of them.

Which he had eventually done, much to the disgust of his mother.

It was all that had got him through BUD/s training and everything that had followed. It had carried him through one disastrous, heavy-duty love affair and a few lesser ones. It had got him through a muddy hell in a river with an unpronounceable name in the jungles of Central America.

He had a feeling that same tenacity was about to drag him into more trouble than he'd bargained for. Him and his big mouth.

“I had a dog named Badger when I was five,” he said flatly, daring her to make something of it.

Instead, she studied him under a sweep of lashes that ought to be registered and controlled as a lethal substance. Did she do it deliberately? Was she aware than he could see the swell of her small breasts in the open throat of her shirt? Either she was a whole lot smarter or a whole lot more naive than he'd first thought. For the life of him, he couldn't decide.

“Okay, I guess we're even. Here's a freebie. I never had a pet.”

“Speaking of secrets, you've had access to six boxes of mine,” he reminded her.

“Of Bess's secrets, maybe, but not yours. Besides, hers were published, so that makes them in the public domain.”

“Her diaries?”

She shrugged. It was a beautiful thing to see, with the thin cotton of her shirt sliding over her small breasts. “Okay, I'll give you that one. You want secrets about my distant relatives? Sorry. I don't even know the names of my grandparents.”