Dominic's Child. Catherine Spencer
of the island, dipping down at times into secluded coves and at others climbing to offer dizzying views of turquoise sea and jungle-clad mountains. Because its passage was so narrow, island custom dictated that traffic move always in a clockwise direction, even though that meant that a five mile trip out involved a twenty-five mile trip back again.
The little buggy, the fringe on its striped canvas canopy fluttering in the breeze, swooped merrily along with a scowling Dominic at the wheel. “I’ve driven more sophisticated golf carts,” he grumbled as they jolted over one particularly vicious bump in the road.
“Would you prefer walking?” Sophie inquired, unable to disguise the sarcasm as they approached the next steep incline.
“I’d prefer not to be here at all,” he shot back without a moment’s hesitation. “Nor would I be, if it weren’t for you and your half-baked ideas of a holiday paradise.”
“St. Julian doesn’t pretend to be Rio or Monte Carlo, Mr. Winter. If it did, I wouldn’t bother wasting my time visiting it. The sort of people who flock to places like that don’t particularly appeal to me.”
The merest hint of a grin touched his lips. “People like me, you mean?”
She pulled off her sunglasses and subjected him to a frank examination, wondering if the extraordinary conditions of their mission might offer a glimpse past the good looks to the man within.
She was doomed to disappointment. Black hair swept back from a wide, intelligent brow. His nose had been broken at some point but had suffered not the least for the misfortune and merely enhanced the strong, uncompromising line of his profile. His eyes were the deep still green of woodland pools and his lashes would have been laughable had not the set of his jaw promised dreadful retribution to anyone who dared to make light of their beauty. As for the rest of him, it was so formidably and sexily masculine that he’d probably had to beat women off since the onset of puberty. But as far as giving a clue to his inner self? Not a one!
“What are you staring at?” he inquired testily, swiveling a glance at her.
“You,” she replied. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re this irascible all the time or if it’s a temporary by-product of grief and heartache. I’m inclined to believe the latter since Barbara didn’t strike me as the type who’d willingly devote the rest of her life to a chronic grouch.”
He flung her another outraged glare before turning his attention once again to the road. “How much farther?” he barked.
“About seven miles. Once we round the headland, we drop down to the weather side of the island. You’ll notice the change in the coastline immediately. It’s very wild.”
That he grew progressively more withdrawn as they covered the distance was indication enough that he agreed with her assessment. “Good God!” he muttered at one point, as spray flying across the windswept beach and on to the road caused visibility to shrink to a few yards. “Is it always like this?”
“More or less, though during the hurricane season it gets much worse.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he replied dryly. “Barbara must have been mad to consider trying to sail in this.”
They were approaching the wind-battered southeastern tip of St. Julian, the place where Atlantic fury met the point of most resistance from the land mass. The shore there was littered with easy pickings for the beachcomber: driftwood forged into fantastic shapes, and seashells by the thousand in every shade from dark pearlescent purple to palest satin pink.
“There’s a lookout point right ahead,” Sophie said. “If you pull over, we can walk across the dunes and you’ll see the reef where...”
He nodded, sparing her the necessity of having to elaborate, and swung the mini-moke off the road.
They clambered down to the beach and waded through the fine, soft sand. Then stood shoulder to shoulder and leaned into the wind, together yet separated by the intensely private silence in which Dominic wrapped himself.
A jagged line of surf marked the hidden reef. Close into shore the water swirled and foamed, subdued but by no means tamed by the barrier over which it had hurled itself. But beyond, where the heaving green Atlantic rollers let loose their fury... Dear Lord, Barbara must have been bent on suicide to have tried to sail in that, because no sane person could have hoped to survive such unleashed violence!
Sophie couldn’t quell her shudder and looked away. Small wonder no trace of bodies had been found. It was a miracle the splintered wreckage of the Laser had endured the sort of beating it had taken.
Dominic, however, stared impassively for so long at the scene before him that Sophie half wondered if he’d forgotten her presence. Then, without warning, he swung toward her, his features stark with misery. “Get me the hell away from here before I really lose it,” he muttered savagely.
He saw the dismay she couldn’t hide, saw how it softened to compassion, and didn’t know how he contained himself. He wanted to howl his outrage to the heavens; to curse and revile the cruelty and waste he’d been helpless to prevent. But the shock Sophie Casson now felt would be nothing compared to how she’d react if he really let loose his emotions. They boiled inside him with the same destructive fury of the seas out there, clenching his jaw, his fists, the ridged muscles of his abdomen.
“Dominic,” she said, so softly he could barely hear her above the roar of the seas, “what can I do to help you?”
How certain she was that she understood him, how sure that she could assuage the misery. And how badly he wanted to smash her complacency! Out of the blue, a suggestion of the most outrageous magnitude sprang to mind, explicit, indecent.
Should he voice it? And would she accede to his wishes? Or would her wide gray eyes darken with horror as she backed away and began to run blindly as far from him as she could get?
He swiped at his hair with shaking fingers, appalled at the demons possessing him. Marshaling his features into a semblance of composure, he discarded the unconscionable and settled for the clichéd. “I think I would like to go back to the hotel and get thoroughly drunk. Would you care to join me?”
She was supposed to pucker up her sweet little mouth and simper that alcohol would merely add to his problems, not alleviate them. Instead, her eyes grew suspiciously bright and the next thing he knew, her tanned little hand with its short pink nails had tucked itself into the crook of his elbow. “Of course,” she murmured sympathetically. “Anything you say.”
And then she slipped her arm around his waist and led him back the way they’d come. Slowly, carefully, as if he were a very old, enfeebled man. The demons within itched to succumb to a black, unholy bellow of laughter. He could feel it pulsing deep in his chest and had one hell of a time suppressing it.
“Would you like me to drive?” she asked when they reached the toy that passed for transportation.
“No,” he said, shrugging her off. Heaven forbid he should have a reason not to keep his eyes on the road!
Happy hour was well under way by the time they reached the hotel again. The sun hung just above the horizon, a great flaming ball far too large for its playground. Kerosene torches flickered palely among the trees in anticipation of the sudden rush of night typical of the tropics. Laughter and music combined to drown out the macaws’ last screeching chorus of the day. It was party time. For everyone except Dominic Winter and Sophie Casson.
He decided it was in both their interests for him to ditch her and be alone to drown, if not his sorrows, then at least his guilt. “Look,” he said, “I’m not fit company for a wolverine. What say we hold off on that drink until another time?”
She paused for as long as it took her to catch her lower lip between her teeth, then said, “Yes, of course. Actually, I’d just as soon go upstairs and take a shower before dinner.” She rubbed at her bare arms and indicated the folds of her skirt. “The sea spray’s—”
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