Patricia Potter (9 page)

At Michael’s inquisitive expression, Cal grinned. “Looking for subs,” he explained.

“Are those things really useful?”

Cal’s grin faded. “I don’t know,” and Michael knew it must be classified information. He watched as the blimp moved easterly, like a fat sea cow lazily sunning itself. The theory, he knew, was that the slowness and height of the blimp allowed searchers to see shadows lurking beneath the ocean surface. He wondered how far offshore was the German sub he was to contact tonight.

He was still distracted when Peter approached, a wide, happy grin on his face. Michael couldn’t help but respond in kind.

Michael looked around for Meara and saw her in the swing where she’d been waiting for him last night, her gaze on Tara who was playing with several other children. As he looked, her face turned toward his, and he saw the vivid green that seemed to sparkle out to him with an impish, challenging invitation.

“The commander,” Peter confided proudly to the men standing around, “helped us make the best sand castle ever.

One of the men, a stockbroker from New York who was not on Michael’s list, chuckled. “A man of many talents, Commander?”

Michael smiled back. “And, as they say, master of none. Sand castles are a nice change from war.”

“I don’t doubt that,” the man replied as a shrewd gaze raked Michael’s lean body and easy confidence but hesitated slightly on the cane. “I imagine you’re tired of war talk, especially from men who have never seen action.”

Michael was not. He was picking up more information than he’d ever expected. One man had talked about the increased production of his steel company, another about a new navigational device his firm had developed. His mind quickly absorbed these pieces of information, part of him amazed at how quickly America was able to energize its war machinery, another knowing, as part of him always had, that once again Germany had taken on more than it could handle. He also realized how very important this mission was, regardless of how little he liked it.

The disappearance of these men could throw war production into chaos for months, if not years. There would be battles for control, holds on loans, and confusion.

He answered questions automatically, aware that Cal Connor had urged his son to go play and that Cal himself had moved away and was speaking to two other men who had just arrived. One did not seem to fit the common denominator of wealth and power. The newcomer was tall and compactly built and wore a less than tailored suit. But there was also an alertness about him as he appeared to study each guest, resting a moment on Michael, and it was an inspection that gave Michael pause. It was a policeman’s gaze, one he had learned to recognize the world over.

He debated with himself whether to approach the men, finally surrendering to curiosity. Better to know a threat. He made excuses to his companions and moved toward Cal, pausing briefly to take a glass of champagne from the tray of a circulating waiter. The smell of cooking pork permeated the air, and laughter and talk were growing louder.

“Commander,” Cal Connor called, and Michael tensed briefly before willing a smile to his face.

Michael nodded and threaded his way to Connor’s side. “Two more guests I would like you to meet. John Graves and Sanders Evans. They’re also staying in the clubhouse. Gentlemen, this is Commander Michael Fielding, British Navy.”

“You’re a long way from home, Commander,” the taller man observed, his brown eyes inquisitive. There was a quiet air of friendliness, even gentleness, as the man glanced at Michael’s favored leg. The unexpected softness jolted Michael far more than instant suspicion would. That friendliness, he sensed, was deceptive, a tool used easily and naturally but a tool, nonetheless.

“I’m Canadian,” he answered with an equally friendly, equally deceptive smile.

“You’re still a long way from home.”

“A lot of people are now,” Michael said dryly. “The warmth of your island is a strong lure after the Atlantic in winter.”

“You were stationed in the Atlantic then?”

“Sub hunting,” Michael confirmed.

“Any luck?”

“Two, before we became the hare.”

“Going back?”

“I hope. I received a medical discharge, but I hope to convince them I’m well enough to sail again.”

“I would like to hear about it.”

Michael hesitated. There was something about Sanders Evans that rang any number of bells, all of which warned him to stay away from the man.

“Not much to tell. A lot of waiting, searching, a lot of lonely hours, a lot of fear. Like any other soldier or sailor, I think.” He decided to turn the tables. “And you, Mr. Evans?”

“I’m with the government,” Evans said uninformatively. “John is with the Defense Department. We’re just here for a few days of vacation.”

Michael nodded, not believing a word of it. His eyes went to Graves. Not a policeman. Graves was older, a bit pudgy. His eyes were intelligent but not wary, not like Evans’s vigilant ones.

“Perhaps we can have a drink later,” Evans persisted.

Michael nodded. “Perhaps, but I think right now I have a previous engagement with young Mr. Connor.” Michael’s gaze went to Peter, who was beaming up at him.

Evans surrendered temporarily. “Until later, then,” he said.

“Later,” Michael agreed and, after several moments of conversation with Peter and a pledge to teach him how to shoot on the range later, he made his way over to Meara. Her eyes brightened even more, and despite the disquiet that had just filled him, he knew a certain exultant pleasure just to be near her, to be recipient of both the smile on her lips and the one in her eyes. She moved over in the swing, inviting him to join her, and he did, folding his lean body in the swing with a sigh that hovered between an odd excitement of being next to her and relief at having a reason to leave Sanders Evans, of dropping, if only for a moment, from the tightrope he was walking.

He leaned his back against the corner of the swing which seated two and looked at her with an obvious enjoyment that brought a flush to her cheek. She was wearing a rose-checked sundress, one that hugged her gentle curves. The color complemented the green eyes and barely tamed red hair tied back in a green ribbon.

Meara O’Hara, Michael thought, was not beautiful in the traditional sense. Her features were too determined, the chin jutting proudly out, the high cheekbones emphasizing startlingly intelligent and vivid emerald eyes, and a mouth too wide for true beauty. Yet when she smiled, there was a magic about her, a warmth that reached out and enfolded everyone in its path, an uninhibited appreciation of life that was new to him, new and incredibly appealing.

Too appealing.

Particularly appealing when she demanded nothing of him now, no words, only his presence. He thought it odd that he could feel so comforted, so suddenly right, in silence. He lifted his hand to rake his hair in a persistent habit he couldn’t break, and his hand touched her shoulder. There was an instantaneous reaction, and it obviously affected her as well as him. He felt heat start at the point where his skin touched hers and then flood through the rest of his body. The quick, involuntary shudder of her body said more eloquently than words that she felt it too, felt it and was startled, perhaps even frightened, by it.

He was discovering emotions he had never felt before. Desire, certainly, but something much stronger, much deeper. A need to touch, to hold, to share. Overwhelming needs that were painful in their intensity. He tried to shake them and looked up and around, and found Evans’s gaze on him, or was it on Meara? For the first time in his life, jealousy struck him, and he was amazed at the virulence of the reaction.

“Can you go for a walk?”

Meara, as if lost in her own emotions, simply nodded. “I have to tell Mrs. Connor first.”

Michael nodded and watched as she rose gracefully and sought out Elizabeth Connor, speaking briefly as Elizabeth flashed a knowing smile and nodded. He rose slowly, grabbing his cane as much out of tension as for support.

Meara rejoined him, her own hands clenched behind her, and her eyes nakedly open and happy. God, what did he think he was doing?

They walked silently down to Jekyll Creek, which ran in front of the clubhouse, and along its banks. Across the deep creek were miles of salt marshes, peaceful and serene. The path was deserted since most of the current residents at Jekyll were attending the Connor party. Meara and Michael could still hear the small string band playing popular tunes, including “Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree (with Anyone Else but Me),” and Glenn Miller’s “Little Brown Jug.” The softly poignant sounds mixed with that of the gentle laughter of waves as they chased each other up against the creek bank, each curling around in its special way and lazily returning to where they belonged.

When they reached a place on the bank where trees shielded them from other eyes, Meara stopped and ordered him to turn away from her. A little confused, he did so, and when she spoke again he turned back. She was holding shoes and stockings in her hand, and her feet were once more bare and burrowing happily in the grass.

Feeling a little like a boy on his first picnic, he promptly sat down on a log and took off his own shoes and socks as she stood above him, smiling approvingly. She leaned down, offering a hand, and it looked terribly inviting. He took it but was careful not to give any weight to her. Instead he balanced himself on his good leg, reaching down with his left hand for the cane. He suddenly lost balance and she went down with him, her body falling alongside his in unanticipated and unplanned intimacy.

Electricity ran between them, sparking and sizzling in ways that baffled and confounded both of them. There was only action and reaction, a hardening on his part, a softening on hers that melded together in complete compatibility.

His arms went around her waist and hers around his neck, her hands playing with the thick gold hair, and her body arching uncontrollably against his as their lips touched, first in surprised exploration, then a wondering gentleness that sent them both tumbling into a world without limits or restrictions or barriers. It was theirs for the moment, only theirs, and neither had the will to question it.

Michael found himself doing something he had never done before with a woman, moving his lips lightly across her face, wanting to taste the essence of her, the sweetness that was both nurturing and stimulating. He felt her body tremble and knew it was not from experience but instinct, for there was a shyness there too, a kind of awakening.

Then he felt her lips, doing exactly what his had, touching lightly along his face, and he felt a tenderness he didn’t know he had. A tenderness and a fierce desire to protect.

To protect!

He forced himself to move back, his hand entwining in hair that felt like silk, copper-colored silk that had come free of its ribbon and fell over the side of her face in lovely profusion. Her eyes were misty green but not with tears. They were like stars, glinting like flecks of sun caught in an emerald sea.

“Christ,” he uttered. It was the mildest oath he could summon at the moment. Her dress was covered with grass particles and fragrant pine needles, her hair curling in the humid air, her lips swollen with the taste of his, and her face flushed with emotion. He moved even farther back, forcing his hand from her hair.

“Do you have any idea of how altogether irresistible you look?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Her face clearly reflected confusion, a certain wonderment, but then she looked at her grass-stained clothes and bare feet. “You’re teasing me now,” she said, a note of pain creeping into her voice as she wondered why he was once more distancing himself from her. Although neither his voice nor words showed it, his eyes did. The warm intimacy was gone.

“No,” he said solemnly. “I think you’re quite the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen, and you don’t know how difficult it is not to kiss you over and over again.”

“Then why—?”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Meara. I’ll be leaving in less than two weeks, and this will be a long, painful war. It’s quite possible I’ll be killed.”

“No,” she said, as if voicing the denial made it fact.

“Yes, Meara,” he insisted. His hand took hers as her chin jutted out obstinately, and his heart hurt. He had never wanted anything as much in his life as to take her someplace, someplace private, and make love to her, slowly and exquisitely. He could feel the passion in her, passion created by those other qualities in her: her lust for living, her obvious commitment to those she cared about, the sense of giving he always felt around her. He wanted her so much it caused physical pain, gut-wrenching agony.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she said, and the voice was so soft, so puzzled, he had to smile.

“Surely you’ve kissed men before,” he said, his voice tenderly amused.

“Never like that,” she said with such awe that he had to smile. His hand helped her straighten up until they were both sitting quite respectably although their hands touched.

“I’m honored,” he said formally with a teasing note.

“Don’t,” she said, sensing that he was about to draw back again.

“Don’t what?”

“Go away like you did last night.” She hesitated a moment before slowly continuing. “I don’t mean when you actually, physically left, but moments earlier when you retreated somewhere inside yourself, someplace you closed to me.”