Hours to Cherish (6 page)

“Clay,” she said coldly. “I’m in love with Jules.”

“Are you?” He appeared only mildly interested. “Then I suggest you agree to humor me. Two months. Then I’ll disappear quietly, if that’s what you wish, DeVante none the wiser.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cat protested, lifting her chin. “I’ll tell Jules you’ve made an appearance—”

“Will you?” Clay asked, his incredulity lacing the two softly spoken words. “I think not.
Mrs.
Miller.” He took a step toward her on a lynx-light tread. “I told you, dear wife, I know everything about you at the moment—that includes a tremendous amount of information about Monsieur DeVante. The man has no backbone—”

“How dare you judge Jules!”

“—and when I saunter up to introduce myself as your husband, he’ll be long gone with the wind.”

“You’re wrong!”

“No.” Clay shook his head, almost sadly. “You’re too much of a woman for him, Cat,” he added softly. “I’m not wrong, but take your chances, if you choose. You’re my wife, and you owe me. The next step is yours. One way or the other, I’ll get my two months.”

Cat stared at him, and then the sound of his voice permeated her system. A wave of heat assailed her, striking from deep within her, spreading furiously throughout. Memory of her marriage had become a distant blur, shrouded with the misery of tears. But suddenly she could remember lying in his arms, responding to the fever of his wild demands … touching him … feeling his lips, hot, fervent, moist, seeking all her pleasure centers. She could remember that more recent feeling in the water simply because he breathed … because his lips touched her ear.

“No!” she said again, aware that the flame of her feelings had crimsoned her face. “You can’t force me—”

“Into my bed?” He chuckled lightly.

She couldn’t prevent herself from blushing, but she could will her chin to remain high, her eyes to lock with his. “I really can’t see the need. I’m sure you must have tremendous success elsewhere. To the unwary, those eyes must be magnets and you know damned well you’re built like a brick wall.”

“Glad you approve.” He laughed, the jet light in his eyes taking on a rakish twinkle, “even if the approval is totally objective!” He turned from her, heading for the door, and his voice changed again, losing amusement, becoming harsh. “I don’t remember saying anything about forcing you into bed, Cat I simply want your time. However, if memory serves me, I wouldn’t even need to be persuasive … for long.”

“Get out of here!” Cat gasped.

He paused, turned around, and smiled. “That
is
what I was doing.”

She stood silent, her eyes glittering emerald antagonism.

“I will see you later, Cat. And tomorrow. DeVante comes in sometime in the afternoon, doesn’t he? We’ll see where we go from there.”

He turned to leave again, but not knowing exactly why, Cat was compelled to stop him.

“Clay?”

He turned again, brows lifted in query.

“Just suppose I listened to this ridiculous bribe of yours. What in hell would I tell Jules anyway. How could I disappear or whatever for two months?”

“That, Cat,” he told her, “would be your problem.” He spun on a heel and placed his hand on the doorknob.

“Why?” Cat exploded. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Why?” He returned the question, and then paused. Emotions raced swiftly through his dark brown eyes that Cat could neither pinpoint or fathom. He shrugged suddenly. “Treasure, Cat, why else. We’re actually going to give to one another. We’re going after the
Santa Anita
.”

The door opened and closed. He was gone, and Cat was left staring after him, her heart and mind torn asunder, scars of old wounds ripped and raw.

The
Santa Anita
. He had come back for treasure.

The
Santa Anita
, the coveted mystery galleon, the one great secret that her father had kept and she had unraveled. …

Clay hadn’t changed. Not at all. And not enough. …

The pain of memory suddenly came cascading down upon her.

She had been racing down the beach when she met him, laughing with the sheer joy of being home after obtaining her Master’s that her father insisted she needed. Not that she hadn’t loved school, or the fascination of Boston, and except for the short summer vacations and holiday breaks, she had been away from the island for five years. In the last year, she had strenuously crammed to complete her courses in half the allotted time, and now there was sheer joy in the damp grains of pink sand beneath her feet, in the breeze, so clean, so fresh, stinging her face. She was sure there was no one near on the secluded beach near the north end; most of the islanders would be busy with their day-to-day lives, any tourists would be hovering closer to the lodge. Only the sun and endless blue sky were there to watch as she ran, laughing delightedly, pausing occasionally to spin beneath the sun and then take flight again.

Hands and face uplifted to the striking teal of a cloudless day, arms outstretched, Cat again felt laughter bubble through her, erupting like the northern streams when winter lifted her tenacious icy hold. And then her laughter abruptly ceased; she had the uncanny feeling that she was being watched.

Cat paused, turning slowly, warily, toward the surf.

There he stood, rising from the water with mask and flippers in his hands. Apparently he had watched her in silence for some time. A grin of amusement, a little bit yearning, a little bit admiring, touched his full sensual lips and sparkled in the depths of eyes that were amazingly dark, amazingly compelling. His face was fascinating, utterly fascinating, his brows cast high over the wide-set eyes in a thick, slightly imperious flyaway arch. His nose was straight, long and arrogant, perfectly set between high, strong cheekbones. His chin was squared, decidedly squared, decidedly firm … obviously stubborn. And as he grinned, hard, pearl-white teeth flashed handsomely against the bronze of his rugged complexion.

She was staring at him, Cat realized, but she didn’t halt in her assessment. He was young, but older than the boys she had occasionally dated in college. Finding much time for a social life had been difficult while also trying to obtain her Master’s before her twenty-second birthday. And she hadn’t felt that she’d missed too terribly much. The boys who had surrounded her had seemed terribly immature, even the supposedly “seasoned” Casanovas of the crowd did little to stir her imagination. She had, in fact, found many a passionate overture disappointingly sloppy and fumbling.

But just looking at this spectre in the surf touched something in her, something as yet undiscovered. He was very tall, and although lean, the expanse of his chest, the cords of his muscles strong in his arms, the trimness of his hips—all cast a peculiar spell upon her, one that frightened, one that excited.

“Sorry,” he apologized, finally speaking. “I’m intruding upon a special moment, it seems. But you’ll have to forgive me for being a silent spectator. I’ve enjoyed watching you. I know the feeling. Salt, sea and breeze and wide-open spaces under the sun.”

Cat returned his grin. She was feeling a little breathless, but a little bold. She was young and toned and slender but fully formed, and she knew she wore her emerald bikini with attractive grace. She also knew that look in his eyes. He found her more than just attractive; he found her sensually appealing as a woman.

And for the first time, acknowledging that look sent a whiplash of excitement racing down her spine. It was a pleasant sensation … dizzying. It played upon her nerves, it seemed to steal her breath … but it was wonderful. She wanted to feel his fingers brush her flesh, to explore the sinewed contours of his shoulders with her hands, touch the short, crisp lion-colored hair that capped his head, that tufted over his chest. She had never seen a physique such as his.

He chuckled suddenly, and the husky sound touched upon her as surely as caressing fingers.

“Do you talk?” he murmured, “or are you just an ocean mirage, a mermaid who’s sprouted legs, a sea witch?”

“No,” Cat replied, wanting to say something, wanting to do something to keep him near but feeling ridiculously tongue-tied. How strange, she had always led such encounters. “I’m Catherine Windemere.” She introduced herself, finally drawing away from his spell enough to speak. And she laughed at herself, reviving a spurt of cool self-confidence. “Who are you? You must be the spectre from the sea! My dad owns Heaven’s Harbour Lodge—and the docks. I’m usually aware of everyone on the island, and I know I haven’t met you.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “So you’re a Windemere! And your father must be Dr. Jason Windemere.”

“Yes,” Cat replied with no surprise. Her father was known well beyond the realm of the Bahamas. Every other winter he toured for the more prestigious colleges and appeared on numerous academic talk shows.

“Well …” the young man murmured, “I’m here to meet him. It’s been a pleasure to meet his daughter first.” He advanced toward her, extending a hand. “Clay Miller, Miss Windemere. And I did come from the sea. That ratty-looking cruiser out there is mine.”

Cat touched his hand. The electricity that had hummed within her took a heated jolt. She was loath to let him go. Her mind was so attuned to his physical aura, to his blatant masculinity, that she barely remembered she had heard his name. Clay Miller … hadn’t he been making big waves in the salvage world? Yes, far, far away. He had brought up a World War II sub from the depths of the Pacific in almost perfect condition.

He laughed again, a sound that was another caress. “Well, sea witch,” he murmured. “Are you willing to take me to your leader?”

He slipped an arm around her waist. And where he touched, there was a fire.

She would have led him anywhere.

In the next two weeks Cat was to learn about another sensation—one not so pleasant.

Jealousy was, in actuality, searingly painful.

Clay Miller spent long hours with her father. The two men never tired of speaking about ancient wrecks, about the hazards of the ocean, the art of diving. It had been a long time since Jason Windemere had donned mask and tanks to explore the undersea world he could chart like a city block, but Clay’s fascination with his knowledge of history and shipping spurred him on with fresh life. Clay shared Jason’s belief; only thorough research of all pertinent history could lead a diver to any victim of the sea’s mysterious hold. Locating a treasure trove was half the battle.

Sometimes Cat was able to join their discussions. And at those times she would be fervently grateful that her father had insisted upon the years at college. Her knowledge of the once vast Spanish Main was astounding, and when she spoke of the great galleons, she did have Clay’s undivided attention. But although he was courteous to her, polite and caring, he made no advances. His touch was only to lead, to assist, to perfectly, platonically, escort her. Where he disappeared at night, she didn’t know … until the lodge hosted a “Midsummer’s Fest,” and Clay appeared, rakishly handsome in a jacket and tie, tawny hair sleek, freshly shaven, rugged cheeks seductively scented with a clean male cologne—with a voluptuous, platinum-blonde tourist in tow.

Cat wasn’t quite sure how she made it through the evening.

The pain that lashed her was physical. She was aware that she should ignore him, yet she felt compelled to follow his movements all night. And when she saw his golden-brown head, high above the crowd, disappear out to the terrace and hibiscus-ringed pool, she had to follow. …

The blonde was coquettishly teasing him, long-nailed fingers raking lightly over his jacket … down, slipping around the waistband of his pants tauntingly. Cat lingered in the shadows, frozen, holding her breath to halt the stabbing agony her torturous voyeurism was creating. Still, she couldn’t draw herself away. She watched as he jerked the blonde to him, caressing her breasts, his eyes a jet sparkle before they closed as his lips descended over the woman’s mouth.

Cat heard soft moans and wanted to scream. The blonde kept whimpering, pressing closer and closer; Clay’s hands were touching her, touching her. …

The kiss ended, but the two didn’t draw away. The blonde stood on tiptoe and moistened his ear with her tongue, then moved away to look at him. “I think we should go to my room. …” she offered seductively.

No! Cat thought absurdly. No! And at that instant she knew she had fallen in love with Clay Miller and that somehow she had to stop him from going with the blonde. She wanted him, and in her life so far, she hadn’t confronted rejection.

At that moment, no morals stood in her way. She rustled the bushes as if just appearing, calling a cheerful “Clay!”

The two split apart as Cat approached them. “Oh—good evening, Miss Lanier,” she excused herself to the blonde. “Clay, I’m sorry. My father has been looking for you. Would you mind …?” She cast them both an apologetic glance.

“Jason is looking for me?” Clay seemed puzzled, but he frowned and addressed his date. “Trisha, will you excuse me, please? I’m sure it must be important.”

“Of course, darling,” Trisha drawled, running slender fingers over his chin and ignoring Cat. “I’ll be in my room.”

Cat smiled politely. He won’t be, she thought. She hoped. What was she going to do?

“Where is Jason?” Clay asked.

“Oh—ah, in the den, I believe.”

Cat led him to the den, fully aware that her father had long since retired, leaving a capable staff to run the party.

Why had she lied? she wondered desperately as she led Clay up the stairs and down the hallway. Clay would know in the morning Jason had never looked for him. All he would have to do was ask. And now, now that she had him alone in the den, what was she going to do, how was she going to keep him?

Memory of the searing kiss she had just witnessed flamed across her mind. She tried to think back to those few times she had dated, the forays her escorts had attempted to solicit a response.

“I don’t know where he’s gone,” Cat said nervously as they entered the empty den. “I imagine he’ll be right back.” Her eyes lit upon a seafarer’s ancient map on her father’s desk. “Oh, Clay!” she exclaimed. “Come look! It records one of Drake’s expeditions. …”