Indiscretions. Gail Ranstrom
head and dropped it on the floor in a sodden heap. Heedless of her damp skin and the sand clinging to them both, he lifted her again and laid her against the pillows. She held her breath as he unfastened his trousers and let them fall.
He was lean, well-sculpted and beautifully proportioned. And, heaven help her, he was twice the man her husband had been. In every way. Logic mingled with anxiety and she began to panic. What had she done? Three days ago she hadn’t even met this man, and tonight she was naked in his bed. It was wrong. It was madness.
And she wanted it more than she’d wanted anything in a very long time.
Can you let yourself dream, Daphne?
He lay down on the mattress beside her. A kiss—a single kiss—and she was caught in a vortex dragging her deeper and deeper. He pulled her to him, pressed himself against the length of her. She trailed her fingers down his side, enthralled by the solid strength of the man in contrast to his exquisitely gentle touch.
Lowering his head, he paused to kiss a tender spot where her neck met her shoulder, and a deep shudder went through her. Then his tongue trailed to the hollow of her throat, and she could feel the heat of his lips against her flesh.
“Sweet Daphne, your sighs are an aphrodisiac.”
She moaned at the deep warm rumble of his voice, and he moved lower still, capturing one tender nipple between his lips and drawing a tingle up from her belly. She felt herself dissolving, becoming fluid beneath his hands, and when those hands moved downward over her stomach to glide past her nether hair to find her entrance, she bit her lip to hold back an outcry.
Passion? Need? Possession? What were the feelings overwhelming her? She couldn’t name them. She only knew she didn’t want them to stop. And when he began stroking her, she gasped, wondering why she’d never felt such intimacy and surrender with Barrett.
And then, in the back of her mind, she heard a nagging voice—her conscience?—warning her. If you surrender to this man, you’ll never be whole again. If you let him make love to you, you are lost. He will learn your secrets and betray you, and when he does, you will truly die inside.
“No,” she sighed with the last of her will. “I cannot do this.” She struggled to sit up, her limbs as heavy as if she’d been drugged.
Hunt looked confused and reached out to her. “Daphne, I will not hurt you. If you do not want this…”
Want it? Oh, yes, she wanted it with every tingling nerve, every throbbing pulse, but she could not. The memory of Barrett made it impossible. Would always make it impossible. Because his ghost always reminded her that she was a fraud. That she was a murderess and, given half a chance, that she’d do the same again. That she was hollow and had nothing inside to give.
She scooped her chemise off the floor and ran from the room.
Chapter Six
C hirping insects. The deep croak of frogs. The eternal sound of the waves. Yes, the storm had passed, leaving peace in its wake.
Hunt rolled over, the sheet twisting around him. His first thought was of the gift the storm had brought and then taken away. He sat up and stared at the pillow that still held the impression of her head. A wild white orchid was all that remained. If not for that, he could have dreamed her. Ah, but he could still smell her. Warm ambergris, orchid and sea spray. And woman. And, God, what a woman.
He stood and pulled his trousers on. Not bothering with shoes, he went down the verandah steps to the sand. An edge of watercolor blue stained the eastern horizon. Dawn was not far.
He found the place where they’d met, marked by the conch shell she had dropped, abandoned in the sea foam now. He picked it up and stroked the smooth pink inner curves. As smooth and delicate as Daphne had been.
He returned to the house and stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at the damp impression of her chemise on the floor, remembering her as she’d looked when he removed it. A flash of lightning had revealed her, flushed, trembling, her skin glistening from the rain, her sun-streaked hair curling down her back in a riotous wet windblown tangle and a wild orchid tucked behind her ear. She had looked like Venus rising from the sea.
There’d been something electric in the air. A tingling certainty. Something fated. They’d both felt it beneath their skin. They’d known from the moment they saw each other on the beach how it should end. It had been absurd to resist. Pray Daphne would realize that soon. Pray a fortnight would be sufficient to take his fill.
He placed the conch shell on his bureau and went to find the brandy bottle. Blast! Now he was drinking his breakfast!
Hunt pulled himself back into the moment and resettled in his chair on the governor’s terrace overlooking the bay. Every time he let his guard down, his thoughts drifted back to orchids, soft flesh and hard passion. Damn! Was there no escape from the spell Daphne had woven around him? “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You were saying?”
Gavin Doyle cocked an eyebrow and gave him a slanted grin. “I was saying that there’s nothing to see in Blackpool. The governor would prefer you stay on this side of Mount Colombo.”
Would he? “Have you been there, Doyle?”
“Once,” the chargé admitted. He poured another cup of dark, bitter coffee for Hunt. “Not worth the trouble. The people are unfriendly, the women are not attractive and the terrain is challenging. I’d rather climb an uncomplicated mountain than traverse those cliff paths. The houses literally hang off the rocks. One good shake, and the whole town would tumble into the sea. But it is the potential danger that is the governor’s concern.”
“Danger? Are the inhabitants that unfriendly?”
Doyle gave a short laugh. “That is the gossip. Every time someone disappears, it’s said they’ve gone to Blackpool. Whether that is true remains to be seen. I’m of a mind to think the disappearances are due to common kidnapping or conscription. Ships have need of crew. When one sailor runs off—” He shrugged. “Replacements must be found, one way or another.”
That was a logical explanation, but Hunt wondered if it was true. “What is Blackpool’s raison d’être?”
“Fishing,” Doyle said with a little snort of disdain. “And logging. Mahogany grows in the mountains and along the cliffs. I gather they fell them, strip the limbs and roll the logs into the inlet, where they lash them together until a shipper comes by for them. Cabinet makers in London and New York are crying out for mahogany, but there’s sure as hell no sign of anyone getting rich in Blackpool. I believe they barely eke out a living.”
“Why does everyone seem so indifferent to them? You’d think Blackpool was a different country.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow. “It damn near is. The people there even contract their own supply ships. Believe me, they want nothing to do with us, nor do we wish to have dealings with them. It’s not exactly a secret, just an unspoken understanding.”
“Is it possible that the settlers are engaging in illegal activities?”
“Like wrecking?” He shook his head. “Not likely. There aren’t enough ships coming by to make that lucrative.”
Hunt narrowed his eyes and glanced out over the bay. Only three ships bobbed in the harbor. This was testament, he supposed, to the fact that St. Claire was a small, sleepy island. But that fact did not mean it had no secrets. On the contrary, he suspected that most of the islanders were escaping some unpleasantness in their past. Even Governor Bascombe’s assignment to St. Claire was his atonement for a diplomatic blunder in a far eastern country. Where better than a distant and ignored island of exiles to find a fresh start? What better place for chicanery?
What better place for treachery?
He sipped the strong coffee and mulled over the governor’s request. Only Oliver Layton knew his true purpose on St. Claire. If he continued to make an issue of Blackpool, the governor was sure to suspect an ulterior motive.
“Not