McGillivray's Mistress Page 14

  He noticed.

  Lachlan had spent his life noticing tiny things that tipped him off to how the other team was going to play the ball. Over the years he’d honed his instincts well. Now he dared to hope she wasn’t quite as indifferent as she pretended to be.

  But at the rate she was going, they’d be old and gray before he ever even managed to kiss her again!

  Sometimes even the goalkeeper had to go on offense. Sometimes a guy had to make things happen, had to take a risk.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I SAW SOMETHING up at Eden Cove the other day that you might want to use for your sculpture.”

  Fiona looked down from astride the driftwood spar torso of The King of the Beach to see Lachlan squinting up at her.

  “Eden Cove?” Fiona echoed cautiously. She was attaching a black plastic lid eye patch that had floated in on last night’s tide. She wanted to concentrate on it. But Eden Cove was the most beautiful place she knew. A tiny perfect cove on the seaward side of nearby uninhabited Isla Seca, accessible only by boat, it was often the setting for tropical paradise photo shoots.

  Deserted, it was a place for lovers.

  Fiona had never been there with a lover. But she’d had her share of dreams and fantasies, many of them featuring Lachlan McGillivray and herself.

  “I don’t think so,” she said after a moment’s reflection.

  “Your loss.” Lachlan shrugged. He reached out and patted one of the sculpture’s driftwood legs. “Too bad, ol’ buddy.” He turned and began to walk away.

  “What sort of something,” Fiona called after him before she could stop herself.

  He turned back and shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked up again. “Fishing net.”

  Fiona couldn’t stop her eyes growing round and eager. A fishing net would be a perfect addition, the finishing touch bringing it all together. There was so much she could do with a fishing net.

  She’d been tempted more than once to use one of her dad’s. But from the beginning, everything she’d used had come in on the tide. Even the red bikini bottoms that had brought Lachlan, furious, to her door had fortuitously washed up on the beach. It was a rule she’d made when she’d begun. To use anything that hadn’t washed up would be cheating.

  “What sort of fishing net?” she asked cautiously, determinedly tempering her enthusiasm.

  If he thought that was a stupid question from a fisherman’s daughter, he didn’t say so. “Pretty big from the looks of it,” he told her. “It’s mostly buried in the sand. Looks pretty old. Maybe you wouldn’t be interested.” He started to turn away again.

  “And you just…just left it there?”

  He looked back. “Of course I left it there. Why would I want an old fishing net? I just thought you might. If you don’t…”

  “I do,” she said quickly before she could stop herself. Then she swallowed and tried to look casual. “I might,” she corrected. “I’ll check it out.”

  Lachlan nodded. “I’ll take you. Pick you up tomorrow morning about ten.” And before she could object, he sauntered off whistling, leaving Fiona to stare after him.

  IN THE MORNING the weather was gorgeous, hot but not sticky, a few puffy clouds, and the wind was light.

  “A perfect day for a sail,” Carin said when Fiona appeared at the shop to drop off some sand castles the next morning. “You’ll have a grand time.”

  She knew Fiona was going with Lachlan this morning. She knew why. There would be no more “island telegrams” confusing things where she and Lachlan were concerned.

  “I’m not going for a good time. I’m going for the net,” Fiona said firmly.

  Carin began unpacking the sand castles. “Well, my best guess is you’ll have a good time and you’ll get a net. Go on. Have fun. Enjoy. It’s a gorgeous day. Smile.”

  Fiona smiled. Faintly. She felt vaguely worried. Apprehensive. If Lachlan made one wrong move…

  But when Lachlan came to get her, she couldn’t fault him. He was prompt, cheerful, courteous. A regular Boy Scout, Fiona thought, and tried to scowl as she accompanied him down the quay to the dock.

  But it was difficult because it was, as Carin had said, a fantastic day.

  Having grown up around fishing boats, Fiona was used to being on the water. But she’d always been ballast while her brothers ran things. Boats were “guy stuff” and her involvement was not welcome.

  She had never sailed in a sailboat in her life.

  So she stayed out of the way while Lachlan warmed up the throaty diesel engine, untied and coiled the lines, then backed the boat out of the slip. Then, turning the boat into the wind, he adjusted the throttle so they were moving slowly, and motioned her over, then put her at the helm. “Keep it heading dead into the wind while I hoist the main.”

  Fiona looked at him in momentary wide-eyed panic. She’d never been allowed to take the wheel when her brothers were around. But Lachlan seemed to think it was no big deal. He didn’t even pay any attention to what she was doing, instead moving forward to raise the mainsail.

  Basking in his confidence, Fiona eased her death grip on the wheel slightly and took a deep breath as the boat churned steadily ahead and Lachlan cranked up the mainsail. Then he cleated off the halyard and stowed the winch handle before coming her way again.

  She started to move aside, but he shook his head. “Stay there,” he said, “and steer for the point while I unfurl the jib.”

  Surprised, Fiona did as she was told. She turned the wheel so they were headed slightly off the wind, a smile lighting her face as Lachlan unfurled the jib. The sails caught the wind and the boat began to pick up speed.

  Yes! she thought. Oh, yes!

  Then Lachlan cut the engine. And the sudden silence, broken only by the slap and hiss of water against the hull, startled her so that she laughed delightedly.

  Lachlan cocked his head. “What?”

  “Nothing. Everything. This is…it’s marvelous.” She beamed. “Sailing is, I mean. I never knew.”

  “Never knew? You’ve never sailed?” Now it was his turn to look amazed. “But your dad—Mike and Paul—”

  “My dad fished. My brothers fish. Dunbars spend their lives in boats. But for them boats are business, not pleasure. And they never let me do anything,” she admitted. “Some fishermen think women on boats are bad luck.”

  Lachlan looked as if she’d just uttered a sacrilege. But then he grinned and shook his head, his dark hair lifting in the breeze. “You don’t look like bad luck to me.”

  And just for an instant, when Lachlan’s eyes—as deep and blue as the sea—met hers, Fiona’s heart kicked over. Quickly she looked away, started to get up to move. But he blocked her in.

  “Stay put. Go ahead and sail her.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.” He moved behind her and put his hands over hers, and Fiona’s breath caught in her chest, but she didn’t object.

  They sailed up the coast and past the point. Then he taught her how to come about, turning through the eye of the wind while he brought the jib around and retrimmed the sails.

  When they reached the cove he had her steer again while he lowered the sails and started the engine. The noise seemed almost deafening, and Fiona was glad when he cut the engine again and lowered the anchor, then backed off the boat to set it about fifty yards from the shore.

  Eden Cove with its narrow sandy beach, crystal clear water and ring of coconut palms was every bit as beautiful as she remembered. It looked like the cover illustration for a romance.

  “It certainly captures the mood,” Julie had once said with a smile after she’d been there with Paul.

  “The blue lagoon,” Claire had agreed. “For real.”

  Fiona knew plenty of guys who had brought girls to Eden Cove. And she wondered again if there really was a net—or if Lachlan had designs of his own. She shot a quick look at him to see if she could read his mind.

  He was scanning the shoreline. “We can take the dinghy in fro
m here or swim. What’s your pleasure?” He sounded perfectly matter-of-fact and Fiona knew it was her own heated imagination that was creating the problems here, not Lachlan’s.

  “Swim,” Fiona said. A cool dunk in the ocean seemed a smart idea.

  Before she could feel self-conscious about stripping off her shirt and shorts, Lachlan said, “Race you,” pulled his own T-shirt over his head, kicked his flip-flops off, and dove over the side.

  Seconds later Fiona had stripped down to her navy-blue swimsuit and dove in after him.

  Lachlan swam like he played soccer and sailed and swung a hammer and tore down buildings, with easy grace and competence. Doing a leisurely breast stroke so she could watch him, Fiona wondered if there was anything physical he didn’t do well.

  She wondered how he made love.

  Oh God. She sank beneath the surface and didn’t come up until she’d controlled her wayward brain again.

  And when she got to a depth where she could stand, the first thing she said was, “Where’s the net?”

  “Here,” Lachlan said, and moved a few feet up the beach, then crouched down and began digging at something with his hands.

  By the time Fiona waded ashore, she could see he was dragging an old fisherman’s net out from where most of it had been buried beneath the sand.

  “Oh, wow!” She grinned with delight as she ran through the water and up the sand to help him dig. “Is that a float, too?”

  It was, indeed. A pale-green glass float was still attached. Carefully, Fiona dug around it, then lifted it and cradled it in her palm. “Oh, it’s lovely!”

  “Your brothers probably have a slew of them.”

  “But this one washed up on the beach,” Fiona said, giving him a brilliant smile. “This one is special.”

  He looked amused, but he didn’t argue and he helped her dig the rest of the net out.

  It had been ripped badly and the ends of the strands were frayed and torn. Not even the most dedicated old fisherman would mend it now, but as she ran her fingers over the mesh she could almost imagine the man who had used it day in and day out—a man like her father, a man of the sea.

  Holding the net in her lap, she lifted her gaze to meet Lachlan’s. “It’s perfect,” she told him. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  He looked almost embarrassed at her sincerity. He shrugged awkwardly and looked away, then got to his feet and brushed the sand off his legs. “No problem. I just figured you might be able to use it.”

  “I can use it,” she said softly, smiling up at him.

  “Yeah, well, good.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’m getting hungry. I’ll swim out to the boat and put in the raft and bring back lunch.”

  “Lunch?” she said, surprised.

  But Lachlan had already sprinted into the water and was swimming toward the boat. While he was gone, she gathered up the net and carried it into the water, then spread it out, rinsed it and folded it. She had washed the float as well by the time Lachlan returned in the dinghy.

  He had a picnic hamper with him and an old blanket that he carried ashore and spread out beneath what shade there was from the brush and the palms. Then, as Fiona watched, he opened the hamper and began setting out containers of food.

  “Conch salad,” he said as he set one down and then another. “Jerk chicken. Coconut shrimp. Breadfruit chips. Mango salsa—”

  “Lachlan! What on earth? Where did you get all that?”

  “Maddie made it.” She was the cook at the Moonstone. “I asked her for something to take along in case we got hungry.”

  “And she sent a feast?” Fiona was flabbergasted.

  “She’s practicing,” Lachlan said. “Come on. Sit down and dig in.” He was putting out plates and silverware as he spoke. “We’re experimenting with providing picnic lunches for the guests,” he told her. “Seeing what works. Consider yourself a guinea pig.” He grinned at her.

  “A guinea pig, my foot,” Fiona muttered. But she sat. She was hungry. Sailing had made her hungry. Being out in the fresh air, swimming, digging in the sand—all of it—made her ravenous. So she ate.

  It was wonderful. All of it. Lachlan opened a beer and offered her one, but she took a pineapple soda instead, then followed his lead and stretched out casually on the blanket.

  And they talked.

  He asked her about her sculpting and she told him what she was working on now. She asked him about the Sandpiper and he told her about the progress they were making there.

  “It’s been a challenge, but I’d enjoy it more if I were doing it myself instead of having to hire it done.”

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  “Because I have things that keep me on Pelican Cay,” he said. “That’s why I like helping Hugh. I like banging with hammers,” he confessed. “I’ve never minded getting my hands dirty.”

  And this was true, she realized. He had never simply thrown money into the restorations and renovations he had done on the Moonstone. And if he wasn’t doing the actual work on the Sandpiper and his other inns, he still, she was sure, had a hand in every decision, a finger in every pie.

  He was a stickler for detail. That’s what he’d been doing on Eden when he found the net, he told her.

  “I had heard there might be some good fieldstone back in the bush. We’ve been looking for some for the fireplaces. So I thought I’d check it out.”

  “That’s why you were here?” Fiona asked, she looked up from drawing in the sand and slanted him a quick glance.

  “That’s why,” Lachlan said. He looked her square in the eyes. “I didn’t bring anyone else here.”

  “I wasn’t asking!” Fiona protested, though she couldn’t deny her relief at his words. She felt better. Happier. She smiled at him.

  He smiled at her.

  The sun beat down on her back. Perspiration trickled between her breasts. She could hear the blood pounding in her veins, and her heart thudding loudly in her chest.

  “Swim?” Lachlan said and in one fluid movement rose to his feet. He held out a hand to her.

  Nerveless, Fiona put out hers and he drew her to her feet. They stood there inches apart. She could see the individual grains of sand against the tan of his hair-roughened chest.

  “C’mon,” he said, his voice husky. And, fingers still laced with hers, he drew her with him into the water.

  They swam together lazily, out to the boat and around it, using sidestrokes so that their gazes locked and they could speak.

  But they didn’t speak. They swam in wordless communion, their movements synchronized. And every now and then Fiona felt the brush of Lachlan’s foot on her calf or hers on his leg. They were fleeting touches. Nothing, really. And yet with every second her awareness grew, her breathing quickened, her sensitivity increased until even the feel of the water slipping over her made her tingle with anticipation.

  “Want to build a sand castle?” Lachlan asked suddenly, his voice sounding ragged to her ears.

  Fiona blinked and nearly sank. Build a sand castle? But—

  But then she drew a shaky breath and nodded. She put a damper on her anticipation. But it didn’t go away. It was still there. Like a banked fire, it warmed her more than the afternoon sun as they sprawled on the sand and built a castle.

  Lachlan moved energetically and with purpose. Fiona moved languidly, still feeling the heat of desire. It smoldered as she watched Lachlan’s strong arms digging and pressing and molding the sand, as she admired the hard muscles in his tanned calves and thighs as he crouched and shifted, as she studied the curve of his spine and his broad back and well-defined shoulders.

  And the fire sparked to life again every time Lachlan’s eyes met hers.

  “Hey, how come I’m doing all the work?” he asked, grinning and flicking the hair off his forehead.

  “I’m the contractor,” Fiona told him. “And you don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”

  “You don’t either,” he reminded her. “All that clay.”

&nbs
p; She remembered her hands in the clay, remembered them sculpting his body. She’d finished that piece finally a few days ago. And she’d done a pretty good job if she did say so herself. Of course, she’d had a lot of inspiration!

  Her gaze roved over him now.

  “Okay, that’s it! Enough castle.” Lachlan jumped to his feet and, grabbing her hand, ran with her into the water, only letting go when he dove beneath the surface.

  On fire now, Fiona ran with him and dove, too.

  And when they came up, Lachlan kissed her.

  It was a gentle kiss. Asking, not demanding. If it had been demanding, she could have resisted, her defenses would have saved her.

  But she had no defense against his gentleness. Against him.

  Not any longer. He’d got under her defenses. He’d made her love him.

  She kissed him back. She touched him, running her hands over his arms and shoulders and down his hard wet back.

  And he touched her.

  It was everything Fiona ever dreamed of and more. Her fantasies had been wonderful. Reality was so much more.

  The kiss that began as a gentle question within seconds became a demanding conflagration. His hands were learning her curves, making her tremble. Her body was turning to quivering jelly. And Lachlan’s was turning to steel.

  And then he lifted her and carried her out of the water up to the blanket on the beach under the palms where he gently laid her down. Then kneeling beside her, he ran his hands over her. She could feel the fine tremor in his fingers and smiled at the knowledge that he was affected, too.

  And then there was no more reflection, no more thinking. Only feeling. Only touching.

  Her swimsuit vanished. His trunks disappeared. And feverishly she explored his body with her hands, learning through them what the clay had only approximated. When she sculpted, the clay felt alive.

  But not like this.

  Clay was not hot the way Lachlan was hot. It never grew under her touch, never responded as eagerly as the man did, his muscles tensing, his whole body growing taut, the breath hissing between his teeth.