Eden's Spell (2 page)

She was in his arms; might as well take her first.

Clumsy in his heavy suit, Mike moved carefully through the remaining mangrove terrain of the south side of the island. His dinghy had been pulled onto the only bare ten feet of beach he had been able to find. He carefully set her into it, resting her head against one of the orange Navy-ration life-preservers. With both annoyance and curiosity, he found himself staring at her.

She was a tiny creature; no more than five two, and maybe a hundred pounds. Her hair was very long and wild and wet as it lay plastered against her bare back. Even wet, though, it gleamed with an undeniable sheen of red. Probably a deep dark red, an auburn. Yes, it had been auburn, shining in the sun like a burst of glory in those first few seconds before she had stumbled into the pool….

A redhead. Oh hell, it was definitely true that redheads had horrendous tempers! As if matters weren't bad enough!

But for a moment, Mike forgot the seriousness of the situation. He smiled a little, recalling again the moment he had first seen her. Her eyes had blazed in the sun. Turquoise eyes, as blue and as green as a changing sea, as crystal clear as the water that moved gently over the reefs.

And as fury laden as a cyclone.

Mike shrugged with irritation. Damn it all! Who in God's name had flubbed up so badly? They had gone through the proper procedure, obtained all the forms….

The boy, Mike reminded himself. The sooner he went back for the boy, the sooner he could reach the
Maggie Mae,
and the sooner he could straighten out this mess!

But he paused again, watching her, reflecting that he had been almost as shocked as she at their confrontation. He'd expected nothing but flora and fauna; but there had been the boy, and then, her. For a second—just a split second—he'd wondered if he hadn't stumbled into some modern-day Eden. She had just appeared, half naked, that wild hair streaming over the top of her blue bathing suit so that it had seemed as though she was wearing nothing at all. A spitfire of fury and energy, beautiful and pagan, pitching into battle unarmed.

He turned away from her, irritated all over again. For God's sake! She had a son; she'd signed the damn papers. She should have been responsible and careful enough to get off the island.

Mike clumped back through the mangrove roots, unable to shake his aggravation. Logically, it was ridiculous to be so angry at her. It had been someone else's responsibility to make sure the island was cleared of civilians. There had just been something about her….

Small, petite, and fragile. She had reminded him of Margo.

Mike reached the boy, and bent carefully to cradle him into his arms. He smiled then, glancing down at the sleeping form. Nice kid. He'd shown absolute fascination when he'd first discovered Mike—and Mike had discovered him. After he'd stopped screaming for his mother, he'd become very conversational.

“Oh, boy! A spaceman! Are you from Mars?”

“No. Sorry, kid.” He'd had to grin. “Originally, I'm from northern Michigan. Of course, there are people who might consider that like being from Mars.”

“Are you a madman?” the boy asked quite bluntly.

And Mike had laughed, then grown very somber, reminding himself that there had been one hell of a screw-up.

“No, son, I'm with the Navy. And I need you to listen, because this is very important. I need you to come to me, very slowly, very carefully, because you're going to start to fall asleep in a matter of moments. The air will appear to be pink….”

Ah, yes, pink air. And thanks to the boy's feisty mother, Mike had breathed some of that pink air himself! He'd better get a move on. He didn't want to pass out himself, especially not with the three of them adrift in a little dinghy.

Mike hurried back to the tiny strip of beach. The woman was still sleeping in the dinghy, as sweetly as a little lamb. Her lips were curved into a tender smile, as if she dreamed sweet things.

Mike placed the boy against a life preserver with gentle care, then pushed the small boat away from the beach. Out in the water, he started the motor, and turned the tiller toward the
Maggie Mae.

Away from the island, he stripped away his helmet and mask, and deeply inhaled the fresh sea air. It was good: salty, clean, and fragrant.

And yet he knew he had also inhaled something of his own invention. He had to keep blinking to see clearly, and it felt as if a soft pink blanket were closing in around him. He had to hurry.

In front of the
Maggie Mae
he cut the motor and drifted to the stern of the yacht. He caught the towline and stood, balancing carefully. He had to strip away the rest of his quarantine outfit while in the dinghy; he'd never get up the rope ladder with his two casualties in such gear.

Casualties! Dammit, there shouldn't have been any casualties!

He grunted out an unintelligible oath, dropped the silver cloth, and hefted the boy over his shoulders. Once on deck Mike hesitated, then brought the boy to the aft cabin. He laid him down upon the bunk and quickly checked his pulse, respiration, and pupils.

He was sleeping, soundly, nicely. His pulse was as strong as a young bull's. Mike pulled the covers over the boy, left him, and returned to the dinghy for the woman.

It was almost dark now. Only a few pale streaks of red and gold still touched the sky. The breeze had picked up; it had started to dry her hair, and sent it billowing in gentle velvet fans of pure copper. Mike lifted her into his arms. Her soft hair blew and wafted around his bare shoulders like a caress of silk.

Her eyes opened while he struggled up the ladder. They were brilliant with the sea's color, fascinated, fascinating.

“Hi,” she murmured sweetly.

“Hi, yourself,” he replied briefly.

She yawned and stretched backward; Mike teetered precariously on the ladder.

“Hey! Hold on to me!” he commanded curtly.

She giggled, and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. Mike gasped; she was cutting his windpipe.

“Not—so—tightly!”

She just giggled. He grit his teeth. 44DFS was his baby; he should know the side effects if anyone should.

Still gasping, he hauled them both over the side of the
Maggie Mae,
and better situated his arms around her before starting for the forward cabin.

“You're cute,” she told him, drawing her fingers down his cheek, seductively grazing his flesh with the tip of her nails.

“Thanks,” he muttered dryly. While he was looking at her, he slammed his head against the cabin door frame when he should have ducked beneath it.

“Ouch!” she murmured, snuggling closer.

Mike paused and inhaled deeply. Her body was very warm against his naked chest; her toes were dangling against his thighs. Her breasts, high and firm against the low edge of the bathing suit; were excruciatingly feminine. She might have only been about one hundred pounds, but damn, were those pounds disposed to the right places!

He groaned slightly, and wondered for the thousandth time just who in hell had flubbed up so badly.

“Ohhh … you'd be much, much cuter if you'd quit scowling!” she pouted, drawing a finger over his lip.

“Quit that!” Damned side effects! But that was what it was all about: studying the side effects of 44DFS, eliminating them. As a scientist, it was so important. But as a man, he was growing concerned that he wouldn't last another minute, much less the whole night.

But 44DFS had been the driving factor in his life for over a decade now. Over a decade. Ever since Margo …

Mike hurried her past the roomy galley, by the dining table and the makeshift lab, and into the master's cabin. Why the hell didn't she just pass out cold, like the boy?

He knew the answer, of course. She had not received a direct shot of the stuff, as the boy had. The pellet had barely dispersed before the boy had appeared; it had received enough time to dilute before she had raced upon the scene.

And that's why she was still clinging to him, her arms wrapped around him, her huge turquoise eyes wide on him.

“You're very, very tired,” he told her.

Her eyes widened still further. “Oh, no, I'm not!” she protested dreamily.

“Dammit! You've had a good whiff of 44DFS, and that means you are totally agreeable and cannot argue with me!”

Her fingers roamed through his tawny hair, ruffling it at the forehead. “I certainly don't want to argue with you!”

“Good. I'm putting you to bed. In twenty-four hours, you'll be ready to hang me again.”

He laid her down upon the bunk, hoping he wasn't going to give her pneumonia by leaving her in her wet suit.

“Aren't you coming with me?” she queried.

He stared down at her, at the long red waves of hair splaying in a delicate web over the pillow, at the smooth line of her throat and the entrancing pools of her eyes.

He ground his teeth together; a hot shudder ripped through his body, and he was painfully aware that beneath his shorts his body was rigidly willing to comply with her request.

He'd had a few whiffs of the stuff himself—not that he would have needed it with such an invitation. He swore softly, pulling the covers high over her slender form.

She was his victim, and remembering her threats, he was convinced that she would never believe that he hadn't been the one to involve her in the mix-up on the island. He was going to have a lawsuit on his hands. Not him maybe, but the U.S. government and the Navy.

But it would be his work exposed to public scrutiny and criticism, long before it could be perfected. And all because some jerk hadn't done his job properly!

“Go to sleep,” he told her.

She smiled. A beautiful, sweet, and inadvertently sultry smile. Mike turned to leave her, swearing again.

He hurried back to the galley, and the chart table that flanked the sink and dryer. He was growing dizzier, and very, very tired. All he wanted to do was reach command, then take a cold, cold shower and sleep off the effects of his own drug. A nap should do it. Damn it all to hell! He'd sure need the sleep; by tomorrow night at the latest he'd be dealing with a righteously furious civilian.

Mike tapped into the radio.

“Go tell it to the Marines!” he muttered aloud, frowning then as he received nothing but static on his radio.

And that was another thing; damn the bureaucracy and red tape! This should have been left as a strictly naval venture! His liaisons should have been men he knew and trusted.

“Come in, 44DFS.”

He decided to cut the military crap right to the line. “I want to know who blew this thing!”

Static answered him; then, “I don't read you, 44DFS.”

“Uninhabited island, eh? I've a woman and child on board.”

“That's impossible, sir. We've the consent forms right here—”

“And I've got two victims right here!” Mike interrupted in a rage. “Give me the admiral—now!”

To his credit, Admiral Larson came directly to the radio. Mike realized later that he was an okay guy to sit there and take abuse as long as he did, then, to speak soothingly without drawing rank.

“As you know, Taylor, we can't approach the vessel tonight. We'll be there by eighteen hundred tomorrow. A woman and a boy? The island's owner, and her son, I assume.”

Mike vaguely heard the rustle of papers.

“Katrina Denver, widow, twenty-seven years old. In possession of Rock Cay seven years, purchased by James Denver just before his death. Lives quietly; no known liaisons; votes, but attached strongly to neither political party. No criminal record; somewhat active in the Congregational church—life-style as clean as a whistle. Nicknamed the ‘Coral Princess' by a number of the main islanders; well liked—”

“And not off the damn island when she was supposed to be!”

Larson was quiet. Mike realized that he was furious at the flub, too, yet he wasn't the one with the victims on his hands. In his hand he had a nice sterile fact-sheet. The military had a complete dossier on her; they just hadn't bothered to make sure she took her sweet rumpus off the island!

“We'll handle the situation on the civilians. Our fault, Taylor. You just continue with your observations….”

Larson kept going; Mike opened his mouth to protest, then gave up. What observations? The whole thing was a mess now. She'd surely sue them. The media would have a heyday.

Wearily, he rubbed his temple, and let Larson try to assure him that the project could be kept classified.

Larson hadn't met his petite little virago—a mother with a totally protective instinct for her son.

“Oh, hell!”

“What was that, Taylor?”

“Nothing. I need a drink.”

He didn't even sign out; he just switched off the radio, and stood, swaying a bit. He needed to sleep. But he wanted a drink, and he didn't give a damn about the effects of a whiff of 44DFS when combined with a good shot of Johnnie Walker Black!

He moved to the sink, reached beneath it to the counter, and found the Scotch. He didn't bother with a glass; he just downed a long, long swallow, enough to burn his throat, although the fire in his throat didn't compare with the fire he felt in the rest of his body.

He lifted the bottle in the air dramatically.

“Ah, Dr. Jekyll—meet Mr. Hyde! Tonight, sir, you are a victim of your own mad mind!”

But he wasn't mad, and he damn well knew it. A dreamer or an idealist, maybe. He had learned all about the horrible effects of germ and chemical warfare. And so he'd begun work on a defensive gas that could combat numerous chemical and germ weapons: 44DFS. There were just side effects to it, and they had to be studied and eliminated. He was so close—and now this!

He screwed the cap back on the Scotch. So, her name was Katrina Denver. Well, the hell with the widow Denver.

Mike closed his eyes. He was seeing pink again. A nice cold shower might somehow relieve his tortured masculinity and remind him that he was a scientist tonight, not a hot-blooded man. Then he could lean back at the table and turn on the screens so that he could snooze and watch his unwilling subjects.