UPON THE STORM Read online

  "Just … a little … more."

  Just a little more? If it was almost over, why did it still hurt so much? It shouldn't hurt anymore. Or had everybody been wrong all these years? Did it just keep on hurting forever? Even now that he didn't have to float, or kick, it still hurt. It felt good to lie down, though.

  Lie down? On what? He tried to concentrate; this was important, somehow. He could still hear the water, still feel its chill … but he could hear something else, too, closer than that annoying, howling roar. Someone gasping for breath … and someone else making a strange, gurgling sound. And there were hands again. Touching him. Rolling him over.

  Pain ripped through him, making what had gone before seem like a mere twinge. Convulsion after convulsion gripped him, tearing, racking coughs, the brackish taste of seawater and the acid of bile burning his throat, his mouth. He was choking, trapped between gulping in cold, delicious air and ridding himself of the insidious, salty poison. Vaguely he heard the voice, felt the hands pounding on his back, then hard, small fists. He wished they would stop; they were making him keep coughing up that horrible stuff.

  Why wouldn't it stop? He clenched his fingers, only vaguely aware of being able to move them again. They were digging into something wet and hard … and soft. Sand? He gulped in more air, able to take two panting breaths before the gagging began again.

  At last the fists stopped, and he managed three breaths before the next spasm, then two before the next, then four.

  "Can you … try and walk? We've got to … get inside."

  Walk? She's kidding, isn't she? I can't walk. So why is she making me get up? It is a she. I can tell. She's so small … and her hands are so smooth.

  "Crawl, then. We've got to move."

  Crawl. Was that part of it? A shoulder shoved him upward, a shoulder with surprising strength in its slenderness. A shoulder he seemed to know… Was that what had hit him before?

  "Now!"

  Water again. He could feel it, even though he couldn't seem to see anymore. It tugged at him, while those small, smooth hands pulled the other way. It didn't hurt nearly so much now. He could crawl, couldn't he, if that was what she wanted? He sent out the signals to his arms and legs, wondering if they still worked in the old way.

  "That's it."

  The voice was soft, coaxing, sweet. He would do anything for that voice. Were they moving? He thought so, but he couldn't see; something was still stinging his eyes. He kept trying.

  "Almost there."

  She'd said that before. Lies again. But hadn't that been just before he'd been able to stop kicking? Maybe it wasn't a lie. That voice wouldn't lie, would it? He tried again.

  Then she was gone, and he heard an odd noise, but before he could wonder at it, she was back. Poking at him, shoving him, urging him to his feet. He tried to tell her he couldn't walk, but then he was up, staggering. She could make him do anything with that sweet voice.

  The roaring was muffled now, and he was suddenly warmer. The sound of the water had retreated. What gray light there had been was gone, but it didn't matter, his vision was so blurred anyway. He swayed, but that persistent shoulder braced him, and he felt those hands moving over him, tugging at him, at his clothes. Then more water, warmer, gentler, somehow. Then something soft and dry patting at him. He felt oddly distant, floating, as he had before, in the water.

  Then he was lying down on something wonderfully soft, and with the soothing warmth of something over him. This was more like it, he thought, wondering what that odd touch was on his forehead. Was it almost over? Could he let go now? Slide into that beckoning darkness that he'd expected since he'd surrendered to the inevitable? If he asked her, would she tell him? He tried to form the words.

  "Shh. It's all right now. Just rest."

  So this was it. At last. He hadn't expected it to be so hard. He wished he could see, could see her, before… The hand that felt so cool and smooth on his forehead was the last thing he remembered.

  * * *

  Three

  « ^ »

  Christy sat in the single chair the small room held, watching the man in the bunk. Although wider than a single bed, it was barely long enough for him, even though it was more than six feet.

  The bunk, the small table that served as a desk that was at its foot, the chair she sat in and the narrow counter and bank of cupboards along the opposite wall took up most of the space, leaving only a narrow path for walking down the center of the eight-by-ten-foot room. A small alcove with a hand pump for water and a fairly modern marine head were later additions, the sole concessions to modern convenience.

  A golden glow came from a kerosene lantern on the desk; she had a light powered by batteries, but saved it for times when the lantern was too bulky or too dim. She preferred the softer light, anyway; now she watched it play over the hair of the man in the bunk. Almost dry now, it seemed blond and brown at the same time, but with a naturalness she knew was real. That it felt like thick silk she already knew from when it had brushed her fingers as she checked the wound on his temple.

  Her brow furrowed at the thought. It was an ugly cut, a gash barely missing his eye. It probably needed stitches, but she had done the best she could with the butterfly bandages that had been in the first-aid kit. The salt water had probably been a blessing in disguise; the cut looked clean, and it hadn't bled much after she'd gotten him out of the water.

  She hoped he didn't have a concussion. He'd been completely out of it, but then, he'd nearly drowned. She'd read that you should wake someone with a concussion every couple of hours to make sure they weren't in a coma, but she doubted if she could even get him to raise an eyelash; he was dead to the world. She didn't think he'd been totally unconscious before; he'd responded to her words, if sluggishly. A good sign, she hoped. If he was in a coma, she couldn't do anything about it, and knowing wasn't going to help any.

  She wondered yet again what on earth he'd been doing out there. She was crazy enough, she freely admitted, but at least she was here for a reason. A reason that, while not necessarily sane, was as good as there could be for being in the middle of this chaos if you didn't have to be. And she was on dry—well, dry for now, anyway—land at least.

  It had felt strange, undressing a total stranger and putting him in her bed, even if it was only hers temporarily. She had tried to think of him impersonally, as some helpless being she was now responsible for, but it had been difficult; he was very nicely put together. Everywhere.

  She felt her cheeks heat at the memory of his naked body, at the long, lean lines of rangy muscle, the flat, ridged stomach, narrow hips and taut, tempting buttocks. She'd tried not to look any farther, but by the time she pulled the blanket over him, she'd seen all there was to see. And even cold and shivering, he was a beautiful sight.

  Stop it, she ordered. He's hurt, whoever he is, and he needs help, that's all. She shifted in the chair. It wasn't the most comfortable thing, but she was tired, and her body ached from the day's exertions. Think how he must feel, she told herself, smothering a yawn.

  She propped an elbow on an arm of the chair and rested her chin in her hand. It was lucky she had gone out for a last few shots while there was still a bit of light, she thought, or she never would have seen him. Her eyelids drooped. She'd planned on experimenting with some night shots with that high-speed film, but it certainly wasn't going to be tonight…

  It was dark when she awoke, and the sound of the wind outside had increased, as had the sound of the waves; she should get some good shots tomorrow. Her eyes went to the bed. He hadn't moved, but the steady rise and fall of his chest told her that at least he was still breathing. She laid a gentle hand on his forehead.

  Warm, but not hot, she thought gratefully. She moved to turn down the lantern to conserve kerosene, even though she had brought twice as much as she should need. As she had with food and water, an instinct she was grateful for now that it appeared she had company for the duration; there was no way for either of them to get out of
here until the storm was over.

  At a sudden memory, she went to the counter to pack away the camera she had put there hastily before taking her unscheduled swim. She kept all her gear in waterproof packing, more because of the dampness of the air and the spray that seemed to penetrate everywhere than any fear of being flooded. This little place had lasted through countless storms like this. She was sure it could handle one more.

  She'd shifted the chair so that she could sit in it sideways, her back propped against the cupboards and her legs over the arm, a folded blanket serving as a cushion and a pillow. In that position she managed to sleep, although brokenly. She didn't mind. It gave her the chance to check on her patient whenever she woke. He slept on, unmoving; she hoped that didn't mean he wasn't going to wake up at all.

  When she awoke to the gray light of day, she got out of the chair, moving a little stiffly until she was able to stretch cramped muscles. She glanced at the bunk. No change. Going to the cupboard, she pulled out the camera pack and took out the second camera, this one loaded with daylight film. She selected a couple of filters and tucked them into the pocket of the equipment vest she then slid on.

  She was hesitant about leaving him, but she didn't know how much longer she was going to be able to venture outside. And if the course of this hurricane, whenever it finally decided to move, altered even slightly westward, it was going to get real interesting around here.

  She dropped to her knees as soon as she rounded the corner of the hut, knowing better than to try walking in this gale. She squeezed her eyes shut against the spray, thankful that the sand seemed too wet to blow. The walk took longer today than ever, but she could only judge her progress by the sound of the roaring wind and the crashing waves.

  Get interesting? She stared as she topped the bluff. It was time to run up the hurricane flags, red-and-black squares time. The wind was fierce, thick with spray, the water a mass of whipped foam. She'd begun this project in the Cayman Islands last year, and the height of that hurricane had looked only a little worse than this.

  If it hadn't been for the rotten luck of that film-storage bag breaking open, wiping out all her work, she wouldn't be here now, she muttered once more.

  And the man inside would probably be dead. She hadn't thought of that. Strange. What were the odds against her being in this particular place, under these ridiculous conditions, and just at the right moment? With a wondering shake of her head, she edged over the top and began to shoot.

  She was damp and shivering when she got back to the little room. She wiped the equipment dry and tucked the finished roll of film away carefully before she pulled on dry socks and a sweater. She lit the lantern; the sheltered little room, with only the tiny window in the door, was chronically dim.

  The chaos she'd seen on the windward side took her to the small weather-band radio that sat on the counter. She flipped it on, keeping the volume low. Either the storm had grown in both size and intensity, or it had changed course; if what she'd seen was Charlotte's "skirts," she didn't want anything to do with the rest of her.

  Static crackled through the little speaker, but after a moment she had heard enough and flipped it off. A course change. Seventy-knot winds and building, and a lot closer than she had expected. Wonderful. Bring your flippers.

  She picked up the notebook where she logged her shots, and, sitting down in the chair she'd left beside the bunk, she began to scribble rapidly from memory. She'd given up trying to wrestle with it outside, knowing it was useless. When she'd finished, she reached out and dropped it on the desk.

  She glanced at her watch, calculating silently. He'd been out for nearly seventeen hours, and she was starting to seriously worry. She moved to sit on the edge of the bunk and reached out to press the back of her fingers to his forehead. At her first touch he stirred, murmuring something so low she couldn't hear, and relief flooded her.

  His lips looked dry and cracked, and she rose and got a small cup of water and a spoon. Knowing the dangers of trying to make an unconscious person drink, she dipped the spoon in the water and ran it across his lower lip, letting only a few drops slide off. His mouth moved automatically, taking the moisture, and she did it again. He managed a few more drops this time. And then, when she moved to do it a third time, his eyes were open and trained on her.

  Were they blue or green? She couldn't tell, then felt silly trying to decide such a thing when they were so full of confusion and apprehension. He swallowed heavily. His lips parted as if to speak, then shut again. He was watching her with an intensity that was, she supposed, understandable. Then, hesitantly, slowly, he lifted a hand, reaching out toward her. When his fingers met her arm, he pulled them back, startled, his eyes widening as he looked up at her.

  "You're … real," he whispered, his voice harsh with the sound of a raw throat. She raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. "I … thought I was … that you…" He trailed off, looking disconcerted, and a bemused understanding suddenly dawned in Christy's mind.

  "I'm real," she said softly. "And alive. And so are you."

  He looked up at her in in disbelief, giving her an idea of how close she had come to being too late.

  She was close to being right; Trace couldn't quite believe he was really still alive. But as much if not more, he couldn't believe that she was real. He'd never seen such eyes, huge, misty gray, framed by a thick, dark fringe of lashes and made even larger by the tousled, gamine-cut bangs that gleamed sleekly in the golden light. Her mouth was full beneath a pert nose and, right now, soft with concern.

  "You're all right," she said quietly.

  It was the voice. Soft, husky, low and soothing. And it belonged to this lovely vision he still wasn't certain was real. But it couldn't have been her. His eyes traced the slender column of her neck, the fine features of her wide-eyed face. It couldn't have been her, not out there, not in that watery hell…

  His eyes reached the delicate but determined thrust of her chin, and his conviction wavered.

  "You…" he began, his voice rasping painfully. She leaned forward, setting aside the spoon and holding out the cup of water.

  "Here." She slipped a hand behind his head and lifted gently. "This should help."

  He had to believe she was real; that was smooth, warm flesh beneath his head. He took the water gratefully, and it soothed his raw throat. Then, as she was easing his head back down to the pillow, he spotted a slash of bright red against the far wall, a jacket hanging on a nail, and an image of a slim figure in red on the beach flashed through his mind. He tried again, although he knew the answer now. "It was … you?"

  "What was?" she asked, not sure what he meant.

  "The voice … your voice … you pulled me out?"

  "You helped." She smiled gently, realizing now that he had never seen her. He'd been worse off than she thought.

  "Why?" he whispered, stunned.

  She shrugged. "It seemed like the thing to do at the time."

  "You … could have drowned." The thought of this beautiful creature out in that tumultuous sea, risking her life to drag him to safety, was too incredible for his slightly befuddled mind to cope with.

  "And you would have drowned. But neither of us did." She changed the subject briskly. "How does your head feel?"

  He blinked. He'd been aware of a dull ache above his right eye, but only now did he remember the twisted chunk of what had been his boat coming at him from out of the treacherous water. He lifted a hand automatically to touch the sore spot, but she grabbed his wrist.

  "Uh-uh," she cautioned. "You probably should have had stitches, but I did the best I could. Better not mess with it." His hand dropped to his side, but his wrist felt her slender fingers as if they were still there. He flexed his fingers at the oddness of it. "I'm sorry I couldn't get you to a doctor," she went on, "but I'm afraid you're stuck here until this is over."

  "I … wouldn't be anywhere…" He trailed off, but Christy knew what he meant. She shrugged again. "Where is … here?" he asked, looking around
the tiny room.

  "An old Weather Service lookout. They used it back in the 50s, before the first weather satellites went up."

  "How did you get here?"

  "Voluntarily," she said with a grin.

  He sucked in a breath; God, she was beautiful! He felt a sudden staccato beat of his heart that startled him. He must still be feeling the effects of what had happened.

  "I had to sign a waiver, though, promising not to holler for help no matter what and absolving them of all responsibility if I die from anything short of a giant squid attack."

  His own brush with death was far too fresh for him to laugh. "Why?" he asked, astonished.

  "To take pictures," she said simply.

  Forgetting, he raised an eyebrow in disbelief, then winced. "Damn," he muttered.

  "You really should have had stitches," she said, her brow furrowing with concern. "I'm afraid there'll be a scar."

  "Better than dead," he said dryly. "Even for me."

  She looked at him quizzically. "Even for you?"

  He started to do it again, but caught himself in time. "Yeah," he said, "my face being my fortune, and all that."

  "Oh," she said, a little uncertainly. "What do you do?"

  The eyebrow went up that time, and he grimaced. When the pain eased, he studied her for a long moment. "You don't … know me?" It sounded arrogant even as he said it, but he didn't know how else to ask. Or why all of a sudden he cared how he sounded.

  Her eyebrow shot up this time. "Should I?"

  "Boy, I must really look bad," he said, wondering why the flippant remark, the kind of thing he always said, sounded so hollow in his ears.

  "You look fine, considering," she said, then realized what he'd meant. "You mean, I really should know you?"

  "Er … most people do," he said, feeling oddly sheepish about it.

  Christy studied him for a long moment, searching for something familiar. "I'm sorry," she said finally, honestly. "I don't. Most people? You're that well-known?"