Season of Storm (16 page)

When she emerged from the forest to find herself nearly at the water's edge she couldn't see the house to get her bearings and the trail was lost in the rocks. To her left the way looked too rough, especially for feet protected only by moccasins. Smith turned right, climbed up onto a promontory that dropped abruptly to the sea on one side and on the other, she saw as she reached the crest, to a small cove and a sheltered strip of greyish sand.

The sand was dry and hot, and Smith kicked off jeans and shirt and lay back to bake a little in the sun. No one would disturb her here. The island was totally private. Wilfred, if he did catch sight of her, would leave her alone, and Johnny...Johnny Winterhawk wouldn't be back for four hours yet. Not that she was counting.

***

The water was so cold it took her breath away. But the contrast between the icy water and the burning sun on her skin was a powerful sensual pleasure, and Smith rolled and stretched in the waves, floating on her back to offer her naked body up to the sun's heat with a luxurious abandonment that was slowly washing away the unending stress of the past year, first in her work in Europe, then over her father's health, and now...

Her long hair floated around her body as the water tugged each strand loose, and she felt the freedom in her scalp and closed her eyes on the sensation with as much pleasure as if she had spent the past year in prison.

When the cold began to reach her bones she headed in to shore and stood up amid the froth of the small breakers and felt the sun like a sacrament on her chilled, invigorated body, a holy wine warming body and soul together.

She moved forward through the waves, the hot sun beating down to warm her, the water alternately pushing and pulling at her slim thighs with a force that staggered her until, after a few steps, she found firmer footing.

Oh, this was glorious. This was the most perfect moment she had experienced in years. Even the weight of her hair pulling back from her scalp and hanging long down her back was a new sensuous excitement, as were the insistent motion of the water against her legs and the texture of pebble and sand underfoot.

When she reached the beach she dropped to the sand and lay out of reach of all but the strongest waves, so that every now and then she was startled by a silken touch of water sliding up the warm sand under her legs and hips.

Bending one knee, she dug her toes into the wet sand and closed her eyes and smiled....

When the shadow fell across her she knew there could be no cloud in the blue clear sky. Her eyes opened lazily and with a tiny gasp she met the hungry gaze of the dark man standing over her. And that too, was as it should be.

He was naked except for the blue jeans that covered his hips and legs. His muscled chest was smooth and his arms hung easily, almost helplessly at his sides. All his energy was in his dark look, black flames licking out over her skin to scorch her into awareness.

"Johnny," she whispered, half pleading, half inviting, all aware.

He looked at her as though he did not hear her voice, but only saw the movement of her lips, as though the sight of that stirred him unmercifully. She felt a whole series of tiny sparks against her skin then, running upward from her feet to her shoulders; her fingers clenched in the thick gritty sand at her sides, and she felt water run down over her knuckles.
Water,
she realized in erotic amazement. The look in his eyes had made the touch of water an electric shock on her skin. She looked at his strong hands then and wondered distantly if his caress would scorch her to death.
 

She felt a shiver in her breasts as under his gaze her nipples suddenly contracted, hardened; and Johnny Winterhawk watched with a look of pleasure that was nearly pain.

"Johnny," she whispered again. But his hands had already moved to his waist, and   she watched the smooth hard line of hip and thigh emerge as he stripped off the worn denim with mounting hunger. Her breath caught in her throat as he stood straight and tossed the jeans onto the sand. He was watching her watch him, and when her tongue flicked involuntarily between her parted lips she heard the intake of his breath.

He dropped to the sand beside her, not taking his eyes from hers, an intent in his gaze that she knew was answered in her own.

Johnny Winterhawk's hungry mouth came down on lips already parted in need, and her small stifled breath of response was abruptly transformed in her throat into a growl of deep, erotic, animal need that destroyed Johnny Winterhawk's restraint at a stroke. His hands closed in her wet hair, on her arm, her breast, with a grip of such naked hunger that she tore her mouth away from his to cry out her passionate response to it.

A long wave rustled up the beach under their bodies, frothing over their legs and hips and setting her hair afloat all around them. She shivered as the icy touch made its own contribution to her sensual joy, arching her head back into sand and foam, and Johnny kissed the fluttering pulse of the throat she offered up to him.

His mouth was fire and ice. She was trembling, almost shuddering, with passionate need of him. Nothing in all her life had ever affected her like this. His touch was meat and drink to her, and she sobbed with need. She arched her breasts up to meet his mouth, her sex against his enclosing hand.

Then her arms were empty, and it was the sun, not his chest that burned her. She moaned her dismayed loss, her arms reaching to draw him back down against her. But he slipped out of her hold and a moment later the heat of his mouth and tongue scorched between her legs. In the sky above, a pair of hunting hawks echoed her wild, surprised cry.

 She could hardly lift her head against the torrent of sensation that rushed from her centre to every nerve of muscle and flesh and bone. The sight of the dark head at her abdomen, sunlight glowing on his thick black hair, the hot caress of his mouth and tongue against her, the hands that clasped her hips to lift her body up to his hungry feast, sent a scorching liquid pleasure though her that she had never even dreamed possible.

"Johnny," she cried. "You—you—oh, don't!"

He lifted his mouth and his black gaze burned into her across the length of her body.

"You don't like it?"

His hand moved to push her thighs further apart, and her head fell back, her eyelids drooping in sensuous response. A moment later she felt his tongue find her flesh again and pleasure beckoned her on to the feast.

 Suddenly it was there within reach. Her legs stretched wide, her body arched up against his mouth, seeking, seeking, and her fingers closed in his hair as, openly, wantonly, she showed him what she needed from him. Never had she been so free. She pushed up against his mouth, all her energies devoted to finding the answer to the deep need he had created in her.

The pleasure exploded in her, rich and hot and satisfying, her body heaving and trembling with the heat that radiated through every nerve, every cell.  She cried out her surprise and joy and, over the hillside above, on the hunt for his own prey, the hawk also cried.

Johnny looked into her eyes and noted her sleepy satisfaction with one dark raised eyebrow.

"Yes?" he queried softly, and behind his eyes she saw that his own need had been ramped up to fever pitch with the pleasure he had given her.

"Yes," Smith acknowledged.

"Good," said Johnny Winterhawk, and the muscles of his jaw clenched as deliberately, easily, he slid over her body and sank into the nest of her hips.  

Fifteen

Shulamith lay exhausted on the sand, one knee raised, one arm above her head, her wet hair caked with salt and sand.

She was devastated, utterly drained. He had dissolved her with passion, had reduced her to the most basic element of her soul, had shown her, through her passionate response to the touch of his body and hands and mouth, all the shape and texture of her own animal nature. Under his hands she had surrendered to pleasure, had tossed aside guilt and shame, and all the shields of the social veneer that had kept her from knowing who she was.

When, at long last, his passion had burned itself out, she had no more strength than to curl up at his side, while the late sun dried the sand and salt on her body and a faint breeze stirred the wild tangle of her hair.

And then a hand. Johnny Winterhawk raised himself on one elbow and stroked the hair from her face and forehead with a tender featherlight touch that, after the wild ferocity of the past hour, distantly surprised her.

"Hello," he whispered, gently turning her, and she curled up against his body, instinctively seeking the warmth of his body and arms. Hot tears surprised her eyelids as his arms wrapped her, and then she was crying, sobbing wildly against Johnny Winterhawk's chest in some nameless release she could not understand.

He held her and gently stroked her as the sobs shook her frame. And when it was over and he wiped her cheeks and mouth with a firm, loving hand Smith knew that there was nothing she need ever hide from him, nothing that need ever shame her in his presence. She felt the gentlest of kisses on her cheek. Johnny's arms tightened around her, strong and protective, and he raised himself on an elbow and looked down at her.

Then suddenly he blinked and shook his head. "Christ!" he exclaimed, as though he had just wakened out of a dream, "What am I doing? We've got to get the hell out of here!"

They leaped to their feet simultaneously, he purposeful, she in a state of shock.

"What?" she babbled, shivering as the late-afternoon breeze touched her. She had been so overheated that now she felt chilled. "What?" she demanded again, looking around nervously as though a platoon of cavalry might come out of the woods at any moment.

Johnny thrust long legs into sand-dusted jeans.

"Get dressed," he ordered tersely. "They want you. We've got to get off the island before they come."

His words drove icicles of terror to the root of her being. In instinctive animal reaction Smith's arms closed over her breasts and her naked, unprotected body jerked into a crouch.

"Who…who?" she stammered.

"Call them the new 'provisional wing' of the Chopit Brotherhood," he said bitterly as he fastened his jeans. Then, looking up to see the impact of his words on her, he crossed to hold her. "Sorry," he said, "sorry. Don't be frightened." He stroked her flank gently, but did not try to hide his tension from her. "No one's going to hurt you."

He moved to collect the huddle of her shirt and jeans from the rock where she had put them so long ago and brought them to her. Was there an unspoken "not while I'm around" in his voice, or did he really mean they did not intend to hurt her? As she took her jeans from him and stepped into them, Smith unconsciously straightened her back. Whatever trouble was coming, she wasn't going to be hiding behind anyone's back when it arrived, not even Johnny Winterhawk's. She buttoned her shirt with an almost angry determination and then looked up to be surprised by Johnny's glinting smile.

"What's the matter?" she demanded. She might have thought it was all a joke, except that the tension was still in him.

"You
are
Shulamith St. John, the poor little rich girl?" he asked. "I haven't made a mistake and kidnapped a small street ruffian?"
 

Smith stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

He laughed. "You've got your chin pushed forward and your fists clenched. You look as though you're about to take on the town bully."

He was right. With a half smile, Shulamith forced her body to relax and slid her feet into her small golden moccasins.

"Ready," she said, turning.

"I can see you are." Johnny Winterhawk gave her a smiling, admiring nod. He was mightily pleased about something.

***

The mainsail bellied out in the wind as Johnny moved lightly around the deck, stowing away anchor and fenders, leaving Shulamith at the wheel. They were heading west southwest, into the setting sun, but as the dark shape of a large island loomed ahead of them he tacked more southerly.

"Where are we going?" Smith asked, as Johnny adjusted the jib sheet. The sun blinded her when she looked at him, and she tried to shade her eyes so she could see his face.

"Around in circles till I can think of something," Johnny said ruefully. "First we have to get somewhere to take on gas."

They had carried as much as was practicable of the food and supplies from the kitchen, filling the boat's cupboards and the small fridge to bursting. Smith had assumed from this that Johnny was intending that they stay on the boat, but it had not occurred to her that he had nowhere to dock.

"You mean we're going to sail around all night?" she demanded, surprised and dismayed.

"Maybe," he said briefly. "I have to think."

"Well, before you do that," she said, "suppose you tell me what's going on? What is the provisional wing of the Chopa Brotherhood and why do they want me?"

"There's no such thing," Johnny said. "It was Joseph Three Elk being ironic. Three of the four who were with me that night want to take you from me. "

"But you're already holding me prisoner. What more do they want?" His face went grave, and Smith shuddered as the answer occurred to her.