Heather Graham (13 page)

She felt rather than saw that he adjusted his jeans and zipped them, and walked back, ankle deep, to stare into the water.

Self-consciously, she smoothed her skirt down. She drew the bodice against herself and fumbled to fix the strap, then realized that it was broken.

He turned then to stare at her.

Face dark, intent, brooding. Somehow bewildered, somehow furious …

“All right,” he said. His voice and his expression seemed to mask a thousand things, “I’ll marry you.”

She stared at him, incredulous, then furious.

Close to tears.

She had dreamed of him; she hadn’t dared to dream those words. Yet spoken, they seemed the most horrible insult she had ever heard.

She gasped, and stood, somehow holding her dress before her, somehow clinging to dignity.

“Don’t be absurd! Don’t be—archaic! I wouldn’t marry you if—I would
never
marry you!” she hurled at him.

And then she spun, hurrying for the car, hurrying lest her tears should fall and he should see them.

He caught her arm and spun her around. “Wasn’t that the grand plan?” he demanded harshly.

“What?” she demanded, outraged and amazed.

He laughed dryly.

“The siren from the sea, Ms. Martin. A sweet young innocent seduced and deflowered, or whatever the bloody hell the term is these days.”

She just stared at him, and then she began to laugh hysterically.

He really didn’t know a damn thing about her.

Just her name. And her income.

And oh, God, she hurt so badly, so badly, and she couldn’t let him know …

“Go to hell, Mr. Colby,” she said flatly. And she shook off his arm and started walking down the beach.

The pity was, she had nowhere to go.

She was too upset to know it.

“B
RITTANY!”

She knew that he was coming after her. She felt the pounding of his feet against the sand. A combination of misery and stupidity sent her racing into the surf.

He was behind her.

“Brittany!”

His arms came around her, strong arms, tight arms, arms that were attempting to subdue. But she was in her element now. Water. Water all around her. The clean, azure sea, with the bottom far, far below.

She jackknifed her legs with a powerful thrust, going downward, eluding even his grasp. She felt his hands, grasping for her. Another swift kick sent her spiraling away.

His hand caught the fabric of her flimsy gown. He kept the fabric but he lost her.

It was insane; she kept swimming anyway. Yet for all her prowess, he was strong enough to keep up with her. He caught her again and again. Hands against her bare flesh. Again and again she eluded him, not hearing his shouts, heedless of anything except the will to be alone, away, somewhere far from him to think upon the total folly of her actions.

Of the pain.

“Brittany, damn it!”

His hands, hot and warm against the water, came upon her. Coursed along her body, slick and grasping, as she jackknifed again.

She wanted to be alone. To lick her wounds.

In the end, she simply tired. He caught her, and she simply hadn’t the strength left to vault away again. His arm came around her waist and he dragged her back to the shore, placing her there, reclining beside her, that arm still warily across her middle lest she should think to flee again.

He was panting heavily. Dripping wet and panting heavily and leaning over her. She closed her eyes. She tried not to think that she was caught. That he had known a certain truth all along. That he had been playing with her as a cat might right before the kill.

That she had just made love with him. Because she had wanted to. Foolishly, ridiculously. Against all good sense. Because she had fallen in love with one of the very men she had come to watch, to catch for a thief …

And her dress was somewhere out in the surf. The breeze was caressing her naked flesh and bringing painfully home to her the extent of her vulnerability.

What did he intend to do?

Nothing …? He was still breathing deeply. Still hovering over her. She didn’t open her eyes. She felt the warmth of his breath where it touched her cheeks, her throat. She felt his arm, a bar across her waist. She felt the drenched material of his jeans, for his knee was cast lightly over her thighs, another bar of the prison he created with his body.

She was so cold. The sun was setting, yet the air was warm. She started to shiver, acutely aware of the misery of her position. Cold and wet and of course her nipples were hardening and she was so totally humiliated that she discovered it was possible to want to die from the horror of the feeling.

“Brittany …”

It was sound, it was warning, it was a question she couldn’t begin to answer.

“Just—just let me go,” she finally managed to whisper. She still couldn’t open her eyes. Couldn’t face him. “Just let me go. I’ll disappear, you’ll never—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he told her quietly. “Until I start getting some answers. Open your eyes—and talk to me.”

She really didn’t want to. She felt like an ostrich. If she didn’t open her eyes, she didn’t have to be lying here, stark naked beneath his malevolent glare.

“Brittany.” It was a ragged, forceful prod.

“I—I can’t. I can’t talk, like this …”

Her eyes did open. Perhaps her pain and misery were mirrored within them for he paused. His expression didn’t alter one bit from harshness, but he moved away from her. He rose with a natural athletic grace, found his knit shirt in the sand, and brought it back to her. She lowered her eyes, silently grateful, and scrambled into the shirt. It was huge on her and fell to her thighs.

He didn’t give her much time. He sat down beside her. She inhaled sharply, aware that he was so close that he actually sat on the tail of the shirt.

A guarantee that she would not bolt again?

She realized the futility of an escape attempt and she felt like sobbing. The road was at least a mile back and she couldn’t begin to imagine herself nude and peso-less on an open highway.

“Talk to me, Brittany.”

She stared ahead of her, out to the azure waters. She ground her teeth together and thought of what a fool she was. Proof that grief could indeed lead to insanity. She was in over her head. Oh, so far over …

He’d known from the very beginning.

She shook her head, suddenly, bitterly.

“There’s nothing to say. You were right before. I was after your money. I showed up in Costa del Sol to catch your eye.” She cast a glance in his direction, smiling with no humor. “I really don’t think you’re worth it after all. Thanks, but no thanks. So if you’ll just drive me back—”

Her voice died along with her smile. He didn’t blink, he just stared at her, ruthless, cold, totally hard.

“You’re not who you say you are,” he began. “And I’ve changed my mind—you’re definitely not after my money.” She was silent. He continued.

“I’ll start for you, shall I? Your parents were killed ten years ago. Together—they were drowned in a canal.”

“The windows,” Brittany heard herself murmur.

“What?”

“The—the car went off the road into a canal. Mother always hated electrical windows. They didn’t work. By the time the pressure equalized, the doors locked in the muck at the bottom.”

She didn’t look at him, she stared down at the sand. A little crab was burrowing into a hole. She longed to be doing the same. She hadn’t caught a thief. She’d merely … lost her soul.

He was silent for a moment, as if swayed by sympathy for the briefest moment.

“You lived with the Ericsons. Majored in Marine Science at Florida State. You work for the State on Cocoa Beach. Two months ago you took an extended leave of absence and appeared in London—for a funeral. Then you appeared on a plank in the sea. Why?”

“I told you—”

“Why?”

“I don’t have—”

“You owe me an explanation.”

“The hell I do—”

“The hell you don’t, lady.”

She started to rise in the sand. He caught her elbow and brought her back down, hard.

She started to shiver, hot and then cold. She had decided deep in her heart that it could not be this man. This man who had entered her dreams and then her flesh. And she would never pretend, not even to herself. She had wanted him so desperately. The fantasy had been an irresistible allure, and the reality …

Had been more than she could ever imagine.

Just as the stark pain and horror now. She couldn’t tell him the truth.

What if she was wrong?

What if he was a crook, oh, God, she had to remember that he had lied to her, but, oh, God, that hadn’t mattered just minutes ago, she had believed in her heart …

“I’ve got all night,” he warned her.

She gazed to him sharply, suddenly furious. “Well, I don’t. If you would please—”

“Outrage, indignation. Wonderful. You came to me with all false pretenses, and you’re angry. Sorry. We’re sitting here until you decide you want to tell me what’s going on.”

“Why should I tell you? You’ve already decided.”

“Ah, yes, but you turned down my offer. So let’s have the truth.”

“What difference does it make to you?” she asked with sudden dismay.

He shifted, stretching out on the cool sand, resting upon an elbow, but continuing to watch her with no sign of compassion, no mercy—no humanity.

“Tremendous difference,” he told her. “I’m waiting.”

“My God, you’re not human!”

He lowered his eyes and smiled at that, then met her eyes again with a trace of amusement. “All too human, I’m afraid. What the hell did you think you were doing with Ian?”

The change of direction threw her. “Ian?”

“Yes, lunch. And other things.”

“There were no ‘other things.’”

“Let’s not go through with this. You’re after something. What is it? What is it you could want so badly that you would play dangerous games with the two of us?”

“There was nothing dangerous—”

“Oh. That’s right. You can handle Ian. Tell me—did you handle me?”

“God, I’m not going to listen—”

Once again, she tried to rise. Once again, she found herself back in the sand. Flat now. And he was crawling over her again and though she had his shirt it rose against her with his movement and she was bare beneath the waist and horribly aware of his hip and his thigh and the dampness of his jeans and the heat of his body beneath.

“You are going to listen. And so am I.”

She closed her eyes. She breathed deeply.

“Did you handle me, Brittany?”

“No. Yes. No. I could have. I—”

“Could have?” She heard the depth of his voice. The husky burr. It came against her with greater power than anything physical could have done.

She shook her head, denying herself, denying him.

“Could have,” he repeated softly. He brushed a finger over her cheek, following the movement with his eyes. Then he smoothed damp red hair from her forehead and watched that movement, too.

“You’re very good in the water,” he said suddenly. “You’ve been a lifeguard?”

“Yes.”

“Breaking holds … you assumed you could break any of Ian’s holds if things got out of hand?”

“Yes.”

“You know there is only so far you can push any man?”

She didn’t really understand the question. Nor the touch of his eyes. Silver, hooded.

“Please, let me go.”

“No,” he said simply. “You say that you could have handled me—but you didn’t. I’m not so sure that I believe the first, yet I’m dying to hear you expand upon the second. Let’s see. You’re after something, and you want it so badly that you were willing to make love with me to get it—”

“No!”

“But you did.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “Just what
are
you after?”

“Oh, God, please—”

“Brittany, all we need here is a little truth. A lot of it actually, but we’ll start off with a little. Why?”

“Why what?” she nearly screeched.

“Why did you sleep with me?”

“Because I wanted to!” She screamed it out and furiously tried to escape him. He didn’t budge. The slightest smile twitched against the corners of his mouth.

“Is that the truth?”

“Yes. For the love of God—”

“We’re just beginning to get places. I’ll go back and refresh your memory again. You were in London. For a funeral. An elderly aunt of yours passed away. You claimed to have been accosted by El Drago. Is that the truth?”

“I—”

“The truth.”

“No. Dammit, please—”

“So sorry. Let’s go onward here. You needed to become part of the social fabric of the Costa del Sol British community. Why?”

She stared at him, at the unrelenting planes of his face, at the sharp, hard, bronzed angles there. She became aware of his fingers, entwined with her own.

She closed her eyes suddenly, shivering miserably. She knew so little about him. She knew his face, she knew the nuances of his smile. She knew that day by day she had come to love the rugged beauty of his face, the magic of his scent, the cadence of his voice. Little by little, day by day.

And now …

Now while he demanded and threatened, she loved the feel of his fingers against hers. She loved him simply there, hard against her, and somehow secure.

She inhaled and exhaled, looking at him searchingly. Praying that she was right. That she was not a fool.

“I had to catch a thief,” she said softly.

He frowned. “What?”

And she didn’t dare look at him then, she had made her decision and there really wasn’t anything else to do. She closed her eyes and felt the sea through the sand and tried to explain what had happened and how she had felt and how very desperate she had been.

“My aunt Alice was my last living relative. I adored her. When my parents died, she was all that I had. And she was healthy and spry and wonderful and she never would have died except that—she was taken. I learned from the neighbors that she was terribly enthused about a young man helping her with her investments. She gave him everything. Her life’s savings. And when he came for the final capital, something must have warned her. She tried to catch him. She was too old to run down the streets … she had a heart attack and died.”