Authors: Heather Graham
Cat recovered from her peculiar initial sensations and took a step back, trying not to be overly obvious as she further scrutinized the man. His broad chest was thickly covered with golden brown hair that trailed to a narrow line before it disappeared into the waistband of his cutoffs, where his frame became attractively trim. The frayed edges of the cutoffs, his only garment, displayed his strong, sinewy legs.
Cat flicked her eyes to the stranger’s face, although there was little to be read there. Dense sunglasses hid the color of his eyes and their expression; a full beard didn’t exactly hide the rugged strength of his jaw, but it did leave one wondering. His nose was long and straight, a bit prominent but handsomely so, even if it did hint at arrogance.
Cat blinked suddenly, and her frown deepened. There was something about him … No, it had to be her imagination. But her instincts told her that she knew this man.
He hadn’t moved after her quick “Excuse me” and now stood returning her stare, a slow grin creeping devilishly into his features.
“Mrs. Miller,” he said, and Cat raised a brow at the sound of his voice, the eerie sensation of recognition creeping through her. Obviously this man knew who she was.
“Yes?” She hadn’t really meant to, but she grinned in return. She recognized immediately that this was a man who had a way with women, but that didn’t particularly bother her. She carried her own streak of flirtatious femininity. She fully understood the pleasant but meaningless appreciation that could pass between a man and a woman.
“Congratulations, you handle your sail quite nicely.”
“Thank you,” Cat murmured, still smiling but feeling her brow begin to furrow again. His low, husky voice was like a ripple of velvet. It seemed to strike at something within her, that strange nagging sense of familiarity again. She gave herself a mental shake. She didn’t know the man with the rather long and wild sun-streaked hair and radiating masculinity. This had to be nothing more than a case of déjà vu. Or perhaps it was the type of man she recognized. Those who combed the out islands on their own were a hearty, assured breed. Seafarers with self-confidence.
His devilish grin deepened. “Are you up to another challenge?”
Cat lifted a single brow higher with a bit of skepticism. Surely this man had been watching. He must have realized that it was not only her skill but her thorough knowledge of the harbor that had given her the victory. It was not a matter of conceit that gave Cat her confidence, she had simply lived and breathed sea and sky and sails for twenty-nine years. If she hadn’t acquired a certain talent, she thought wryly now, she would have had to be totally inept.
“Sir,” Cat said hesitantly, not at all sure it would be ethical to take this stranger’s money. She had known her other challengers: knew well that any pain from their loss would be that of pride—not finances. She had no intention of leaving anyone in monetary straits. She paused for a moment, lowering her voice so that she could not be heard by the others—now interested observers—on the dock. “I know this harbor and area better than my own face. I’m very hard to beat.”
It was the stranger’s turn to lift a cryptic brow. “Are you afraid to take on a contestant you haven’t bested before?”
Cat flushed slightly and sighed with exasperation. “I’m not afraid. I’m merely trying to warn you—this is
my
harbor.”
The man’s grin deepened and he quietly replied, “I appreciate the warning. I’m still willing to take my chances.”
Cat was no longer feeling disturbed in the least; her exasperation was fast turning to irritation. The man seemed determined to hang himself, and then she would have his fiasco on her conscience! She winced inwardly, then took another step backward and allowed her eyes to rest tellingly upon his faded and tattered cutoffs. “Sir,” she repeated, purposely setting a hint of disdain to her tone, “these gentlemen and I were gambling for rather high stakes.”
“Yes, I know,” the stranger returned, switching his balance from muscled leg to muscled leg as he crossed brawny arms over his chest. “Fifteen thousand a race, I believe. I’d like to raise the stakes.”
“Raise the stakes!” Cat exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes … Raise the stakes Five hundred thousand,” he replied with amusement, repeating himself with the slightest pause between his words as if she were slightly deaf and uncomprehending.
Cat couldn’t suppress a shocked gasp.
The stranger kept grinning. “Cat got your tongue, Mrs. Miller?” he queried, his voice an irresistible dare. “Or are you not quite as capable as you believe you are?”
She should have walked on by the man and his ridiculous proposal, but his husky, insinuating query had sparked a boiling fury deep inside her. The man was preposterously arrogant—definitely the type who deserved the lesson of falling flat on his face.
Cat contained the sudden turmoil of hostile emotions that had zapped her like a lightning bolt and coolly planted her hands on her hips. “Forgive me,” she said dryly, “but how do I know you’re good for five hundred thousand dollars? That is quite a sum, you know.” At that particular moment it didn’t occur to Cat that she was worth nowhere near that sum herself.
The stranger shifted and pointed off the horizon, toward the shimmering jewels of the sea that were the lower Exumas. Riding about a half mile offshore was a very impressive yacht—a vessel a good sixty feet in length. Cat shielded her eyes with a hand and stared across the water. Even at this distance it was apparent that the boat was one of the newest models by one of the most prestigious companies. Her paint was dazzling in the sunlight, so clean and white that she sat like a diamond in the azure sea.
The yacht itself could easily be worth five hundred thousand, Cat thought dryly. She dropped her hand and turned, tilting her chin back and looking inquiringly at the curious newcomer.
“Yes, she is worth quite a sum,” the man told her, his velvet voice still low with amusement “And yes”—his voice lowered again—“she is mine.”
Cat stood silent for a moment, thoughts whirling through her mind. Five hundred thousand …the amount was dizzying. She couldn’t even begin to imagine that much money. But it meant total freedom, total independence to pursue her own dreams. Jules would surely be annoyed when he heard how she had acquired the sum, but Cat was equally sure she could handle Jules. She loved him; he loved her. He had refused to help her, and God help the man, but he should know her by now! In time, she could get him to laugh with her … She would explain that she had had to do it, that her challenger had been this macho tough who seemed to think himself the right hand of Neptune.
“Well, Mrs. Miller?” The stranger shifted his weight again, clearly portraying a humoring patience. His voice turned to a nerve-wrackingly thin silken whisper. “You seem willing to take on old men and boys. Shall we see how you fare against a man in his prime?”
“Modesty,” Cat snapped, “does not seem to be one of the virtues you have acquired in this prime of yours.”
The stranger shrugged. “I’m a gambler, Mrs. Miller. You appear to be one yourself.”
He was goading her and Cat was also aware that he had done as excellent job of pricking her beneath her skin. Although none of their audience had heard the preposterous sum proposed for the bet, Cat was well aware that everyone present knew she had been challenged. This man and his infuriating arrogance had placed her in a precarious position. She maintained the power to rule her realm with no sexual harassment from either the rugged salts who were her customers or the other owners of nearby islands and docks because she had earned the men’s complete respect. It had taken her years to build that complete respect. Refusing a challenge from this man could cost her heavily. And damn! He deserved to have the pants beaten off him!
What if she lost? The thought hit her sinkingly for a moment, but she forced herself to brush it aside. She couldn’t allow herself a moment’s hesitation—or a measure of fear. She couldn’t allow him to chew away at her self-confidence; she couldn’t afford a case of nerves. She blinked, and in that time her mind whirled. She had to answer his challenge, and she couldn’t afford to lose.
She stared at the stranger, shook her head slightly, as if driven by pure exasperation to humor him. “Sir,” she said wearily, “if you must, you’re on.”
His lips now were a compressed line, but Cat could sense that behind the dark glasses his eyes still registered his amusement. “The Hobie Cats belong to the lodge, I assume?”
Cat nodded. “Take your pick.”
The man turned down the dock, inclining his head to ask, “Same markers?”
“Yes,” Cat called back, returning to her own small craft with a springing leap.
“Good luck, Cat!” she heard Jim McCay call. She compressed her lips, nodding to Jim but not at all sure he wished her luck at all. She highly resented the looks she saw upon the faces of her immediate audience. They were her friends, but in certain corners of their hearts they were hoping she would lose. For the same reason she was determined to best the domineering newcomer. She was a woman; she had bested them. Just as she thought the stranger deserved a comedown, it would salvage the pride of the men she had taken to see her finally succumb to one of their own sex.
Cat clenched her teeth together, then shrugged. There were certain things about human nature that couldn’t be changed.
“Cat!”
Cat paused as she heard her name hissed admonishingly. Even before she met his scolding dark eyes, she knew it was Sam who had called her. He balanced his weight expertly between the dock planking and fiberglass boat.
“What, Sam?” Cat asked, annoyed with the lecture she knew she was about to receive.
“What do you think you’re doing, missy?” Sam charged, with the familiarity of long affection and acquaintance. “You tell me what you bet that man. I saw your face, missy, and I know you, so don’t feed me none of your lies.”
“Sam—I’ve never lied to you,” Cat protested.
“That’s right, so don’t start now. What’s the bet?”
Cat tried to slough off “Five hundred thousand” and sound casual, but it was a little ridiculous even to attempt to make such an amount sound anything but absurd.
“Five hundred thousand!”
“Shhhhhh,” Cat implored; she didn’t want the amount known to the entire island.
“You ain’t got no five hundred thousand!”
“And I didn’t have any seventy-five thousand, either!” Cat hissed back, relenting immediately as she saw Sam’s brow furrow with worry. “Sam,” she implored, “what was I going to do? I was trapped!”
“And what are you going to do if you lose?”
Cat hesitated. No papers had passed—none were necessary. A gentleman’s agreement such as this was honored by all parties.
“I’m not going to lose, Sam. You know I’m the best there is in a Hobie Cat—”
“I know you’re the best I’ve ever seen,” Sam agreed sagely, “but, missy, I ain’t ever seen the likes of this man. …” Sam paused in midsentence, frowning as Cat had earlier.
“What is it?” Cat asked quickly. “Do you know him?”
Sam brought a gnarled black hand to his forehead. “I’m not sure, but …”
“Mrs. Miller!”
The call came from the stranger, an imperious reminder.
“I’ve got to get out there, Sam.”
“You could lose Tiger Cay.”
“And if I don’t get out there, it won’t matter if I lose it or not. Sam, I have security and freedom in the islands because of two things. I’m rumored to be as tough as nails, and I have you. Besides,” Cat added, lowering her lashes to hide the misery underlying her words, “I can always turn to Jules—”
“And the Frenchie will own Tiger Cay.”
“Mrs. Miller! Are we racing, or pausing for tea?”
“I’m not going to lose, Sam,” Cat said firmly, reaching for her sheet line.
Sam stepped back off the Hobie Cat. Noticing that he was no longer watching her but had switched his attention to the stranger, Cat frowned, perplexed. Sam was studying the man and Cat could swear she saw a glimmer of recognition in her dockman’s eyes. But she was already moving away from shore and she had to forget all else and turn her concentration to her opponent.
He smiled and tipped an imaginary hat to her as they reached the marker point that signified the beginning of the race. Cat tilted her head and returned his smile dryly, wondering what lurked in the eyes beneath the dark shade of the glasses. Stop wondering, she warned herself, twisting her vision from his to signal she was ready to Sam. She tensed, feeling and holding the fiberglass beneath her with her feet, hands held to go on the sheet line.
A single shot—Sam’s “Go”—sounded from the shore.
Cat eased out her line, her sail billowing into the northeasterly breeze. Cat let her sail grow fuller and fuller for wind speed, hiking her slender frame far out to achieve the balance necessary for a smooth cut through the water. For several seconds of pure thrill, Cat forgot that she was engaged in a high-stakes gamble. She exalted in the fresh salt air pounding her face, in the foaming rush of water—so clear as to be translucent, “liquid light,” as the Bahamians called it, beneath her feet, gushing, spilling high, spraying her with its temperate quicksilver touch.
A Hobie Cat, like nothing else, was an extension of the sailor, to Cat’s mind at least. Each slightest point to the wind, each angle, was powered by her body, calculated by her mind.
She took the time to check out her competition; they were running neck and neck. His proximity spurred her spirit to greater effort. Cat let out another half inch of line, automatically adjusting her body hike.
She would never know what might have happened, although in her heart she had to admit that the stranger had pulled to an edge of several feet. It didn’t really matter. Still shy of the finish, the race was rudely interrupted. A speedboat, a Cigarette obviously manned by a landlubber with no right to the sea, speared across the route of the Hobies. It was amazing that no collision occurred, but nevertheless the wake created in the water was disastrous.
Cat’s Hobie took a flat starboard dive and despite the respectable strength in her slender arms, she was hurled from her craft.