Eden's Spell (8 page)

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!”

M
IKE 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 kitchen. “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.”

“But you don't remember any of it?”

“No, I heard about it all. Mom doesn't talk about it, just to remind me how dangerous the reefs can be. But my friends know things from their parents. They say that she tried everything to bring him back. She's a water safety instructor, you know. She's got all kinds of certificates. But”—he shrugged—“nothing worked on Dad. She kept at it for hours; the doctor who came from Islamorada finally had to pull her away and sedate her.”

Mike touched Jason's hair. “I'm sorry, son. It sounds like he was a real great man. A hero.”

Jason set the portrait back on the mantel. “We've got to do something about you before she gets out of the bathtub.”

“Pardon?”

“You've been dripping everywhere. I'll get some paper towels. You go take a shower.”

Jason took off for the kitchen to get the paper towels. Mike had to grin; it had been a long time since he had been in conspiracy with an eight-year-old to save his hide from a chewing out.

But a hot shower would feel damned good right now. He felt chilled to the bone.

He followed Jason to the kitchen. “Can I borrow your shower?”

“Yeah, sure, but you don't need to. There's a guest bedroom all set up next to my mother's. There's towels, soap, even extra toothbrushes. And there should have been enough water left in the heater for it to be warm.”