Eden's Spell (14 page)

At last, Mike rolled away from her. He stood, and pulled his trousers back on. He walked out to the surf, letting it soak his legs, staring out to sea.

His back was to her. “Katrina … I …”

“Ahoy, there!” a voice called out.

Mike ducked, then raced back to Katrina, bringing her the scattered pieces of her clothing. She pushed him away in a flurry of humiliation and rolled ridiculously into the surf to dress.

“Ahoy, there—Michael?”

“Admiral, I'm here,” he said. He walked around the bow slowly, stalling for time.

Then another name came from his lips, stated with something far less than pleasure.

“Albert, what in the hell are you doing here?”

K
ATRINA WAS DRIPPING WET
when she emerged from the surf, and feeling absolutely ridiculous.

But it could have been much worse, she realized. The men in uniform could have appeared just five minutes earlier.

There were three of them, all in white, standing on the other side of the beached bow of the
Maggie Mae.
One was an older man, stiff and straight with snow-white hair beneath his cap, worn and creased features, and pleasant green eyes.

He had the most stripes and insignias on his shirt sleeves, but they wouldn't have been needed to tell even the most casual observer that he was the one with rank, the man in charge.

Not that the second man looked in the least humble.

He was somewhere between thirty and forty, tall, lean, and striking with blond hair and very blue eyes, a straight nose, and a sandy mustache. There was something about him that bothered Katrina; he seemed too confident, to the point of utter arrogance.

Suddenly she looked at Mike, and the pain of his betrayal streaked through her again. She didn't blame him for what had just happened, but she wasn't sure she could forgive him for what had happened on the boat. She still might very well hate him. She just didn't know; she felt torn in a million pieces, adrift, as battered as the palms that lay about the island.

“Mrs. Denver, Admiral Larson, Captain Stradford, Lieutenant Oberon,” Mike was saying. And before she stepped forward to accept the admiral's hand with her sandy and dripping one, she stared at Mike. His eyes were pure, hard, proud steel. And she knew right then that if she decried him, he would stand still and listen, and admit to every truth. He wouldn't lie or hedge or make any denial.

She accepted the admiral's hand, the captain's, then the lieutenant's. It might have been a cocktail party. She might have been neatly decked out in silk rather than in sopping wet cotton shorts.

“Mrs. Denver!” The admiral had her hand again. “There is nothing that can undo the terrible negligence that has occurred; I can only offer you our most sincere apologies and seek to rectify the damage done. We will, I promise you, get to the bottom of this unforgivable error!”

Mike was standing back slightly, arms crossed over his bare chest. “Mrs. Denver is considering a legal suit, sir.”

Captain Stradford emitted something like a snort. “I warned you, sir! This was bound to—”

“Stradford!” The admiral lifted a hand into the air. “We do not air our dirty laundry in public!”

Did she still intend to sue? Mike obviously thought that she did. She didn't know; she didn't know what would be right or wrong, and most awful of all, she didn't even know what she felt, except for the pain and rage still simmering within her. She wanted to hurt him, just as she felt hurt—but something warned her to take care, because she didn't want him really injured in terms of his career. What she felt was private, not to be aired in public, just as the admiral had said.

Still, she was too angry to let Mike off the hook completely.

“Admiral,” she said smoothly, “I'm reserving judgement until I have a better understanding of the situation. When you've offered me further information, I'll be in a better position to decide on my personal beliefs.”

“Quite right, Mrs. Denver,” the admiral said. “And, of course, I intend to speak with you. Will you be so good as to join me for lunch aboard ship?”

He indicated a large ship out on the horizon, not too far from where the
Maggie Mae
had once been.

Katrina hesitated, then murmured, “If you can excuse me for about thirty minutes …”

Her words drew attention to her drenched state. Mike stepped into the conversation smoothly.

“We were trying to salvage some things from the
Maggie Mae,
” he said flatly.

“Of course, of course!” the admiral said, and then he was staring at Mike's soaked, rolled-up trousers, bare chest, and disarrayed sandy hair.

“You're a bit of a mess yourself, Taylor,” the admiral said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Stradford—you can escort the lady to her home and back to the beach. We'll have transport waiting. Lunch at thirteen hundred.”

“I can make my own way back to my house.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Denver! After all we've done, the least we can offer is escort!”

He had already turned, walking briskly for a dinghy onshore with a sailor standing by. Albert Stradford grinned at Mike as if he had won some victory.

“Shall we, Mrs. Denver?” he asked, inclining his head slightly.

Katrina determined to smile with all her charm at Stradford, just to put Mike in his place.

But then, she quickly became sorry that she had tried out her charm on Stradford. He seemed to think that it made them conspirators.

He strode ahead of her, taking his role as escort to heart, moving palm fronds, breaking off sea-grape branches to make her walk entirely smooth.

“Mrs. Denver”—he was breathing a little heavily in his efforts to slash through the foliage like a uniformed Tarzan—“I'd like to add my personal apologies for all that you've been through.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said crisply, “but actually, I haven't been through anything that terrible.”

He made a sound of disgust. “You must have been frightened, worried. And with a son …”

Yes, she had been terrified, worried sick. But she wasn't about to let Stradford know that.

“As I said, Captain, things haven't been so bad.”

“You should sue him!” Stradford advised her.

“It's the Navy I'd be suing, Captain.”

He shrugged, offering her a smile that was meant to entice and seduce along with his striking blond looks. “The Navy, yes, and of course, I'd hate to see that. But really, we can't run around, irresponsibly testing out drugs!” He shook his head. “Taylor is a little bit crazy. I'm still amazed that they listen to him.”

“The admiral must believe in him,” Katrina said politely.

Stradford stopped, right in the middle of the trail. “You could change things, Mrs. Denver. If you made a stink, they'd stop. They'd can this whole ridiculous project.”

“Maybe it's not such a bad project,” she murmured.

He started off through the foliage again, not pleased.

In another few moments they were back to the house. She invited him in, a little awkwardly. He thanked her, gave her another of his charming smiles, and made himself comfortable on her couch.

Katrina showered quickly. She washed her hair and blew it dry. She was suddenly quite determined to look her best, and as sophisticated as possible. She applied some makeup, then tore into her closet until she decided on a pale-blue knit suit and matching pumps—ones with nice high heels to make her feel just a little bit taller, a little more level with the score of men who had descended on her island. She wound her wild, long hair up into a knot on the top of her head and convinced herself she had achieved a little height and a little dignity and age. She wanted the admiral to know that he was dealing with an adult, and she wanted Mike to believe that she would carry out any threat she might issue.

Tears suddenly stung her eyes. “I hate you, Mike Taylor!” she whispered. “I really, really hate you!”

But there was another voice inside of her, denying the words.

I just don't want you to go away! I just want to believe in you, I want to be able to
—
to what?
she wondered.

The answer was one she couldn't accept:
love again.

She turned away from her mirror and hurried out to meet Stradford.

He stood as soon as he saw her, and smiled appreciatively.

“Wish I'd been marooned with you throughout Kathleen,” he told her wistfully.

“Thank you, Captain, I'll take that as a compliment.”

“It was definitely meant as one. By the way, my name is Al.”

She nodded her head slightly. “Al.”

“Well, I guess we'd better get going.” He opened the door for her.

On the way to the beach he complimented her on her house, the island, and her life-style. Katrina wondered what he knew about her life-style, then remembered with a spurt of irritation that the Navy seemed to know quite a bit about her.

On paper, yes! Only one of them really knew her, knew her so well that even the thought of it was enough to send her head reeling, her body quivering, her temper soaring.

It was when they actually reached the beach—just inches away from the
Maggie Mae
—that Katrina suddenly balked. “Captain Stradford—I can't leave here. My son and a friend went over to Islamorada. I've got to wait for them to get back.”

Stradford frowned. “They're off the island?”

“Yes.”

“Taylor let them get off the island?”

“Captain!” Katrina breathed with exasperation. “As far as I know, this is still a free country!”

“Yes, yes!” Stradford assured her, smiling. “It's just that discretion is important at the moment.”

Katrina arched a brow. “I thought you were against the experiment anyway, Captain. Why should you care what happens?”

“I am against the experiment, but, then, there is protocol. And if your little boy is spreading tales everywhere—”

“The boy isn't running around spreading tales!” a deep voice said irritably. Katrina almost jumped, she was so startled. She looked up against the bright sunlight of day. Mike Taylor was standing on the deck of the yacht, staring downward, his eyes hard as steel, his hands clenched tightly around the railing. He'd apparently, showered and changed, and once again, in a neat white uniform with blue trim and epaulets, he appeared extremely formidable: His face looked tanned and hard and grim; he seemed to be staring at them both with distaste.

The blood suddenly seemed to run cold throughout her, and she couldn't help returning to her earlier thoughts. Conflicting thoughts.

You opened the world to me again….

You used me!

Abruptly, he moved, muscled arms creating leverage as he leapt over the bow to land smoothly in the sand in front of Katrina. “I'll wait here for Jason and Harry,” he told her. “Go ahead”—his voice carried a hard note of sarcasm—“I'm sure you'd like to get started with the admiral.”

“Yes, I suppose I would,” she said coolly.

He inclined his head just slightly toward the other man. “Al—the lady awaits.”

They really seem to hate one another, Katrina thought, and she was torn enough to want to use her knowledge to the fullest limit.

She smiled sweetly at the handsome blond captain with the sandy mustache. “Yes, Captain, as long as Taylor here is willing to wait for my son, I would just love to get started.”

She turned, managing to discreetly catch her heel in the sand and issue a soft little cry. Al Stradford was right there, ready to grab her arm and support her.

Katrina resisted the temptation to turn around and see Mike's reaction.

Al Stradford carefully helped her into the motor launch. As they whirred out to meet the admiral, he shouted to her conversationally above the roar of the boat and the whip of the wind, pointing to the Navy vessel.

“She's a specially outfitted cutter!” he told her, grinning. “The admiral's pride and joy. You'll see why!”

The admiral was waiting for her on deck, very graciously. She might have been a close friend, so cordial was his manner as he showed her around, introducing her now and then to a sailor or an officer. There were, she learned, more than twenty crew members aboard. They were all with a special joint unit of the Armed Forces devoted for the time being to research. Some of them were Marines, and some of them were Navy.

Katrina mentioned that she found that unusual. The admiral laughed. “Not at all, young lady. We're really all in this together, whatever rivalry there might be! Air Defense is an Army group, but you'll find them at Air Force bases most of the time!”

The cutter was the U.S.S.
Elizabeth;
she had been designed for meetings among the brass in 1940, refitted in 1983 to modern standards.

“Ah, but she's still a glorious vessel!” the admiral told Katrina, openly admiring the ship's sleek lines. “The galley is a piece of modern art, the dining room is as classic as the ages—but come, you'll see.”

Al Stradford left them when they entered an elegant cabin at the bow, just below the helm. There were two places set at the table: one for her, one for the admiral.

“A drink, Mrs. Denver? Sherry? Wine?”

“A glass of Chablis, if I may, Admiral,” she murmured.

He brought her a glass of wine; then, smiling, led her to a chair at the head of the table. He was, she realized, quite purposely trying to charm her; but he was doing it very openly, and they both knew it. And he had something going for him; he reminded her of her father. She also liked his eyes, with their wisdom and their deep look of humanity.

They were served by a polite and very correct sailor introduced to Katrina as Chief Petty Officer Gordon. He brought salads and a rich savory stew, then very discreetly disappeared.

Halfway into the dinner the admiral began his appeal.