Eden's Spell (5 page)

“No, I didn't. But you seem to want me to be Dr. Frankenstein—maybe I'm just trying to oblige.”

“Oblige my foot!” Katrina muttered as he moved past her to set the cups on the table.

Katrina felt little chills of unease slip down her spine. When he had been near, she'd felt a sense of déjà vu. There'd been something about him that was so familiar. His scent, perhaps: a subtle after-shave, fresh and like the air after a storm—

And just like that pleasant, lingering scent in the cabin, on the sheets….

She shook herself vehemently. It was obviously his cabin. The damned after-shave was sitting on his dresser.

“Quite honestly, Mrs. Denver, it's just milk. The container broke, and I had to put it in something.”

Katrina rose, bringing the glass vial with her. She slid into a chair across from him. “Milk—and what else?” she inquired with a saccharine smile.

“Just milk,” he repeated.

She stirred milk into her coffee uneasily.

She was somewhat surprised when he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his top white shirt pocket, and lit one, inhaling as he watched her, almost as if he were as nervous as she was. His eyes, steely gray this morning, seemed to penetrate into her soul.

“I'm waiting—”

“For an explanation, yes.” He inhaled, then swore softly as the coffee cups slid across the table at another lurch of the boat. He caught his cup; she caught hers.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Denver?” he asked her suddenly, and once again she felt that she was being carefully observed—more so than just physically.

And her strange dreams rose to the forefront of her mind, causing her to bow her head slightly and as she replied a bit curtly, “Fine.” Then she added, “How am I supposed to feel?”

He waved a hand nonchalantly in the air. “Fine. Rested. Happy. Are you all of those things, Mrs. Denver?”

“You're forgetting, I'm irate. And I'm supposed to be asking the questions.”

“Shoot. I'll answer what I can.”

“What you can!”

“All right, all right. Let me start, and we'll see where it leads. Mrs. Denver, you were supposed to be off that island—”

“I own the island!”

“I know—but you signed a government consent form to leave it for the period of a week. And you were compensated for that time. I know that you were sent a check, because I signed the draft myself. And I've spoken to the base; they guarantee me that they have your signature on the consent form.”

Katrina inhaled sharply. “I—I did rent out the island, to the government. But I was called—at least three weeks ago—and told that another site had been chosen for the ‘exercises'!”

He frowned sharply. “Nothing was ever changed, Mrs. Denver.”

She sipped her coffee, staring at him warily. The uniform looked real….

He smiled, very much aware of her scrutiny. “I assure you, Mrs. Denver, I am a captain with the Navy. The U.S. Navy. I am an M.D., and I also have a doctorate in chemistry. What happened—”

“You don't look so smart,” she interrupted.

He laughed, and she thought again that he was a striking man. He had the rugged, outdoors type of face that looked its very best when twisted into a grin.

“I'm not at all sure if that's a compliment or an insult, Mrs. Denver. And, I didn't claim to be smart.” A silvery light of amusement was in his eyes and it seemed that he leaned a little closer to her. “The degrees are real, though; I'm licensed to be a Frankenstein, at any rate. But, Mrs. Denver, I swear to you, the plans were never changed.”

“Someone called me!”

“It had to have been a crank.”

“It couldn't have been—I never told anyone I had rented the island.”

“But I'm telling you, it was never called off. And there were Marine officers who went to the island to make sure it was clear!”

Katrina stiffened, bringing her back against the booth. “Maybe this is irrelevant at the moment. What were you doing there?” she demanded fiercely.

He shrugged. “You know what I was doing. Testing a—a gas.”

“Go on.”

“That's it. In a nutshell.”

“I don't want it in a damned nutshell!” Katrina exploded. “I want to know what this drug is; I want to know why my son is still sleeping, I want to know what—what—”

She was red with fury, and Mike sighed, well aware that she wanted to know what had made her experience the very strange sensations of her “dreams.”

“Mrs. Denver, that's all I can tell you. Except that I can assure that there are absolutely no aftereffects of this substance. Jason will awake perfectly fine and normal—excited, probably, because he will have dreamed about a great space adventure or something like that.”

“A space adventure?”

He smiled uneasily. “That's one of the side effects of the drug, Mrs. Denver. Under its influence one dreams pleasant, pleasant dreams. Dreams that live out fantasies, and delve straight to the secret desires in our hearts.”

“Why—oh, why?—couldn't she control the color that flooded into her face. He was watching her with such humor and curiosity. Did he know, then … know the nature of her night? Know that she had been adrift in pink clouds of sensuality, that she had envisioned James coming back to hold her …

And much, much more?

Her eyes flashed to her left, to the television screens. On the one, Jason still slept. And on the other, she could still see the tousled bunk where she had slept. Yes, damn it! He knew things, he had watched her all night, he had invaded her privacy with no thought of consent; he had seen her as she had slept, naked and bare and tossing and—

“How dare you!”
she screamed suddenly, and her hand lashed out across the table in a split second of fury so explosive it could not be contained.

His reaction was strange; very strange. He could have stopped her from striking him; but he didn't. He allowed her stinging blow to fall against his cheek, and then he merely rose, absently rubbing his face.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Denver,” he said softly. “Truly, I am. I can't tell you any more about the drug; it's still considered top secret—its properties are classified information.”

Whether it was ego, pride, or the sense that she had been violated somehow, Katrina could not let it drop. She believed him—his story was too fantastic to have been made up!—but she couldn't accept what had happened.

“Correction—captain, doctor, whatever you like to be called. What you did was irresponsible and dangerous! You had no right to intrude on private lives! I intend to sue you, the Navy, and the entire damn government! This—”

“This!” He thundered suddenly in returning, spinning back to slam his cup against the table as he eyed her with a silver fury to match her own, his knuckles white where they gripped the mug, “This is bigger than any of your petty little hang-ups, Mrs. Denver! You have a responsibility! Your signature is on an important form, and only an idiot would think one phone call could cancel the whole deal! But you just go ahead, you sue whoever you damn please! You can talk to every newspaper in the country. But I'd be careful, if I were you. Maybe the state will think that a woman who didn't bother to take her son from an experimental site—after giving her consent for its use!—isn't a fit mother.”

Katrina was confused, furious, and guilt ridden. Tears were stinging at her eyes; she was lost and flailing and she wanted nothing more than to see him disappear into the ocean. She raised a hand again, desperately wishing she could do him some real physical harm, repay him for what he had done to her, to Jason, to—

“Oohh!” she screamed out, but this time, when her hand moved, he wasn't feeling so benevolent. He caught it, twisting it behind her back, bringing her against his chest … tightly. Eyes as hard as steel burned into her; she felt the rigid, rigid strength and control in his body, and though she tried to twist away in fear and horror, she could not. He shook her, causing her to cry out again.

And then his hold eased, but he did not release her.

“Just let me go!” she screamed out desperately. “Give me my son, and let me go! It's happened, and now it's over, and all I want to do is get away—”

“I can't let you go, not until this evening. And I guarantee you—”

“What the hell do you think this is, a communist state?”

“If it were a communist state”, Mrs. Denver, we could probably just shoot you and quit worrying about confidential information being broadcast coast to coast!”

“Let me go!”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “I am in the military, Mrs. Denver. There has been a terrible mistake. You have been wronged—how, I don't understand, but I'm very sorry. But I'm also tired of being abused by a self-righteous little shrew—”

“And I am tired of being used by an insane chemist who seems to think that he's God!”

Her heart was beating wildly against her chest as he held her; her throat was tilted all the way back so that she was forced to meet his eyes. That scent of his, of freshness and air and the sea and a breeze and—and rugged, insinuative masculinity!—was all around her, as was the horrible sense of déjà vu. She felt as if she had been here before, as if she knew him, as if she had stroked his handsome cheeks and rested against the rippling, heated muscles in his chest, as if she knew the touch of his long bronzed fingers, knew his very heartbeat, the sound of his voice in a whisper …

Knew … and liked …

She stiffened, but offered no resistance. Her eyes fell, and she shuddered with the force of her sudden confusion and misery. It had been almost five years since she had been held, even like this. And the sensation seemed to call to her. She wanted to like him, she even wanted to burst into tears and lean against him.

“Please let me go,” she said, calling upon all the soft dignity she could muster.

He released her instantly, then spoke with a depth of sorrow she could not deny. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Denver. Really sorry. But I can't answer any more of your questions. Not about the drug.”

He walked away from her, gazing, with a frown, up the short steps to the deck and the sky above. Katrina barely noticed him. There was just one more question that she had to ask.

“Captain?”

“What?” he asked a little absently.

She approached him, her hands set stubbornly on her hips, her voice steady despite the color that again flooded her whole being.

“I awoke—unclothed. Did you—did you take my bathing suit off?”

He stared at her blankly. “Pardon?”

“You heard me!”

He opened his mouth as if to answer; static suddenly filled the air. His mocking gaze left her and he rushed to the radio.

“44DFS here—come in, base, base. Dammit, come in!”

The static faded and died. With an exclamation of disgust he threw the receiver down and turned back to her, his arms crossed over his chest.

“It seems you have communications problems, Captain!” she snapped. “You don't know a damned thing about what you're doing, you idiot!”

He stiffened; she heard the grate of his teeth. He stared at her then, and smiled politely.

“Ah, but I do know what I'm doing—and not doing, Mrs. Denver. And, no, I did not take your suit off you. You performed that lovely little strip-tease all by yourself.”

“M
OM?”

Jason's voice—soft and a little awed as it came to her from the television screen—sent Katrina spinning around, momentarily heedless of anything else.

“Jason?”

She looked first to the screen, then to the steel-eyed captain with an expression that promised murder if she wasn't brought instantly to her son.

“I'd like to advise that you don't upset him unduly,” he warned, then started past her, toward the stern.

Katrina followed him quickly—through the cabin where she had spent the night, then through a second door, next to the head, one that blended nicely into the paneling. They went through another door to a pleasant cabin, this one lined with windows that looked out onto the dreary gray day.

Katrina noticed briefly that the yacht was now pitching and weaving constantly; yesterday's breeze had obviously whipped into a wind and the sea was churning.

But it didn't mean a thing to her—not then. Jason was all that mattered. Holding him again, touching him, assuring herself that he was really and truly fine.

“Jason!”

He was sitting up in the bed, smiling, looking around with awe. He grinned first at Mike, who hung back. Katrina sped past him, raced to the bunk, and wrapped her arms around her son.

He hugged her back, but just barely. Jason was eight years old; a very independent eight, all boy, and at the stage where such an expression of affection from one's mother was just a little bit embarrassing.

“Mom …” he murmured, squirming. But then his hands were on her shoulders and he was looking at her with eager fascination in his eyes. Dark eyes, like his father's. His slightly long, ruffled hair, though, carried her deep glint of red.

“Wow!” he said. “What is this place?”

“Jason, are you all right?” Katrina was not about to be deterred. She reached out to move his hair from his forehead, anxiously studying his eyes. He looked fine, absolutely normal.

“Mo-om!” he protested. And then his eyes fell on Mike again. “Are you the spaceman?”

Mike laughed easily. “Sorry, son. I'm not a spaceman. I'm with the Navy.”

“Oh,” Jason said, disappointed. “Well that's neat, I guess.”

Mike left his position near the door to approach the bed, smiling. He gazed at Katrina; he saw the stubborn set of her jaw and the purse of her lips, and his smile tightened grimly as he indicated that she should move.

She didn't.

He reached for Jason's wrist anyway and she lowered her head, heartily resentful but also aware of the fact that he was a physician, albeit an unorthodox one. With a soft sigh of impatience she moved. Mike took her position at Jason's side.