Hours to Cherish Read online

  Hours to Cherish

  Heather Graham

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  A Biography of Heather Graham

  PROLOGUE

  IN THE HEAT OF the night he was running, running.

  A low-lying ground fog shielded him, putting him on another plane of reality, as if he were racing on a treadmill through endless clouds. The sound of his breathing was heavy, an agonized rasping that ripped from his body in heaving gasps. It was all that he heard except for the ceaseless fall of his own feet, rhythmic slaps that were each a spiked rod of pain creeping upward through abused muscles that refused to grow numb. A new sound permeated his mind. Although distant, the raucous clamor was unmistakable—the frenzied barks and yelps and bays of the hounds.

  Suddenly, blessed numbness seemed to come. He was lifted into the clouds of the mist, the world became silent. He was still running, but his movement was effortless. … And ahead of him, he saw her.

  She too seemed to be clothed in the mist, an ethereal figure; the long sable hair that had long haunted his dreams fluttered around her like rich sea waves, a luxurious enticement. And as he had often dreamed, she beckoned to him … she knew him, she smiled in sweet, seductive greeting. …

  He ran faster toward her, remembering the liquid beguilement and the spirited rages that could glimmer in her sea-emerald eyes. When he reached her, he would be home. …

  He lifted his arms in the mist; he was close, so close. But suddenly he was moving in slow motion in the dead silence of the mist. He reached, and reached, but she was slipping away. …

  Sound returned to his world with the chaotic shrieking, shouting, and fevered baying of the dogs, pierced by maddening growls. And just as sound returned, so did pain. He could run no more; his legs buckled to the spiked agony that assailed his every footfall.

  The dogs were upon him. He could feel the bloodlust in the hot, fetid breath that was an inferno against his skin. He waited for the tear of their jagged teeth. But it was Lopez who had found him tonight. Even as he clenched his eyes, braced himself against the onslaught, the shouts continued; the dogs were called off. He stiffened against the inevitable as he was dragged to his feet, closed off his mind to the furious spate of reproach and abuse. He could do nothing else but tolerate with a numb silence the brutality that followed. … Thank God Lopez was half human.

  But it still meant a return to the pit. A four-by-four space of eternal darkness. Pitch darkness, and sizzling, incredible heat. When the noonday sun rose, sweat would race in rivulets down his entire body, his blood seeming to boil. Even the strongest man could be broken after a few days of such torture. And the break would come all at once. He would open his mouth and scream and scream and scream. …

  He awoke in a cold sweat, and it took him several seconds to assimilate his actual surroundings.

  And then he realized that although his body was drenched, he hadn’t screamed. Not this time. The nightmare, which he hadn’t had in some time now, was ebbing, slowly, slowly, releasing its tenacious hold.

  He rose from the bed and left his cabin, seeking a cleansing from the sea air. On deck he stepped past the tools and rewards of his trade: scuba gear, air blowers, ropes, chains, and sealed cases. They had finished up out here today, he thought, perhaps that was why the dream had come.

  The night was black velvet on the choppy open sea. A brisk wind had picked up from the west, but he barely noticed. He breathed deeply as his hair was furiously whipped across his forehead and savored the feeling of the cooling wind on his heated flesh.

  Quit fooling yourself, he thought wryly. He knew why the dream had come. They had been talking about her today; Luke had been reporting everything he knew about the situation at the cay.

  He had waited and watched for so long, a tentative phantom in the shadows, almost a child who trembled with indecision. He could wait no longer. Not with things moving the way they were; not when she continued to haunt his dreams, his sleeping moments … his waking moments. He could merely close his eyes and see her … working, standing, sitting, breathing … that mystical cloak of sleek dark hair, those eyes that were the enigma of the sea, so often raised to his in glimmering challenge, yet never failing to beguile.

  Rather than return to his sweat-drenched sheets, he lay down upon the deck, lacing his hands behind his head as he stared up at the few stars dotting the eternity of black-velvet dark. He felt the night wind with every pore, just as he felt the sea move beneath him. The cool rolling action was soothing.

  It was time to go home. Very soon it would be summer. He smiled for a moment, his memories dry with a sad and strange amusement. They had been so young, and although many human factors didn’t change, their follies had been those follies of youth.

  Summer.

  It was only fitting.

  It was the season of the sea witch.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE ISLANDERS CALLED HER CAT.

  A tall woman, she was lithe and beautiful in a way that endeared her to those who knew her. Laughing as she stood upon the dock, her deeply bronzed legs sturdy and shapely—sailor’s legs—and sneaker-clad feet set firmly apart, she was the epitome of radiant health. Her hair, long and deep sable and touched by the gold of the sun, was swept into a simple ponytail that reached almost to her waist. She wore no makeup, for she would be facing the salt spray of the ocean and the whipping wind of the breeze at full sail. Although she wasn’t consciously aware of it, she was one of the rare women who needed no complement to her natural coloring. Her cheeks wore the rose blush of perfect health and tone. Her eyes were a brilliant emerald green, fringed by thick lashes as dark and lustrous as her hair.

  Her name was Catherine Miller—Mrs. Catherine Miller, although the islanders had little memory of Mr. Miller. Cat had always been part of the island. She had been born there and raised there, and although she had gone away to school in the States, she had always returned, loving the simple, carefree ways of the islands, loving the quiet life of easy dignity she lived with her father—a historian and scholar. Her father was long dead now, and Mr. Miller—a handsome youth who had swept in one summer and disappeared soon after—was also an entity of the past. The wedding had been a beautiful affair, the young bride a picture of loveliness in white, the groom all that could be admired in a man. Tall, much taller than his Cat, broad of shoulder, trim of waist, still young but well on the way to maturity. His face held promise of a jaw turning firmer with age, a physique that would develop into powerful muscles rather than flab.

  Two such beautiful people …

  Yet the summer was filled with strife. They were both headstrong, determined. He had the flair of a reckless devil to him; women eyed him and it was in his nature to return their stares boldly. His wife was a beauty, built to equal the classic forms of the sculptures of ancient Greece, but he was, perhaps, a man not ready for a wife. Not that he was cruel, or that his bold stares at other women were anything other than speculative—he was simply preoccupied with his salvage-diving business. He was, in a way, a modern-day pirate, seeking the lost treasures of the sea.

  Cat had been in love—madly, obsessively in love. She had trusted the handsome young man with the aloof and dominating manner, and she had given her all. It was unfortunate that happenstance taught her a sad lesson—Clay Miller had wooed and married her upon her father’s request. Nobel-prize-winning historian Jason Windemere knew his health was weak. To Clay, with the
promise of vast strength as well as daring in his dark eyes, Dr. Windemere meant to entrust not only his daughter but his vast charts of the Bahamian waters and limitless knowledge of ancient wrecks. Jason held only one chart back, that of a dream he would cherish in fantasy until his dying breath. The resolution of that dream he would leave to chance and to Catherine’s wits. Perhaps in the back of his mind he had always thought of it as a safeguard for his daughter, who would surely be the one to go through his personal possessions.

  Jason Windemere had, however, made the severe mistake of underestimating his daughter as a woman. Cat was not a woman to be manipulated. She adored her husband, but she turned from him, and he was not a man who tolerated rejection. Despite the fact that his head was filled with his business and he considered his wife little more than an obligation to be cared for considerately, she was his wife. And although he hadn’t been aware of it, he discovered, with a fair amount of surprise, that he was a very possessive man. He was also determined to rule his own roost.

  She was equally determined not to be ruled and the beautiful marriage became a battleground.

  And so matters stood until the end of summer. And at that time, already establishing a name for himself in salvage circles, Clayton Miller sailed away. He was after the wreck of the Princess Leana, a clipper of the Dutch West India Company said to have sunk a hundred miles southeast of Bermuda in a fearful storm in 1646.

  And then, while scouting the waters alone before bringing in his crew, Clayton Miller disappeared. His high-powered cruiser, the Lady Luck, seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.

  Clayton Miller was proclaimed by the superstitious to be a victim of the infamous Devil’s Triangle. Whatever the truth, he was assumed dead.

  Cat, upon hearing the news, retired to her room and, despite the best efforts of her father, had refused to see anyone, speak to anyone, or open the door for three days. Long into the night, Jason Windemere had heard her sobs.

  For a year she waited. She appeared serene; it was apparent that she believed Clayton Miller would come back to her. But at the end of that year Jason Windemere’s failing heart gave way. Cat again cried, for her father. In time her grieving ended—all her grieving. She had given up her father, she had given up her memories. Clayton Miller was as dead and gone as Jason Windemere.

  To accept the pain, Cat convinced herself that Jason had been old and sick. Death had brought relief from the tortures of his illness, and surely, if there was a heaven, Jason Windemere basked among the angels.

  Rationalizing Clayton’s death was a slower agony. And so, to endure, Cat continually reminded herself that their marriage had been a disaster. He had never loved her; he had used her to receive the unique gifts only her father could leave behind.

  As time passed, the serenity that had begun as a shell became fact. She was free, the ruler of her own destiny. The strength and will that had been hers in her youth had doubled. She loved the island; she loved life. She owned the well-renowned Heaven’s Harbour and she loved all that her work of maintaining the docks and the quaint lodge entailed. She was almost the historian her father had been; the prestigious and the wealthy sailed from the mainland and the States seeking not only the secluded pleasure of the lodge but its vivacious, beautiful, and intellectual mistress. Cat was a spirit who compelled those who loved the sea to the island. She could best any man in a catamaran, and yet few could resent her prowess. She could challenge the wind in any vessel, dare the ocean with free dives to forty feet, but she was, first and foremost in any venture, uniquely, regally, enticingly feminine.

  As she stood on the dock this particular afternoon, her past was the furthest thing from her mind. It had been almost seven years since Clay Miller had disappeared, and in the last four Cat had been enjoying herself. She was the reigning queen of her island, and she knew it. It was fun to date the fascinating men who sailed the waters of the Bahamas, and it was easy now to remain aloof. Cat had no intention of being reined in again. Any man in her life would have to recognize her independence. Only recently had she considered marriage again, and that only because she believed she was actually beginning to care deeply for a man again.

  Jules DeVante was a Frenchman who, it seemed, owned half the Caribbean as well as half of the Bahamas. They had met when Jules attempted to purchase Tiger Cay. Although Cat had no intention of ever selling the cay, she was captivated by the Old World charm of the Frenchman. Their relationship had flourished charmingly. Although secretly amused by his somewhat outdated moral principles (she was wife material—one only had affairs with loose women), she was also relieved that Jules put no pressure upon their physical relationship. She did love Jules—he was handsome, courteous, and totally endearing—but she had long ago decided that passion had little to do with love, and her experience with passion had left her quite sure it was something one was better off living without. Jules’ kisses were tender and caring. They stirred within her feelings of contentment. That and compatibility were the important ingredients for marriage.

  Cat knew Jules considered them to be engaged and the prospect of marriage with him was pleasing. So far he had made no protests about her managing her own property. He—like the one-time husband who was now but a vague memory—was in the business of salvage diving. His vast fortune had come from the treasures he had recovered from the sea, and consequently, despite his determined wooing, he was frequently away from Tiger Cay. But he showed no signs of ridiculous jealousy. Long before he had actually met Cat, he had heard about the gracious beauty who ruled Tiger Cay. Those who had dated her spoke of her with a certain misty-eyed reverence and remorse. Her laughter was a melody, the raging spirit of the sea played in her eyes—but like the white-foamed surf of that same azure sea, she was untouchable.

  There was only one problem with Jules and that was a problem that ironically went along with the Old World charm she loved. It seemed that he humored her as far as Tiger Cay went, having little faith in her productive abilities because she was a woman. And that infuriating reality had stunned her when she had told him of her new plans.

  Just recently, while going through her father’s papers and charts, the excitement of her discovery had hit her with the force of a brick. She was sure, completely and positively sure, that she had the only true knowledge of a certain coveted galleon, one that had carried vast treasures from Peru in the heyday of the Spanish Main.

  Cat had tentatively broached to Jules the subject of launching her own salvage expedition. And for the first time in their relationship, she had found herself furious. Jules had point-blank—and laughingly—refused to fund any such expedition. He would be happy, of course, to listen to her ideas and pursue them himself.

  Cat had stubbornly refused. Ownership of the island, Tiger Cay, was hers; it was the independence she craved. She also felt responsible for the community of eight hundred-odd islanders. The lodge, Heaven’s Harbour, did well—but Cat also dealt with a tremendous overhead. The one flaw in her carefree existence was the fear that she could lose Tiger Cay. Of course, when she married Jules, she would never need to fear any financial threat. But his money would make Tiger Cay his island.

  Even for a man she loved, Cat would not give up Tiger Cay.

  And so she determined that she alone would find the treasure of the Santa Anita. The Santa Anita also touched other stirrings in her heart. If the ship was discovered, it would be one of the greatest historical finds of the century. A dedication to the quiet but great man who had been her father.

  Funding, Cat knew, would be a touchy subject. Jules would be crushed if she approached another salvage company. And even if she did decide Jules deserved to be crushed for scorning her abilities, she would have to face being turned down by others. Or worse. Someone, becoming suspicious of just what documentation she was holding that gave clues to the actual whereabouts of the mysteriously disappeared galleon, might try to follow her and beat her to the claim.

  How many thousands of dollars would she need to s
earch for the Santa Anita? Hundreds. …

  If all else failed, Cat knew, she would have to turn back to Jules, to place her faith in him. After all, Jules would always care for her, and care for all that was hers.

  But why couldn’t she give up that strand of independence? It was a dilemma she had been pondering for some months.

  But now, as she stood on the dock, her heart was racing. She was nervous, yet exhilarated. An answer—an answer that might not be considered quite legitimate, but an answer nevertheless—was suddenly facing her.

  She had often accepted challenges from seasoned sailors to race her Hobie Cat from the channel marker to the Leewood reef and back.

  She had never lost. Before, it had always been a game. But today, she was gambling for high stakes.

  She wasn’t nervous because she feared she would lose. She knew the winds, the currents, and the tides. She had also judiciously studied the sailors she was up against. Jim McCay was good but too reckless. He was likely to spill upon the shoal. Clancy Barker from West Palm Beach was just the opposite—an excellent man on a yacht, but overly cautious when it came to smaller sails. Three other contenders weren’t even worth her worry.

  It was the thought of what she was doing that made her nervous. She was a bit of a gambler at heart, but this was different. The bet on each race was fifteen thousand dollars and the amounts made her feel a bit ill.

  It was actually high-seas robbery on her part, almost akin to piracy. But although the money wouldn’t be all that she needed, it would be a damned good start. Enough for her to search out the Santa Anita and stake her claim.

  Cat firmly squelched all her feelings of guilt. She was betting against grown men—men who could easily afford to lose the money. Like little children, they were determined to best her. She shrugged, and decided that if they chose to throw their money away, it was their own folly.

  A smile flitted across her features. She tilted her face to the fresh Bahamian breeze and her pony-tailed sable hair lifted in glorious strands to the wind. She faced her contenders. “Okay, gentlemen,” she murmured sweetly. “Who’s first?”