Chain of Love (10 page)

“I still should have given you a chance to explain,” Cathy replied absently, her brain still distracted. “And I don’t think
you’re right. Just because one wants to protect oneself doesn’t mean one is out of one’s mind.”

“What?” Meg was justifiably mystified.

“You said no one in their right mind would say no to Sin MacDonald, and I said—”

“Oh, heavens, never mind that,” Meg cut her off, the merest trace of mischief in her dark eyes. “You’ll have more than enough
chances to say no to him once we’re in St. Alphonse. You can convince me of your sanity then. In the meantime, we’re going to miss the plane if
we don’t hurry. Where’s your luggage?”

“This is it.” She had held up the small, carryon valise that contained heaven knew what.

“Is that all? I guess you’ll have no choice but to live in your bathing suit.”

“You won’t like the one I brought. It’s seen better days.”

“Not that hideous flowering thing?” Meg cried. “The one that looks like a two-hundred-pound matron should wear it?”

“The same. You can always pretend you don’t know me.”

“Humph,” Meg had replied unpromisingly. “I can see someone’s got to take you in hand.”

“Did I ever tell you,” Cathy retorted in dulcet tones, “how much like Georgia you are?”

“Bitch,” Meg said genially. “Very well, I’ll drop the subject. But not permanently, mind you.”

She went over that conversation in her mind as she unpacked her meager belongings. Moonlight was shining in the sliding glass door of her hotel room,
silvering the sea-green carpet that was thick and soft beneath Cathy’s bare feet. She was used to traveling first class, but she had to admit that
Pirate’s Cove Resort outclassed most of the other places she had stayed. The grounds had the absolute best landscaping, the kind that always looked
natural and unplanned. The foyer of the hotel had a romantic, old-fashioned air to it. Any moment Cathy had expected to see Humphrey Bogart lounging near a
potted palm, or Lauren Bacall slithering across the oriental carpet in clinging forties satin. And the rooms were absolute perfection.

Charles and Meg had a small, luxurious room on the second floor, with a king-size bed with brass headboard, silver-gray carpeting and a country French
effect that was curiously suitable in that exotic climate. Their balcony looked out over the tiny cove from which the resort took its name, somewhat to the
left of Cathy’s view.

Her room was on the fourth floor, and nearly twice the size of her sister’s. There were two king-size beds instead of one, with wicker headboards in
place of brass and rough, natural Haitian cottons on the beds and at the sliding windows. The Gauguin above the love seat was, to Cathy’s amazement,
authentic, and she vowed to take a closer look at the Degas in Meg’s room.

“There you are.” Her sister emerged from the bathroom looking pale. “I guess that plane ride was a bit more than I could take.”

“I think the taxi ride did more of a number on your stomach than the plane,” Cathy observed. “Listen, Meg, I’ve been thinking.
It’s absurd that I should be in this big lovely room by myself while you and Charles share the smaller one. Why don’t we trade? I can’t
imagine why the hotel arranged it this way. Are you sure they gave us the right rooms?”

Meg’s pale face flushed with something curiously akin to guilt. “I’m sure. Charles and I had that exact room last time we were here, on
our honeymoon. I had to request it several months ago to be certain of getting it. Pirate’s Cove is very popular.”

“But are you sure you wouldn’t rather have this room?” Cathy persisted. “It’s absolutely gigantic for one person,
and...” Her voice trailed off before her sister’s miserable expression. “It is for one person, isn’t it, Meg?” she asked
quietly.

Meg shook her dark head. “Apparently not. The hotel got the reservation mixed up and they’ve put you and”—here she
gulped—”Sin in the same room.”

“Well, they’ll simply have to make other arrangements. I’m not sharing a room with a man I barely know, and I’m sure it’s the
last thing Sin wants,” Cathy announced with great assurance.

Meg shook her head. “I tried,” she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “They’ve been booked solid for months.
There’s not a room or bed to spare, not here, and not on the whole island. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” echoed Cathy. “You’ve got to be kidding! I can’t share this room with Sin! He’s going to think I planned it
this way, I know he will. I can’t bear it, Meg. I—”

“Calm down,” Meg’s voice, eminently practical, broke through the rising hysteria. “Sin has been treated to enough of your charm to
know that such a setup would be the last thing on your mind. They won’t be arriving for another couple of days. If there’s not a last minute
cancellation then you and I can share a room and Sin and Charles can have this one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is your first vacation in ages—I’m certainly not about to break you up like we were at summer camp.
I’ll fly back.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Cathy! You promised me you’d keep me company, and I’m going to hold you to it. If worse comes to worst
Sin can always sleep on the boat. He’s done it before, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“How can you be sure there’s not another room on the island?” Cathy persisted. “I wouldn’t mind staying at another resort. As
a matter of fact, it might be easier. While Charles and Sin went off you could come over and—”

“You really are afraid of Sin, aren’t you?” Meg mused. “He said you were, but I thought he was imagining things. Why don’t
you like him?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Cathy admitted, tossing herself down on the bed nearest the balcony and staring at the ceiling.
“I’m just not ready to get involved with another man. The wounds still haven’t healed from Greg.”

An angry look closed down over Meg’s usually cheerful face. “Some time,” she said, “I would like to put out a contract on Greg
Danville. The man should be shot.”

“You know, Meg, I rarely even think of him anymore,” Cathy admitted, surprised at her own truthfulness. “It’s just the thought of
anyone new that throws me into a panic.”

“And what makes you think Sin is going to be that somebody new?”

Cathy rolled over to face her sister, pushing her silver-blond hair out of her shadowed face. “I don’t know. It’s probably just a
combination of paranoia and wishful thinking,” she admitted with a wry grin. “I’m too tired to sort it out tonight, anyway. I’m
sure after a few days of having nothing to do but lie in the hot sun I’ll be able to think of a way out of this mess. I could even stay on the boat
while Sin enjoys this room and the nubile young ladies who will doubtless fall at his feet.”

“What makes you think they’d fall at his feet?” Meg questioned curiously.

“Wouldn’t you, if you were single?” Cathy shot back.

“You’re single. I hadn’t noticed you falling at his feet.”

Cathy hesitated for a moment. “I hide it very well,” she said quietly. “Now go to your room and get some sleep. I’m sure Junior
doesn’t appreciate these late hours you’re keeping. It’s no wonder your stomach is setting up a protest.”

“But I want to continue this conversation,” Meg insisted stubbornly. “Did you really just say-?”

“Forget what I said. Sometimes I talk too much. If I happened to notice that Sin MacDonald is an incredibly attractive man it’s only because
I’m not yet blind. That doesn’t mean I’m going to jump into bed with him, it doesn’t mean we have anything at all in common. It
merely means—”

“Yes, I know,” Meg interrupted, a twinkle in her dark eyes. “You can spare me all the rest of your denials and justifications. I’ll
just have to take you at your word.”

“Do that.” Cathy jumped from the bed, filled with a sudden restless energy. “Do you want me to walk you back to your room?”

“No, dear sister. You get a good night’s sleep. We have an arduous day ahead of us, lying in the sun and broiling our delicate Whiteheart skin.
I want you to be completely rested. Sweet dreams.”

There was a distinctly mischievous look on Meg’s face as she shut the door. Cathy strolled to the balcony and stared out into the moon-shadowed
stillness. The quiet sound of the surf attempted to soothe her, but Cathy’s nervous imagination was too strong for it. She knew only too well what
she’d dream of that night. The nightmares of Greg seemed banished forever, to be replaced by the most lasciviously sensual dreams, all involving
Sinclair MacDonald’s six foot four body in erotic detail. Cathy wasn’t yet sure which dream was more upsetting.

Lazily Cathy squinted into the mid-afternoon sunlight, the large sunglasses cutting the glare only slightly. Something nice and tall and icily fruity would
be divine at that moment. As she burrowed deeper into the soft white sand she considered raising her hand in a languid gesture she’d observed others
using. Within seconds a white-coated bartender would appear at her side, eager to cater to her every whim. There was something so wickedly sybaritic about
Pirate’s Cove, the way it encouraged indolence and self-indulgence. A self-indulgence that was frankly sensual. No, it would do her good to get up
from her comfortable position and go in search of a drink herself. Besides, she’d been lying in the hot tropical sun for almost two hours. By using
all her latent caution she’d managed to acquire a light golden color all over her body. Any more than two hours and that honey gold would turn to
lobster red. Sighing, she rolled over and struggled to her feet, thrusting her arms into the terry cloth coverup. Not that the old-lady bathing suit showed
much, she realized with a flash of humor. Nevertheless, she just couldn’t bring herself to stride around the sand or the hotel lobby wearing so very
little. The terry cloth robe reached to her ankles, although it was slit up the side, halfway up her slender thigh. She ought to get a needle and thread
and sew the slit, she thought absently, heading toward the shade and a cool drink.

There were a good half dozen single men sitting around the bar. All in bathing suits, exposing indecent amounts of flesh, most of it sunburned and flabby.
For a brief moment Cathy allowed herself to wonder what Sin would look like in one of those brief excuses for a swimsuit, and then she shook that
disturbing thought from her brain. The luxurious atmosphere of Pirate’s Cove really had addled her brain.

Six pairs of eyes watched her approach. Even the enveloping white terry cloth couldn’t disguise her long, shapely limbs or natural grace, and the
large sunglasses beneath the silvery blond hair added to the mystery. Cathy recognized those avid expressions, and without missing a beat she did a right
turn and headed back to her hotel room.

Meg had returned to her room an hour ago in search of a mystery novel. When she hadn’t returned Cathy had presumed one of the all too frequent bouts
of nausea had hit her. She would check on Meg, then head back to her room and order a piña colada from room service. A nice, cool shower before dinner
would add just the right fillip to an already perfect day. And it was likely to be her last one. Sin and Charles were due tomorrow. The very thought of all
the garbled excuses and explanations she’d be forced to offer before Sin’s amused eyes brought a chill to her sun-heated flesh.

There was no answer at Meg’s door. A mome-tary panic filled her, before she remembered her spare key. Opening the door a crack, she peered into the
deserted room. Meg’s bathing suit lay in a wet pile on the floor, her sundress from the morning tossed across the bed, a towel in the chair. Ever the
neatly organized person, Cathy thought with amusement as she picked up her sister’s clothing and hung it away. She must have gone back out, and
somewhere they’d missed each other. Well, they would doubtless meet up again before long. In the meantime her skin was beginning to feel a little
clammy in the wet bathing suit, and she hurried on ahead to her room two flights up, eager to get into clean, dry clothes.

Her feminine intuition must have been at an all-time low. She had locked the door behind her and come halfway into the room before the sight of Sin
MacDonald brought her up short. And what a sight.

He was standing in the middle of the bedroom, clad only in a pair of faded denims that hugged his lean hips and encased his long, long legs. The entire
expanse of bronzed torso was bare, and Cathy found herself mesmerized by the broad, mahogany shoulders, and the triangle of golden curls that started at
his chest and then trailed down in a line beneath the belt of his jeans. Abruptly Cathy jerked her eyes upward, to meet those warm hazel ones that had
haunted her dreams. And the moment she had dreaded was upon her in full force. She could feel her face turn red with embarrassment.

“Hi, there,” he greeted her composedly. “I wondered where you were. Meg and Charles went off into town—something to keep her mind
off her stomach, she said. I was just coming to find you.”

“Uh—er—” Completely tongue-tied, Cathy continued to stare miserably as Sin pulled a polo shirt over his head, emerging with his
brown curls tousled.

“Have you been enjoying yourself?” he inquired solicitously, sitting down on a bed, her bed, and putting on a battered white sneaker.
“You look a bit sunburned. How is the water?”

“It’s not sunburn, it’s embarrassment,” she said frankly. “And the water’s beautiful. Look, we can’t share this
hotel room.”

He said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow, as she stumbled onward. “It’s not my fault, really,” she stammered. “Somehow the hotel
got the reservations mixed up, and they put us in together. And they insist that there’s not another room here, or on the whole island, for that
matter.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” he said calmly. “Even though it’s not quite peak season, St. Alphonse is very popular.”

“But you have to believe me, I didn’t plan this. I don’t like it any better than you do, and I know it’s bound to put a cramp in
your style, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Meg offered to share her room with me while you and Charles—”