In McGillivray's Bed Read online

  An image of Hugh McGillivray flickered unbidden in her brain.

  The sizzle between herself and McGillivray was exactly the opposite of the bloodless intellectual—and economic—merger that would have resulted from marrying Roland Carruthers.

  Not that she was considering marrying McGillivray. Perish the thought!

  Despite what Mr. Full-of-Himself Fly Guy implied, she had absolutely no interest in a relationship with him. Arrogant so-and-so! Syd wrapped her arms against her breasts and gave herself a little shake.

  But the image didn’t vanish. And she had to admit she was curious about that sizzle, those sparks. That wasn’t something she’d ever felt before. Stirrings of interest, yes, now and then, when she’d encountered an attractive man.

  But crackle, snap, pop? No. Never.

  There had been times when Syd wondered if she had it in her to feel those things. Now she knew.

  And her curiosity was piqued.

  Would it happen again? She wanted to know.

  Another reason to stay on Parakeet—no, Pelican—Cay. She would find a job and prove herself as she should have done years ago instead of trying to be the son her father had never had. And she would learn more about this intriguing sizzle between herself and McGillivray.

  “You might be playing with fire,” she warned herself aloud.

  Well, yes. There was a danger of that. There was a danger to McGillivray. Even a novice to sizzle could see that.

  But Syd believed in learning from experience. The more she could learn about “sizzle” now that it had finally happened to her, the better prepared she would be to appreciate it when it finally happened with the right man.

  The breeze from the ocean touched her face and she smiled into it, looking forward, not back, relishing the challenge.

  Then in the moonlight Syd caught sight of a man coming out of the water.

  A lean hard man.

  A graceful glistening man.

  A naked man.

  And she stared, mesmerized, as McGillivray stood for a moment silhouetted in the streaming silver light. Her mouth grew dry, her palms damp. Her heart kicked over in her chest, and an urgent sizzling heat curled downward from the middle of her belly. Flames of desire licked at her.

  If the thought of going to bed with Roland had left her somewhere between indifferent and nonplused, the thought of sharing a bed with McGillivray was a whole different story.

  She held herself absolutely still, drinking in the sight of him and at the same time trying to get a grip on her buzzing brain and rampaging hormones. There was sizzle, all right. And sparks and fireworks and, if she weren’t careful, a whole conflagration.

  That was why she needed to stay. To learn to control the fire.

  Tomorrow. And in days to come. Right now she was going to bed. Alone.

  She’d made enough life-changing decisions for one day.

  HUGH loved his hammock. As long as he didn’t have to spend the night in it. It was great for lazy afternoon naps. It was fine for wiling away a summer evening drinking a beer and reading a book.

  But nights—whole nights—got long. Very long. Especially if a guy couldn’t sleep.

  Hugh couldn’t sleep.

  Ordinarily he slept like the proverbial baby. “It’s all that innocence and virtue,” he always claimed.

  “All that beer more like,” his sister, Molly, always countered.

  But neither beer nor virtue nor a good long swim had taken him to dreamland tonight.

  Maybe, Hugh reasoned as he tried for the hundredth time to find a comfortable spot, it was just too damn hot. Or maybe there wasn’t enough support for his back. Or maybe it was not being in his own bed that was keeping him awake.

  More likely, he decided grimly, it was who was in his bed instead of him that was making him turn over and over like a chicken revolving on a spit. It was well past three in the morning and he’d barely shut his eyes.

  Every time he did, visions of Sydney St. John lying between his sheets popped into his brain. He ground his teeth and shifted again. And again. And again. The swim should have tired him out. It certainly should have taken the edge off his desire.

  He wasn’t a teenager anymore, for heaven’s sake! He was an adult—a man in control of his urges.

  Finally, in a fit of irritation, he flipped over with enormous force—and flung himself right out onto the porch floor.

  “Damn it!”

  Belle, who had leaped off her blanket by his feet, whined and looked at him warily. Then she took hold of the corner of her blanket and pulled it away from the hammock. He’d get away from him, too, if he could.

  “Hell,” he muttered, rubbing the shoulder on which he’d landed, then hauling himself to his feet. He eyed the still-swaying hammock with distaste. No point trying it again. It wouldn’t work.

  He might as well head over to the shop. There was a couch there. But even more likely to put him to sleep was the pile of paperwork he had been avoiding for the past couple of weeks. If anything could knock him out, he knew from boring experience, it would be that.

  Hugh bent down to scratch Belle’s ears. “Go back to sleep. I won’t bother you anymore.” Then, yawning, he padded across the porch and opened the screen door to the kitchen.

  He flipped on the light—and stared in amazement. The place was spotless. There wasn’t a dirty dish in sight.

  He grinned. So snooty Miss Sydney could turn to, when she was challenged. Somehow he wasn’t surprised. Any woman who had the guts to jump overboard in the middle of the damn ocean—

  Hugh shook his head, reminding himself that she was seriously wacko. She had to be to have done that. And she was even crazier to think that she was going to get a managing director’s job on Pelican Cay.

  She’d just been babbling over dinner, annoyed—and rightly so, he admitted—that she’d been wasting her time in a job where she was obviously capable but not appreciated. He didn’t blame her for wanting to prove herself.

  He just didn’t want her proving herself here.

  Well, he didn’t have to worry about that. Only his brother Lachlan’s inn-and-resort business was extensive and complex enough to require a managing director. And Lachlan did that himself. All the rest of the islanders ran their own smaller operations by themselves, too. Multinational corporations were not thick on Pelican Cay’s sandy beaches as Sydney St. John would discover damn quick.

  And then she’d be on her way.

  The thought cheered him enough that he took down the sugar bowl where he kept a stash of dollars and coins, dumped it all on the table and scrawled a quick note: “Use this to get yourself some clothes. If you need more money, give them this note. I’ll cover for you. H.”

  Neither place would be what she was used to—not if the beaded dress was anything to go by. But that would just encourage her to leave even sooner. In the meantime she could wear something of his.

  He glanced around and realized that all his clean clothes were gone. The dirty ones were still there—in a pile in the corner—but the ones he’d washed last weekend were no longer in the chair.

  “Hell’s bells.” She’d obviously taken it upon herself to clean them up, too. Probably took them in the bedroom and put them in the dresser drawers like some obsessive neat freak. Which meant he was going to have to go into the bedroom to get something to wear.

  She was asleep on his bed.

  Long, bare limbs silvery in the moonlight slanting through the blinds, Sydney St. John lay on her back, one arm flung out, the other across her middle. A cloud of dark hair framed her face.

  What a face, Hugh thought. The hell with managing director jobs, the woman should be a cover model.

  He ought to know. He had flown enough of them to and from photo shoots all over the islands. He knew cover-model-quality cheekbones when he saw them. He had seen—and kissed—his share of cover-model-quality lips, too.

  Sydney St. John had them both. And even that scattering of freckles he’d seen earlier wo
uldn’t have deterred photographers. On the contrary, it would have enchanted them, made her look “approachable,” “wholesome,” “all-American.” Hugh knew all the adjectives. He knew they were all true.

  In sleep, he admitted, even her stubborn chin had something to recommend it.

  Then, as he stood watching her, her lips twitched and twisted. She frowned and muttered. Her long legs scissored and she rolled onto her side, clutching the pillow against her breasts like a shield.

  “No!” she said fiercely. “I won’t!”

  Hugh backed away. No point in eavesdropping. Especially when he didn’t want to hear her distress. He jerked open a drawer. His clothes were all there, folded neatly. Now it was his turn to mutter under his breath.

  “No! I said, no!” Her voice was agitated.

  Hurriedly Hugh pawed through the stack of shirts, grabbed one, got a pair of shorts and boxers out of the drawer below, started to shut them, then pulled out clothes for her, as well. Then, without looking back, he left the room.

  “No!” Her voice followed him. He yanked on his clothes, trying to ignore her. But Hugh had always been a sucker for damsels in distress. He raked a hand through his hair, cracked his knuckles and headed for the door. Belle met him there, cocking her head to look at him worriedly.

  “Not our business,” Hugh told her firmly. It wasn’t. And not their problem, either. “C’mon, Belle.”

  From the bedroom he heard, “Stop it! No, I won’t! I won’t!”

  And there was a loud bang.

  “Oh, God! Now what?” He hurried back to the bedroom expecting to find her on the floor.

  She wasn’t. Instead she’d twisted around and punched the wall so hard there was a crumbling hole in the plaster.

  “For crying out loud.” Hugh crossed the room as she rolled back over. Her eyes opened and she saw him looming next to the bed.

  “Get away!” she shouted and took a roundhouse swing that caught him in the eye.

  “Ow! Bloody hell!”

  “Ohmigod!” She stared at him, dazed and astonished. Her breaths came in quick gasps as she rubbed her hand vaguely and finally seemed to realize where she was. Then her shoulders slumped, her eyelids shuttered.

  “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”

  “Yeah,” he said dryly. “It’s me.” Carefully, tentatively, he touched his eye. And winced.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, wincing, too. “I didn’t mean…I was…dreaming.”

  “Nothing personal, then?” Hugh said lightly, steeling himself against feeling sorry for her, against reaching out and hauling her into his arms as his instincts wanted to. Fortunately his sense of self-preservation was stronger.

  Damn but she packed a wallop.

  “Sorry,” she muttered again. “I thought you were…”

  “Roland?”

  She nodded, shaking, wrapping her arms across her chest, then rubbed her bruised knuckles against her lips and grimaced.

  “You all right? Maybe you need a doctor.”

  “I don’t need a doctor.” Her eyes flashed. Her chin lifted. “I’m fine.”

  “Right. Sure you are. You’re probably having a delayed reaction. Shock.”

  She started to deny it, then shrugged. She turned to look at the hole she’d put in the wall. “Did I do that?”

  “Unless it was a snake,” Hugh said.

  Her eyes snapped back to meet his, wide as dinner plates, then they looked wildly around the room.

  “Kidding,” Hugh said.

  Sydney shuddered. “Not funny.”

  “Probably not.” But a whole lot safer than reaching for her and comforting her. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “You’re tense. How about a little something to make you relax?”

  “What?” She raised a brow. “You mean like a beer?”

  “If you want,” he said offhandedly. “But I was thinking of something else. My aunt Esme swore by it. Used to give it to us all the time. Whenever we were twitchy.”

  “Twitchy?”

  “Upset. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Oh. Your aunt Esme did that?” She looked at him suspiciously as if he were making her up.

  He nodded. “My father’s aunt, really. Esme had a cure for everything. She always knew best.” He shook his head ruefully at all his memories of bossy, domineering Aunt Esme. “I’ll fix you some.” Anything to get out of standing there watching her breasts move beneath the cotton of her borrowed T-shirt. Hastily he headed for the kitchen.

  Bare feet slapped on the floor following him. “What is it? What are you making?”

  “Never mind. You can’t watch. If you do, it won’t work. Go back to bed. I’ll bring it in.”

  For a minute he thought she would refuse. She eyed him warily. “Why won’t it work?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what she always said. My dad said it was because she put eye of newt in it.”

  “Eye of newt?” Syd looked appalled.

  Hugh grinned. “My dad’s a doctor. He thinks Esme’s a quack.”

  “And that’s why you’re fixing me her cure-all?”

  “I’m fixing it so you can sleep. Go back to bed. No eye of newt,” he promised.

  The corners of her mouth tipped up. Then she sighed and shrugged. “All right.” She gave another shudder. “I just hope it works.”

  Hugh hoped she’d be asleep by the time he heated it and brought it in to her.

  Of course she wasn’t. When he returned she was back in bed with the small bedside lamp on. He handed her a mug. She sniffed it suspiciously.

  “Smells like eye of newt.”

  “Nope. It’s lizard. Drink up.”

  Sydney choked. She looked at him, aghast, then heaved a sigh. “You are so juvenile.” Gripping the mug, she brought it to her lips and took a cautious sip. “It’s hot.” She touched her tongue to her lips. “It’s just milk,” she decided, then tasted again. “And something else.”

  “Lizard,” Hugh repeated. “And a few spiders.”

  “Right. And snakes, I’m sure.”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “Aunt Esme was afraid of snakes.”

  “I don’t believe you even have an aunt Esme. You put rum in this,” she said accusingly.

  He shrugged. “Figured you were old enough to drink.”

  Sydney nodded and took another, deeper swallow, then settled back against the pillows. “It’s good.” She smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

  The smile had him stepping back away from the bed. He nodded quickly. “Glad you like it. Drink it all up, then shut out the light and go back to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow—well, today, really—afternoon.”

  “Afternoon?”

  “I’m gonna head over to the shop.”

  “Now?” She stared at him.

  He shrugged and swallowed a yawn. “Why not? Not getting any sleep here.” He arched his aching back. “Hammock’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  She winced. “I’m sorry. When I angled to sleep in your bed, I didn’t realize you were a working man who really needed your sleep.” She actually sounded slightly abashed. “I’ll take the hammock.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can catch a few winks on the couch in the office.” He turned to go.

  “What about your eye?” she demanded. “You should have ice for your eye.”

  “I don’t need ice.”

  “You’ll have a black eye in the morning if you don’t. I’ll get you some.” And damned if she didn’t start to get out of bed.

  “The hell you will,” Hugh said, blocking her way. “I’ll get my own ice, if I decide I need any.”

  Their gazes locked, dueled. When he and Lachlan were little they’d had these pretend swords that lit up with sparks whenever they hit each other. Hugh felt like he was seeing those same sparks now. He gave his head a fierce shake. And grimaced because his eye did hurt.

  “I’ll put some ice on it,” he muttered, “if you just shut up and go to bed.”

  Once more s
he looked as if she might refuse, but then she tucked her feet back under the sheet and nodded. “All right.” She paused. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said with equal politeness. Their gazes met once more—and lingered. Finally Hugh dragged his away, turned and started out of the room.

  “McGillivray?”

  He stopped. “What?”

  “I…I really am grateful. I’ll fix the hole in the wall.”

  He’d forgotten about the damn hole. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I will. I—”

  “Go to sleep, St. John,” he said firmly, and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

  But when he got to the porch, he didn’t feel as if he should leave. What if she had another nightmare? She’d hit the wall last time. What if Esme’s potion didn’t calm her down? What if she panicked? Got disoriented?

  Hugh sat down on the porch swing. It was even less comfortable than the hammock. He went back into the house and sat on one of the kitchen chairs. No good, either. He made himself a bed on the pile of laundry in the corner on the floor. Not too bad. He rolled onto his side so he could see the bedroom light beneath the door.

  Belle padded over and stuck her face down next to his and looked at him quizzically.

  “Don’t ask,” Hugh muttered.

  Belle wandered back outside and settled onto her bed. From the bedroom he heard the bed creak. The light went off.

  Hugh glanced at his watch—4:00. Swell. He shifted. He stretched. He sighed. He squirmed.

  Sydney slept.

  At least he assumed she did. He didn’t. He was getting too damn old for floors. And his eye throbbed. He got some ice, put it in a plastic bag and held it against his face. That was what he was doing when the shouting started again.

  “Damn it to hell!” Hugh tossed the ice bag into the sink and stalked into the bedroom.

  Syd was thrashing on the bed, arms and legs churning.

  “Wake up!” he shouted from across the room.

  She sat up abruptly and stared at him, dazed. “What? Why are you yelling at me?”

  “I’m not the one yelling, sweetheart. That was you.”

  “Oh.” Her head sagged forward and she thrust her hands through her hair. “Oh, I’m sorry. I—”