Eden's Spell (4 page)

He was horribly in the wrong. Yet who could resist dreams? Who could resist such a balm to the soul?

“Thank you,” he whispered, and with great tenderness he moved a wild strand of her hair from her cheek to the pillow. “I'll never be able to say this when you're awake, but what you gave me was more, much, much more, than 44DFS. It was something very fine. Something I haven't known in more than a decade—”

He broke off, quickly. She was stirring, her thick lashes fluttering over her eyes. His breath caught, but she merely murmured something and nestled into the pillow.

Michael took a deep, shaky breath. He needed some good strong coffee now, something to completely clear his head, something that would let him think.

He needed to decide just what to say and do when she awoke. Ethically, he felt he had to be honest. Yet something inside warned him that she might not want to know the truth.

He ducked down by the bed, pulling out his drawer. He didn't even know where his robe was, but it didn't matter. He wanted to dress in uniform whites for morning. If nothing else, he was definitely going to have to discover what she was still doing on the island when she had signed a government form promising to be off it! And then, he was going to have to give her some kind of explanation, if not a complete one.

Just as his hand closed around a pair of socks, her fingers fell on his shoulder. “James?”

Her voice was husky, full of pain and yearning.

He rose, taking her hands, leaning over her.

“Go to sleep, Katrina.”

“No!” The agonized sound of her cry closed around him. She shook her head, a haze of tears glittering in her eyes.

“You have to sleep; I have to go—”

She was halfway up, wrapping her arms around him. She buried her face against his shoulder, and she trembled slightly as a sob threatened to engulf her.

“No, no! You're here … you're here, and I'm afraid to close my eyes because you'll disappear.”

Her breasts were against him, soft, full, and feminine. It was nearly impossible to ignore the plea in her voice.

He wasn't under the influence of 44DFS anymore.

But he was still human, and torn in two.

“Go to sleep, Katrina,” he told her firmly, pressing her back to the bed. “Sleep….”

At last her eyes closed, and he left her.

Katrina awoke very slowly, and oddly enough, the sensation was pleasant enough—at first.

It was very much as if a soft, soft billow of clouds had pressed her forward to some sort of landing, then faded, billowing just as gently away and out of reach. She opened her eyes and saw a paneled wall alien to her memory. Yet even as she realized she was someplace where she shouldn't be, she still felt serene. It was as if she had come from a never-never land where dreams could be real, where everything was happiness, where a person was embraced and cherished and loved.

Really loved, she thought abruptly, frowning then. And then she blushed to the roots of her hair, remembering the details of her dreams. Never had she dreamed so vividly.

Her frown became a wince; she closed her eyes once again. She had been dreaming about James by the pool—not so much dreaming, really, but daydreaming, remembering. Had she been so lonely, so lost, that she had conjured such a memory, and tossed and turned alone, envisioning him with her?

Her eyes flew open; all the gentle curves and billows of the pink clouds were gone completely, and she experienced a terrible sensation of pitching and swaying. And facts, not dreams, flooded her mind.

Jason had called her, and she had run to the sound of his voice. And at the southern pool she had come into contact with a maniac in a spacesuit, passed out cold, and then—

She jerked up and stared wildly around herself. The pitching and swaying must mean that she was in some kind of a boat or ship.

Jason! Where was her son?

Katrina practically flew out of the bed, ready to fly into battle, to scream and rant and rave and lash out in panic and fear until she found him.

Her hand touched the door lever, and then, only then, did she pause, completely stunned.

She was naked.

A flush crimsoned her face, and then her entire naked body. She didn't know whether to be terrified, furious, humiliated, or all three. But as desperate as she was about her son, she didn't want to go flying out of the privacy of the cabin in her present state.

Her teal maillot was on the floor at the foot of the bed, still damp. She shimmied into it breathlessly, quickly decided it wasn't enough, then noticed a worn terry robe on the floor beyond it. She grabbed the robe; it was way too big for her, but that made her very happy, since it encompassed a good three quarters of her body.

She tied the belt around her waist and hurriedly rolled up the sleeves, then suddenly paused again, frowning as she looked around the surprisingly roomy cabin.

There was really nothing there. A small dresser, a smaller closet, and the bunk. There were no pictures on the wall, just the gleaming paneling.

On the dresser, though, were a few items that set her heart to a miserable pounding: after-shave, a comb, a man's tortoiseshell brush, a set of gold cuff-links, and an expensive black-banded diver's watch. A new panic filled her senses. Where in hell was she? Who was the strange man in the silver spacesuit who had accosted her, yelling at her for being on her own damned property!

She turned around in a fury, ready to grip the door and fling it open with a vengeance. Something stopped her—a sense of confusion that made her turn and survey the ten-by-ten space one more time.

The cabin was very neat. Beneath the men's paraphernalia, the cherry wood dresser set gleamed. Curtains in white and chocolate covered the porthole, and the floor was spotless. Only the bed—a handsome bunk tacked to the starboard side—was a mess, the sheets all twisted and awry, as if she had, indeed, lived out her erotic dreams.

“No,” she murmured aloud. And she had awakened stark naked….

She didn't dare think. But she did find herself walking to the bunk and fingering the sheets.

They had been very clean; she even recognized the scent of the detergent on them, because it was the one she used herself. But there was another scent to them, something subtle and musky, like cologne mingled with the scent of freshly bathed flesh. Male flesh….

The boat pitched suddenly, sending her crashing back to the bunk. Katrina stood, loath to touch the sheets, loath to think. She had been alone, she told herself. She had been alone—she had been …

Dammit! She had been drugged; it was the only explanation.

And Jason must have been drugged too. Jason! Katrina winced, swinging about again, sick that she had been worried about such a trivial thing as how she'd spent the night when she still hadn't seen her son, didn't have any idea of where he might be.

She stormed out the door, ready to scream, frightened despite herself, and bracing for whatever she might see. She stepped out of the cabin, ferociously yelling, “Where is my son! What in God's name is going on here?”

Her voice seemed to echo down the hall, which was flanked on the starboard side first by a dining table and overhead cabinets, then by a large and handsomely carved chart desk. Across from that desk was a well-equipped galley; down from the galley—near her—was a long Formica shelf and more cabinets.

The Formica table set her into panic all over again. There were all kinds of test tubes there, set carefully in holders, labeled meticulously. And right above the table were three little screens that appeared to be televisions.

Narrowing her eyes, Katrina took a step closer to them, then gasped. One was blank. One gave a picture of the cabin she had just vacated. And in the other, she saw Jason, sprawled out comfortably on a nice big bunk, a smile on his lips as he slept.

She gathered the oversized robe to her throat. Jason! She touched the screen, tears in her eyes. Jason, Jason, Jason! He seemed to be okay. She just had to reach him.

Oh, God! They had been kidnapped by a maniac….

“Good morning, Mrs. Denver. Coffee?”

Letting out a little screech at the sound of the deep male voice, Katrina spun around, bracing herself against the table. She thought it would be the silver-eyed stranger in the spacesuit once again.

He had silver eyes, all right. Silver and steel. He stood on the bottom rung of the three steps that led to the deck, but he was clad in white slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt with some kind of epaulets on the shoulders.

He even wore a white, blue-rimmed cap, with some kind of insignia on it.

She realized dimly that he was a tall man, at least a good foot taller than she was. He appeared lean but not really slim. His shoulders were broad beneath the white cotton shirt, but his waist was slim and his hips were narrow.

He was well tanned, and his eyes were vivid against the bronze of his features. It struck her that he was a very handsome man, although not in the conventional sense. His mouth was generous, his jaw square, and his cheekbones were high and broad. He was clean shaven, with neatly cropped tawny hair feathering beneath his cap. His nose was long and straight. There were faint lines around his eyes and mouth, telling her that he was probably around forty. The power of his physique and the rugged appeal of his face startled her.

When she didn't answer, he moved casually to the stove, where he proceeded to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Michael watched her warily. Damn her; he felt so guilty, he couldn't even find the words to be polite to her! He tried to rationalize that his guilt was her fault for not leaving the island but that only made him feel more guilty!

Katrina stared at him incredulously for a moment, then flew at him in a snarling burst of fury.

He saw her coming, and quickly set the coffee down. He might deserve a good slap in the face, but he sure as hell didn't feel like being scalded—not when she had refused to get off the island!

He caught her, then held her at arm's length as she tried wildly to slash and kick him. Did she remember more than he had suspected? he wondered grimly.

“Stop it—” he began, but just as suddenly as she had flown at him, she wrenched away from him, although she was still eying him with the look of a wary tigress prepared to go to battle again. She was almost comical—her hair a mane about her, his robe ridiculously large on her small frame.

She didn't apologize for her attempted assault. Fists clenched at her side, she grated out venomously, “Who the hell are you, and what is going on here?”

“Captain Taylor, Mrs. Denver. Dr. Taylor, if you prefer. I'm with the Navy—”

“What Navy?” she shouted furiously.

He paused, drawing a deep breath. “The United States Navy, Mrs. Denver. Now—”

“
Our
Navy? I swear to you, Captain, Doctor—whatever you are!—that someone will pay for this! Since when do the Armed Forces have the right to abduct civilians? Has there been a military coup here?”

She didn't give him a chance to answer, but raged on.

“Someone is going to pay for this, Taylor.” She pointed her forefinger at him. “
You
are going to pay for this! Oh! I don't even know if I believe you! Since when does the Navy send men to small islands in spacesuits? Why are we in this boat? Where is my son? If you don't bring me to him this instant, you'll find yourself in a mangler, you—you maniac!”

Katrina was amazed that after all her righteous threats he had the bloody nerve to stare at her with total irritation, then turn back to the stove to retrieve his coffee cup.

“I—”

“You just saw your son on the screen, Mrs. Denver. You know perfectly well that he is sleeping comfortably. Now I repeat, would you like some coffee?”

“Coffee,” Katrina repeated. “At a time like this, in a situation like this, you're offering me
coffee
?”

He shifted slightly, leaning against the counter, studying her casually over the rim of his mug. “It is a customary morning drink,” he grated out, and she realized then that beneath the surface he was as uncomfortable as she was.

“Oh!” she raged out in frustration. If only she could hit him! One good, walloping belt across that stubborn, square jaw …

He sighed at last and set his cup down. “Mrs. Denver, I would tell you how sorry I am that you became involved in this, except that in your present state of agitation—”

“Agitation? I'm not agitated, I'm furious! I'm irate! I'm—

“I repeat, Mrs. Denver, I'm very sorry about your involvement. Now, if you'd like some coffee, we can sit down at the table and try to discuss this like rational adults.”

“Rational …” She wanted to swear again, to strike out in her confusion and the fear that remained with her still. But suddenly, tears stung her eyes; she still hadn't seen Jason, hadn't been able to hold him, to assure herself that he really was sleeping, that he would awake happy and well.

Her gaze inadvertently switched to the Formica table with all its test tubes. She still might be dealing with a madman dressed up in a Navy uniform. It just might be best to humor him along….

“I'll—I'll have some coffee,” she said as pleasantly as she could manage. “If you'll promise to take me to my son as soon as we've talked.”

He turned to procure another cup. For a brief moment Katrina entertained the idea of reaching for something and cracking it over his head.

He turned back to her with a warning in his smile, as if he had read her mind.

“Sugar, Mrs. Denver?”

She shook her head. Forget force; she could never compete with him in the brawn department.

He lifted the cup to her, indicating the table against the starboard wall. “There's milk in the refrigerator if you'd like.”

She nodded and very nervously opened the small door beneath her. She blanched then; the milk was in a test tube.

She slammed the door shut, grating her teeth at his smooth grin. “You did that on purpose!”