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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

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BOOK: What the Waves Bring
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“That's their way, Heath,” she explained patiently, recalling her first days as an islander. “Once the summer season is over, the faces are pretty much the same here. A new one attracts instant attention. It was that way with the girl in the restaurant—”
“And the postal clerk and the salesman and the kid who pumped gasoline …”
“They're curious. That's all.” But her own curiosity was pricked. Eyes narrowing, she twisted in her seat to face him more fully. “Why does it bother you, Heath?”
“I don't like the idea,” he said, slamming his fist against the steering wheel, “that someone possibly knows something that I don't!”
“Aha! A dictatorial mastermind!”
“That's not it, and you know it, April!” With his black hair across his forehead and his eyes dark in brooding, he was the mysterious stranger once more. A shudder passed through April at the thought of what might be hidden from them both. “It's very frustrating, darlin' …” He emphasized each word, reminding her of the deeper dilemma, that one which involved the two of them. It certainly
was
frustrating! she bemoaned in silence.
There was, however, only one cure for their frustration—that frustration that surmounted even the physical
temptation of wanting and needing, craving and desiring. Heath had to learn his identity. It was as simple as that!
Simple, yet an elusive goal, they were to learn as, with the phone service restored and the Apple properly hooked into its jack, they sat side by side, communicating with the Source. Back one day, then two, then three—surely covering the period when a missing person may have been reported—they went, with April demonstrating how to punch in key words to call forth all mention of shipwrecks, men overboard, men missing, and every other possible related word or phrase. After the first few searches, Heath took over at the keyboard, with April at his elbow, as they scanned the wire services and newspapers up and down the east coast.
“Nothing!” she proclaimed in dismay, throwing her hands up and stalking from the machine. While Heath persisted at the hitherto unproductive chore, she threw herself onto the sofa with the parcel of letters that had arrived in the morning mail. There were notes from several friends, plus a dozen new letters for Dr. April Wilde and “Eye of the Storm.” It was to the latter that she turned her attention.
The first few letters failed to stir her interest. Methodically, she continued to read, subconsciously seeking a diversion from her inner tension. When it came, she grabbed at it. Her loud chuckle was one of nervous energy as much as genuine amusement. “Listen to this, Heath!” she called out on impulse, starting to read as the dark head turned.
“‘Dear Dr. Wilde. I have a problem. I come from a small planet in another solar system and am here on earth for just a short time. I was sent to study the human race, but find it far too complex for my simple brain to analyze. How do
you
do it? If you can tell me your secret, I might not have to fly home empty-handed. And if I wait much longer, my spaceship will rust. What should I do? Signed, Lost 'n' Spacey.'”
April's grin thinned to a wry grimace. “I don't usually get too many cranks. The rising cost of postage discourages them. This is a beaut!”
“Will you answer it?” he asked with good-humored curiosity, standing, stretching, then approaching her.
“Sure! This is an easy one.”
“Oh?” A dark eyebrow doubted her.
“Uh-huh. I write, ‘Dear Lost 'n' Spacey. Try the Ziebart process. It's very good for rust.'”
With feigned gravity, Heath pondered her response. “Not bad,” he mused, easing himself down onto the sofa, drawing her into the crook of his arm. “Not bad. Here, let me see. What else have you got there?”
She rested comfortably against him, savoring the nearness, as he quickly skimmed the letters. “How about this one?” he asked, reading aloud one that she had not yet read. “‘Dear Dr. Wilde. I don't know what to do about my boyfriend. He shares my apartment, my food, my supplies, my utilities—and sends every penny he
earns
home to mother. Is he trying to put something over on me? I refuse to support him much longer! Signed, I'm-Not-Your-Mother.'” Heath hugged her tightly. “I
know
you're not mine, but this letter pretty much describes the situation here, doesn't it?”
“No!” She sat up with a start, sternly pushing herself from him. “It sounds like that fellow is using the poor woman. You're not using me!”
“How can you tell?” His eyes glittered the short distance to hers, challenging her.
“I know. I trust you. And, besides,” she said, forcing herself to take it all in fun, “I'd know if you were sending notes to Mom. You haven't asked me for a stamp yet!”
Passing over her somewhat biased explanation, he goaded her on. “What will you suggest to ‘I'm-Not-Your-Mother'?”
She thought for a moment, her fingers playing idly with
his at her shoulder. “I think … that alternative service is one possible solution.”
“‘Alternative service'?”
“Yes.” She looked brightly up at him. “If that woman's boyfriend refuses to chip in, she should put him to work around the place.”
“Strip-the-wallpaper type of thing?” he broke in on a mischievous note.
Her eyes fastened on the movement of his lips, firm and efficient. “Possibly …”
“Or cook dinner, coax the car out of the mud, uncork the wine …”
There was hypnosis in his nearness, a lure she wanted to fight but could not. “You don't have to do anything, you know,” she whispered, licking her suddenly dry lips.
Had she been more lucid, April might have recognized the fire in his eyes as his concept of a more sensual type of alternative service. But she could think no further than the instant in which she lived, no deeper than the feel of his lips as he gently covered hers. They were smooth and seductive, securing her willing response. Captured in the delight of the moment, she kissed him back, consuming his will to consume, devouring his need to devour.
Intoxicated and entranced, April let herself feel and enjoy, savoring the hardness of his man's body beneath the quest of her fingers. If this was to be his repayment for her hospitality, she was an active recipient, for her touch drove Heath to distraction.
With a deft flip, he shifted to lower her onto her back on the sofa and sprawled across her from his own half-seated position. His face nestled in the soft, scented flesh of her neck as his fingers grew more daring, caressing the line of her legs, the curve of her inner thighs, the warmth of the goodness between. Mindlessly, she arched against his hand, bereft when its pressure eased.
“It isn't fair, Heath …” she rasped softly.
“What, darlin'?” The snap of her jeans yielded to the skillful work of his fingers, the zipper instants later.
“No … don't …” she protested meekly, but his hand found its way beneath the silken fabric of her panties to stroke the creamy softness of her stomach. Tremors of excitement coursed through her as, her body now aflame with desire, April fought to recall distant words of warning. “It isn't fair … that …” She gasped as his fingers found the warmth they sought, “ … that … I want you … so much …”
He opened his mouth to cover hers and swallow her cry as, with the sudden up-strain of her body, spasms of ecstasy rippled through her, exploding in breath-robbing seconds of fiery rapture until, at last, he held her close and still.
“Oh, God, Heath!” she whimpered in broken rasps. “I shouldn't have … you shouldn't have … ohhhhh …” Mortified, she buried her face in the cool texture of his shirt.
He kissed her temple, an undeniable look of pleasure in his eyes.
Her voice was higher than normal and very wispy. “God, Heath! Why did you
do
that?”
He held her back, then, to appreciate the flush of excitement glowing brightly on her cheeks. “Do you know the satisfaction I get from giving you pleasure?”
“You shouldn't have—”
“Why not? Isn't pleasure a vital part of life?”
“B-but, that kind of pleasure,” she stammered, “is … different. I swore I wouldn't … you caught me off-guard …”
His fingers slid over her still-pulsing frame. “Shall I do it again?” The even white crescent of his smile flashed roguish intent at her.
“No!” She bolted up forcefully, fumbling with her clothing in a clumsy attempt at repairing its disarray.
Finally, taking the burden from her shaking fingers, Heath set her to rights. The delight he took in her embarrassment served only to disconcert her more.
“There you go, darlin'!” He hauled her to her feet gently and gave a final, straightening tug to the waistband of her jeans. “Now, back to the major problem.
My
problem.” Sobering, he approached the computer. “It seems that we've struck out here.” He twirled to catch her naughty gleam. “No, I'm
not
a baseball player!” Pointing to his lean cheek, he grinned knowingly. “No tobacco pouch!” Ignoring her mirroring smirk, he let his gaze survey the machine in despair, before dismissing it. “I think we'd better get on the phone.” Bowing his head, he shut his eyes tightly, then massaged his temples with the broad span of his long, bronzed fingers.
April was instantly alarmed. “Do you feel all right, Heath? My Lord! I've nearly forgotten the time you went through! I keep assuming that you've got your strength back—”
“I have! I'm just tired and, at this moment, feeling very torn …”
“In what way?” she whispered, understanding and feeling the same, even before he explained.
“It's the dilemma we faced before. Do we broadcast my predicament far and wide, in hopes of getting faster results? If I do have family out there somewhere, that seems the best thing to do. But …” His dark eyes bore into her, stating his hesitation without words. “Or, we can take a more private approach.” He paused, still studying her closely. “Tell me, April. Does your family have clout?”
“You mean political power?”
He frowned and shook his head slowly. “Not exactly. Let me rephrase that question. Do you have any … connections? Do you know anyone who might be able to be discreet … but prompt?”
With comprehension came her slow nod. “There's a close friend of the family—he owns a newspaper chain—”
“Is he
your
boss?”
“Not quite! He wouldn't run my column if I paid him. Has this thing about absolute impartiality. But he's well respected … and I do love him for it. He'd be the one to help us.” The sinking feeling in her stomach, at the thought of Paul Watson's very able help, had become all too familiar. If only things could continue as they had been for the past few days! If only the inevitable moment of truth could be indefinitely postponed!
“We've got to, April.” Heath approached her, reading her thoughts like an open book. “We've got to see if he'll help us.” Turning away, he tried to explain. “I have this … odd … fear of … going public all of a sudden. I can't begin to understand it. But, for
our
sakes”—he looked gently at her—“if not for someone out there who may think me dead, we have to know the truth. Soon.” He hesitated again, then pushed on, very quietly. “Will you put through the call?”
In her heart, it was the last thing she wanted to do. But it did have to be done. Nodding, April walked to the phone, lifted its ominous receiver and dialed directly. Moments later she had Paul Watson on the line and, with tact and simplicity, she outlined the problem. When she finally replaced the receiver there were unbidden tears in her eyes. Their privacy had been breached, Heath's and hers; deep inside, she sensed that things would never be the same.
In a moment of soul-searching, she felt stunned. How absurd—all that had happened in such a short time! She'd taken a total stranger in from the storm, had come to enjoy him, to depend on his presence. Had there been that lack in her life before? Did she need a man—that badly? Or—was it simply and solely Heath she needed?
It was her silent but powerful awareness of that man
that brought her back to the present. Eyes downcast, her back to the tall, dark figure who awaited her word, she spoke softly. “He'll get right to work on it. We'll get a call back as soon as he learns anything. It probably won't be until tomorrow morning.” The silence they shared spoke of their mutual apprehension.
It was late in the afternoon when she phoned Paul. The phone stood silent throughout the evening, echoed by the air of reluctant expectancy that hovered between them. April spent the evening feigning concentration on her writing; Heath applied his energy to the peeling wallpaper in the spare room. Later, when he sat before her Apple and deftly plugged in the game card for a challenging bout with “Adventure,” she gave up all pretense of work and studied his broad back. He was strong and capable; where had he come from?
BOOK: What the Waves Bring
2.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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