In McGillivray's Bed Page 12

  “We will.”

  “We don’t have to.”

  “We damned well do!”

  “Why? We can make it work,” she told him, “as long as we think ahead. As long as we account for all the possibilities and factor everything in.”

  “Oh, really?” Hugh said savagely. “What about this possibility? Have you factored in this?”

  He took three swift steps across the kitchen, snatched the spoon from her hand and dropped it on the counter, then hauled her hard against him and kissed her!

  The kiss was fierce, furious, frustrated. In it was all the desire and yearning he’d ever felt for the woman who would someday share his hopes and his dreams and his joys, his very life. In it there was all the pent-up need and emotion and desperation he’d felt for days.

  Days, hell! Months! Years!

  If only…

  And then, dear God, he wasn’t just kissing Sydney St. John.

  She was kissing him back!

  Her mouth was open, her tongue was tangling with his. The soft curves of her body were pressed against the hard planes of his own. The bottle slipped unnoticed from her hand, fell on the floor and rolled, and her fingers tangled in his hair. His arms wrapped around her, drew her even more tightly against him. His hips surged with a need he’d denied far too long.

  “Yesss.”

  He heard the word hiss through her lips, felt her hands slide between them to press against his chest. But not to resist. Not to hold him off. To touch, to stroke, to incite.

  He jerked back while he still had a sane cell in his brain. His chest was heaving. His heart pounded like the propellers right before takeoff. He stared at her, aching, needing. Wanting.

  And furious as hell that she wanted, too!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HUGH flung shirts and shorts, underwear and socks—everything he’d need for a couple of days away—into his duffel bag. Not that a couple of days was going to solve the problem.

  Nothing would solve the problem short of Sydney St. John flying away and never coming back. But she wasn’t doing that. She was waltzing around the house like they hadn’t nearly burned it down last night!

  No thanks to her that they hadn’t.

  Cripes, he could still taste her now, could still remember the way her mouth had opened to him, the way she’d drawn him closer, pressed harder, urged him on.

  He jerked open another drawer and dumped half the contents into his bag. God knew if he would need any of it. He just needed to get away.

  He sent up a prayer of thanksgiving for Tom Wilson’s stopping him on his way into The Grouper last night, saying he had business in Miami beginning tomorrow and wondering if Hugh might be able to take him.

  “If you can take me on from there, too,” he’d said, “that’d be fantastic. If not, I can hire a pilot once I get to Miami.”

  “I can do it,” Hugh had said. If it hadn’t been already dark he’d have suggested they leave right then.

  Instead he told Tom he’d meet him at the dock at nine, then he’d shouldered his way into The Grouper determined to drown his desire in a bottle of whiskey.

  It would be all over the island in minutes, he knew.

  “Hugh’s in The Grouper. Alone!”

  The buzz had begun almost as soon as he’d come through the door. He ignored it. So what if they muttered and tittered and gossiped that he and Syd were having problems?

  By God, they were having problems.

  If lusting after the most unsuitable woman in the world wasn’t a problem, he didn’t know what was. And having her welcome his advances was an even bigger disaster!

  What the hell had she been thinking?

  Well, obviously she hadn’t. So he was going to have to think for both of them.

  Something about the purposeful way he’d strode in and demanded whiskey must have made things clear. Michael the bartender wordlessly handed him a bottle and a glass and nodded his head toward a small table in the back.

  Hugh took it, then sat with his back to the wall, hunched over his glass, glaring at anyone who showed the slightest sign of coming near.

  Only one person had. Lisa Milligan came in with a couple of girlfriends, saw him by himself and her face lit up.

  Bloody hell.

  “Hugh. Haven’t seen you around lately,” she said smiling as she stopped at his table. “Did your friend leave?”

  “No.” He set his glass down with a thump, then poured himself another.

  “I, um, see.”

  He doubted it very much.

  She didn’t leave, though. Instead she cocked her head and asked sympathetically, “Is something wrong?”

  “What do you think?” he snarled, sick and tired of being Mr. Nice Guy, careful of everyone else’s feelings. Look where the hell that had got him. And what about his own feelings for a change?

  Lisa shifted from one foot to the other nervously. “Would you like to, um, join us?” she asked after a moment, her tone falsely cheerful. But she seemed so worried and so helpless that Hugh couldn’t bite her head off, even though he wanted to.

  “No. Thanks.” He took a deep breath and sighed, then added more whiskey to his glass and downed the whole thing before looking up at her. “You’re a sweet girl, Lisa, but I don’t want any company tonight.” Or ever.

  Which was probably what he should have said a long time past.

  Lisa smiled wanly. She nodded. “Of course.” She backed away, still smiling her nervous smile. “Maybe another time, then?”

  Hugh stared into his whiskey glass. “Yeah, Lisa. Maybe another time.”

  After Lisa, no one else came near. Lots of people looked his way, murmured to each other, sighed and shook their heads, then moved on. They ought to know in Nassau tomorrow that he and Syd had broken up.

  Who gave a damn? Hugh thought viciously, downing another shot and slapping the glass on the table. They’d never been together in the first place.

  He’d just wanted—

  He poured another whiskey and stared at the liquid swirling in the glass. He studied it in the dim light. Lifted it. Tasted it. Swallowed it. It burned like the others had. It didn’t seem to be deadening anything—least of all the memory of the taste of Sydney St. John’s mouth.

  He didn’t pay any attention to the passage of time. There was no point. He wasn’t going home until he had to.

  All the same, well before he was ready he heard, “Closin’ time, mon,” and looked up to see Michael standing beside the table, his windbreaker on, the keys to lock up in his hand.

  There was nothing left in the bottle, anyway. Hugh nodded and hauled himself to his feet. The room reeled lazily, dipped and swayed.

  “You okay?” Michael asked.

  “Just swell,” Hugh lied. “Never better.” He spotted the door and aimed toward it. It kept moving. Stools got in the way.

  Michael’s hand settled on his shoulder and steered him around them, then outside onto the steps. “You drink the whole thing?”

  “Yep.”

  “Lotta whiskey.” Michael shook his head. “Can you make it home?”

  “Eventually.”

  “I can call a taxi. My dad’ll give you a lift.”

  Hugh tried to shake his head. “I’ll walk. ’S a nice night.”

  “Storm brewin’, so they say.” Michael studied the stars. “Blow through in a coupla days.”

  Storm had been here already to Hugh’s way of thinking. He shrugged. “Long as it lets me go. I’m flying out in the morning. Goin’ to Miami.”

  “With your lady?”

  “No!” Hugh’s ferocity surprised even himself. He rubbed his hands down his face, then said it again more quietly. “No.”

  Michael patted his shoulder. “Like that, is it?”

  “Like what?” Hugh scowled.

  White teeth flashed in the darkness. “Can’t live with ’em. Can’t live without ’em.”

  Wasn’t that the truth, Hugh thought as he walked slowly home.

  And t
his morning he had the hangover to prove it.

  His head pounded. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a tide pool. His eyes felt as if they had barnacles under the lids. And he wished to God Syd would stop banging pots and pans while she sang in the kitchen. How the hell much noise did a woman have to make?

  He rolled up a pair of khakis and tossed them into the bag, then threw in his loafers on top of them. Maybe he’d go out tonight. Live it up a little. Meet a gorgeous woman to take his mind off the gorgeous woman driving him crazy.

  He zipped up the bag and walked out into the kitchen. Syd had her back to him, still singing cheerfully, rubbing his face in his pain.

  “I’m going to Miami,” he said harshly.

  She turned around. Her gaze flicked from his face to the duffel in his hand, but she didn’t say anything, just looked at him.

  “I could give you a ride,” he offered. One more chance. Say you’re leaving like you promised. “Get you back to your real life.”

  She shook her head. Slowly. Adamantly. “This is my real life. I resigned my job.”

  The last thing he wanted to hear.

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. And find yourself a place to move to while I’m gone.”

  Something—hurt?—flickered in her gaze. She pressed her lips together. “I’ll do that,” she said stiffly.

  “I’m staying over,” he told her, his tone flat and abrupt. “Don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I can’t take Belle. Do you want her here? If not, she can go to Molly’s.”

  “I’ll keep her.”

  They stared at each other. Seconds passed.

  “You can leave anytime,” Hugh told her. “If you change your mind, just drop her with Molly.”

  “I told you I’m staying. I’m not going to leave.”

  Their gazes locked. Hugh’s slid away first. He found himself staring at her mouth, found himself wanting to kiss her again.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered. “I’m outta here.”

  SYD stared at the lists on the table.

  Lists of contacts, of artists, artisans and craftspeople. Lists of island attractions and accommodations, of restaurants and motorbike rentals, of fishing guides for hire and scuba diving gear.

  “All the possibilities,” she’d told Lachlan and David yesterday, waving the lists at them. “I always think of all the possibilities.”

  But it wasn’t true.

  Not when it mattered. Not when it came to herself.

  Just like when Roland had announced their impending marriage, she’d missed something vital.

  Not anymore, she decided. Like Sleeping Beauty, kissed out of her slumber, Hugh’s kiss had awakened her to a new reality—and all sorts of possibilities she hadn’t dared think about.

  But now she did.

  Last night she had responded instinctively, eagerly, desperately. She had wanted Hugh McGillivray as she’d never wanted anyone in her life. She’d wanted his kiss, his body.

  Love?

  “Love?” She said the word aloud, tasting it, testing it. She sat still, staring into space. And then, because she was Sydney St. John, who had grown up making plans and drawing up lists, she printed the word out one letter at a time: L.O.V.E. on a piece of paper and stared at it.

  “Love?” she said in barely a whisper this time. “I love him.”

  The knowledge was deep and profound and so very basic that it took her by surprise. It wasn’t like a business plan or a merger or anything else that you had to think about beforehand and study all the angles of. It had simply happened.

  “I love him,” she said again, testing the words once more. He was completely wrong for her. Too hard, too sloppy, too opinionated, too stubborn.

  And yet…

  “I love him,” she said.

  Belle’s tail thumped.

  So did Syd’s heart. She took a quick tremulous breath, realized she was strangling the pen in a death grip and consciously made her fingers loosen and relax. Instead they shook.

  A kaleidoscope of McGillivray impressions formed and reformed in her mind—McGillivray playing with Belle, McGillivray running on the beach, McGillivray teaching her to snorkel, McGillivray telling her about some esoteric bit of island lore. McGillivray in bed with his arm around her. McGillivray’s lips on hers. McGillivray’s tongue tangling with hers.

  Oh, heavens. Oh, dear. Oh, help.

  Oh, yes.

  The question was: What was she going to do about it?

  Because even as she recognized her feelings for what they were—considerably more than simple lust—at the same time she had to acknowledge that he certainly wasn’t in love with her.

  She’d thought when she’d taken the job Lachlan and David had offered that doing so would prove to Hugh that she would stay, and that then he would trust her, and might be willing to explore “possibilities” with her.

  Now she wanted more than possibilities.

  She wanted his love.

  And he loved Carin Campbell. Carin was—he’d never denied it—the woman he’d hoped to spend his life with. And even though he couldn’t—and had accepted it—that didn’t mean he wanted second best.

  He had kissed her. He had wanted her. But it had been nothing more than pure physical hunger. Urgent hunger, to be sure. But urgency wasn’t love.

  All it meant was that he was a male living in close proximity with a female he found sexually appealing.

  Nothing else.

  Yet.

  Time stopped.

  Syd did, too. She stared at the word love on the paper in front of her. She knew the truth of it for her. But not for Hugh.

  He wasn’t in love with her yet.

  Syd drew a slow, careful, apprehensive breath. Was it possible for Hugh McGillivray’s feelings to change? Could urgent physical attraction turn into something more? Something deeper? Something lasting?

  It had for her.

  The simple realization jolted her, made her heart kick over, made the next breath she took come in a fast gulp. Her feelings for him had changed completely since she’d first met him. Why, then, couldn’t his change as well?

  “They could,” she breathed.

  “They can,” she said more firmly. She ventured a smile, then dared a grin. “Think of it as a challenge,” she whispered to herself. Because God knew it was. A far bigger challenge than organizing the assets and opportunities for tourism on Pelican Cay.

  But Syd relished a challenge. She thrived on them. She didn’t know how to change a man’s mind. She didn’t know how to alter his feelings.

  She only knew she had to try.

  “You never know until you try,” her father always said.

  Simon St. John had made his fortune trying and succeeding at things that other people hadn’t thought were possible. He’d also had some colossal failures, Syd reminded herself. He had not been a notably good father, in fact.

  But he’d made the effort. He’d done his best in his limited way. And that was better, she had to admit, than not trying.

  Heaven help her, she was apparently Simon’s daughter after all.

  TUESDAY passed and Hugh didn’t come back.

  Syd prowled the waterfront most of the day, ostensibly creating a map of Pelican Town with “points of interest” for visitors, but all the while watching for signs of his seaplane. It never came.

  He didn’t come back on Wednesday, either. She worked for Erica in the morning, then gave Belle a bath, washed the curtains, cleaned the windows, scrubbed the floors, then went into the shop and reorganized the filing so she could be there if he rang.

  He never rang.

  Thursday she had scheduled up a daylong meet-and-greet chat session at the Moonstone with all of the island’s artists, artisans and craftspeople. Lachlan had offered her the use of the front parlor and the services of Maddie, his spectacular cook, and Syd thought it would be an excellent way of getting everyone involved and making more one-on-one connections.

  But by the time Thursday rolled around, there w
as only one person in the world she wanted to go one-on-one with.

  And Hugh still hadn’t appeared.

  “He called this morning,” Molly said when Syd stopped by with Belle on her way to the meeting at the Moonstone. “I’m surprised he didn’t call you.”

  “I’m sure he called for business,” she said, smiling, and doing her best to look unconcerned.

  “He didn’t talk business,” Molly said. “He said he’d be in this evening. But then he didn’t know about the storm.”

  “What storm?”

  It was a clear blue sky as far as Syd could see. Hotter and muggier than yesterday, and even more than the day before, but this was August in the Bahamas. Heat and humidity were to be expected.

  “The Storm,” Molly repeated patiently. Her tone capitalized the S. “Obviously you haven’t been listening to Trina. If you’re going to be a real islander, Syd, you’ve got to pay attention to Trina.”

  Trina was the “weather girl” on the local radio station. More than that she was a local legend because, Syd had been told, she predicted the weather better than the U.S. National Weather Service and the Bahamian Service both.

  Privately Syd didn’t think that would be very difficult. She was reasonably certain that she could predict the weather better herself.

  Now she shrugged. “I’ve been…distracted.” The weather had been the least of her problems the last few days. But because Molly seemed to be expecting it, she asked, “What did Trina have to say?”

  “Storm coming from the east, should hit here this evening, moving on toward Florida overnight.” Molly repeated the words as if she had memorized them.

  “Sounds about like most days.”

  Granted she hadn’t been here long, but she’d lived in Florida for three years and they’d had their share of brief tropical downpours that drenched everyone, steamed things up or cooled things off, and were gone in scarcely more than an hour.

  They were not something, in her estimation, to be concerned about and, with apologies to Trina, she said so.

  “Not this one,” Molly replied. “Trina says this one will be a humdinger. They might even have to give it a name.”

  Syd looked doubtful. “As in a hurricane?”