In McGillivray's Bed (13 page)

Hugh dropped his gaze to the magazine again.

 

H
E FELT
it, Syd was sure.

It was there in his gaze.

Every time his eyes connected with hers, however briefly, the electricity was stronger than any lightning storm. And yet he resisted it. Because he didn't want to feel it? Because he didn't want to acknowledge how good they could be together?

It was, she reflected, a lot like the merger that had just taken place between St. John's and Butler Instruments. It had made good economic sense. They were complementary companies. They didn't compete, and together they would have greater advantages than either had alone.

But Carl Teasdale, the managing director of Butler Instruments, hadn't seen that at first.

“Why would we want to get tied into a stateside firm?” he'd demanded. “We have our autonomy, our financial independence. We don't need you.”

“You don't,” Syd had agreed. “But we'd be better together. You'd have larger markets. More options. Better connections. And we'd have an international base. Let's take a look at a couple of scenarios, shall we?”

So while Roland had taken the CEO out sport fishing, Syd had shown Carl why in one scenario after another a merger between St. John's and Butler would be a good idea.

She'd done her homework. She knew what Carl thought was important, what he would respond to. What would Hugh McGillivray respond to?.

The rain still drummed on the roof—or leaked through—and the wind still rattled the windows and banged the shutters. The lights flickered.

“Let's play cards,” she suggested

Hugh looked up slowly from the magazine he hadn't
turned a page in for the last twenty minutes. “What sort of cards?”

She lifted a brow. “Strip poker?”

His jaw dropped, then almost immediately snapped shut again. His whole body tensed and his fingers crumpled the magazine in their grasp.

“Right,” he said, his voice strained. “Sure.” And with careful deliberation he smoothed out the pages of the magazine and stared at them again.

“So, okay. We won't play strip poker,” Syd said lightly. Obviously she'd moved a bit too fast. So now she'd have to back up, soothe his ruffled feathers, calm him down. And try again. “Gin?”

He didn't even look up. “No.”

“Twenty-one?”

“No.”

“Five-card stud?” She could see a muscle tick in his temple.

“I don't want to play cards, Sydney,” he said through his teeth. He kept his gaze firmly on the page.

“Fine.” Syd got up and went over to where the stack of magazines were in front of his chair. “If you're going to read, I will, too.” She bent down to pick through them.

It wasn't her fault her hair tumbled forward and brushed against his bare knee, was it? Of course not. It was gravity, pure and simple. And when he lifted his gaze to glare at her and found himself staring down the neck of her scoop-necked T-shirt, that was his fault not hers.

All the same, it was gratifying to hear him suck in a sharp breath. And even more so to see that his knuckles were white. Interestingly, even his bare toes seemed to be clenched.

“Something wrong?” Syd lifted her head to inquire solicitously. Her face was barely a foot from his.

He was absolutely rigid, not even breathing. But she was near enough that she could see the pulse tick at the base of
his throat. Then he swallowed. “Nothing's wrong,” he said, his tone strangled.

“Good.” She smiled again, took her time picking out one of the magazines, finally chose one at random and retreated to the chair a few feet away. She settled in and began to leaf through it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hugh flex his fingers, crack his knuckles, take one, and then another, deep careful breath.

The lights dimmed briefly and one of the shutters began to tremble. Belle got up off the rug and came to rest her head on Syd's knee. Syd soothed her, twining her fingers in the dog's thick soft hair, kneading and stroking and murmuring soothing words to her, then bending down to kiss the top of Belle's head. Outside the storm raged and inside Hugh twitched and fidgeted in his chair, turned one page and ten minutes later another.

He might have read all night if the lights hadn't gone out.

“Well, so much for reading,” Syd said cheerfully, lighting the candles she'd gotten from Lachlan. “How about a game of chess?”

There had been a chess set gathering dust on one of the high shelves in the living room when she'd cleaned and sorted things out. She'd never seen Hugh touch it, but he must know the rules. “Or is it just artful clutter?”

Hugh's eyes narrowed in the candlelight. “No,” he said slowly. He hesitated for a second. “I play.”

“Play me.”

Again he hesitated, as if he were weighing serious considerations.

Syd raised one brow and smiled slightly. “Or maybe you know you wouldn't win.”

He went for the bait, like a trout for a fly. “Fine. We'll play.”

“For stakes?'

“We're not playing strip chess.”

“Of course not. I just thought we could have some stakes to make it more interesting.” She smiled again.

Hugh gave her a steely, sceptical look, but he went and got the board and the pieces and carried them to the kitchen table. Syd set out two candles to light the game.

“Interesting like what?” he asked, arranging the chess-men on the board.

She shrugged lightly. “Up to you. If you win, you get to choose. What do you want?”

“What do you mean, what do I want?”

“It's hardly a trick question, McGillivray. It's very straightforward. If you beat me, you get what you want. If I beat you, I get what I want.”

“Anything I want?”

“Anything,” she said promptly, because it didn't matter. He wasn't going to win. She hadn't been a tournament chess champion for nothing. “Anything you want. As long as it's legal.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “If I win, you put my stuff back the way you found it.”

“Turn it back into a disaster area, you mean?”

“I mean give me my life back.”

Syd gave a long-suffering sigh. “All right. Yes.”

Hugh nodded, satisfied, and sat down at the table and waited until Syd sat opposite him. “And on the slim chance that you win, Ms. St. John,” he said, a grin quirking the corner of his mouth, “what is your heart's desire?”

“I want you to make love with me.”

H
E STARED
at her. “Very funny.”

“I mean it. If I win, I want you to—”

“I heard what you said, Syd. Don't be a tease.”

“I'm not teasing. I'm perfectly serious.”

“Well, forget it. It's not going to happen.”

“Not if you beat me,” she agreed blithely.

Hugh glared. His fingers drummed on the tabletop.

Syd only shrugged, knowing she could afford to be magnanimous. “You can open,” she offered.

He raised a brow. “No ladies first?” he asked snidely.

“I don't intend to play like a lady,” Syd informed him.

“Why am I not surprised?”

She grinned. “You could concede now. Save time.”

His teeth came together, and she saw a muscle tick in his jaw. “Fine, I'll open,” he said, and reaching for his knight, he set it in front of his row of pawns.

Syd stared at it, then at him. “Are you sure you've played chess before?”

He met her gaze. His eyes glittered in the candlelight. “I said I had.”

“Yes, but—”

“Having second thoughts? Worried now? Afraid?” White teeth flashed in a grin.

“Of course not!” she said haughtily. “I just don't want to demoralize you.”

Hugh smiled slightly and lounged back in his chair. His shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. “Your move, St. John.”

Outside the wind continued to howl. The shutters shuddered and banged. The roof leaked.

Syd studied the board. Studied his knight. Narrowed her gaze. Thought. And thought some more.

Finally she moved.

 

S
YDNEY
St. John played chess exactly the way Hugh figured she would. Carefully. Competently. Always assessing her moves. Strategizing. Anticipating. Considering consequences. Planning ahead.

Exactly the same way Lachlan did.

Syd was another goalkeeper, just like his brother. Always defending her interests. Moving deliberately, anticipating. Responding.

In soccer and in chess—and in life—Hugh had always been a striker himself.

He moved boldly, looked for openings, wasn't above a little creativity when it was called for. He played fast and seemingly without thought, only instinct.

Seemingly
was the operative word. He thought—but not like Syd and Lachlan did.

The game progressed in stalls and starts. Every move Hugh made was swift, almost instantaneous. And a good thing, too, as Syd took time enough for both of them.

Whenever it was her turn, she contemplated the board, studied the pieces, frowned, reflected, lifted her hand, then put it back in her lap.

“Aren't you ready yet?”

“I'm thinking.”

“Still?”

“Hush!”

Hugh sighed.

Syd pondered.

He hummed.

She glared.

He sprawled and popped the top on a beer then took a
long swallow. “Want one?” He raised it so she could see it.

She scowled and ground her teeth at him.

He sighed again and tapped his fingers on his knee.

She bit her lip and finally—glory hallelujah—moved.

Hugh leaned forward, considered what she'd done, nodded, and moved, too.

“Just like that?” she demanded.

“You'd rather I spent an hour staring at the board?”

“I'd like to think you're paying attention!”

“I'm not the one wasting time,” he pointed out.

She bared her teeth at him. And then started—or stalled—all over again.

An hour passed. Then two. He got up and wandered around, checking the shutters, emptying pots, cracking his knuckles, while Sydney sat at the table contemplating the board, considering her move. Finally he went and lay on the couch.

“Wake me when you've done something.”

“Shut up.” She was frowning at the board, lifting her hand, letting it waver over the pieces indecisively, then putting it back in her lap again.

Hugh began to whistle.

“Stop that,” she snapped.

He closed his eyes. “Whatever you say, Syd.”

He could hear the hiss between her teeth as she went back to the board. He scratched Belle's ears and smiled.

When she finally did make a move, he came back and stood looking down at the board. Yep. Exactly what he thought she'd do. Without even sitting down, he reached out and moved his castle.

Syd couldn't quite stop the grin from touching her lips. Hugh picked up a magazine and sat on the sofa leafing through it, waiting. But this time she spent only a few minutes looking things over before she took a deep slow breath and let it out as she reached out to move her bishop to block his castle.

Then she settled back and smiled beatifically up at him. “Check.”

Hugh set down the magazine and ambled over to look at the board. Then at her. She looked back, smiling.

He sat down, then reached out and slid his queen over three spaces, took his hand away and lifted his gaze to hers, to watch her smile fade as realization dawned.

“Checkmate,” he said.

 

W
AY
to go, moron,
Hugh congratulated himself grimly.
You won.

Won what?

A night in his bed by himself?

Whoopee.

No, damn it, he thought savagely. He was getting his old life back!

That
was what he'd won. The freedom to throw what he wanted to throw wherever he wanted to throw it. The luxury not to do his dishes if he didn't want to, to dump his dirty clothes on the floor and his laundry in the chair. The joy of being answerable to no one. And of having no one care if he showed up or stayed away, went down in a thunderstorm or came in out of the rain, lived or died.

All the things he had pre-Sydney St. John.

The only problem was he didn't want them! And how damnably annoying was that?

He didn't want his old life back!

He'd begun to realize he'd probably gone overboard a little bit in the clutter department as a reaction to the austerity of his Navy days. And he'd been a little more foot-loose than he actually enjoyed. He'd begun to look forward to coming back at the end of the day and finding someone waiting for him.

Having
Syd
waiting for him.

He liked taking Belle for walks on the beach with her or going for a swim in the ocean with her, teaching her how to snorkel or bait a fish hook. Of course she always had to
know how to “do it right.” But the fact was he didn't mind teaching her. It was kind of fun. She was so earnest, she made him laugh and tease her and then she laughed, too.

And there was something about having someone care. Something about being the one special person in another person's life.

Hugh hadn't really given it a lot of thought until he'd seen the way Carin looked at Nathan. It was as if the world wasn't right—as if a vital piece was missing—unless Nathan was there.

Same thing with Lachlan and Fiona. Hugh had never really begrudged his brother anything. They'd always been good friends, but far too different to be competitive. But Lachlan was vital to Fiona, and it only took one glance to see that. Wherever she was, she wanted him there.

Sometimes, Hugh dared to think, Syd had looked at him like that. Sometimes when he came around the corner of the house after work, he would spot her sitting on the porch swing, and the moment she saw him coming, her eyes would simply light right up. She would smile and come to meet him. And then she would tell him about whatever new organizational structure she'd created to plague him and complicate his life.

“So you're well off without her,” he told himself again, lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind howl and the rain drum down.

And it was true, damn it. She was Sydney St. John, mover and shaker, corporate hotshot, woman of many talents. And no matter what she'd been saying and no matter what she accomplished on Pelican Cay, she wasn't going to stay.

However she might smile at him now, she wasn't going to smile forever.

She was here for a reason—to learn to be her own person. Not her daddy's daughter. Not Roland Carruthers's useful-to-the-business wife. She'd stayed on the island to prove that she could do things on her own.

And she was doing it.

Which was probably why she wanted him to make love to her.

Just one more way to prove herself?

To show that she could get what she wanted?

Hugh's fingers tightened on the sheet. He twisted restlessly, trying to think.

But his brain was worn-out. He'd expended his entire capacity for thought playing chess. He had no cognitive ability left. Only instinct.

And his instinct knew just one thing: he wanted her.

 

T
HERE
was a leak over her bed.

That was why there was moisture on her face.

It had nothing to do with the mortification of laying her heart, not to mention her
body,
on the line—and
losing!
—to Hugh McGillivray, who had obviously been so appalled at the thought of having to make love to her that he'd somehow managed to win the game!

Syd still couldn't work out how he'd done it. Not analytically.

His play had been so unorthodox she'd been completely confounded. How could you defend against a completely unsystematic attack? He hadn't had a plan, she was sure. He'd had sheer blind luck.

And she'd been humiliated.

She'd put a good face on it. She might not have spoken for a full minute, but when she had, her voice had seemed quite steady.

“Congratulations,” she'd said. She'd even managed a polite smile, and then she'd got up and started toward his bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the clean clothes. I'll dump them in the chair. And then I can—”

“Oh, for God's sake! Leave them. They'll be back in the chair soon enough. You don't have to get them now.”

“But—”

“Leave 'em, I said.”

So she'd left them. She'd started to pick up the chess pieces and put the board away, but she hadn't done that, either.

Hugh wouldn't want it put away. He'd want it lying around cluttering everything up.

Fine. So be it. Easier for her.

Easiest for her to quit the scene entirely. So she'd given Belle a pat, said a proper cordial good night to McGillivray, even though she couldn't quite meet his eyes. And then she'd taken refuge in her room.

Now she swiped at her eyes and rolled onto her side, determined to force herself to go to sleep. But, damn it, there really was a leak!

And a squeak as the bedroom door opened.

“Belle?” Syd started to roll back over.

“Not Belle.” The sound of Hugh's gruff voice shocked her.

She rolled over quickly. “What are you doing?”

What he was doing was crossing the room without a word. Then he dropped down on the bed beside her with such force that the bed frame shook. “You win.”

“What?” She started to pull back but his arm pinned her down. “What do you mean? What are you doing?”

“I'm giving up. Isn't that what you suggested?” His voice was a growl in her ear. “You wanted this. You
said
you wanted it.”

And then his lips met hers.

The kiss was fierce and desperate and every bit as demanding as the first one he had given her. And her own desperation seemed less humiliating now. In fact, she barely recalled it, consumed as she was in the sensations of the present—in the heated crush of his lips, the questing thrust of his tongue, the clear urgency of his body pressed hard against hers.

She locked her own arms around him, slid them up his
back beneath his shirt, reveling in the silken heat of his skin. She peeled his shirt up, eager for him.

And he jerked as if he'd been shot.

“Hell! What the devil—” He rolled off her and glared up at the ceiling. “Damn it! It's leaking!”

“I'll get a pan,” she began quickly, determined not to let a leaking roof put him off his stride. He was finally in her bed. There was no way she was letting him out now.

But Hugh had a better idea. He was on his feet and scooping her into his arms in an instant, then striding out of the spare room and into his own where he laid her on the bed and loomed above her.

The candle in the glass on his dresser spilled a narrow band of golden light across the room, allowing Syd to watch him, to relish the planes and angles, light and shadow of his lean muscular body as he stripped off his shirt and shorts.

“Just so there's no misunderstanding,” he said, his voice ragged. He stretched out on the bed alongside her. “I don't give a damn what happens. The bloody house can blow down. The Marines can land. There is no going back from here. I'm making love to you tonight and that's that.”

Syd placed a hand against his heart and felt it thundering beneath her fingers. She curled them into the soft, wiry hair on his chest, then smoothed it, flattened it and leaned in to press a kiss where her hand had been.

Hugh sucked air. Then he rolled on top of her, straddled her thighs and looked down at her, his gaze hooded. The skin across his cheekbones was taut, and his breathing came quick and shallow now. Syd lay looking up at him, relishing the view, taking it all in, memorizing him from the intensity of his gaze to the hard muscles of his chest and the definition of his abs to the very blatant evidence of his arousal.

She lifted a hand to touch him, but he caught it in his own and held on. “We're going to play this the way you play chess.”

Memory of her ignominious defeat surfaced and she frowned. “What does that mean?”

He smiled, his eyes glinting in the candlelight as he bent toward her. Just before his lips touched hers, he answered her in a ragged voice. “Slow.”

They went slow.

Every move was languorous as he stroked his hands beneath her shirt, lifted it, then eased it off over her head. She would have unfastened her bra while she had raised up to permit him to pull off her shirt, but he shook his head.