Hours to Cherish Read online

  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 d
o?

  “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. …”

  She felt him behind her. Instinct made her lean, innocently pressing her back against his chest. “Look how they’ve marked Cartagena,” she murmured, and then she turned, managing to twist herself into his embrace with her eyes, sparkling emerald, staring into his.

  The heat between them became combustible.

  It was all that she planned, and yet the shock of his kiss was staggering … frightening … all-consuming fire. She felt his tongue plundering her mouth, his mouth bruising hers, his hands splaying on her back, her ribs, her hips, her breasts, his thumbs working against her nipples, creating peaks that stood against the thin fabric of her halter dress.

  It was wonderful, it was terrifying. She could do little but hold on to his shoulders, shivering, wanting it to go on, wanting it to stop so that she could breathe, trying to understand the ache that burned where his hips pressed against hers, teaching her that desire was real, alive, insistent.

  A moment’s panic engulfed her and she tried to draw away. He held tight, crushing her, then apparently found control. And when he pulled away he was angry. With himself. With her. “You’re playing games you don’t know how to play, Catherine. And I don’t want any part of them. I think too much of your father.”

  “My father?” Cat murmured stupidly, and then a flood of humiliation washed over her like a tidal wave. She had attempted to seduce him, like a tart, and then failed miserably. Her nervous withdrawal had clearly alerted him to her inexperience, and he had found her sadly lacking.

  “Cat,” he said quietly, his anger abating. “You’re a very beautiful girl. But I don’t think you really know what you want.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Cat declared. “I’m a college graduate, Mr. Miller. Not a naive teen-ager.”

  Clay sighed. “Honey, you’ve definitely got all the right stuff, you just don’t know what to do with it.”

  She was going to burst into tears, but she couldn’t. She really didn’t know what she was doing, she just had to hurt him. She brought her hand across his cheek with all the strength she could muster, savoring the sound of the sharp retort. “You cocky bastard!” she hissed. And then what she had done shamed her, but it was too late. She saw the brown eyes darken to that incredible jet, his left cheek swell, the welt on his tense face red.

  Praying she wouldn’t panic and run hysterically, Cat spun around to flee. She didn’t return to the party but discarded her heels in the sand and ran to the docks, her chest heaving. She reached the end, where the tranquil azure of the harbor had become as dark as the jet of his eyes in the moonless night. Exhausted, she fell to her knees, staring sightlessly into the black water.

  If she’d had any breath, her scream would have rent the night as she felt herself plucked from the dock and into strong arms. As it was, the sound was no more than a gasp.

  She was staring into liquid black again. It wasn’t the ocean. It was Clay’s eyes. Dazzling, dazzling jet. He was angry again, an icy anger that was partly reckless revenge, partly cold control.

  “If you want to play games, Miss Windemere, I think you should learn how. I suppose I can be as good a teacher as any. Any protests? This was your idea.”

  Protests? She couldn’t even speak. She could feel his raw, unleashed power. It was a surge, a relentless tide. She said nothing, but continued to stare into his eyes.

  His looked away and walked swiftly down the dock and without pause for balance leapt into his cruiser with her in his arms. She was set down unceremoniously within the ragtag cabin. With dry, semi-controlled rage, he stuffed a paper cup of wine into her hand. “Relax, Miss Windemere,” he told her. “We won’t go far.”

  He left her. She felt the hum of the engines; they were under way. And all she could do was sit and stare at the cup.

  As he had said, they didn’t go far. The sound of the anchor hitting the water made her jump. She came from her dazed state to survey her surroundings. There was scuba gear everywhere, and shelves of books lining all available space. The cabin was clean but rampantly unorganized. … Even on the blue-sheeted bed where she sat, maps and charts spilled over the foot.

  What was she doing here? she wondered. This wasn’t at all what she had intended. She loved this man. Everything should be beautiful. A gentle fog should drift from the heavens … it should be bright and soft and splendid. … Except that he didn’t love her, and he had been right all along. She had chosen to play a game she didn’t know how to play and she had taken one turn too many.

  “You’re not drinking your wine,” he observed, entering the cabin with his jacket slung over his shoulder. He walked to a tiny closet, extracted a hanger, and hung up his jacket. Yanking his tie from his neck, he slipped that over the hanger, too, and unbuttoned his shirt.

  Cat took a sip of her wine. She noticed her hands were trembling and she clenched them tightly around her cup. He no longer seemed so terribly angry. Maybe the cool Bahamian sea breeze had soothed the heat of his temper.

  He sat across from her, an ankle crossed over his knee as he observed her, searching her face for something, his own impassive.

  “What do you want, Cat?” he queried softly.

  Why was he questioning her? How could she put into words what she did want anyway, when it wasn’t clear in her own mind. Him, of course, but with all the flowery phrases, his eyes answering the light in her own, soft breezes and gentle decor, down pillows and silk.

  “Come on, Miss Windemere,” he prodded, “let’s talk.”

  Cat took another sip of wine, and returned his glacial stare. “I don’t want anything,” she said coolly, hating him for making her feel so ridiculous.

  “Stop lying,” he snapped. “Why did you tell me your father wanted to see me?”

  “He did—”

  “Bull.”

  “Really, I’m not going to sit here and argue with you.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” he said wryly. “But it seems as if you went through a fair amount of trouble to interrupt what I was doing. Why?”

  Cat remained stubbornly—and miserably—silent, her eyes meeting his only through great willpower.

  “Okay,” he said quietly, “I’ll help you. Actually, it’s rather flattering. You’ve decided you want to make love to me—or vice versa. But it’s turning out not to be quite what you imagined. A kiss doesn’t stop at the lips. It’s not a hazy dream out of a fairy tale where you ride sweetly off into the sunset. I’m afraid it all boils down to something rather basic and simple, and I fear ‘love’ seldom has much to do with it.” He fell silent for a moment, watching her. “Am I right, Cat?”

  “No—you’re being absurd,” she lied sickly. “You really do underestimate me, Clay. I’m not a sheltered islander. I lived in the big bad city for a long time.”

  “Oh.” His lips pursed slightly as he mulled over her statement. She didn’t really know him well enough to recognize the amusement glimmering in the jet of his eyes, which had completely replaced anger. “Okay,” he said finally. “Take off your clothes.”

  “What?”


  “Take off your clothes. It’s possible to make love half dressed, but much more satisfactory with both parties naked.”

  A flush of surging blood rushed to Cat’s face. He was laughing at her. He had dragged her all the way out here to laugh at her.

  She had never been especially good in controlling her temper. She was on her feet in a split second, splashing the barely tasted remainder of her wine in his face. “You are the ultimate bastard!” she hissed, whirling for the deck steps.

  This time she didn’t even irritate him; she heard his laughter follow her trail. “What do you think you’re going to do, swim back?”

  He heard her determined steps upon the deck. “Damn,” she heard him swear, “that little witch does think she’s going to swim back!”

  He was after her in a flash, but he had underestimated his adversary. She was in the water, disappearing like a streak of gold.

  “Get back here, you little fool!” he shouted after her, swearing a mile a minute beneath his breath. “Damn it, we’re in a good sixty feet of water, almost a mile offshore!”

  Cat paused long enough for an answer, ironically glad she had chosen the light halter-dress for the evening. The weight wouldn’t drag her down. “I’ve taken every scuba and lifesaving course offered, Mr. Miller,” she shouted at him. “A mile, you say? I’ll be just fine.”

  He was a silhouette in the light of the cruiser against the pitch-darkness of the night as Cat began to swim. She heard him laugh suddenly. “Okay, you want to swim—swim.”

  Cat was relieved by his quick agreement. She could make the mile, and she could probably outdistance him if he came after her, but she could better utilize her strength by moving slowly and fluidly. But she was a fool, and she knew it. Even an excellent swimmer faced dangers at night. Lemon sharks and makos chose the evening hours as preferred feeding times and one never knew when one might encounter the trailing tentacles of a man-of-war.

  Don’t think about it, she warned herself, utilizing a steady Australian crawl. It wasn’t really hard to face such hazards. She would rather see a man-of-war at the moment than Clay.