Hot Island Nights (13 page)

He’d lost it last night. Big-time. Not since the early days after the accident had he been such a basket case.

He almost laughed as a thought occurred to him: if Jarvie could have seen him last night, there was no way he’d want him back in the business. Maybe next time the night terrors struck he should record it and send the disk to Jarvie for his edification. No doubt he’d never be bothered again once his old friend understood exactly how screwed up Nate really was.

“How are you feeling?”

The gentle inquiry came out of the darkness. He tensed. He’d planned on being long gone by the time she woke. Save them both from the awkwardness of having to look each other in the eye after his meltdown.

“Do you want some water? Maybe some aspirin?”

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

There was a short silence. Then he heard her inhale.

“Want to talk about it?”

He smiled grimly. Did he want to talk about it—the million dollar question. Everybody who claimed any friendship with him had been eager to talk in those early days. They’d all wanted to “be there” for him. And all he’d wanted to do was forget.

But he couldn’t simply pull on his jeans and bugger off, not when he’d cried like a baby in Elizabeth’s arms. He owed her something. Some explanation, at least.

“Sorry for barging in on you like that. It won’t happen again,” he said.

“I didn’t ask for an apology, Nathan. But if you don’t want to talk, I understand.”

Her hand found his arm, then his hand. She slid her palm against his and wove their fingers together. She didn’t say anything further, simply squeezed his hand comfortingly.

Hot emotion choked his throat for the second time. He swallowed, the sound audible in the quiet room.

Bloody hell. He really was losing it. Might as well hand his cojones over now.

“I noticed that some of the other catamarans had two sails up yesterday. Is that normal or are they different from the
Rubber Ducky?
” Elizabeth asked.

For a moment he was thrown by the abrupt change of subject. Then he understood what she was doing: giving him some breathing room. He squeezed her hand and she returned the gentle pressure.

“You’re talking about a jib,” he said. His voice caught and he cleared his throat. “They make the cat more maneuverable and help with tacking. We had a good northerly the other day, though, so I didn’t bother rigging it.”

“Right. So when you’re sailing alone, how do you manage it as well as the main sail?”

“You cleat the main sail first, then move forward to set the jib…”

They talked sailing for a few minutes. The faintest tinge of light was starting to creep beneath the blind. Gradually the tension in his chest eased. He turned his head and studied Elizabeth’s profile, barely discernible in the dim light. Her small nose, the shape of her mouth and slope of her cheek.

He made a decision and returned his gaze to the ceiling.

“I had a car accident,” he said. “Six months ago. I was driving to Melbourne from the island with my little sister, Olivia. There’d been another accident earlier. There was oil on the road. The car skidded…”

Elizabeth’s hand tightened on his and he took a deep breath.

“We hit a tree, front left-hand side. The car…the car folded like a piece of freaking origami. I hit my head, passed out for a bit. Olivia—”

His throat closed as his sister’s screams echoed in his head.

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay,” Elizabeth said.

“I want to.”

It took him a couple of shots at it. He held on to her hand for dear life as he told her how he’d woken and found Olivia pinned by twisted metal. How her face had been dark with blood, how icy her hand had been when he’d found it. How she’d whimpered and cried and begged. How he couldn’t do anything, trapped beneath the steering wheel and the collapsed dash.

He stopped only when he got to the end. He couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t explain how Olivia had pleaded with him to do something to stop the pain, right up until the moment she’d fallen silent and the desperate, labored rasp of her breathing had stopped, and how he’d held her hand until the rescue crew arrived and cut him free and forced him to relinquish his grip.

Elizabeth rolled onto her side and put her arms around him and held him tightly. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Then she lifted her face and pressed a kiss to his chin.

“I’ve sorry. Which is woefully inadequate, of course, and does nothing to change anything. But I’m sorry it happened, and I’m sorry your sister died. And I’m sorry you have to live with the memories. I can only imagine how hard that must be.”

He hadn’t told her because he wanted her pity or her sympathy or even her empathy. He’d told her because she deserved to understand why a grown man had hammered down her door and tried to lose himself in her arms last night.

And yet somehow, her calm, honest words soothed something inside him.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her closed eyelids, then the end of her nose. She lifted her face and he found her mouth, returning the gentle pressure of her lips against his.

Slowly his offering of gratitude turned into something more needy and demanding. She shifted against him, her hips pressing against his thighs. His tongue slid into her mouth and stroked hers slowly, languorously. Her hand smoothed beneath his T-shirt to slide up onto his chest, her fingers shaping his pecs before skimming over his nipple.

He rolled toward her, pushing her silk robe out of the way. She arched her back as he lowered his head to pull a nipple into his mouth. Her hands found his shoulders and kneaded the muscles there as he suckled and teased and tasted her.

They pressed together, skin seeking skin, hardness seeking softness. She tugged on the waistband of his boxer-briefs, releasing his hard-on. Then she lifted her leg over his hip and guided him into her wet heat. He gritted his teeth as his erection slid inside her.

She felt so good, so tight and good. He rocked his hips and she rocked with him. He cupped her breasts and teased her nipples and kissed her and kissed her. Her palms smoothed across his back, her fingers clenching into his skin with each slow, slippery thrust.

And then she was coming, throbbing around him as she gasped into his mouth and his own climax was washing through him like a tidal wave, relentless and all-conquering and undeniable.

He stayed inside her afterward, savoring the closeness. His eyes were very heavy and he closed them briefly.

She knew now. She knew everything. Pressing one last kiss to her cheek, he drifted into sleep.

The horror of what he’d been through was almost impossible to comprehend. Being trapped with his sister yet unable to do anything as she died….

It was more than any person should have to bear. It was cruel and unlucky and hard. The stuff of nightmares.

For a moment Elizabeth teetered on the brink of crying, overwhelmed by his pain and grief. She breathed through her mouth in big gulps, pressing her fingertips against her closed eyelids, willing the tears away.

Slowly she got a grip on herself. Her losing it wasn’t going to change anything. Nate didn’t need her to beat her chest with anguish over his sad story. He was living with the aftermath of major trauma. Grappling with grief and guilt and anger and loss on a daily, perhaps hourly basis. He needed comfort and support and patience, not tears.

She let her hands fall into her lap, then she stood and went to the basin and ran the taps. She washed her face and patted it dry. With a bit of luck, Nate would still be asleep and she could climb back into bed with him.

It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light of the bedroom when she exited the bathroom, but the moment they did she saw what her instincts had already told her—the bed was empty.

Nate was gone.

She was surprised, and yet she wasn’t. He was a man, with more than his fair share of pride. She’d heard the shame and self-laceration in his voice when he’d told his story. She bet he gave himself a hard time for every moment of weakness or doubt.

She sat for a moment, thinking. Just as they had yesterday, her instincts told her to go after Nate. But there was something she needed to do first. For both of them.

She showered and dressed and walked up the hill to the backpacker’s lodge where she’d noticed a sign advertising an Internet café. She paid her money, then settled into a worn-out office chair in front of a worn-out computer and rested her fingers on the worn-out keyboard.

She wasted a few minutes logging in to check her e-mail account. There was a note from Violet there, full of apologies for “blabbing to D.D.” about Elizabeth’s whereabouts. Elizabeth sent a quick response, assuring her friend that she’d done the right thing. She explained that she and Martin had agreed to part as friends and started writing a description of the island and the weather before she caught herself and realized she was stalling.

She deleted the travelogue, assured Violet that she’d write more soon and sent the e-mail. Then she called up a search engine and typed in
post-traumatic stress.
She hit enter and waited to see what Google would offer her.

Lots, was the answer. More than she could ever take in in a lifetime. She read for over three hours about the various symptoms and treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder. By the time she pushed the chair away from the desk she had as many questions as she did answers. Nate’s drinking, his reliance on distraction, his avoidance of his business partner and retreat from his former life…it seemed to her that he must be suffering from a broad range of classic PTSD symptoms: reexperiencing the event in the form of flashbacks; avoiding places and events that might trigger one; hyperarousal or being on edge; problems with sleep and angry outbursts. But it was impossible for her to know without talking to him.

She made note of a few book titles and went to the bookstore five doors up to see what they had to offer. There was one self-help title that didn’t look very promising, but she had more luck at the local library. By the end of the day she felt reasonably well-informed.

Well-informed enough to understand what she was getting into if she tried to pursue this thing with Nate.

It was clear that recovery was going to be long and slow, if it occurred at all. Some people never fully healed from the trauma that tore their lives apart. Like Nate, they retreated into a corner and survived as best they could. Many of them turned to alcohol and drugs.

It was a lot to take on. Which meant she had a decision to make. A big one.

She’d known Nathan Jones for five days, give or take a few hours either way. She didn’t know what school he’d gone to or his parents’ names or what his favorite color was or the name of his first pet. She didn’t know which way he leaned politically or whether he gave to charity or which five people, living or dead, he’d invite to dinner.

What she did know was that he needed her. She knew that when he touched her she felt beautiful and sexy and brave. She knew he was kind and generous, despite the fact that his own life was overshadowed by tragedy and trauma.

And she knew that when he’d pressed his head to her chest and sobbed out his pain she’d wanted to take his burden away from him with a fierce, bone-deep urgency that defied logic and common sense.

So, it really wasn’t a decision at all, when it came down to it.

Maybe she was crazy to feel this way after only five days. But she was sure stranger things had happened in the world. And at the end of the day, it was what it was. And what it was was this: she was invested. Heavily.

So.

Armed with her new knowledge, self and otherwise, she went searching for Nate.

It was freaking humiliating. And what scared him the most was how much he wanted to do it all over again. Talking to Lizzy, having her hold him and listen and understand, had been the most difficult and yet comforting few hours he’d experienced in months. For a short time, the constant tension binding his chest and shoulders had eased.

Which was why he had to stay away from Main Street and the Isle of Wight Hotel and anywhere Lizzy might be. They’d had sex a handful of times. He’d helped her out with her father, given her a sailing lesson and her first experience of oral sex. None of those things gave him the right to impose on her the way he had. He’d stepped over the line, way over the line. She’d been incredibly generous, listening to him, soothing him, but he already knew she was a good person. No way was he going to impose on her goodwill again and take advantage of her good nature. No. Way.

It didn’t stop him from thinking about her all the time, of course. About the crisp, cool sound of her voice and the warm light in her eyes and the way she frowned when she didn’t quite understand if he was joking or not.

Amazing that you could miss someone who had barely arrived in your life, and yet that was the way he felt. Just as well he was never going to see her again.

He killed the days with beer and surfing and sailing, and when that still left the night hours to fill he walked the beach, following the sand around the island until the rising tide forced him to turn back.

On the third day of his self-imposed Elizabeth ban, he looked up from rigging the main sail on the
Ducky
to find her walking across the beach toward him. She was wearing a pair of bright pink board shorts and a long-sleeved aqua lycra rash vest. White zinc covered her nose and cheeks and a floppy hat shaded her face.

She should have looked ridiculous but she didn’t. Lust and need and want hit him in the solar plexus and he fixed his gaze on the shackle he was tightening and hoped he didn’t look as goddamned desperate as he felt.

“You’re a hard man to track down,” she said when she came to a halt beside the catamaran.

“I’ve been busy.”

He fed the headboard into the mast and began pulling on the halyard to hoist the sail. “I see.”

He concentrated on the sail, making sure it was locked in place before wrapping the halyard around the mast cleat.

Maybe if he simply ignored her, she would go away. Then he wouldn’t have to look at her and want her and remind himself of all the good reasons why whatever had been happening between them was done and why it had never had a future in the first place.

It was such a childish notion that he immediately rejected it. At the very least he owed her an apology for the other night and for leaving the way he had.

He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at her. “Listen. About the other night. I’m sorry for barging in on you like I did. I was out of line and too pissed to make much sense and it shouldn’t have happened.”

He waited for her to respond, but she simply stared at him for a long moment before reaching for one of the coils of rope on the trampoline.

“This is the one we thread through the pulleys on the boom, right?” she asked.

He didn’t understand why she was here. What she wanted. Then the penny dropped and he got it: she felt sorry for him. Poor old Nate, crying out his pain and fear. Boo freaking hoo.

He reached out and tugged the coil of rope from her hands.

“You should go,” he said tersely.

“Should I?” She snatched the rope back.

He frowned. “I said I was sorry, okay? There’s nothing more to say and I don’t need a social worker.”

“If I was your social worker, Nathan Jones, I would be up in front of an ethics committee in a flash. Now, where does this rope go?”

When he didn’t do anything except continue to frown at her, she began uncoiling the rope.

“Fine. I’ll do it my way and you can fix it later.”

She moved to where one of the clam cleats was fixed on the starboard hull and started feeding the rope through it. A strand of hair slid out of her hat as she worked, grazing her cheek before coming to rest in a curl over her breast.

He told himself to tell her to go away again. He didn’t want her pity. He wasn’t sure what he did want from her, but it certainly wasn’t that.

She glanced up then and he looked straight into the deep blue of her eyes.

“You owe me another sailing lesson,” she said.

It wasn’t as simple as that, and they both knew it. But he didn’t have the resolve to push her away a third time, which probably made him a weak bastard. But then that was nothing new, was it?