Eden's Spell (7 page)

“Here! The dinghy.”

Almost blinded, Katrina stumbled that way. She was soaked to the bone. Even with the wind, it wasn't cold, but the feeling of being so very wet was miserable and chilling. Jason, she realized, had nothing on but his trunks, and yet he was probably just as well off, since nothing was protection against the onslaught.

Mike was struggling to hold the dinghy next to the
Maggie Mae.
“Come on!” He urged her.

“Jason—go!” Katrina said to her son, glad then that he was agile, that he was accustomed to boats and water, that he was a little boy full of ability, independence, and coordination. Still, she steadied him when he leapt to the rim with his bare feet.

Mike caught his body and set him into the one of the seats. Then he looked back to Katrina.

She, too, balanced onto the rim, comfortable with her own coordination. But just then a gust of wind sheeted against her with enormous strength and she plummeted back to the deck of the
Maggie Mae,
the breath knocked from her, her head spinning. Water filled her mouth instantly, and she choked, tears stinging her eyes.

She hadn't seen him come, she didn't even know how he was there so quickly, but he was. His slicker was gone; even his shoes were gone. And his arms were around her, helping her, lifting her up.

She choked, coughed, and assured him, “I'm all right. I—”

“Is your head okay? Seeing any spots?”

“No. No!”

She didn't have to climb to the rim again, he was lifting her over it, setting her feet into the tossing dinghy. He let her go because she was then below his reach. She quickly ducked to a sitting position to keep the dinghy from capsizing.

Then the sharp sound of a snap brought her staring back up with horror; the line had broken, and the dinghy was instantly pitching away from the
Maggie Mae
with no lead, no purpose or reason.

Mike was still on deck.

Shouting at her, of all damned things.

“What?” she screamed against the fury of the wind. “Come on!”

Could he swim? she wondered, her heart pounding mercilessly. He was a sailor, wasn't he? But even if he could swim, the water was murderously rough! Currents were seething all around them. Breaking surface did not mean that one could breathe; the rain was like a blanket, cold and miserable. And there were the reefs below them, beautiful coral shelves that could be wickedly sharp and dangerous when the water was this strong, strong enough to toss a body about as if he were feather light. She knew how cruel those reefs could be. So beautiful yet so treacherous, waiting like sirens of time to prey upon the unwary, merciless even to those who knew and loved them.

“The oars, Mom!” Jason already had one; she was staring back at the
Maggie Mae
with open mouthed horror while her eight-year-old was maturely taking things in hand. “He said to get the oars!”

Nodding dumbly, she reached for the second oar and set it into the water. The initial force threatened to wrench her arm from her shoulder. How was Jason managing this?

And how could she be falling apart when she had her son to worry about?

But she looked back to the
Maggie Mae.
Taylor was no longer anywhere in sight. The deck looked bleak and naked. The sea seemed to stretch into countless yards between them, all frothing gray and vicious whitecaps.

“Oh, God!” she gasped out.

“He'll come!” Jason promised her. “He'll come!”

When?
she wanted to shriek. Moments passed, endless moments, in which she saw nothing but the engulfing wrath of the waves, rising higher and higher. And she knew that below them, not far below them, the coral reached out in its deadly dance. The reefs were alive, with a combined will that beckoned, demanding its sacrifice. Long ago, pirates had likened the reefs to a seductress, one who lured boats to shipwreck, who reached out with eager, eerie fingers to claw at a man….

“There he is!” Jason yelled out.

And he was, his head just breaking surface about ten yards away. Somehow, the sight of him steadied Katrina. She held her oar firm against the power of the water; she defied it with confidence. She couldn't row back to Mike's position, but with Jason's help she could keep the dinghy from drifting away.

He disappeared again; panic began to gnaw at her. But then a hand, large and bronzed and powerful, shot out of the water. Fingers found a hold on the dinghy.

Katrina dropped her oar into the boat and grasped his wrist with both hands. His head appeared again, and then his other hand. His steel gaze caught hers for just a second, and ludicrous as it was, he seemed to smile—amused by the anxiety he found in hers.

Then the muscles in his arms tightened and bulged, and he pitched his body into the dinghy.

For a moment he just lay there, legs crooked over one seat, torso bent. He gasped for breath and searched for her oar again. They still weren't home safe; they wouldn't be until they reached the beach. And even then there would be a quarter of a mile to go inland, through falling palms and branches, until they reached, the house.

“You okay?” Jason shouted out.

That seemed to rouse Mike.

“Yeah, son, I'm fine.” He gathered his length together carefully, not rising to rock the boat as he slid up to sit next to Katrina, reaching for her oar.

“I can do it—” she began.

“Not half as quickly,” he told her, and for that she had no argument. She didn't have his strength.

The shore couldn't have been a hundred yards away, but it seemed that it took them an hour to get there. With every movement forward the wind pushed them back. The rain filled the dinghy until it seemed that it would sink with the weight.

But then they were there; the dinghy scraped the beach.

Katrina hopped out of it, grabbing the line. Jason was quickly at her side, and the two of them together grappled the towline. It dragged their weight, the tide ready to swallow it up again.

But then Mike was with them, adding his weight to theirs. Slowly, the dinghy crawled onto the shore. When it was deeply imbedded into the sand, he dropped the rope, the signal for Katrina and Jason to do the same.

For a moment they all fell to the sand—and gasped for breath. But the rain had not relented, and even as Katrina panted, willing her exhausted muscles to work again, there was a hand stretched to her.

Mike.

She took his hand and stumbled back to her feet. Jason, it seemed, was in control now. “Come on!” he called out.

Katrina was proud of him, very proud. He had met it all as a challenge, without complaint. He had to be freezing, clad only in his bathing trunks. And here he was like some adventurer, ready to forge ahead, already running into the trail …

“Stop him!” Katrina cried out with sudden horror. The palm fronds were touching the ground; she heard a horrendous snapping sound, and knew that somewhere, something larger and heavier than a palm had lost a branch.

Later, she would realize that there was one definite thing she had to appreciate about Mike Taylor. He could assess a situation quickly, without needing explanations.

He was after Jason, like a shot; he was standing above the boy when a whole bunch of coconuts fell like cannons.

Katrina screamed as the pair fell, and rushed to them. “Jason!”

Jason crawled out from beneath Mike's bulk, white and blanched with horror. “Mom!” For that instant he sounded like what he was—a very frightened little boy.

Katrina fell to her knees at Mike's side. Oh, Lord, what if he was unconscious, what if he was …
No!
She wouldn't think it!

“Captain Taylor!” She began to toss the coconuts a little madly away from him; then she heard him groan. His eyes opened, then shut instantly again as the rain lashed into them.

“Can you get up?” Katrina pleaded, pulling at his arms.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said hoarsely, a frown furrowing his brow.

“Come on, please!” Katrina urged him to take his hands in her own. She didn't know if he was injured; she just knew that they had to find shelter, before something was uprooted completely and trapped them.

“I'm up, I'm up!” He gasped, and then he was standing, shaking his head slightly. He was wet to the bone, his shirt so thoroughly plastered to his body that he might as well have been bare chested. Katrina could see the sinews there, deep lines and grooves that clearly delineated a well-toned structure, and she felt somewhat better. He couldn't be really hurt; he appeared too powerful to be felled by any storm.

“Down the trail?” he asked suddenly.

Katrina nodded, and then she found that he had an arm around them each, that he was using his body again as a shelter for theirs. And she couldn't protest. She would have allowed anyone to serve as a shield for her son; he was her world. She would have laid her own body over him; Mike would never have let her, and it might well have been right. He had the size and the strength to protect them all.

It was as if the wind knew that they were escaping and was angered by the fact. It began to howl in keening banshee tones, ripping through the foliage with a newfound wrath. The fronds were flying and falling everywhere. Coconuts fell; Katrina screamed as a small mangrove was uprooted before them.

“The house!” Jason yelled out, and there it was, before them. Built on countless pilings, composed of solid concrete block and stucco and built to withstand the heartiest storm. Whitewashed and welcoming, it was just feet away.

But just then a palm came flying wickedly through the air; it caught Mike's shoulder and Katrina's midriff with such force that she cried out, doubling over.

“Run ahead!” Mike shouted to Jason, and Katrina found herself in his arms again, staring into his grim features as his hurried strides brought them along the tile path.

Jason pulled open the screen door; it flew off, the hinges breaking like straws. Balancing Katrina effortlessly, Mike reached for the hardier, wooden door, holding it with all his strength until they were inside, then pulling it shut before the wind could grasp it.

And then, just for a second, he stood there, silently surveying the house: the warm living room with its beige tones and oranges and Mexican tile flooring, the fireplace, the dining room with its immense Spanish oak table, the huge seascape on the wall, the softball and soccer trophies that lined the mantel, and the pictures that resided between them.

Then he looked down at Jason. “Where's your mother's bedroom?”

“I'm all right—” Katrina began, starting to struggle from his hold. But she wasn't. She was water-logged and frozen and miserable, and her middle hurt as if there were knives in it.

“This way,” Jason said.

Shivering in misery, Katrina closed her eyes. She didn't want this man in her bedroom. Not because of him; because of her. Because she barely knew him, and she had made him part of a fantasy that should have belonged to James.

It was too easy to think of him as a man. Flesh and blood, muscle and tone and silver-and-steel eyes and a voice that was deep and husky, compelling …

Oh, God, what was wrong with her?

She opened her eyes and found herself lying on her bed. Ridiculously, she was glad that it was made, glad that the house was clean and neat, that her clothing was all picked up and away.

“We've got to get this thing off—” he was saying, and ridiculously, once again, she found herself grasping the soaked slicker and muttering, “No!”

She heard his vast sigh of impatience and felt like a stubborn two-year-old.

“Mrs. Denver, I am a physician, and if you've got broken ribs, we've got a problem to handle.”

Then Jason was at her side, holding her hand, grinning down at her, both concerned and mischievous.

“Come on, Mom, behave! Maybe he'll even give you a balloon or a lollipop after the examination.”

She turned crimson and shot her son a quick, warning glare. But he was laughing, and Mike was laughing, and suddenly, it seemed good just to hear them laugh.

She sat up and let them both pull away her slicker, and then the white terry robe she had snatched from Taylor's cabin floor.

“Now, that's it!” she protested, but Mike was way ahead of her, smooth and calm and cool.

“It should suffice—for now.”

She felt his hands, grazing just beneath her breast, gentle, so very gentle. Large hands, long, tapering fingers, moving with care, touching her to the soul. Sliding along her ribcage, so thoroughly, so lightly that they didn't even hurt her bruised flesh.

He grinned. “I can't find any breaks or cracks.” He shrugged. “But be a little careful, huh?”

Katrina, seeing his eyes, feeling his eyes, just nodded. But then she murmured, “I've got to have a shower; the water lines will probably go with the storm and—”

“No shower. A careful bath.” He looked at Jason. “Will you pour your mother a bath, Jason? Then take a shower yourself, and fill the tub and—”

“I know, I know!” Jason interrupted good-naturedly. “We get lots of storm warnings here, sir. We're all prepared for a hurricane. This is a hurricane isn't it?”

“Feels like it,” Mike agreed. “I'll see what I can get on the TV or radio as soon as I get the shutters down. Okay, Jason? Let's get started.”

He was up, moving toward the door. Jason was heading toward her bathroom. She felt outnumbered, as if the men had decided that the fragile little woman was out of the way and they could get on with things!

She wasn't fond of the feeling. She had fought alone for far too long to be shoved aside.

But Mike had been there when she needed him—really needed him. When Jason had been threatened. He had protected him, risking his own life to do so.

“Captain Taylor!” she snapped out, and he turned.

“What”—she paused, absurdly having to moisten her lips to finish—“what about you? Are you all right? All the coconuts …?