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  “Down the trail?” he asked suddenly.

  Katrina nodded, and then she found that he had an arm around them each, that he was using his body again as a shelter for theirs. And she couldn’t protest. She would have allowed anyone to serve as a shield for her son; he was her world. She would have laid her own body over him; Mike would never have let her, and it might well have been right. He had the size and the strength to protect them all.

  It was as if the wind knew that they were escaping and was angered by the fact. It began to howl in keening banshee tones, ripping through the foliage with a newfound wrath. The fronds were flying and falling everywhere. Coconuts fell; Katrina screamed as a small mangrove was uprooted before them.

  “The house!” Jason yelled out, and there it was, before them. Built on countless pilings, composed of solid concrete block and stucco and built to withstand the heartiest storm. Whitewashed and welcoming, it was just feet away.

  But just then a palm came flying wickedly through the air; it caught Mike’s shoulder and Katrina’s midriff with such force that she cried out, doubling over.

  “Run ahead!” Mike shouted to Jason, and Katrina found herself in his arms again, staring into his grim features as his hurried strides brought them along the tile path.

  Jason pulled open the screen door; it flew off, the hinges breaking like straws. Balancing Katrina effortlessly, Mike reached for the hardier, wooden door, holding it with all his strength until they were inside, then pulling it shut before the wind could grasp it.

  And then, just for a second, he stood there, silently surveying the house: the warm living room with its beige tones and oranges and Mexican tile flooring, the fireplace, the dining room with its immense Spanish oak table, the huge seascape on the wall, the softball and soccer trophies that lined the mantel, and the pictures that resided between them.

  Then he looked down at Jason. “Where’s your mother’s bedroom?”

  “I’m all right—” Katrina began, starting to struggle from his hold. But she wasn’t. She was water-logged and frozen and miserable, and her middle hurt as if there were knives in it.

  “This way,” Jason said.

  Shivering in misery, Katrina closed her eyes. She didn’t want this man in her bedroom. Not because of him; because of her. Because she barely knew him, and she had made him part of a fantasy that should have belonged to James.

  It was too easy to think of him as a man. Flesh and blood, muscle and tone and silver-and-steel eyes and a voice that was deep and husky, compelling …

  Oh, God, what was wrong with her?

  She opened her eyes and found herself lying on her bed. Ridiculously, she was glad that it was made, glad that the house was clean and neat, that her clothing was all picked up and away.

  “We’ve got to get this thing off—” he was saying, and ridiculously, once again, she found herself grasping the soaked slicker and muttering, “No!”

  She heard his vast sigh of impatience and felt like a stubborn two-year-old.

  “Mrs. Denver, I am a physician, and if you’ve got broken ribs, we’ve got a problem to handle.”

  Then Jason was at her side, holding her hand, grinning down at her, both concerned and mischievous.

  “Come on, Mom, behave! Maybe he’ll even give you a balloon or a lollipop after the examination.”

  She turned crimson and shot her son a quick, warning glare. But he was laughing, and Mike was laughing, and suddenly, it seemed good just to hear them laugh.

  She sat up and let them both pull away her slicker, and then the white terry robe she had snatched from Taylor’s cabin floor.

  “Now, that’s it!” she protested, but Mike was way ahead of her, smooth and calm and cool.

  “It should suffice—for now.”

  She felt his hands, grazing just beneath her breast, gentle, so very gentle. Large hands, long, tapering fingers, moving with care, touching her to the soul. Sliding along her ribcage, so thoroughly, so lightly that they didn’t even hurt her bruised flesh.

  He grinned. “I can’t find any breaks or cracks.” He shrugged. “But be a little careful, huh?”

  Katrina, seeing his eyes, feeling his eyes, just nodded. But then she murmured, “I’ve got to have a shower; the water lines will probably go with the storm and—”

  “No shower. A careful bath.” He looked at Jason. “Will you pour your mother a bath, Jason? Then take a shower yourself, and fill the tub and—”

  “I know, I know!” Jason interrupted good-naturedly. “We get lots of storm warnings here, sir. We’re all prepared for a hurricane. This is a hurricane isn’t it?”

  “Feels like it,” Mike agreed. “I’ll see what I can get on the TV or radio as soon as I get the shutters down. Okay, Jason? Let’s get started.”

  He was up, moving toward the door. Jason was heading toward her bathroom. She felt outnumbered, as if the men had decided that the fragile little woman was out of the way and they could get on with things!

  She wasn’t fond of the feeling. She had fought alone for far too long to be shoved aside.

  But Mike had been there when she needed him—really needed him. When Jason had been threatened. He had protected him, risking his own life to do so.

  “Captain Taylor!” she snapped out, and he turned.

  “What”—she paused, absurdly having to moisten her lips to finish—“what about you? Are you all right? All the coconuts …?

  Mike chuckled lightly, and then he was afraid that the sound would catch in his throat, as his breath suddenly seemed to be doing. She was a mess—soaked and dirty, with all her glorious hair in wild wet strands—but she was a beautiful mess. No makeup, nothing; just the purity of her delicate structure. And he knew things, things she couldn’t know … hadn’t even guessed yet. And it made him feel as if he had known her all his life. Her temper, her pride … her sensuality. Even her desires, and her sorrows, the depth of her vulnerability, so hidden by determination.

  She’s just waiting for a chance to sue you and hang you, sailor! He mocked himself. But it didn’t matter; not then. Her eyes were luminous and aqua as they rested on him with concern.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You shouldn’t go out again. We might not need the shutters.”

  “I think we’re going to—it’s a damned good thing you have them. And good ones. It won’t take me a minute.”

  “But your head—your shoulders—”

  “Hey, I’m all right. And I’m the physician, remember?”

  He turned quickly to leave then, groaning inwardly, a little desperately. He clenched his jaw together, wishing once again with a great fervor that he could throttle whoever the hell it was who had messed up this project so damned badly.

  Mike gave himself a shake and started for the door, listening to the wind. It should cleanse him; it should give him strength.

  It didn’t. As he moved around the house, bracing himself, bringing down the storm shutters, he felt torn and buffeted, in a far more vicious way than the elements could ever have done.

  He enjoyed people; he liked women. He’d had lots of affairs over the years. But he’d never wanted to—to be touched again. Touched inside, at the soul, at the heart.

  Somehow she—the woman who wanted to sue him and hang him—was reaching him. With more than her fingers. With more than the wild and passionate caress of which she had no memory….

  He paused, in his work, staring at the rain. “Physician!” he muttered savagely, “heal thyself!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MIKE CAME BACK INTO the house; for a moment he stood dripping in the doorway, trying to catch his breath. Then he gave himself a shake. He needed a radio, or something.

  “Want to take a shower?”

  He blinked the water from his eyes and smiled at the boy who had come to stand curiously before him, dry and comfortable in a T-shirt and jeans. He was a nice kid, Mike decided. Bright and eager, friendly and easygoing. He was tall, very tall, considering his mother’s size. His
father must have been a tall man, Mike concluded, and then he was surprised that the thought gave him a little pang of something like envy.

  “We’ve still got hot water,” Jason offered.

  Mike looked down at his sodden clothes. “Yeah, I suppose that I should. But first—have you got a radio?”

  “Sure.”

  Jason led Mike through to the kitchen, a large room with an island range in the middle, and four wicker stools arranged about the extending counter that gave way into a family room.

  Jason handed Mike a small transistor radio from the end of the counter. Mike began to fiddle with the switch, trying to home in on weather information.

  “It is a hurricane,” Jason said happily.

  “Oh, yeah?” So far, all that Mike had found was a rock station, a gospel sermon, and a Spanish opera.

  “Yep. Her name is Kathleen.”

  Mike frowned, staring up at Jason. “Kathleen?”

  “Sure. She formed right over Cuba, whipped up in a sudden fury, and changed from a tropical storm to a hurricane at twelve noon. Highest sustained winds are one hundred miles an hour.”

  Mike frowned as he continued to play with the radio. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “On the television, of course!”

  The television. Here he was, sitting with a little battery-powered radio, grasping for anything, and the damn television was still working. Mike felt like a complete ass. He’d just assumed that the power would be shot!

  He slid off the stool. “Jason, where’s the television?”

  “Back here,” Jason said helpfully. “In the family room.”

  Jason led him to the rear of the room and switched on the television. Mike was able to discern that the storm was sitting stationary—moving very, very little—just east southeast of the Florida mainland. The eye was just barely east southeast of them right at the moment.

  Then the power did blow.

  “Well, back to the radio, I guess,” Mike murmured with a sheepish grin. He ruffled Jason’s hair. “At least we know what we’ve got, though.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Jason agreed. “It’s a real problem, though. The islands are going to be hurt badly.”

  “Umm?” Mike murmured, finding a weather report at last, but one in Spanish. His knowledge of the language was sketchy, and the commentator was speaking too quickly for Mike to understand him.

  “People didn’t have time to evacuate. And some of the islands flooded completely. Some of the houses are nothing but shacks. The National Guard has been out, but they can barely move.”

  “Did you hear that on the television too?” Mike asked absently, shaking the radio slightly to see if he couldn’t hear through a barrage of static.

  “Oh, no. I was talking to Pete Kenney, over in Islamorada. He’s my best friend.”

  Once again Mike set the radio down, feeling like a fool. “Jason, did you talk to Pete on the phone?”

  “Well, of course,” Jason said matter-of-factly. Then he grinned. “It’s way too wet for smoke signals, sir.”

  “Cute, kid, cute,” Mike murmured, but his own sheepish grin softened the words.

  “I take it you’d like to use the phone.”

  “Yeah, I sure would.”

  “Right at the end of the counter.”

  It was a French Provincial phone, white and gold, and it sat well with the old-fashioned atmosphere of the otherwise contemporary kitchen.

  And it worked. To Mike’s amazement he immediately reached an operator, and in less than a minute was connected with the base in Key West. Even more startling, he was able to reach a friend with access to the project, Lieutenant Commander Stan Thorpe.

  “Damnation! but it’s good to hear your voice, Mike! Stinking storm blew up so suddenly. First time I’ve ever heard of one whirling up so fast right here! We were desperate when we couldn’t reach you—thought you’d been blown over or something! Where are you? There’s nothing that can fly or take to the seas in this. Where did you find a working phone? The brass are worried to death about the civilian involvement. The woman and the boy. They all right?”

  “Yeah, everyone is okay. I’m at their house on Rock Cay.”

  “You battened down? These things are real, real treacherous on those islands.”

  “Everything’s good. Someone with some sense built this place with this kind of weather in mind. We’re fairly well set.”

  Stan paused. “What about the project?”

  “Oh, I could still do some testing. Diluted, maybe, but important, still. But I’m sure she’ll raise a stink.”

  “The woman?”

  “She’s going to sue me, the U.S., the Navy—and anyone else she can get her hands on.”

  Stan started chuckling. “Don’t worry! The admiral will talk to her and have her singing ‘God Bless America’ before you know it! What was she doing there, though?”

  “She’s says the Navy called and canceled.”

  “What? That’s impossible!”

  “I know, I know.” He closed his eyes. He hadn’t wanted a damned inhabited island to begin with. But they’d searched and searched—and Katrina Denver’s island had offered the only ecological balance conducive to the testing he needed. 44DFS was a damned good thing—Michael knew it! It could save millions of lives as a defense weapon, it just had these side effects. And not until he studied the drug thoroughly, in the open as well as inside a laboratory, could he perfect it.

  Damn her! he thought again. She’d been willing to take the government’s money. But then she’d stayed—and she was blaming him!

  “Stan, when do you think the admiral will get here?”

  “Soon as the skies clear, Mike. He’s here, bunked out in his office. Want me to wake him?”

  “No, there’s nothing he can do now, I don’t suppose. The storm is just sitting still?”

  “She’s moving at three miles an hour, can you beat that? The bridge is already out down here. They’ve got Guardsmen moving around in tanks where they can to reach the shore people. This has been one hell of a bitch—no warning.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess we can’t control the weather yet.”

  “There’s something else you might have trouble controlling, Mike,” Stan said softly—as if he didn’t want to be overheard.

  “What’s that?”

  “Stradford. He’s on your case. He’s going to try to use this to kill the 44DFS project before you can get it off the ground. He’s already got clearance to show up with the admiral. You know the old boy—he’s all for supporting you, but he believes in listening to the opposition too.”

  Mike leaned an elbow against the counter, ran his free set of fingers through his hair, and sighed. Albert Stradford was a fool, and a dangerous man. He didn’t believe in any weapon that didn’t kill or maim. They shared rank and they shared degrees, and they had been at odds forever.

  And fate was a frivolous thing, continually tossing the two of them together.

  “I’ll watch out for Stradford,” Mike said brusquely.

  “Yeah, well,” Stan said a little bit huskily, “at the moment I’m just glad to hear you’re alive. And you’ve got some time. Unless Kathleen picks up some speed, it will be a couple of days before we can get anything moved.”

  Static was starting to form on the line. Mike didn’t think that the phone would last much longer.

  “Good. And thanks for the warning, Stan. Oh, do me one favor; give Toni a call for me, will you? I’m sure she’s heard about the storm, and that she’s worried.”

  “Will do.”

  Stan broke the connection, but the phone died right then, before Mike could replace the receiver.

  It was several seconds after Mike hung up that he realized Jason was still sitting at the end of the counter, watching him. Little prickles of uneasiness ran through Mike as he wondered what the boy had heard.

  Jason gave him a wry, apologetic smile. “She really won’t sue you.”

  Mike grimaced and wandered into the k
itchen. “You don’t think so, huh?”

  “Naw—she’s a lot of growl. No real bite.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Mike couldn’t help but grin at the revelation. “Got anything to drink in here?”

  “Want a cold beer?”

  “Sure.”

  Jason shimmied down from his chair and opened the refrigerator; Mike noticed that it was as neatly arranged as the house. He accepted the beer with a nod of thanks and devoured it, only aware then of just how dry his throat had been.

  “Who’s Toni?” Jason asked suddenly, almost causing Mike to choke on a swallow.

  “My daughter.”

  “Daughter? You’re married?” Jason said with obvious dismay.

  Mike shook his head. “I—uh—lost my wife.”

  “And you can’t find her?”

  There was something so earnest about the question that Mike had to smile, albeit a bit sadly.

  “She died, Jason.”

  “Like my dad,” he stated flatly, bowing his head. Then he looked up cheerfully. “Want to see him?”

  “Your dad? Sure.”

  Jason was out of the kitchen and into the living room, reaching up to the mantel to procure one of the pictures.

  “They say I look like him,” Jason said proudly.

  Mike gazed at the picture. It was of a young man, lean and lanky like his son. He was nice looking, and even in the photo it was clear that he had the same enthusiasm for life as his son.

  “You do look like him,” Mike said.

  Jason took the picture back, deep in thought. Then he looked at Mike peculiarly. “I don’t remember him. Don’t tell my mom. I was only three when he died.” He paused. “But he was a hero, a real live one. He died out on the reefs. Some dumb kids were out—old kids, you know, teenagers—with bad diving equipment. Dad dragged the girl in; he had to go back ’cause the boy got his foot stuck in some coral. He got the boy free, but something happened to him. I don’t know, a wave or something. His head was all cut up when Mom found him.”

  “Your mother—found him?”

  “Yeah. He was dead when she reached him.”