Seeing Stars (7 page)

"Blake—"

"It's OK, Claire. Just relax."

At least that's what she thought he said.

Then they were on the highway, the engine throbbing between her legs, her arms clutching his chest. They'd tilted, almost gone right over on that corner, and she'd plastered her body to his back and turned her head so she could see the houses whipping by, but not the road ahead. She closed her eyes now, tightly, and calculated how long it would take them to get to Port Townsend.

Eight miles? Or was it more?

Say ten miles, and he was doing about a hundred—well, maybe he was doing sixty, but it felt like a hundred with the wind whipping at her body and the bike's engine roaring in her ears.

So maybe ten minutes to Port Townsend, except that the road would be winding once they turned onto Highway 20 and he'd surely slow down. So say fifteen minutes, twenty at most. She could handle twenty minutes.

The engine wound up louder and she felt her body tilting again. She opened her eyes in time to see that they were passing an eighteen-wheeler. She swallowed dryness and forced herself to breathe. No way it could take twenty minutes to Port Townsend at this rate. Fifteen at most.

Chapter Four

Sometime after they turned onto Highway 20, the curving spur that led to Port Townsend, Claire began to absorb the rhythm of Blake's muscles playing against her body. Through the leather of his jacket and the denim of hers, she sensed the flex of his right shoulder as he cranked up the accelerator, the way his chest muscles shifted as his body leaned into a curve, carrying hers with it.

The bike ate up the miles, clinging to the road, sending wind flowing over her body, her helmet, leading them in a duet, a ballet of flowing angles supporting the motion. She wondered what it would feel like to have control of the bike under her own hands, how long it would take her to learn to lean into the curves the way he did, smoothing the road and allowing the bike to fly over the pavement, eating miles in a glorious wave of freedom.

Then she simply closed her eyes and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment. Over Blake's shoulder she could see the ribbon of highway, protected on one side by tall evergreen trees that could never grow in the high desert where she lived. On her left, the ocean, strewn with wind-blown whitecaps. Under her hands, pressed against her breasts, Blake's hard, she felt male body.

She had little experience of men's bodies. Kevin's had been smooth and tame. Blake's was different. Everywhere she touched, she felt hard muscles. When he flexed, she felt his strength, his power. Although she tried to fight it, something primitive and female, deep inside, woke and stretched.

She'd asked him for a wild ride on the back of his motorcycle, eating the miles and flying over the world, clinging to his back. With the wind whipping the arms of her jacket and her body sheltered by his, she felt sharp joy that he'd given her this one fantasy.

When he slowed to turn off the highway onto Sheridan Street, she forced herself to loosen her grip and ride, her hands at his sides, ready to grab if he leaned into another of those turns—but he wouldn't, not at this slow city speed.

He pulled up behind her red Honda Passport at Manresa Castle and turned off the engine. 

The silence seemed oddly intimate when he turned off the engine.  She climbed off the bike and pulled her helmet off.

"That was... nice. Thank you, Blake."

He put the bike on its kickstand. 

Silence.

How could his eyes be so black? 

Last night... Oh, God, she'd been an idiot last night.

"Blake, when... How did you know this was my car?"

"Arizona plates."

She took a deep breath, stared at the castle turret, hoped for courage, or at least clarity. "I need to talk to you. Last night I talked a lot of nonsense. The motorcycle ride was nice. I enjoyed it, but I hope you don't think I... that I meant the rest of it."

"We made a deal last night."

"I've changed my mind." Her throat clogged and she cleared it. "I must have been crazy. I don't know why... I don't know you. We're strangers, really."

She looked straight at him and tried to read his face. Her heart crashed uneasily against her ribs.

"I don't think so," he said slowly. "Not anymore."

"What?"

"Strangers." He brushed a wisp of hair back behind her ear. "I wouldn't say we know each other well, but I wouldn't call us strangers after last night. I figured you'd chicken out this morning."

"Chicken? I'm not chickening out! For heaven's sake, I'm being sensible! I was crazy to suggest it."

"Why is it crazy? You want something. It's low-risk. Why not?"

"I don't
want
anything! That's what I'm trying to tell you!" She heard her own voice screaming—screaming at him. Standing in a public parking lot shouting at a man, telling him she didn't want to have an affair with him. She gulped and said, "I had too much to drink. The wine, after that punch. I never would have said what I said, if..."

"Maybe." He stepped closer.

"So you... what are you doing?"

He cupped the back of her head with one hand.

"Blake, I-I..." But she didn't twist away, didn't put her hands up to push him away, did nothing, not one thing to stop those lips.

He tasted salty and strong, enticingly musky when his lips played over hers, then settled. Her mouth opened, welcoming him from somewhere deep inside, accepting the way his kiss drew strength from her muscles and left her clinging.

He shifted and her hands framed the angles of his face as he deepened the kiss and drew a moan from deep inside her. When he lifted his head, he didn't release her. A good thing, she thought wildly. She would have sunk to the ground in a puddle.

She'd never understood what they meant when they talked about a woman
surrendering
to a man... this overwhelming ache to be possessed.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice lazy, dangerous.

"Tell you what?"

"That you don't want anything."

Want.

She jerked back. The castle. The man. Her hair, tumbled around her face. Blake and Lydia making out in the gym.

"All right," she said raggedly. "I lied about not wanting anything, but it's not practical. It's not... I'm not... I should have had the sense to clear out last night."

His laugh unsettled something deep inside her. "I'm glad you didn't. You're not the only one who wants, Claire."

"You want me to do some magic with Jake."

"Partly, but I remember back in high school, the way you would never meet my eyes. I had a few fantasies about your eyes, and now you're here, head up and eyes meeting mine, and I want more than one kiss."

She wished she could look away. "It's not a good idea."

"Why?"

Because right now, she wanted nothing more than to step right back into his arms.

"It's too fast," she said soberly.

"Speed isn't necessarily a bad thing." His thumb brushed her cheek.

She shivered and stepped farther back. "I'm not the sort of person who has impulsive affairs. I live on a mountain, work on a mountain. I like my life. I love the sky." He didn't want to hear about her love of the stars, for heaven's sake. "My life doesn't have room for a man."

"I'm asking you to spend time with me, Claire. No commitment, just a few days out of our lives. If you hadn't started it last night, I probably wouldn't ask, but you did."

He brushed another strand of hair behind her ear. "You're tempted," he said softly. "And it's a low-risk deal. You don't want a man in your life, and I don't have room for a woman in mine. There's no danger of us falling in love with each other, hurting each other. Give me your week, Claire. We'll fulfill a few fantasies. While we're at it, you'll end up spending some time with a troubled kid. You could do something worthwhile there."

How many crazy things had she done in her life? Not nearly enough, according to Jennifer. And he was right, wasn't he? This was low-risk: a man who didn't want a permanent woman, and a woman who felt exactly the same. One week, and there was no reason they ever had to see each other again.

"Yes," she whispered.

"What did you say?"

She cleared her throat and repeated, "Yes. I said yes."

She thought he would smile, but he stared at her with something dark in his eyes, and she parted her lips, on the verge of taking her words back.

"Follow me down to the shipyard," he said abruptly. He swung back to his bike, tossing over his shoulder, "With luck, Jake might turn up. Then we'll grab lunch before you go back to get ready for tonight." He flashed a smile then, the sort of dangerous grin she remembered. "I'll pick you up at seven. We'll have dinner, then head for the dance."

Jennifer,
what have you gotten me into?

Five minutes later, Claire parked her car behind Blake's motorcycle in the shadow of a massive wooden boat in front of a green building. She climbed out and stared up at the hull looming overhead, the network of planking and ladders surrounding it.

"You're building this? It's immense."

"Not building it, just trying to repair the damage of neglect. Come on in here." He opened a door in the wall of a tall green building and she followed him inside.

From somewhere nearby, she heard a rhythmic sound.

"Reminds me of the observatory," she said. "No windows."

He threw a switch somewhere and light flooded over a glistening wooden hull. She smelled wood, fresh wood, and saw the reddish tinge of newness on the planking.

She couldn't resist stepping closer, reaching up to feel the smoothness.

"It's gorgeous... and so big."

"It's only a thirty-seven footer. Boats always look bigger out of the water."

A muffled voice called out, "That you, Mac?"

"Yeah," shouted Blake. "You seen anything of the kid?"

"Not a sign." 

The owner of the voice must be
inside
the boat.

Blake said, "I may have to go hunting for Jake." 

"If you want to go look for him, I don't mind."

"I'll give him a couple of hours. Better if he turns up on his own." He gestured to a strange, four-sided stepladder that must have had treads six feet wide. "Come on up."

"I see the point of the jeans," she said, grasping one of the higher treads and starting to climb.

As she climbed, the topsides of the boat came into view, all glistening wood and smooth curves. She spotted what looked like a steering station, but no sign of a wheel or tiller.

"Is it a sailboat, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm. A good size for family cruising."

He had climbed up the second broad ladder, and now he stepped onto the curve of the deck and held out a hand to help her make the transition from ladder to deck. She arrived with a feeling of breathlessness, high above everything, with a queen-of-the-castle view of the boat shed.

"Where woes the mast go?"

"Right here," he said, gesturing.

"It just sits on the deck?"

"There's a support post underneath, and shrouds and stays to keep it in place."

"Shrouds and stays?"

"Steel cables."

"I'll take your word for it."

She turned slowly, feeling precarious with the edge of the boat so close. As if sensing her thoughts, he reached out and caught her hand.

"There'll be lifelines, of course." 

"How do you start something like this?" She tried to ignore the sensation of his palm against hers, the fact that her fingers had twined through his as if they belonged there. "First the plans, you said. But what then?"

"I lay the keel first. We put down timbers, four-inch oak beams. Once the keel's true, everything else is built onto it."

"Can I see inside?"

"Have you ever been on a sailboat?"

She shook her head.

"Step down into the cockpit, and then turn backward to go down the companionway steps." He kept a hand on her arm, steadying her, she supposed, then he called out, "Tim, we're coming down."

No wonder he recommended she turn backward – the steps were more like a ladder.

Down below, she spotted Tim, a muscular man dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and tattoos, his body wedged into a ledge in the boat's miniature living room. He appeared to be sanding the wood.

"You sand the whole thing by hand?"

When Tim turned his head, she realized he couldn't be more than seventeen. 

"You think we're nuts?" he asked.

Blake laughed. "Claire, meet Tim, my number one man on this job."

"Number one slave," muttered Tim, sliding out of the tiny space he'd been wedged into. "Check this out, Mac. I got it smooth as a wha— Ah, pretty smooth. You new around here?"

"I'm here for the reunion," she answered, watching Blake twist his body into the narrow space Tim had vacated. "I live in Arizona."

"I hear you've got major rocks in Arizona."

"We do," she agreed. "Do you climb?"

"Some." 

Blake twisted his body free and said, "Good work, Tim. When the whole interior's that smooth, we'll be ready for the first coat of varnish."