Hours to Cherish (15 page)

Clay stuffed away the last of the supplies, picked up his coffee cup and refilled it, and moved toward the doors. Cat froze as he approached her, then flushed as she saw amusement riddle his eyes and quirk at the corners of his lips. “Excuse me,” he murmured, indicating his desire merely to pass through the doors.

Cat moved quickly so that he could get by her. As the door closed behind him, she felt a spasm of disappointment. Why should she feel disappointed? she wondered wearily. All their conversations ended this way, neither one ever really telling the other a thing.

Cat sighed and moved down the hallway to her small private room. If Sam was gone, they were evidently done diving for the day, and the salt water that had dried upon her flesh was now giving her an uncomfortable sticky feeling. Cat peeled off her bikini and crawled into the tiny shower stall. She paused, hands in the shampoo lather on her head, as the soft sounds of a guitar filtered through the rush of the water.

Clay’s accomplishments with the instrument had surprised her from the first day. He had never played before; music in general had always been something he vaguely appreciated but could live without. Cat remembered her astonishment when she had first seen the instrument leaning carefully against the booth in the salon. “Do you play?” she had inquired incredulously.

“Of course I play,” he had responded impatiently. “I would hardly keep such a thing around for ornamentation.”

And during their weeks at sea she had learned that he did indeed play rather well. And that his deep velvet tenor could also play soothingly upon the soul, touching the chords of the heart.

Cat rinsed out her hair and stepped from the shower, drying herself quickly with a rough white towel. She had intended to stay in her cabin, reading and resting, but she suddenly felt too agitated to do so. Clay was playing Jimmy Buffett tunes, soft, light, and inviting. Cat slipped into a knee-length terry robe, belting it securely around her waist, grabbed her hairbrush, and walked out on deck.

Clay was balanced on the bow, one leg on the deck, the other crooked so that the guitar rested on his knee. He glanced up at her appearance, lifted a brow, and with a small curious smile of surprise finished out his lightly strummed “Margaritaville.” Cat sat cross-legged in a deck chair, brushing out her wet hair as she listened.

“You’re not bad,” she said as he finished playing and watched her with that curiously amused expression.

He shrugged. “Thanks. Got any requests? Don’t get too carried away,” he added in warning, “my repertoire isn’t great.”

Cat couldn’t help laughing at his sheepish apology. “How will I know what I can request, then?”

Clay laughed. “Pick out about ten songs, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“Okay.” Cat listed a number of songs; Clay shook his head with a rueful grimace after each.

“Hold it!” Clay interrupted her. “I can handle ballads, a little calypso, and a little reggae. Find something in there.”

Suddenly, Cat couldn’t answer. He had started her laughing, and now she had laughed so hard that her sides hurt.

“Forget it!” Clay groaned with mock exasperation. “I’ll think of something myself—and I’ll give
you
a request instead. This half-baked minstrel could really go for a glass of wine. Would you mind?”

Cat stopped laughing, a little unnerved by the enjoyment they were sharing. She paused a second, then shrugged. “Sure,” she murmured, rising quickly. Dropping her brush, she slipped through the cabin doors. Why am I doing this, she asked herself. Why am I taking these chances with him? There was no answer, but as she reached for the plastic cups they normally used up on deck, she hesitated. There was a set of long-stemmed wine crystals in the cabinet above the sink. She found herself reaching for one of those rather than the plastic cup.

“Join me, won’t you?”

Cat’s fingers trembled slightly as she heard his voice, uncannily at the exact moment she was debating the question herself.

I shouldn’t, she thought, I shouldn’t even be sitting with him, listening to his music, laughing. Little prickles of danger seemed to riddle her system. But her fingers were ignoring the messages of her mind. She poured two glasses of wine.

Cat walked back out on deck and handed Clay his wine. He noted with his eyes that she had decided to join him, and merely smiled a thanks and accepted his glass. Cat returned to her deck chair, sipping her wine as she watched him. This was a new side to Clay. Still clad in his white shorts, his body very sleek and bronze beneath the setting sun, his sun-bleached hair still damp, he made more than an attractive appearance. There was something very light about him, completely confident, but so comfortable and easy. At twenty-six there had been nothing light or easy about Clay. He had been perpetually tense; his mind had continually worked overtime. It was as if a little age had given him a little youth or perhaps that complete confidence he had acquired had taught him to allow himself to relax.

“I’ve got one I think you’ll like,” he said suddenly, setting his wineglass down on the bow. He ran his fingers in a light strumming motion over the strings for a moment, and then launched slowly and poignantly into the opening bars of a song.

Just these few strains of music seemed to reach out and touch Cat. She felt a warm trembling permeate her blood, as if the melody, and then Clay’s voice, encompassed her in an embrace.

It was an old island song, one that she had always loved, especially those years back. Did he remember, she wondered vaguely? Or did this just happen to be a song that he knew?

What was it about the song that always touched her so? The tune was pretty, soft and melodic, but it was more than that. The lyrics managed to epitomize all that was so beautiful and usually inexplicable about loving a person. Senses filled with the essence of nature … the simple, humble joy of lying down together … of always being with one.

Cat lowered her eyes, clenching the stem of her wineglass so tightly that it was amazing it didn’t shatter. He was doing this on purpose to her, but suddenly it didn’t matter. She was ripped apart on the inside, and before his fingers had strummed the last chords, she was staring at him, and without preplanned purpose or intent she suddenly blurted, “Why were you in prison, Clay? Why wasn’t I notified? How—” Her voice finally choked. It had been naked, it had portrayed her agony. It had left her so vulnerable, letting him know how much she had cared, letting her know how much she still cared.

Clay set the guitar down carefully, his eyes on Cat. She knew he hesitated, weighed his words, and was worried about the effect his answer would have.

“Drugs, Cat,” he said softly. “Nothing big or deadly, but it was drugs.”

“I don’t believe it!” Cat exclaimed. “You wouldn’t … you wouldn’t. I—” She caught herself. He wouldn’t, but he had just told her that he had.

Clay moved over to her swiftly, balancing on the balls of his feet as he hunched in front of her, catching her chin with his thumb when she would lower it. “Thank you, Cat,” he said gravely. “Thank you for that faith. I never intended to be involved in that type of operation.” He hesitated a moment, searching out her eyes, then continued. “My boat broke up in some type of underwater cataclysm. I was rescued by Luke and the other two men you met today. They’re good people, Cat. But they’re from out islands that aren’t even listed on Bahamian maps. Luke has a big family, six children. A lot of little mouths to feed. They weren’t trafficking in anything hard—and I’m not condoning the practice—but they were just trying to survive.” He fell silent for a moment, then lifted his hands slightly in the air. “We were picked up,” he said.

He moved back to the bow of the boat, gazing out on the horizon at the ethereal beauty of the setting sun. Cat covered her face with her hands for a moment, fighting the terrible urge to cry, fighting to control her reactions. But her head and heart were both swimming. His boat had wrecked; he hadn’t simply deserted her.

She was on her feet before she knew it, moving over to him, tentatively reaching to touch his back.

“Why wasn’t I told, Clay? Why wasn’t I contacted?”

He turned to her, lightly caressing the straying tendrils of her drying hair. “I didn’t know who I was, Cat.”

“Amnesia?” she inquired incredulously.

He nodded.

“But they must have taken your fingerprints. You were in the Navy, Clay, they—”

“Cat,” he murmured softly. “I wasn’t in the United States, or even in the Bahamas.”

“Where were you?”

He paused for a moment, and the tension in him suddenly gave her consuming chills. She knew where he had been, and knowing, she determined never to question him again. Her eyes told him that he needn’t respond to that particular question in words.

“They tried to find out who I was,” he said hoarsely. “But their methods weren’t terribly efficient.”

“Oh,” Cat murmured, stepping away from him in confusion. She had been wrong to judge him without listening to him, and for that she was sorry. But things were still so unclear. He obviously knew very well who he was now, had known for some time, to have founded an evidently prosperous new business.

“I never meant to leave you, Cat,” he said. It was a fact, firmly but gently spoken with no plea for forgiveness.

But again Cat was moving without really knowing what she was doing. She turned back to him, slipping her arms around his neck, allowing her fingers to riffle through the crisp ends of his hair, to touch the satin-sleek bronze shoulders that so enticed her, to feel the powerful tension in his sinewed muscle.

“I’m sorry, Clay,” she heard herself murmur, “I had no idea”

And then she found herself moving closer, pressing against Him, parting her lips and inching to her toes to join her lips to his. What she had intended? she didn’t know. Something soft, perhaps easy, an apology. But that chemistry was there, that electrical tension that had compelled her years ago, that existed beyond the bounds of time. She felt his arms tighten around her, his hands course down her back, and then his lips begin to move. … Sensually. Aggressively. Dominating her advance. She was locked in his embrace, her entire body becoming attuned to his power, heat, and tension. His tongue wedged past her teeth, exploring her mouth fully and savoringly, slow, so slow, and yet determinedly forceful. His hands moved to cradle her buttocks, lifting her, holding her closer, melding her to his body heat, clearly imprinting on each of her contours the perfectness of their fit.

Sensations washed over Cat, engulfing her. It was there, still there after all this time, with only him. That feeling—so intense, so shatteringly hot, a flame that erupted from within, so bright it blinded sun and moon alike, such wonderful, beautiful ecstasy that it was agony.

She didn’t want the feeling again. It robbed her of control, of logic, of will. … And it could so easily leave devastation. …

Clay’s lips left hers. They moved in a slow, moist trail along her cheek, creating tremors as they touched upon her earlobe. His teeth grazed over her flesh, nipping gently. A new wash of shivering sensation raged through Cat, evident, undeniable.

“Clay …” she protested, attempting to step back. His arms held her in a grip of pure steel. Bracing her hands against his shoulder, Cat sought out his eyes. “Clay …” she murmured again.

He smiled, but refused to release her. “Do you know, Cat, as I said before, you never have been sure whether you wanted to seduce me or not.”

“Seduce you!” Cat protested. “No—”

“I believe,” he murmured, “that you did step into my arms. And I’m also quite sure that you did kiss me, and I’m damned sure, Cat,” he added huskily, “that you do want me.” Please don’t deny that, he added silently to himself. Please, I won’t be able to bear it if you do.

For two weeks he had been living in torment. Watching her, his wife and his dream. All those hours of torturous dreaming. Now she was flesh and blood. And every day he had seen her, he had silently and distantly coveted her. Did she know that she tortured him? Appearing each morning in nothing but a scanty bikini that assured him his memory hadn’t been faulty. No, Cat was one woman oblivious to her physical attributes. She was a witch of the sea; her slender, elegantly shaped frame was the result of a life lived with nature. Still, it had been agony seeing her golden tanned, silky flesh daily, knowing that her curves were every bit as firm and full as they appeared.

As he looked at her now, he saw the misted depth of her shimmering emerald eyes. Am I dreaming still, he wondered, or is this real? He couldn’t let her go now. Somehow he had to make her remember what it could be like what they had once had together.

“Clay—” she began to murmur again in protest. He silenced her the only way he knew how. His lips seared down hard over hers, seducing as they punished, cajoled and yet branded and demanded. He slipped a hand into the V of her terry-cloth robe, and as he expected, he encountered her flesh, soft and silky and firm, filling his hand. A muffled sound escaped her that might have been a moan, might have been a protest, but if it was a denial, it was a lie. Beneath the graze of his exploring thumb he could feel the swelling of her breasts, the hard rise of her nipples.

Then suddenly he had to see her, had to have her completely. Without releasing his hold, he deftly found the knot of her robe and released it, then, only then, he stepped back. She stared at him, her eyes brilliant and yet slightly glazed with a wondering shock, her lips wet and puffed from his kiss. Her robe hung open, and before she could think to object, Clay slipped his long, broad hands gently around her neck, sliding them along her shoulders to ease the robe from her body to fall to the deck.

Against the amethyst and magenta of the dying sunset, she was a magnificent silhouette. Tall, lithe, as beautifully shaped and curved as a goddess from the sea. As golden as the sun sinking into the horizon. Her hair, that rich, dark hair that had filled his fantasies, swept over her shoulders in a velvet fan, wisps and tendrils waving over her breasts.

She closed her eyes suddenly, thick-fringed lashes forming deep crescents over her cheeks. She is thinking, Clay thought disparagingly, I can’t allow her to think. He was about to move for her again, take her into his arms and deny that quarter, but he paused. Her emerald eyes flew open again, and she was moving for him.