Читать книгу Her Secret Treasure - Cindi Myers, Cindi Myers - Страница 11

FOG SURROUNDED Sandra, obscuring her vision, clouding her thoughts. She had a vague memory of sitting in a chair, drinking wine with…someone. She couldn’t remember. Then she was sinking into oblivion, waking yet not waking to the sensation of strong arms wrapped around her, carrying her to a bed.

Deft hands undressed her. Masculine hands, with strong fingers that caressed her naked breasts and stroked her bare thighs with a shocking possessiveness. She opened her mouth to protest, but could only sigh as his touch aroused a pleasure unlike any she had ever known. She reached for him, calling his name. “Frederick.”

How did she know his name? She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t bring it to mind. Yet his touch was familiar to her. More than familiar, it was something she craved, needed, in a way she had never needed anything before.

He stretched beside her on the bed, naked also. She had a sense of muscular limbs, of the weight of him pressing her into the comforter, his hands parting her thighs, stroking her, fingers plunging inside her. She arched to him, shamelessly begging for more.

He reached one hand to fondle her breasts, plucking at one nipple, then the next. Desire lanced through her, sharp and urgent. She raised her head, desperate to see his face, but saw only a shock of blond hair.

He was skilled and masterful, anticipating the touch that would arouse her most, his fingers playing across her clit, bringing her to the edge of release but no further. She writhed beneath him, wild with wanting, beyond caring who he was or how he knew her, wanting only the ecstasy he promised yet withheld.

Then he was pushing her back again, spreading her legs farther, plunging into her with a force that stole her breath. He filled her completely, perfectly, the rhythm of advance and retreat sending her spiraling upward again. She clutched handfuls of the comforter beneath her, the silky fabric bunching in her hands as he rode her, his face still lost to her in the haze she couldn’t shake.

She gave up fretting about it, surrendered everything to the tension growing within her. He moved faster, thrusting harder, and brought his hand down to fondle her clit once more.

At his touch, she shattered, crying out as heat and light flooded her, leaving her trembling, fully sated. She felt the clench and release of his muscles as he met his own climax, and held him tightly as he shuddered in her arms.

A profound weariness filled her, and she closed her eyes and slept, still clinging to her mystery lover, praying he would never leave.

SANDRA WOKE TO SUNLIGHT spilling from the porthole in her cabin, a dull ache in the back of her head, her thoughts a kaleidoscope of broken images. She frowned, trying to concentrate. She’d had dinner last night with Adam. They had drunk the wine he’d brought and then…

Heat flooded her face as memories of wild sex with a faceless stranger filled her. Had that been Adam?

She sat up, alarmed, and discovered she was still dressed in the red gown she’d chosen last night and that she lay on top of the comforter, which had half slid to the floor. There was no sign of the professor—no note, no indentation on the pillows other than her own.

Had it all been a dream, then? She pushed her hair back from her face and tried to concentrate. The fog, the faceless man, her own passiveness—they all pointed to a dream. Though one of the most vivid and erotic dreams she had ever experienced. She was sure she’d climaxed. Was that even possible? Men had wet dreams, but could women?

She shook her head and carefully crawled out of bed. The headache was already abating, and she felt none of the queasiness that signaled a hangover. But she had no memory of anything after she’d begun to eat the strawberries she’d chosen for dessert.

Had Adam put something in her wine to knock her out? One of the date-rape drugs she’d reported on that rendered their victims helpless? But why would he do that? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already been a perfectly willing partner….

She stumbled into the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, checking carefully for any sign that she’d been molested. But her underwear was still in place; she bore no bruises. And beyond all that was her conviction that Adam wouldn’t do something like that. He had to know that if he wanted her, all he had to do was ask. He had no need to drug her.

She turned on the shower and stepped inside, raising her face to the hot spray. Maybe she’d had a bad reaction to something they’d eaten. She’d heard certain toxins could cause hallucinations. Could they also cause erotic dreams? She smiled. If so, maybe she should figure out what food had been the culprit and eat it again. She didn’t know if she’d ever had a real sexual encounter as intense as the one she’d dreamed.

She poured shampoo into her palm and lathered it into her hair. The dream had been odd in others ways, too. Disturbing even. Her dream self had been completely dominated by the mystery man, content to let him take charge, eager even to submit to him. The idea that such desires hid in her subconscious annoyed her. She wasn’t a passive woman and had no wish to be. If anything, she preferred to take the lead in her relationships with men. In her experience it was the only way to keep them from underestimating her.

She rinsed her hair and body, then stepped out of the shower, her thoughts turning once more to Adam. She’d have to ask him for his version of last night’s events and see what he had to say. She checked the clock and saw that it was after ten o’clock. Too late to question Adam now. He’d be at the wreck site, continuing his survey. A survey she hoped he’d finish soon. She was anxious to get to work.

What was she supposed to do with herself in the meantime? She looked around the stateroom, hoping for something that would strike her interest, but found nothing. Then her gaze rested on the view through the porthole—a vista of Passionata’s Island. That was it then; she’d explore the former pirate’s stronghold, maybe even take along a camera and get some footage of the tower. If she found anything particularly interesting, she could send Jonas to film more later.

Cheered by the idea, she dressed in an orange bikini, then added khaki shorts and a shirt over that. With tennis shoes and hat, she was ready to discover what it was that had attracted a woman like Passionata to this beautiful but desolate place.

ADAM RESISTED THE URGE to visit Sandra’s ship and make sure she was all right after the strange events of the previous night. He couldn’t think of any way to do so without calling attention to himself among the crew; they were already giving him a hard enough time about having dinner with the celebrated news personality.

He tried to ignore their jibes and off-color comments. He’d been around long enough to know he made an easy target. He was a workaholic, careless of his appearance—an unlikely choice for a glamorous woman like Sandra.

But there’d been no mistaking her physical interest in him. He couldn’t deny the idea flattered him. Intrigued him. He wasn’t a man who’d lacked for female companionship, but Sandra was definitely in another league from the quiet, bookish types he preferred.

In any case, he hoped she was all right. He had no intention of mentioning her odd behavior of the night before. Maybe she had been drunk.

As soon as he was out on the water, headed to the wreck site, he put all thoughts of Sandra aside. This was what he’d lived the past ten months for, this chance to touch a part of history, to uncover things no one else had seen in three hundred years, to make all the words written in the books lining his office at the university come to life.

As an only child whose parents worked long hours, Adam’s chief amusements had been reading and exploring the stretch of woods behind the housing development where his family lived. He’d occupied himself for entire summers imagining elaborate scenarios where he discovered dinosaur bones or lost civilizations. To realize those boyhood dreams as an adult was the greatest thrill he could enjoy. That the pursuit of that goal had left him little time for long-term relationships with women hadn’t mattered to him so far. Work had given him everything he needed in his life.

“Who makes the first dive today?” Roger asked as he anchored the dive boat.

“I’ll work with Tessa,” Charlie volunteered.

Tessa made a face. “I’d rather work with Adam.”

“You and Charlie and Brent should work together,” Adam said. “Continue marking the grid on the east side of the debris field.”

“What are you going to be doing?” Roger asked.

“I’m going to get a better look at the far side of the canyon,” he said. “We haven’t done much exploring there yet. There may be artifacts spread out in that area, as well.”

When he was satisfied the interns had everything they needed to do their job, Adam headed for the far side of the underwater canyon where the bulk of the wreck rested. The ocean floor sloped down, and as he swam deeper the water grew cooler and darker. He switched on the spotlight he carried and played it along the ocean floor, searching for anything out of place. An odd-shaped rock could be a sediment-covered bottle, a glint of metal might reveal a coin and a bump on the ocean floor might turn out to be a cannonball. He had discovered early on that he had a good eye for these oddities, and a sixth sense for what was treasure and what was trash.

As the spotlight cut through the dimness, revealing brightly colored fish and the undulations of the underwater terrain, Adam felt a deep peace settle over him. This was the part of his work he loved most, losing himself in new discoveries, seeing things as few others saw them.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glint of something and quickly focused the light in that direction. At first he saw nothing, but as he swam closer, he noticed an irregularity in the ocean floor. He reached down and carefully fanned away the top layer of sediment, revealing a jeweled dagger. It lay in the gravel as if only recently dropped there by some passing sailor, its blade darkened, the red stone in its hilt glowing dully.

His heart raced as he fumbled with his free hand for his camera. He snapped a few pictures, then took out his GPS to read the coordinates. These noted, he finally allowed himself to pick up the dagger, scarcely breathing as he cradled it in his hand.

It was heavy, yet perfectly balanced, the blade long and tapered. Cleaned and sharpened, it would be a deadly weapon, as well as a work of art. Through layers of grime, he thought he detected engraving, and filigreed metal surrounded the stone.

It was exactly the sort of thing Sandra would love to show her viewers.

That he would think of her in such a moment startled him so much he almost dropped the dagger. He gripped it more firmly, and tried to get a grip on his emotions, as well. This was a testament to the degree the sexy reporter had insinuated herself into his life in such a short time.

So far he’d been successful in keeping thoughts of last night away, but now the memories flooded back. The way she’d looked at him after he’d carried her to bed, as if her very life depended on him making love to her, had unnerved him. The Sandra he knew was not the type to humble herself to anyone, yet in those moments he had sensed she would have done anything he asked. And he couldn’t deny that he’d wanted to ask. His desire for her had been overpowering, conquered only by his knowledge that he’d be taking advantage of a woman who clearly wasn’t right in the head.

Walking away from her last night was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done, and chances were she wouldn’t even remember his act of chivalry. Worse, he had no confidence he’d be as strong the next time she came on to him. His reluctance to get involved with Sandra while he had so much work to do was no match for the fierce physical pull he felt for her, whether she was out of her mind or not.

SANDRA BEACHED the Zodiac and made her way along the shore, searching for the path that led into the jungle. The wind had come up, and she had to hold on to her hat with one hand to keep it from being snatched away. Sand sifted into her shoes, so she took them off, sinking her toes into the hot, powdery beach. Maybe instead of exploring, she should take Adam’s other suggestion, and work on her tan.

But the idea of sunning on the beach held little appeal with no beach chair or umbrella, no one to fetch her drinks and no one to lie with. She glanced toward Adam’s yacht, anchored in the harbor. There was no sign of movement on the tarp-shaded deck. She thought of going aboard and waiting for him. What would he think if he returned from a day of diving and found her there? What if she were naked in his bed? Would he dare turn her away then?

She clenched her thighs against the rush of desire this fantasy produced. And she thought again of her dream last night. Had the skillful lover she’d imagined been Adam?

She shook her head. No matter what games her subconscious played, when she and Adam had made love before, it had been as equals. She would never play the shivering virgin for any man, and certainly not for a sloppy—though sexy—professor.

She spotted the path and stopped to put on her shoes. Despite her disdain for all the scary stories Adam and his friends had once told her about the dangerous wildlife on the island, she had no desire to step on one of the ever-present land crabs or, worse, a spider.

Once she started down the path, the dense undergrowth muffled the sound of the wind and blotted out all but the weakest rays of the sun, which filtered through the canopy overhead, bathing her in a watery green light. The air was heavy and humid, redolent with the scent of growth and decay. Though last summer the jungle had been hacked away to allow space for the passage of two people walking side by side, new growth crowded in on both sides, so that Sandra could barely squeeze through in places.

As she neared the center of the island, the noise of the birds increased, a cacophony of screams and whistles and honks louder than any freeway gridlock or rock concert riot. Along with the noise came the stench of the thousands of birds that nested and fed on the rocky heart of the island. Sandra covered her mouth and nose with one hand and held on to her hat with the other, the video camera swinging from the strap at her wrist, hitting her shoulder with every step.

Passionata’s Tower rose from the center of the clearing, a squat, crenelated fortress three stories tall, built of the same gray volcanic rock as its surroundings, the surface pocked with white bird droppings. On an elevated platform beside it sat a large tank to collect rainwater, the only source of fresh water on the island. Last summer, some visitors had constructed a gravity-fed shower beneath the tank. It had provided a nice alternative to the cramped bathing quarters on board ship, and helped to conserve the fresh water they’d brought with them.

Sandra paused at the edge of the clearing and focused the camera, pleased with the shot of the tower rising up against a dramatic bank of threatening clouds. One of the afternoon squalls common during the summer months was blowing in. Exactly what was needed to add interest to her video.

Satisfied she’d captured some good exterior footage, she darted across the clearing to the shelter of the tower entrance. Birds whirled and screamed around her, and she resisted the urge to run away from them.

Once in the tower things were better, though the stench was worse than ever. She pulled her shirt up over her nose and mouth and turned to investigate the three-hundred-year-old structure.

Interest soon displaced distaste as she surveyed the space in which she was standing. A short passage from the doorway opened into a spacious round room or hall. Weather-worn rock provided both flooring and walls, but Sandra could imagine a time when the rock had been covered with tapestries or velvet drapes, the floor strewn with rugs woven in India and Turkey.

A stone stairway hugged the far wall. After filming the first floor, Sandra started up the narrow risers, following them around the outer wall to a second room that was almost as large as the first. Empty except for a few pieces of driftwood and a pile of shells some previous visitor had left behind, this would have been the public rooms that served as an office/living/dining area for the pirate queen. A single rectangular window six feet tall and three feet wide provided a spectacular view of the bay. From here Passionata could have seen the approach of any ship, whether friend or foe. She’d have welcomed the return of her own fleet, and prepared for battle with her enemies.

Sandra raised her camera to her eye and filmed the stark interior, imagining it furnished with a heavy carved table and chairs, and cushions on the window seat. She could almost smell beeswax candles burning.

With growing anticipation, she hurried up the final flight of stairs to the room at the top of the tower. This would have been Passionata’s bedroom, she was sure. This room was smaller than the other two, but featured two windows, one looking out on the harbor, the other in the direction of the coral reef just offshore.

She stepped into the room as lightning flashed and rain began to fall. Large drops pelted the tower and splashed through the windows to pool on the concrete floor. Thunder shook the air and Sandra startled and backed up against the wall. Laughing at her own jumpiness, she raised the camera and began filming this room, as well, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of red, and lowered the camera to look. But only gray stone met her gaze. Blinking, she shook her head, suddenly dizzy. The sweet scent of lavender filled her nostrils. Did lavender grow on the island? Had the rain brought the scent into the room?

She closed her eyes a moment and leaned against the wall, trying to regain her equilibrium. She put one hand down to steady herself, then recoiled at the sensation of some soft fabric, like a brocade.

She opened her eyes again and stared at a massive canopy bed that occupied the center of the room. It was draped in mosquito netting, the mattress covered with a red satin comforter much like the one she had on the ship. The concrete of the floor was obscured by a thick layer of red and gold rugs, and red draperies fluttered at the windows.

Her heart raced, and she struggled to breathe as she stared at the scene. None of this had been here seconds before. Was she hallucinating? She pinched her thigh, hard, but though she flinched at the pain, the room remained richly furnished. The scent of lavender was stronger now, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Her head began to throb, and she rubbed her eyes. What was happening to her?

She opened her eyes again, and choked off a scream. Gray stone walls and gray concrete floors surrounded her. The rain continued to pour in through the window, bringing the scent of mud and fish and tropical foliage. But no lavender.

She turned and raced down the stairs, moving as fast as she dared down the narrow risers, heart thudding painfully, fighting panic.

It was raining hard by the time she emerged from the tower. The birds were silent, roosting, the only noise the wind rattling the palm branches and raindrops splattering on the rocks. Within seconds, she was drenched, but she scarcely noticed. She had to get away from here, back to the safety of her ship.

She started toward the path, but a blinding flash of lightning and crack of thunder stopped her. One of the tall coconut palms split in two, crashing at her feet, green coconuts falling around her like bombs.

Her scream rose above the sound of the storm, and once she’d started, she couldn’t make herself stop. Shrieks rose from her throat, an almost welcome release of the panic she’d been fighting. She was soaked through, shaking and absolutely terrified. The only consolation was there was no one here to see her falling apart.

“Sandra! What are you doing out here in the storm?”

The shouts startled her. She whirled and saw a man advancing toward her, a tall, broad-shouldered figure, his features blurred by the rain. Unsure whether this was another hallucination, she squinted, trying to bring him into sharper focus. He was closer now, and she made out dark-blond hair plastered to his head—hair like her dream man’s. Her gaze moved across his shoulders, down his chest…he was naked, rain running in rivulets across well-defined muscle, glistening on the dusting of hair on his chest and between his thighs.

“Sandra, what are you doing here?” he demanded again. “Are you all right?”

He took her by the arm and shook her gently, and for the first time she realized this was no phantom of her imagination, but Adam, and he was very wet. And very naked.