Upon a Mystic Tide (29 page)

Well, how long is it going to be before you can get to it, Jimmy?” The tulip-shaped phone receiver at her ear, Bess glided her thumb along the edge of the little vanilla-scented shell on the desk and looked out of the turret room window at the flower gardens, at the forest and hills beyond them.

“It’s kind of hard to say.”

Covertly, she glanced over at John Mystic. Planted squarely in the middle of her four-poster bed, his head on her plump blue pillows, he lay stretched out, his hands stacked behind his head, his legs crossed at his ankles, and his to-die-for body wrapped in her silk robe. It was the only thing she owned large enough to cover the essential parts of him until his own clothes dried—or until Tony got over his snit and let them out of this room. Jonathan
should
look ridiculous. But he didn’t.

Lust with a kick. Inwardly, Bess sighed. If the man had an ounce of decency or compassion, he’d have gotten slouchy. “Do you have
any
idea?”

“I ain’t exactly sure how long it’ll be, Mrs. Myst—I mean, Mrs. Cameron. The rain has me pretty backed up and, with the wind blowing like it is, I can’t be putting your car or anyone else’s up on the rack.”

“But the rack is inside, isn’t it?” The Great White Room was spacious, charming. But with John in it, it seemed small and close and crowded, as if its heavy furniture suddenly had grown too large and its spackled ceiling and paneled walls were closing in on her.

“Yes, ma’am. The rack’s inside the shop, but I have to have the bay door open—Village Ordinance—and it creates a kind of wind tunnel. Could knock your car clean off.”

“All right.” Bess suffered a shaft of disappointment. To get past it, she focused on the sweet-smelling, yellow daffodils in a slender cut-crystal vase atop the chest of drawers, at the two heavy-stemmed water glasses beside it. “But please, as soon as you can, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. As soon as it’s time. You can count on it.”

“Thanks.” She cradled the receiver, grabbed her hairbrush from the dresser, then walked over to the turret room. Dragging the bristles through her hair, liking the grating friction against her scalp, she looked outside. Wind whipped through the pines, blowing blustery sheets of rain that had leaves dancing and the window panes spotting. Miss Hattie’s impatiens were taking a beating. Feeling a little bruised herself, Bess lifted her gaze to the gloomy, swirling clouds. Turbulent. But not a bit more so than she felt. This entire situation rattled her. It was just too bizarre.

Panic welled in her stomach. Hoping the sound of her own voice, the feel of her own senses, would reassure her she was all right and would keep panic at bay, she pressed her cheek to the cold glass. “Still raining like crazy out there, John.”

No answer.

She glanced over at him. “Are you napping?” His eyes closed, his expression relaxed, the arrogant jerk reeked of peace. “We’ve been stuck in here for hours. “How can you nap?”

He let out a heartfelt sigh that really irritated her and pulled himself up on an elbow. “It’s not easy with you spewing fire and brimstone. Why don’t you give it a rest?”

“Because I’m angry. And I’m hungry and thirsty. And I’d
really
like to see the inside of a bathroom again, preferably in the near future.” Because she’d lost control of her emotions in front of him, because she’d damned patience and grace to obscurity forever with her outrageous tirade, she’d also embarrassed herself half to death. But she refrained from mentioning it. No sense being redundant and, if the fire burning her face fairly gauged, only a blind man would miss knowing it without being told. Jonathan Mystic, smirk intact, obviously was not a blind man.

She slapped her brush onto the desk. It landed with a
thunk
and, catching a whiff of the potpourri, she lifted the shell. Why the little thing had a soothing effect on her, she didn’t know. But considering her agitation, she’d take any soothing she could get from wherever she could get it. Lord, but she was tired. Fear of Tony zapping her and John to Pluto, or doing something equally horrid and unprecedented, had her anxiety hovering at skyscraper level. Never in her life had she undergone such a potent adrenaline surge. It’d thoroughly depleted her energy reserves. Her lids were drooping and her limbs felt like lead. To recharge her batteries, she needed sleep in a bad way. Right now, she couldn’t tell if her own behavior ranked passive, aggressive, or repressive. Forget trying to analyze Jonathan’s. Tony’s, however, was easy. Definitely aggressive. And manipulative.

She stifled a sigh. Sad, but that embraced all the emotion she could muster. “Aren’t you at all concerned about being held prisoner, Jonathan?”

“Of course I’m concerned.” He didn’t so much as crank open an eyelid.

“Well, would you just spare a minute to look like it?”

“Quit snipping at me, Bess. I didn’t lock us in here.”

He was right. “I’m sorry.” Skirting the rug that earlier had tripped and landed her in her husband’s arms, she walked over to him. “Can we please just get civilized so we can get the heck out of here?”

“I’ve been civilized. You’re the one who’s called Tony everything under the sun and paced grooves in Miss Hattie’s floor. I’ll bet she won’t appreciate what you did to the sill, trying to open the window either.”

“It’s just a little gouge.” Good grief, could her face get any hotter? “I’ll have it repaired—if we ever get out of here.” If Tony had meant that they had to solve his puzzle before leaving this room, they’d die of old age staring at these walls—or of starvation. Surely he hadn’t been serious. He
couldn’t
have been serious. Could he?

“You need sleep.” John folded a hand over his chest. “When you’re tired, you’re always cranky.”

“I am tired.” She was cranky, too. And getting crankier. Rubbing the instep of her left foot with the arch of, her right one, she debated asking Jonathan for a foot massage then decided against it. He sounded prickly and more rejection from him she didn’t need. “I told you I didn’t sleep well.”

“You slept like a rock, darling.” He grunted, punched his pillow, then returned his arm to his chest. “You were in bed with me, remember?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t sleep, Jonathan.” Lord, did the man have to notice everything? And why wasn’t he uncomfortable, lying there swathed in pink silk? He should be disturbed, his male ego wounded. Instead he had the audacity to look totally at ease and
 . . .
cute.

Her stomach furled and she cast a pleading look at his clothes. Still and lifeless, they hung on hangers snagged to the turret room drapery rod. She stared at his shorts, silently ordering them to get dry now so he could get his sexy self back into them and stop lounging in her bed, on her pillow, nude beneath her robe, with her silk caressing his skin
 . . .

Her heartbeat sprinted from a crawl to a canter. The flutters in her belly grew stronger and a groan eased up her throat. She swallowed it back down. He was making her crazy. Violating her territory, her senses. Making her remember things better forgotten. She fisted her hands and clamped her jaw. “I said I didn’t sleep well, not that I didn’t sleep. There’s a difference.”

“Oh.” Clearly ignoring her stiff tone, he patted the mattress beside him. “Well, come take a nap with me, then we’ll get civil.”

Why bother? The man was too slow or too stubborn to know he’d been verbally swatted. Stubborn. He might be many things, but slow didn’t rank among them. And she
was
tired; beyond tired, actually. Thanks to the non-slouch in her bed, she’d gotten little sleep last night and, between worrying about him on the cliffs, the storm, and Tony’s surreal antics, she’d spent the entire morning in trauma. It might only be late afternoon, but it felt like the back side of midnight. Maybe if she slept a few minutes she would feel better.

Fighting a yawn, she crawled over John, brushing his stomach with her knee, then settled off his side, dead certain she’d never nod off for so much as a wink. Not with him so close, radiating heat and looking more tempting than a quart of Double Chocolate Fudge ice cream. Not a wink, not a chance.

He turned off the lamp. Though only late afternoon, the storm had the room filled with dusky shadows. “You know, you always do that.”

She scrunched the pillow and tugged at the hem of her sweatshirt. July in Maine didn’t resemble it in New Orleans. The room was downright chilly. Tempted to slide under the comforter, she opted to freeze. When he looked scrumptious and smelled so sweet—Lord, but she loved that
Obsession
cologne of his—and when she
wasn’t
scared witless, creating a warm cocoon with John Mystic definitely wasn’t a smart move. “What do I always do?”

He forked his fingers along his scalp, ruffling his hair. “Crawl over me rather than walk around.”

She hadn’t thought about it, but she always had done that. “Does it bother you?”

“No. But it used to be a lot more fun.” He grinned mischievously and cracked open his left eye. “You used to take your time up top and visit a little.”

She had. Yet more heat spiked up her neck to her cheeks. She quickly turned away, stared at the vanity in the corner. Her hip smarted, where she’d banged it on the boxes in his room: a firm reminder to keep her mind on the business at hand—which certainly did
not
include complicating matters further by again getting physically involved with John. It was disconcerting, not being terrified and being in bed again with a husband she hadn’t made love with in six years. But it wouldn’t be making love. It . . . wouldn’t.

Her head was convinced. Abstinence and avoidance definitely rated wise on its choice list. However, her body rebelled. Before it would agree, it needed a deep and serious dose of convincing. The magic kept challenging her logic, and her senses rioted, plaguing her with an acute awareness of his every nuance. And that knocked her further off-kilter, upsetting her even more. Only John could portray a woman’s fantasy of masculinity while wearing a dusty pink woman’s robe. Only he could smell like the earth and man and the sea and something so uniquely him that a woman craved burying her face at the cove of his neck and inhaling deeply. Only his sounds and sights and scents could make a woman yearn to touch him so desperately that the thought alone had her fingertips tingling and her blood heating and rushing through her veins.

It wasn’t fair. Or just. But what in life was either? She flopped onto her back with the grace of a beached fish. “We’ve got to find a way out of here.”

“We’ve got a way out. All we have to do is to talk, remember?”

She couldn’t get situated. No matter what position she tried, she ended up fidgeting.

“Come here, Bess.” John stretched out an arm and curled her to him.

She shouldn’t do it, but she was exhausted. What harm could a little snuggle do anyway? She scooted closer on the plump comforter and cuddled to him.

“Better?” His warm breath fanned her neck.

Heaven.
“Better.” She sighed and closed her eyes, wishing that were anything but the truth. What should she do with her hands? Before, she’d have draped her left one over his chest, let it meander over the hard ridge of muscles and bones arid warm skin that reminded her of steel sheathed in velvet. But she couldn’t do that now. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

She tilted her neck. His eyes were closed and he still looked relaxed. Considering their circumstances with Tony, how could John be comfortable? And didn’t being in bed with her and holding her in his arms have
any
effect on the man?

Best steer away from those kinds of thoughts. “Tony asked me a question I couldn’t answer. It got me to wondering, and I thought maybe I’d ask you—not that the answer makes any difference now.” She sounded like a rationalizing idiot in denial.