The Bride's Rescuer Page 4

  And how would he survive twelve weeks with her reminding him of all he had lost? He steered the boat onto the nearest sandbar, dropped anchor and dove overboard fully clothed in a futile attempt to drown the anguish that consumed him.

  CELIA WALKED DOWN THE sandy path toward the dock. With his strange reclusiveness, Cameron might turn and sail away again if he saw her, so she stepped off the path and into the covering shade of the mangroves to await his arrival.

  The sloop, its white sail shimmering in the sun like the wing of a giant gull, glided across the smooth green waters of the bay. The boat tacked, and the sail shifted to its port side, exposing Cameron at the tiller. With his bare feet propped against one side of the boat, his hair blowing in the wind, and the look of pleasure illuminating the handsome planes of his face, thrown back to catch the full blast of the blazing sun, he erased the image of an unhappy recluse with an unsound mind that she’d carried with her all morning.

  The ripple of muscles beneath his tanned skin, revealed by his shirt flapping open in the breeze and slacks rolled to his knees, projected a vibrancy and power that made him seem one with the elements of wind and water surrounding him. Her confidence ebbed when she considered coercing the dynamic being before her into doing anything he didn’t want to do.

  As the boat neared the dock, Cameron lowered the sail, and the craft slid silently toward the shore. He tossed a line around a piling with the easy grace of long experience, pulled the boat alongside the dock, and levered himself on strong arms with corded muscles up onto the pier, where he tied the boat fast.

  She stepped out of the mangroves and onto the dock behind him. He straightened from tying up the lines, and, at over six feet tall, would tower above her. His height made him appear even more threatening, but she gathered her courage and called to him. “Mr. Alexander, I need to talk with you.”

  He turned at her call, and his voice rolled like thunder up the pier. “You should know better than to sneak up on a man like that.”

  Undaunted, she stepped forward. The hot, weathered wood seared her bare feet. If he thought he could bully her, he was in for a surprise. She straightened her shoulders, thrust her chin high, and walked toward the giant who stood glaring at her with topaz eyes.

  “I instructed Mrs. Givens to tell you that I wanted to be left alone.” The bitterness in his voice lashed out at her, and she hesitated.

  Where was the gentle man who had carried her to her bed the night before? Was this alter personality a sign of his mental instability?

  She came within a few feet of him, close enough to read his expression and block his exit from the dock, but not so close she had to crane her neck to look up at him. To crack the barrier his anger erected, she smiled her sweetest smile, but his stony grimace didn’t waver.

  She changed tactics and attempted to appear businesslike. “Mrs. Givens told me you want to be left alone. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  His expression didn’t change, nor did he speak. He stood like a colossus with his bare feet planted squarely upon the pier and his balled fists upon his hips while the sun beat down on him.

  A trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. She wouldn’t allow him to intimidate her. She had too much at stake. “I must return home immediately, and I’d be very grateful if you’d take me as far as Key West in your boat.”

  “No.” He didn’t bellow this time, but spoke in a soft, low voice. His cool, intractable tone disturbed her more than his yelling had.

  “Why not? It’s a reasonable request.” She hoped her voice didn’t reveal the trembling she felt inside.

  His hard frown turned to an icy look. “I’m sorry, but I owe you no explanation. I said no, and no is what I mean.”

  He took a step toward her, but she held her ground. “If you really want to be left alone, you’d jump at the chance to be rid of me as soon as possible.”

  She waited, but received no response. His strange, golden eyes weren’t focused on her face but at the thin fabric of her blouse, pulled taut over her bare breasts. His strange expression drew a blush to her face and sent a tremor through her stomach. His face flushed beneath his tan, and he jerked his gaze to a point past her shoulder.

  She trembled at his reaction. Cameron might be crazy, but he was a man, after all, one who hadn’t seen a woman other than Mrs. Givens in years. All the more reason to leave his island as quickly as possible.

  “While I appreciate your hospitality,” she said, striving to maintain her reasonable tone, “I don’t want to intrude on it for twelve weeks. A quick trip to Key West would solve both our problems.”

  “Miss Stevens.” His soft, controlled voice projected menace and power. “I will say this only once more, so be convinced that I mean it. I will not take you to Key West.”

  She dreaded staying on the island more than she feared his anger. “Then tell Noah to take me.”

  “You can travel there on the supply boat in twelve weeks.”

  “As I said, I can’t wait—”

  “I’m sorry, but you have no choice.” His face assumed the intractable expression she recognized from the previous night.

  Her temper snapped out of control. “You are the most arrogant, pigheaded, selfish—”

  “Selfish?” His coolness irritated her. “I’m offering to house, clothe and feed you for several months. I call that hospitality, not selfishness.”

  “Call it what you like, but you’re not doing me any favors.” Tears of anger welled in her eyes, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand, furious she’d allowed him to witness her distress, and even more furious when it failed to move him.

  His expression remained unchanged. “That’s all I have to say. Now stand aside and let me pass.”

  When she stepped quickly from his path, a splinter from the rough wood of the pier drove deep into the instep of her right foot. “Ow!”

  Her yell reverberated across the water, frightening an anhinga from his mangrove perch. When she lifted her foot and extracted the offending sliver, the movement overbalanced her, and she tumbled backward into the bay and plunged underwater. Panic surged within her, fueled by memories of her shipwreck that she longed to forget, but her terror was short-lived. Her feet struck bottom, and she gained a footing in the chest-high water. Muck squished between her toes as she coughed, sputtered, and pushed her streaming hair back from her face.

  Cameron peered over the dockside with a fleeting expression that might have been a smile. He reached out his hands to her, and she grabbed them. Knotting the powerful muscles of his arms, he lifted her easily out of the water onto the pier. The soles of her feet were slippery with muck, and she slid against him. His arms closed around her like a vice, driving the breath from her lungs.

  A shock like an electric current raced the length of her body where she molded against him, and when she tried to pull away, his embrace tightened. She pressed her hands against the broad expanse of his bare chest and pushed. The heated look in his eyes disoriented her.

  What was wrong with her? Just because he had given her the shirt off his back, just because he’d rescued her with such gentleness didn’t give her a reason to respond to him—especially when he refused to take her home.

  She shook her head to dispel the giddiness, spraying droplets like a wet dog. When Cameron released her, water dripped from her clothing and pooled around her on the dock.

  Like a man enchanted, he stared, as if looking at her was somehow painful. For a moment, time stopped as she faced him on the dock, drinking in the sight of him while his gaze swept over her. Then he turned and marched off the pier, abruptly breaking the spell.

  A moment later, a door slammed and her host disappeared into the house. Now more than ever she wanted to flee Solitaire, before he—or her response to him—drew her into a situation she couldn’t control.

  THAT NIGHT, CLAD ONCE again in one of Mrs. Givens’s voluminous nightgowns, Celia leaned against the veranda railing outside her room, watching
the rain move in torrents across the dark beach. Mrs. Givens had taken away her drenched clothes to wash the bay water from them, but they wouldn’t dry soon in this rain. Thunderclouds obscured the waning moon, and water beat upon the tin roof above her, drowning out the rumble of the surf.

  A blinding bolt of lightning split the sky, striking so close to the house that flash and thunder occurred simultaneously. She jumped back from the railing, throwing her arms over her face in a useless gesture of protection. With the boom reverberating in her ears, her throat tightened and her heart pounded. The storm that had demolished her boat flashed back at her. Images of murky water and towering waves crowded against her consciousness, and her breath came in tortured, painful gasps.

  Post-traumatic stress syndrome.

  That had to be it. Every time the thunder boomed, she relived the horror of her boat breaking up beneath her and the whirlpool pulling her under. She’d encountered storms before, had even capsized in them, but nothing had ever approached the pulsing terror that had grabbed her from the deck and dragged her down into the gray-green depths, charged with the lightning that had crackled all around her.

  She closed her eyes, pushed the memories away, and grasped the balustrade so tightly her nails dug crescents into the wood. Thunder crashed again, and the house shuddered from the force of its concussion.

  To ward off the panic attack that threatened to engulf her, she imagined herself in Sand Castles, her bookstore with its wide, sunny windows overlooking the traffic-thronged street and flooding the broad aisles with light. She could almost smell the inky tang of new books, the fragrance of freshly brewed tea, and the spicy, chocolate aroma rising from the basket of homemade cookies she kept beside the teapot for her customers. The soft murmur of customers’ voices, the rustle of turning pages, the clunk of books returned to the shelves, and the click of keys on the cash register echoed in her memory.

  The familiar images calmed her. Slowly her breathing eased, and the rhythm of her heart steadied. The panic had gone, but at her own beckoning, she’d called up a homesickness as sharp as an injury.

  Gradually the force of the storm passed over the island and out to sea, leaving a silence broken only by the irregular beat of water, dripping like tears from the eaves onto the papery surface of palm fronds. The air, cooled and washed by the rain, caught the folds of her gown, puffing it out like a spinnaker.

  She peered down the beach where rain obscured the piles of debris. Even if a boat were to pass the island, the driftwood and palm branches would be too wet tonight to burn as signal beacons. She’d hidden beneath her mattress the matches she’d taken from the kitchen when Mrs. Givens’s back was turned. The debris would eventually dry, and she’d have her chance.

  She tensed at the sound of movements in the room next to hers. A pool of light spread across the veranda, and the French doors of the room next to hers swung open. For a moment, she feared Cameron himself would step onto the porch beside her.

  Then his shadow fell across the veranda floor as he removed his clothes. The lamplight projected an undistorted image of his powerful shoulders, narrow waist and lean hips upon the weathered boards, faithful even to the bulges of his muscled torso when he removed his shirt. The shadow bent to blow out the lamp, and bedsprings creaked as he climbed into bed. Her pulse quickened at the intimacy of the sound.

  She shivered when the rain-laden breeze struck her. Had the cool air or the memory of his body against hers caused the tremor? She hadn’t reacted that way to Darren, who had professed to love her. Why did her rebellious body respond only to a man whose mind was surely disturbed?

  At her first chance, she’d light her signal fire, and if that didn’t bring help, she’d steal the sloop and sail to Key West by herself. One thing was certain. She couldn’t remain much longer on this small island with Cameron Alexander, or she might succumb to the growing excitement that quivered in the depths of her whenever she thought of him—a peril worse than shipwreck.

  She pulled the rocking chair from her room onto the veranda and, hugging her knees to her chest, she rocked herself to sleep.

  DAYLIGHT WAS GATHERING, and the rising sun tinged the gulf’s soft swells an iridescent pink and gold, like the inside of a conch shell she’d found on the beach the day before. Seabirds searched for their breakfast, and their shrill cries and the gentle beat of their wings filled the cool morning air.

  She stood and stretched, easing muscles cramped from a night spent curled in the rocker in the open air. The doors to Cameron’s room remained open, but no sound came from inside. As she turned toward her own room, a flash of movement on the beach drew her attention.

  Bathed in the delicate glow of the sun’s first rays, Cameron, his muscles etched like Italian marble against the blue of the morning sky, strode naked across the beach toward the breakers. He moved with grace and power, and once he reached the combers crashing onto the shore, dived like a gilded arrow into the waves, slicing through them with powerful strokes of his well-muscled arms. His tawny hair fanned around him like seaweed as he swam toward the distant horizon.

  Fascinated by the work of art in the flesh before her, she stood awestruck, hypnotized, watching him cut his way through the water, farther and farther from shore.

  A glimpse of white on the horizon beyond him caught her eye. Moving slowly northward, so far away it looked like a child’s toy, sailed a cruise ship.

  Rescuers!

  She didn’t understand her strong reactions to her mysterious host and felt the need to get away from him as strongly as she wanted to go home.

  She darted back into her room and rummaged under the mattress for the stolen matches. With the precious sticks clutched in her fist, she dashed headlong down the stairs, through the wide front doors, and out toward the beach.

  She raced between the dunes and headed north along the shoreline. She had to ignite the signal fire before the ship passed from view, but deep sand sucked at her feet, slowing her progress.

  When she reached the stack of debris, she cast about for a hard surface on which to strike a match. Shaking with excitement until she could barely grasp the matchstick, she grabbed a large shell with a corrugated surface and dragged the match across it.

  Nothing happened.

  In a panic, she drew the match again and again across the shell’s rough surface, but it didn’t flare.

  Dear God, make it burn, so I can go home.

  She threw the match down in disgust and tried another. The second flared instantly, and she touched it to the dried palm fronds stacked with the flotsam and jetsam. Still slightly damp from the earlier rain, they smoldered slowly, producing little heat or smoke. She pulled one of the fronds from the pile and fanned, coaxing the smoldering leaves into flames.

  With an explosive burst, the dry palm branches on the bottom of the pile caught fire, and flames licked along the driftwood and other debris. She peered toward the horizon, tracking the cruise liner, and fanned harder, encouraging the flames to burn brighter.

  Out of nowhere, strong hands tugged her aside. She stumbled and fell to her knees on the beach. Sand flew like dust devils, obscuring her view.

  She scrambled to her feet and wiped sand from her eyes. Cameron, barefoot and clad only in jeans unbuttoned at the waist, stood where she had been, using a board as a shovel to douse the last embers of the fire with sand.

  “No!” The word tore from her throat, and she grabbed his arm. “Let it burn. That boat must see it.”

  He pushed her aside once again and continued heaping sand on the debris.

  She thrust herself between him and the fire, trying to block the sand from her precious flames. “You have no right to stop me!”

  “Stay out of the way!”

  She ignored his warning and dug at the sand he had heaped upon the debris, but her efforts were useless against the power of the man. For every handful of sand she uncovered, he shoveled piles more onto the fire and her as well.

  When he’d smothered every spark, h
e dropped the board and dusted his hands. Water glistened in his tawny hair, and anger gleamed in his eyes.

  When he turned to her, he did not meet her gaze, but cast his glance at a point behind her. “You must impress this fact into that very pretty head of yours, Miss Stevens. You will leave this island when I say, and not before.”

  He snatched the remaining matches from her clenched fist. She grabbed instinctively to retrieve them, but his dark expression stopped her. He turned and tramped back toward the house, leaving her shivering with disappointment and the first rumblings of fear as she stood on the beach with her nightgown billowing in the wind.

  She was no longer a guest on Solitaire, but a prisoner.

  Chapter Three

  Celia stood like a sentinel, staring toward the northwest until the last sight of the cruise liner disappeared over the horizon. Her hope vanished with it, and she headed back toward the house. Deep sand pulled at her feet, as if the earth itself tried to chain her to the island.

  When she reached the path through the dunes, she met Noah loping toward the shore with a shovel across his shoulder.

  “Morning, miss.” He smiled, but his deep, dark eyes held their usual sadness, and she wondered if he was as much a prisoner in this place as she was.

  “You’re out early,” she said. “Digging for coquina?”

  “No, ma’am, though some good coquina stew would taste mighty fine. Mr. Alex wants me to bury that pile of trash on the north beach. Don’t want it calling attention to the place, he says.”

  “Right.” Her smile froze as Noah passed her on the path.

  When she reached the house, Cameron lounged on his elbows on the wide stairs that led to the veranda. He had pulled on a shirt, but his chest and feet remained bare, and his hair had begun to dry into a wild, disarrayed mass. On another man, the effect would have been scruffiness. On Cameron, Celia thought with a sigh, his disheveled appearance made him all the more attractive, like a sexy male model in a Calvin Klein ad.